Here, he was more slave than merchant, than builder or artist, than freedman. Here, in the supposed greatest city that ever was, he felt like his name had been forced into the shadows where it would never see the light of day. Yes, they paid him and rather abundantly, supplying the necessary provisions for his stay since it’d become a permanent one, acquiescing to his demands for materials and tools with which to build because, inevitably, the Qaarthi decided on their own accord to employ him. Truth be told, Leo couldn’t find room to complain -- would anyone? Except that he is not just anyone meant to work to profit others with no recognition, no distinction of his name. Isn’t that why he came to Qarth in the first place, to make a name for himself?

As Leo muses on these thoughts and more, the door to his room in the palace opens and he’s greeted with the cool Qaarthi air. It’s welcome in this moment, the coolness, because he’s covered in sweat after having fallen into a drug induced stupor, chasing wildfire and marveling at soaring dragons in the sky. Dreams, so many cryptic and broken dreams. A pair of men approach him. One takes hold of him, the other forces him to stand. This would’ve been much easier had he not consumed that small dose of milk of the poppy, but he tries to keep his eyes open anyway, willing himself to stand albeit with the support of the men at his side. And then another man but not from Qarth, a vision of darkness amid the colorful array of this greatly flamboyant city, stands before him. 

“Welcome to my greatest city that ever lived, whoever you are,” he slurs, unintentionally getting the line wrong. He hated getting it wrong, but he couldn’t take it back now. What’s worse is that they’ve interrupted his time to think and, most of all, that was severely annoying. “I would invite you in but I suppose we're past all formalities, aren't we?"

There once were two roads before him. To go home where solace awaited him, to be at peace for once in his miserable life. Or to stay here. Now, he had but one choice, the very one Cesare expected him to make. By God, this wasn’t easy. Micheletto knew what must be done though. Home no longer exists, love cannot thrive. Nothing but this mattered most, holding it close to his heart – if he had a heart at all. He couldn’t leave Cesare so abruptly and without explanation. He couldn’t leave Cesare open to the enemy. “No,” he said, sadly. He had to look away so that Cesare wouldn’t see the disappointment in his eyes. Inhaling a small breath to regain his composure, he looked him square in the eyes, placing his hand on his shoulder. “I would not leave you alone for even the world.”

 “we were talking. do not interrupt us.”

Everything, in an instant, was destroyed. All around him, the city was beset with confusion amid ash and soot in the wake of French soldiers and their fires. Had the hooves of their horses been touched by Hell? he wondered. His great benefactor is gone now, which means that defeat is imminent yet he’s remained in the city as if waiting to be taken captive.

It didn’t strike fear in his heart though. Curious, that. What could he do but look on, watch as the men abandoned their posts, as the people fled and the city fell as silent as a cemetery? Leo understood what it meant, too. The Pope of Rome would demand obeisance, but he’d had some time to contemplate over an approach to such terms. No, he wouldn’t acquiesce in the Vatican’s decision to conquer the city-states of Italy, but he could broker a deal that would benefit them both.

It’s too bad about the unfinished horse though -- and too late to resume on the Milanese commission now. With news of Cesare Borgia and his French army approaching, Leo could do nothing but wait. Maybe he should have left when everyone else did, but he senses an advantage here, one that Cesare Borgia might be interested in if he’s the sort of ambitious man that they say he is. 

So, without a care in the world, Leo sits back on the step that was meant to hold the great monument in glorious array, arms crossed over his chest, watching as the soldiers enter the square. And, upon seeing Cesare Borgia, he jumps down from the incomplete step and stands at its corner, greeting him with nothing, not even a smile. 

“What do you think?” he asks over the sounds of horses and armor and the steady murmur of curious soldiers, glancing at the project he would now have to abandon. “The Great Horse That Never Was.”

On one point, he’s wrong. She’s tempted to call him out on it, but the way he speaks draws more curiosity from her than contempt. Cesare does this often. In his subtle mannerisms, with his resolve and willpower. It’s undeniably alluring – if she dared to feel it. How’s he do it? she wonders. Caterina understands why but never the how. There’s this inevitable pull between them as if they were two sides of a magnet. She couldn’t resist it. She didn’t want to. “Don’t be so confrontational, Cesare Borgia. Your innate weakness is showing through.” she says, returning his smile. It’s adorable, really. The way he thinks he can oppose her without any repercussions. “ Can’t you feel it?”