“Pretty, isn’t it?”
And that was not it.
Mircea’s shoulders slumped and he sighed before looking around. And saw a vampire with short brown hair standing just behind him, gazing at something past his shoulder. It was the statue he’d barely noticed before and had to look up to see now, since it was more than twice his size.
But that wasn’t what had his jaw dropping.
“That’s porphyry,” Mircea whispered. He was almost sure of it. And then he was sure, when the light from the doorway caught the distinctive flecks in the stone.
“Yes.”
“It’s . . . huge.”
“Yes, well. No point in half measures, is there?” the man said jovially.
Mircea just looked at him. And then back at the statue, where the senator’s lovely features had been rendered in perfect detail. And in the most expensive material on earth.
Or no, it wasn’t expensive as such, since it was practically impossible to buy. He had never met anyone who had actually seen a piece before he came to Venice, and it was rare even here. The only mine where it had ever been found had been lost centuries ago, so all that remained was what had been unearthed in ancient times. And due to the extreme hardness of the stone, there had been damned little of that.
Even in wealthy Venice, porphyry was exceedingly rare, with the smallest piece viewed as a sign of vast wealth.
And here he was, staring at half a ton of it.
“It’s stunning,” he said. There simply was no other word for it.
“And telling, if you know the history.”
The man looked a question, but mostly what Mircea knew about was the rarity. “It came from a mine in Egypt,” he said, scouring his memory. “It was used by the ancients as an accent stone, in floors, columns, sculpture. . . .” He trailed off. That was literally all he remembered. But the vampire didn’t seem to mind.
“Quite,” he said cheerfully. “It was prized for its durability. Other stones wear away over time, but even exposed to the harshest of conditions, even over hundreds of years, porphyry looks the same as the day it was sculpted. But I was talking about the political significance.”
Mircea could only shake his head. He wasn’t sure how a type of stone could have political significance.
“It started with the color,” he was told. “It’s the same shade of purple as the stripe on the togas of the senatorial class. In old Rome,” the man added helpfully.
Mircea nodded. And then noticed, for the first time, that the man was wearing an old fashioned toga himself, blindingly white. Except for the thick purple edge around the bottom.
He swallowed.
“So, the Caesars became fond of it,” the man continued, baring teeth as white as his toga in what might have been a smile—on the face of a feral wolf. “You know how they were—well, you don’t, I suppose, but take it from me, those bastards never lost a chance to make a statement. Everything was politics, everything was symbols. Well, of course it was, half the damned people couldn’t read. But it was more ego than anything else. They wore purple, therefore their palaces must be purple, or have purple accents, at least. And the fact that the damned stuff is so hard that the only way of cutting it required destroying some of the best steel—well, that made it all the better.”
“It became a symbol of their power,” Mircea guessed, because some answer seemed required.
The man nodded. “You’re a quick one, aren’t you? But then, I expected that.” He clapped Mircea on the back, a little harder than necessary.
Mircea managed to catch himself before he hit the ground.
“So on to the tosspots in dear Constantinople,” the man continued, “pretending to be Roman emperors despite the fact that half of them never even saw the place. But they had an entire room covered in porphyry, oh yes, they did, where their empresses gave birth. Allowed the royal brats to take the title Porphyrogenos, ‘born to the purple’, didn’t it?”
“I . . . suppose.” There was a strange undercurrent to this conversation Mircea didn’t understand, and didn’t like. But what the man was saying was interesting in light of what had recently happened.
A woman born to the purple, long before it was called that, with the blood of conquering generals and ancient pharaohs in her veins, met a boy who had not even been able to hold a job as a potter. Yes, he was no longer a boy when she met him, and yes, he was far more powerful than she. But surely, that would make it even worse? That she had to take orders from someone she would consider beneath her?
And had to keep on taking them, for centuries?
Perhaps, Mircea thought, staring into that beautiful carved face, the consul had some reason to be concerned.
“Now, of course, the mine is lost,” the man said, “And so is the secret to the steel needed to cut it. Know how they work it these days? When they can get their grubby hands on a piece, that is?”
Mircea shook his head.
“By grinding it down with another piece of itself!” He laughed. “Takes forever; no wonder they mostly loot it. Damned popes almost destroyed the Pantheon to get porphyry for their churches. And the dear Venetians—pirates, every one—pillaged once-great Constantinople, a fellow Christian city, I might add. And for what? Gold and porphyry!”
“They wanted it for a symbol,” Mircea said, still staring at the face on the statue. “Of greatness past.”
“Oh, it’s more than that. It’s the opposite, in fact. It’s a sign of greatness returning. Of empires to be built, of ancient glory to be reclaimed. He who has porphyry has the imperium of the ancients.” The lips quirked in brief humor. “Or so it’s believed.”
Not a symbol so much, then, Mircea thought dizzily, as a promise. “I can’t believe I overlooked this, the last time I was here.”
“You didn’t.” Whiskey dark eyes met his. “It was moved in here two days ago.”
The man walked off, and Mircea turned to see Paulo silhouetted in the doorway as he glared around the garden. And then at Mircea, when he caught sight of him. “I. Am going. To kill you,” Paulo whispered, grabbing his arm.
Only to have his grabbed back. “Who was that?”
“Mircea! They’re seating.”
“The man I was just talking to,” Mircea persisted. “Who was he?”
“Oh, for—another senator—”
“Which one?”
Paulo looked at him as if he might be slow. “The one they call Antony.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Things did not improve at dinner.
Mircea had hoped that his time outside would clear his head. And it had—in a way. He found that, if he kept his eyes on his plate and concentrated very deliberately on his stuffed squid, he could just about ignore the colors flickering at the edge of his vision.
The sounds, on the other hand, were a different story.
“—not possible,” someone with a bass voice said. “Not with every master in Venice—”
“And it will be any more possible later?” A woman asked. “He grows in power every year—”
“He doesn’t need any more power,” another man’s voice chimed in. “If he never gained . . . still be millennia ahead of us . . .”
The faint whispers Mircea had heard in the atrium were becoming clearer, fading in and out like voices in a strong wind. But there was no wind. And, as far as everyone else was concerned, there were no voices.
Mircea glanced cautiously to the left, and saw Jerome a few seats down, chatting with a sloe-eyed woman in a flowing gown. She looked like an ancient queen—and might be, for all he knew. But while she wore pearls the size of grapes, she only glowed faintly, with a sweet pink haze that was suffusing the air around Jerome. And putting a silly smile on his face.