‘Aetius the Founder, or Aetius the Great?’ Raphael asked. Not Aetius the Tyrant. He’d heard stories about Tiziano, but surely not even he would write an opera about the last tyrant Emperor, a man who’d murdered thousands of Vesperans including Petroz’s parents.
‘Aetius the Great and the Tuonetar War,’ Leonata said, and must have caught Raphael’s frown. ‘What?’
‘When did it open?’ It could just be a coincidence, but Raphael didn’t believe in coincidences.
‘About two weeks ago, a gala performance with Catiline as guest of honour.’
‘And Tiziano fawning over him all night long,’ Petroz said.
He wondered how long Tiziano took to write an opera. Probably an age, the man was so rich now he could afford to behave like a prima donna. It could have been commissioned years ago . . . or it could not.
‘Will Tiziano be at Orfeo’s tonight?’ Raphael asked.
‘He’ll put in an appearance. He’d like to think he’s too grand for it now, and he spends more time at Metellio’s, but he’ll have been at Ulithi Palace dancing attendance on Valentine, and he won’t resist an opportunity to gloat.’
‘Can you arrange an introduction? Let him know Silvanos Quiridion’s nephew, personal intelligencer to the Emperor, would like to meet him? Would that work?’
‘I imagine so,’ Leonata said, clearly intrigued.
Raphael nodded in satisfaction, and turned his attention back to the Processional Way. The first litters were coming through the arch now, led by a gleaming double column of legionaries with standards and banners. They’d be from the Ninth Legion, traditionally the Imperial Guard, dissolved by Ruthelo and restored by Catiline after the New Empire was proclaimed. They were holding the original legion’s battle honours, though, and even the sight of them, and of the centuries of history they carried on their standards, was a little awe-inspiring.
Ahead of them, groups of men – and a few women – in the crowd had hung out cobalt blue Imperial banners, matching the Guards’ cloaks, and were throwing garlands even at the legionaries. A few were hurled over the leading litters, but most were being saved for the moment when the last litter came through the arch.
And, eventually, it did come, and the cheering of the crowd, already deafening, grew to rapturous levels. Valentine and three of the freed Vesperans occupied the litter, the Emperor standing and waving to the crowds as a rain of garlands pelted him. He picked one of the garlands up and put it on his head in place of a crown, since the New Empire’s regalia would all be in Azure. It was Valentine the crowds wanted to see, and hadn’t seen before, and he didn’t disappoint them. The freed Vesperans looked dazed and ecstatic at the same time. No matter what they thought of the New Empire and its claim to rule all of Thetia, to stand beside Valentine at such a moment as this was an unheard-of favour.
His mother rode in the previous litter, which had some garlands littering its floor, but not nearly so many. She had Silvanos with her, and also High Thalassarch Gian Ulithi – once Aesonia’s ally and companion in the Anarchy, now leader of the pro-Imperial faction in Vespera.
The cheers rang out for Valentine, and as the rearguard of the procession and the band followed him and the procession tailed off, the crowds filled the gap, surging after him as he made his way across Aetius Bridge to the main Processional Way, running southwards along the shore of the Deep.
But not before Raphael had glanced at Petroz and saw him watching, not the Emperor, but the silver-robed figure in front, and remembered that Petroz and Aesonia were brother and sister. Brother and sister who, if rumour was correct, hadn’t spoken to one another for almost four decades.
Orfeo’s stood on the eastern shore of Triton Island, at the heart of the maze of ancient streets immediately behind the Processional Way, and only a couple of minutes’ walk from the Palace of the Seas. Raphael was too busy picking his way through the crowds to take in much of Triton, an area of the City he’d never really known. This was ancient Vespera, neglected when the City’s centre of gravity moved south under the Empire, but apparently reclaimed in the years he’d been away.
The coffee-house filled the ground floor of a small, ancient palazzo, lacking a central courtyard but with a water-terrace built on stone arches over the channel, and a magnificent view of the eastern shores of the Deep. The inner walls and arches had mostly been knocked through, lights hung in the vaults, and plants installed to create movable screens. There was a platform in the centre where a wind quintet were playing, though Raphael could hardly hear them for the din.
