His brain has gone soft. Melted like gelato in the sun. Some people said that could happen, hadn't they? With the mal francese going unchecked? But he's rid of it, he is, even modern science confirms that; the malaria had been fighting fire with fire and...
He blinks furiously, gets water in his eyes.
There's a horse, and it's looking at him. Frisky, if he's any judge of equestrial temperament. Not a destrier, no; thin ankles and sleek neck like that... a good mount for a lady. Cesare's brain still isn't working well, but he starts rummaging around his pockets. No apple or anything; just a crumpled pack of cinnamon chewing gum and a half melted chocolate bar, soggy with water.
Mentally comparing notes, checking Da Vinci's proud design, he can verify it's not Gonzaga's style, this, nor the kind of horse a Sforza would have wanted to be seen dead upon. Cesare lifts his hand for the horse to sniff, fingers splayed, careful not to let them look like carrots. "Ciao," he says, incredulous at himself. "Ran away from somewhere?"