It’s as bad as burning books.”
There the old man was exaggerating. In his view, nothing was as bad as burning books. Well, almost nothing. With great effort and difficulty, Senza leaned forward, found the little blue and white tea bowl and sipped. Perfect; just right. The thought made him shudder.
“And the same goes for so-called restoration,” the old man went on. “Criminal. Worse than murder. If I had my way, anyone who restores old paintings or cleans the patina off genuine old bronzes would be strung up. Sheer vandalism, but they keep on doing it.”
If I had my way.
But he did; that was the point … A good forty per cent of what the emperor said was curses and bloodcurdling promises concerning curators, art dealers, historians and musicians, but he’d never issued a single decree or arrest warrant for the sins he professed to detest so much. Plenty of decrees, ever so many death warrants, but none for offences against aesthetics. That was what he considered being a civilised man. “You wanted to see me, sir,” Senza prompted.
The emperor was a tall man, though these days a slight stoop made him look shorter; but his shoulders were still broad, and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. He’d been a mighty wrestler in his youth, so they said – classical wrestling, of course, strictly in accordance with the rules set down by the Academicians nearly a thousand years ago. His high cheekbones and long, straight nose looked very well on the backs of coins, though in real life his eyes were small and just a bit too close together. But you wouldn’t know that if all you’d seen was his gold and silver profiles. Still, it was impossible to deny that he was a fine-looking man, very dignified and intellectual. It was hard to believe, just looking at him, that he’d murdered all four of his brothers.
“Now, then.” The old man put down his wine glass. “What’s all this about young Forza? Is he dead or isn’t he?”
The little glow of hope in Senza’s heart sputtered out and died. “Ah,” he said. “I’d been hoping you could tell me.”
Slight frown. “You don’t know.”
“I’m afraid not, sir, no.”
A grunt of disappointment. “Well, we don’t know either. Been trying our damnedest to find out, of course, but none of the usual sources can tell us a damned thing. Mardesian reckons they don’t know themselves, which I suppose is possible.” He paused, and peered at Senza with those sky-blue eyes. “I’d have thought you’d have known. First report that came in had it that you’d killed him yourself, single combat.”
Senza took a moment to reply. “That may quite possibly be true,” he said. “I hit him pretty hard at one point, though he was still very much alive when I ran for it. If he’s dead, it’s my guess that that’s what he died of.”
The old man considered that for a moment – you could almost see his intellect and his instincts in conclave – then nodded briskly. “Quite likely,” he said. “Blunt force trauma to the head, entirely possible for death to follow sometime later. Ursinian, third book of the
Medical Commentaries
. Sulpicius disagrees, of course, but he was two centuries earlier. Blunt force trauma leading to internal bleeding inside the skull. You could be quite dead and still walking around. Question is, though, is he or isn’t he? Until we know
that
—”
“Quite,” Senza said quickly, hoping to forestall any further scholarship. “Meanwhile, acting on information received, I’ve sent cavalry to where what’s left of his army might be. If it’s where it’s supposed to be, we’ll soon find out if Forza’s alive and in charge of them. If he is, he’ll have our boys for breakfast, and then we’ll know.”
The old man grinned at that; thought it was funny. “Good idea,” he said. “What information, exactly?”
“I was hoping you weren’t going to ask me that.”
“Ah.” The old man thought about it. Good day or bad day?
There the old man was exaggerating. In his view, nothing was as bad as burning books. Well, almost nothing. With great effort and difficulty, Senza leaned forward, found the little blue and white tea bowl and sipped. Perfect; just right. The thought made him shudder.
“And the same goes for so-called restoration,” the old man went on. “Criminal. Worse than murder. If I had my way, anyone who restores old paintings or cleans the patina off genuine old bronzes would be strung up. Sheer vandalism, but they keep on doing it.”
If I had my way.
But he did; that was the point … A good forty per cent of what the emperor said was curses and bloodcurdling promises concerning curators, art dealers, historians and musicians, but he’d never issued a single decree or arrest warrant for the sins he professed to detest so much. Plenty of decrees, ever so many death warrants, but none for offences against aesthetics. That was what he considered being a civilised man. “You wanted to see me, sir,” Senza prompted.
The emperor was a tall man, though these days a slight stoop made him look shorter; but his shoulders were still broad, and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. He’d been a mighty wrestler in his youth, so they said – classical wrestling, of course, strictly in accordance with the rules set down by the Academicians nearly a thousand years ago. His high cheekbones and long, straight nose looked very well on the backs of coins, though in real life his eyes were small and just a bit too close together. But you wouldn’t know that if all you’d seen was his gold and silver profiles. Still, it was impossible to deny that he was a fine-looking man, very dignified and intellectual. It was hard to believe, just looking at him, that he’d murdered all four of his brothers.
“Now, then.” The old man put down his wine glass. “What’s all this about young Forza? Is he dead or isn’t he?”
The little glow of hope in Senza’s heart sputtered out and died. “Ah,” he said. “I’d been hoping you could tell me.”
Slight frown. “You don’t know.”
“I’m afraid not, sir, no.”
A grunt of disappointment. “Well, we don’t know either. Been trying our damnedest to find out, of course, but none of the usual sources can tell us a damned thing. Mardesian reckons they don’t know themselves, which I suppose is possible.” He paused, and peered at Senza with those sky-blue eyes. “I’d have thought you’d have known. First report that came in had it that you’d killed him yourself, single combat.”
Senza took a moment to reply. “That may quite possibly be true,” he said. “I hit him pretty hard at one point, though he was still very much alive when I ran for it. If he’s dead, it’s my guess that that’s what he died of.”
The old man considered that for a moment – you could almost see his intellect and his instincts in conclave – then nodded briskly. “Quite likely,” he said. “Blunt force trauma to the head, entirely possible for death to follow sometime later. Ursinian, third book of the
Medical Commentaries
. Sulpicius disagrees, of course, but he was two centuries earlier. Blunt force trauma leading to internal bleeding inside the skull. You could be quite dead and still walking around. Question is, though, is he or isn’t he? Until we know
that
—”
“Quite,” Senza said quickly, hoping to forestall any further scholarship. “Meanwhile, acting on information received, I’ve sent cavalry to where what’s left of his army might be. If it’s where it’s supposed to be, we’ll soon find out if Forza’s alive and in charge of them. If he is, he’ll have our boys for breakfast, and then we’ll know.”
The old man grinned at that; thought it was funny. “Good idea,” he said. “What information, exactly?”
“I was hoping you weren’t going to ask me that.”
“Ah.” The old man thought about it. Good day or bad day?
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