It was fast filling up by the time they reached it, Leonata’s Council status and Petroz’s distinctive profile only buying them a little space on the walk there, but her aide had seized a table, and two or three others were already there. Including, to Raphael’s delight, a very familiar face.
‘They told me you were back,’ said Bahram Ostanes in his basso profundo. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
He was the very image of a respectable Mons Ferratan banker, a tall black-skinned man in his fifties with silver hair and moustaches, but Raphael knew better. Bahram had been a friend of Raphael’s mentor Odeinath Sabal Xelestis – the Ancient Mariner – for most of a lifetime.
Odeinath had always arranged his wanderings around the oceans to stop at Mons Ferranis every so often, and it had been Bahram who taught Raphael the rudiments of commerce and banking, leaving him in the odd position of being one of a very few Thetians to have learned those skills from a foreigner. Silvanos didn’t consider them important, and the Exiles of Sarthes pretended ignorance of such a secular activity.
He’d also taught Raphael a great deal about intelligence, but that was something Raphael kept to himself.
‘I didn’t know you were here,’ Raphael said, glad to see a friend and ally, a man he’d seen far too little of these past few years.
‘I’ve been trying to get the Old Man to send me here for years,’ Bahram said. ‘He was afraid I’d never come back if he let me.’
‘Afraid you’d spend all his hard-earned interest on dancing girls and easy living?’ Leonata said. Bahram’s elder brother, universally known as Old Man Ostanes, was a legend for his puritanical thriftiness.
‘It’s my money too,’ Bahram said. ‘If all you do with money is make more, it gets dull eventually. I haven’t convinced him yet.’
‘Coffee?’ Leonata said, with a significant look at one of her aides.
Raphael paused, trying to remember what his preferences had been last time he’d been anywhere civilized enough for there to be a choice.
‘Strong or weak, spiced or not?’ Hasdrubal said. A man Raphael remembered from his childhood – who couldn’t? Hasdrubal wasn’t only a Tanethan who had taken Thetian citizenship and formed his own clan, Clan Barca, but he was the son of Elassel Barca, the greatest composer of her generation, whose Lament from the Song of the Crusade was engraved on Raphael’s mind. He had met her one unforgettable afternoon when she visited Vespera for the last time eighteen years ago, had heard her play in Hasdrubal’s palace and even played a movement of a quartet with her.
It had been Silvanos’s treat for him, a rare moment of warmth in a cold childhood, and he almost had to blink back tears at the memories Hasdrubal’s voice conjured up.
‘Strong, not spiced,’ Raphael said, after a moment. ‘But not Porta, please.’ Porta was notorious in Vespera, a blend of coffee favoured in the Portanis which was so coarse and bitter it took the roof off one’s mouth. Raphael suspected the Portanis’s inhabitants drank it solely so they could dismiss everyone else as effeminate weaklings for hating the foul stuff.
‘Mari black, Flavia,’ Leonata said. ‘And some cordial for us all. We’ll deal with supper later.’
The cherub-faced man next to Raphael gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Four hundred and twenty-eight varieties, and you order Mari black for him?’ His name was Hycano Seithen, technically an adviser to Leonata’s close ally High Thalassarch Arria Seithen, better known as a writer and
polymath, a vehement opponent of the Empire in his work.
‘Most of those are different names for the same thing,’ Bahram said.
‘Not this argument again, please,’ Leonata said tartly.
‘It’s not my fault he has an uneducated palate,’ Hycano replied.
As the conversation wandered away, Hycano managed to detach himself to talk to Raphael, apparently for introductions, and then to casually slip in that Tiziano was likely to arrive about an hour before midnight, and stay for an hour or two before moving on to Metellio’s for the rest of the night.
‘He’ll know who you are and that you want to meet him. It’ll be hinted you’re destined for great things. He won’t be able to resist. Flatter him lots, he’s a walking ego. Can’t imagine why you want to meet him.’
‘Raphael won’t, either, once he’s met the man,’ said Petroz, apparently restored to his earlier good humour, but Raphael could tell there was something worrying the Prince of Imbria, and also that he wanted to confide whatever it was in Leonata, should he get the opportunity.
He broke off as Flavia arrived with the drinks – first cups of steaming coffee, then frosted glasses full of fruit cordial.
‘To Raphael,’ Leonata said, raising her glass of cordial. ‘Welcome home.’
Raphael reached out to pick up his glass.
And almost dropped it. It was cold, colder than anything in this climate had a right to be, and for a second the terrible chill bored into his hand, until he jerked it away, his mind suddenly filled with a nameless pain and fear.
‘Are you all right?’ Leonata asked.
He nodded, wondering what had happened. He didn’t like the cold, despite half a year spent in the high arctic, but the fear, the sudden dread – where had that come from? What weakness lay inside him that he’d never even guessed at, to cause such a reaction?
‘I’m fine,’ he said tightly. ‘Been a long time since I met anything that cold.’
‘Jharissan ice,’ Leonata said.
Raphael knew when Tiziano had arrived, even though he was facing out to sea rather than towards the entrance. The noise-level, which had risen gradually throughout a long evening of Vesperan food and chamber music by better players than Raphael had heard in years, suddenly peaked.
‘Here’s your man,’ Hycano said. ‘Wait a little while, though.’
Raphael could tell that the others at the table were wondering why he wanted to meet Tiziano, even those like Arria and Hasdrubal who liked his music. Raphael wasn’t entirely sure himself. Aetius the Great was, after all, a natural subject for Tiziano, but there was something about the whole thing that niggled at him. Perhaps if they hadn’t played his march for Valentine’s procession . . .
The evening had moved from coffee to a meal and on to wine, as Raphael had listened to the conversation around him, and joined in when he had to. He needed to gather information more than to give it, but it was hard not to relax in the good company, and music, and a sense of home, of belonging, that Raphael hadn’t felt since he left Odeinath’s Navigator.
Was it a measure of how suspicious he’d become, that he could only wonder what advantage his hosts sought to gain? Vespera was a place where politics and commerce and everyday life were virtually inseparable – yet Bahram wouldn’t have been here, and so clearly at ease in the company of Leonata, Hycano and the others, if they were merely the weak rulers of a decadent city.
Petroz had left the table an hour or so ago, working the crowd in search of musicians to lure back to Imbria for a season, and even now was holding court in front of a pillar, entirely obscured by a circle of musicians. At his own table, Leonata was talking to a group of string-players, discussing possible soloists for a concert; Hycano had returned to a heated argument about the mathematical ratios of harmonics.
There. Tiziano had drawn clear of some of his circle of admirers, and was looking round the room. Raphael got to his feet and threaded his way out, knowing the man in the elaborately worked Imperial blue coat and fashionably high collar was looking for him. Tiziano was full enough of his own importance not to need more patrons, but contacts in high court circles – particularly younger men – would be valuable. Tiziano was only a few years Silvanos’s senior, but unlike him could expect perhaps another twenty years of health.
‘Messer Tiziano?’ Raphael said, seeing other musicians appraising him, and Tiziano’s hangers on rush to join their idol. ‘Raphael Quiridion. It’s an honour to meet you.’
‘The honour is mine,’ Tiziano said, returning Raphael’s bow with one of baroque extravagance, and dispensing with other formailities in short order. He was short even for a Thetian, one side of his face was pockmarked from a childhood disease, and his dress sense was beyond tasteless. ‘I’ve always said the servants of the Empire are best placed to appreciate my work. They understand what it is to work for something greater than one’s self.’
‘Surely you want to inspire those who aren’t servants of the Empire as well?’ Raphael asked.
‘Indeed. But to serve a mere prince or city is like staging an opera without costumes or a set, the singers static on the stage as in a choir. The experience is far less, like the art form,’ he said, thus managing to insult almost all the great and powerful of Thetia in one breath, and every single one of Thetia’s choral composers in another. ‘The future lies in totality, in bringing all forms of art together, just as the Empire will eventually bring our poor Thetia back to unity.’
Raphael silently thanked Silvanos for his training in concealing even the slightest facial expression, and suppressed the urge to laugh. How could such sublime music come from the pen of such a man?
‘Then your Aetius . . .’ Raphael prompted.
‘You have seen it?’ Tiziano demanded.
‘I’ve only returned to the City today,’ Raphael said apologetically. In truth, he’d also missed two of Tiziano’s three previous operas, only catching Valour when it was unexpectedly staged in Taneth during his stay. ‘I’m arranging to see it as soon as my duties allow. I always wanted to see you write an Aetius.’
It had been a favourite of composers for centuries, Thetia’s epic struggle against its dark northern enemy, the Tuonetar, and the story of the heroic Aetius IV who had defeated them, but fallen at the moment of victory.
‘The time had to be right,’ Tiziano proclaimed. ‘I had to give the theme the attention it deserved.’
‘So the Emperor is pleased,’ Raphael said, with what he hoped was a convincingly warm smile.
‘The Emperor has promised to see it while he is here, and the Empress Mother too. She was the one who urged me to compose it, over and over again, but I had to wait for the Muse,’ he said, with an overly dramatic gesture which nearly stunned one of the hangers-on behind him, a much taller man. He frowned, first at the man’s chest, and then more fiercely at his face. ‘She said no-one had yet done the theme justice.’
Raphael felt a brief stab of triumph.
‘And you are a friend of the Emperor?’ Tiziano went on.
‘One of his staff,’ Raphael said, deliberately ambiguously. Tiziano might not notice the difference.
‘In what capacity?’ Tiziano asked expansively.
Raphael took a deep breath. ‘I’m investigating the murder of Emperor Catiline,’ he said, as quietly as he could, but it was still overheard, and those nearby went suddenly quiet.
‘And anyone with such a responsibility is a friend of mine!’ Tiziano announced. ‘Bring those northern scum the justice they deserve. Traitors and Tuonetar, the lot of them, we need another Aetius to show them their place!’
The men behind him, and two or three other groups, cheered loudly. ‘A drink for my friend here, and a toast. Ruin to the northerners!’
Someone thrust a drink into Raphael’s hand, and he joined the toast as quietly as he dared, aware how many eyes were watching him.
It took him almost half an hour after that to rid himself of Tiziano, but finally the composer left, leaving a cry of
‘Ruin to the Tuonetar!’ echoing in the vaults.
Raphael waited a decent interval before slipping out himself, to wash his hands in the fountain outside. He wondered for a second about going back inside, but he couldn’t face it yet. He needed space to think, and time to clear his mind of Tiziano’s taint. Would he ever be able to listen to the man’s music with the same feelings again? Or would he only remember the man’s bilious hatred and his casual arrogance?
He walked past the next building, along to where the road ran directly alongside the water, and a few people were leaning on the balustrade, lovers for the most part. He could just about hear the lapping of the water over the noise from Orfeo’s and the other coffee-houses nearby, which seemed to become tabernae in the evening.
‘Did you get what you were looking for?’ said Leonata’s voice beside him, and Raphael’s heart sank.
Leonata saw Raphael hunch slightly, clearly not wishing to be disturbed, and she turned to go.
‘Don’t go,’ he said, turning, and she saw disappointment mixed with bitterness in his face. She could have told him what would happen, but he’d been determined to to speak Tiziano and get the information he wanted from him.
‘Aesonia commissioned Aetius, and I’d be willing to bet she funded it as well.’
‘It’s my experience,’ Leonata said, keeping her voice down, ‘that nothing Aesonia does is without a purpose.’ She knew that Flavia would be behind her, keeping a watchful eye on anyone who attempted to listen in.
‘I’ve got the same impression,’ he said, leaning on the balustrade. ‘Now was Tiziano simply being a bigot, or was he reflecting Aesonia’s opinion as well?’
‘Aetius is about the glory of the Empire, first and foremost. A warrior-Emperor.’
‘Yes, but Aesonia wants Tiziano to write an opera, and she asks him more than once. And the opera she wants him to write is all about the treachery and evil of the Tuonetar. Who, as far as Tiziano and his friends are concerned, have been reincarnated as Clan Jharissa. And all this several years before Catiline’s death.’
Vespera Page 9
