Chapter Text
The ball. The thing Nero had been preparing for these past weeks. Every dance, every bow, every curtsey had been drilled into him until they were second nature. Preparations had begun that very morning. Dante’s house arrest was temporarily lifted, though Nero knew full well that such prohibitions had never been prohibitions for him at all.
Sparda was already dressed in black velvet. Vergil’s appearance, meanwhile, was a demonstration of status, power, and cold superiority—silver bullion, dark blue silk. Seeing them, Nero felt the pressure. He himself was clad in an elegant suit, yet his tense muscles betrayed his fear and uncertainty.
The velvet gloves seemed to crush his hands. Nero had hidden his arm ever since his talk with Sparda, but he no longer perceived it as a curse—for the most part. Still, stepping out into society had reawakened his fear of being judged.
They set off for Venice. Nero longed to examine every building that seemed to stand upon the water, but etiquette forbade it. Even as they glided in those exquisite boats through the most beautiful quarters, approaching their destination—the Palazzo Grimani in San Polo—he could not properly study his surroundings.
They were received with every honour. Domenico Grimani himself, the host and organiser of the ball, together with his family, politely greeted Sparda and the rest of the household. Nero quickly scanned the canal and understood they were among the first to arrive.
Sparda courteously greeted the host, presenting each member of his family, including Nero. It felt as though a hundred eyes were boring into him. He felt like a horse put on display at a fair. Everyone was trying to peer at his teeth, to look him in the eye.
Nero entered the hall; it was larger than he had imagined. There were more lavish adornments than he had ever seen at the Sparda estate. Yet he could not recall a single ball.
His adventures began with the traditional pavane. A slow, solemn dance—more a procession—that opened the ball. Couples formed according to rank. Trish had drummed this knowledge into him, and Nero knew full well he must take as his partner a girl of a station beneath his own.
The niece of Domenico Grimani himself—rumoured to be his own daughter—did not look at him. A modest gaze cast to the floor, an outstretched hand, an invitation. What unnerved Nero most was that Dante had vanished the moment their attention wandered.
He felt out of place. It would have been far easier had his uncle been there, but now he understood he was sitting an examination. The piercing gaze of his father and grandfather screamed that he was being judged, and the last thing he wanted was to expose himself before them.
“I have heard much of you,” the girl began quietly. Only then did Nero truly take notice of her. She was beautiful, deathly pale, demure, and could bear no comparison to Kyrie. “They say you only recently arrived and have already attracted attention.”
“I fear it is mere chance.”
“Chance is seldom so… intriguing.” Nero blushed faintly. “You are nothing like the others.” Her voice grew softer when their hands accidentally touched. Nero had heard from Trish more than once that this was impermissible, yet in the moment he did not even notice the misstep. “It is stuffy in the hall… Would you care to step onto the balcony?”
“It is indeed stuffy, but to leave the hall would be impolite.”
“Oh, the dance is nearly over. What would you say to viewing my uncle’s collection of paintings?”
“I am not well versed in art.”
“Do not fret. It is no more than a pretext to show you something truly remarkable…”
“Yes…?”
In an instant, Nero felt himself being insistently tugged along. It was strange. Fortunately, the dance was over, so his disappearance would not trouble the other guests. The boy felt slightly awkward refusing, so he obediently shuffled after her. A refusal might have been considered an insult, though the young bastard had no idea where he was being led or why.
The naïve mind of the young man never suspected that the secluded room was meant to catch a hapless pup in a mistake.
The little chamber seemed too dark and small, and a couple of bottles of wine and a jug hinted that this situation was no accident.
Nero guessed he was being lured into a trap. It had been so brazen and pushy that he had not even grasped it at once. Yet now, seated indecently close to the charming girl who was extending a goblet to him, he was finally convinced he was two steps from the snare.
His lips were pressed tight; he glanced about warily while the girl was already pouring him more drink.
“Forgive me, signora. I believe I must return to my family…” he muttered, trying to rise. But a tender feminine hand pulled him back down.
“Stay, just for a moment. My uncle would be most displeased if I left a guest alone.”
“Heavens forfend, such passions…”
The voice came from behind, paralysing both young people and making them turn simultaneously. The smug face of his uncle, with a light alcoholic flush, betrayed that Dante was drunk.
“Oh! Claret! A magnificent thing!” he declared, reaching for the pair of bottles. Nero remained frozen, as though caught in something horribly shameful.
“Uncle!”
“And what are you doing here? Father is looking for you, as it happens.”
“Father?”
“Oh, and who is this with you? What a delight! Won’t you keep me company?” Dante vaulted over the back of the modest divan, wedging himself between the young pair. Taking the girl by the elbow, he immediately sprang up and began to lead the lady away.
“Dante, have you been drinking?” Nero jumped up after him; his shock at the scene was difficult to describe.
“Better go to your father, kid. Verg will be furious! Signora, come quickly, I have the most remarkable diversion for you!”
Dante forcibly ushered the bewildered girl from the room. From the side, it was unclear whether she was keeping him from falling or he was steering her somewhere far off. One thing was plain: Nero must hurry to his father.
“S-sir! Please, walk straighter.”
“Oh, fret not, signora, you are in safe hands!” Dante continued, still guiding her toward the chamber. The unfortunate girl knew that a refusal would not be accepted.
In a flash, the doors swung open. Dante, without fear or scruple, strode into the holy of holies—the ladies’ withdrawing room—where two women were just then attending to their toilette.
“Greetings, Lady, Lady Borgia. Do not take it amiss; I have brought you a companion.”
“Dante, heavens, how rudely you treat the poor girl,” Lady lamented. Her festive gown blended her with the others present: a silk dress, jewels, her hair pinned up and hidden.
She instantly took the bewildered girl by her free hand, seating her between herself and the other lady. Angela Borgia was a well-known figure, and to show her discourtesy meant that all the secrets of her family would become known to the entire clergy.
“I have quite forgotten the wine! With your leave, signoras, I shall absent myself for a time.”
So saying, he slipped out into the corridor. Both women had the unfortunate girl pinned firmly between them. Dante knew his people would “take good care” of the little intriguer. He had already heard tales of her beloved, to whom Dante—drunkard and debauchee—had given his heart and soul. And indeed, Dante could not even dispute it. After all, he had invented that story himself.
Walking further away, he finally straightened up, ceased his stumbling, and adjusted his doublet.
“What a boy. He’s barely appeared and already a target for schemers,” he muttered, rounding yet another corner. Diving behind a screen, he found himself in a more secluded and quiet spot. He needed to rest before the galliard.
Meanwhile, Nero was already hastening to his father. Vergil was waiting for him in the hall. Nero detected no anger, no rage—only, as ever, the bone-chilling cold.
“Father, did you call for me?”
The sharp gaze sent shivers down his spine, but the answer slightly surprised him.
“No.”
“Er… Dante said you needed me.”
“No.” Nero furrowed his brows. In this, he was terribly like Sparda, and Vergil could not shake the thought. “Dante saved you from an unpleasant situation. Referring to me was merely an excuse.”
“I suppose…” Nero’s mouth fell open in surprise.
“Be more wary of those, like that girl, who are too persistent.”
“You saw?”
“Clearly.”
Nero flushed crimson at once. He had to keep his composure, but shame was eating him from within. He clenched his fists and ground his teeth. To disgrace himself within the first hours of the ball had not been part of his plans.
“The galliard will soon begin. You should go and choose a worthier partner.”
Nero froze. Such words, regarding the niece of the ball’s host, not everyone could permit themselves.
So Nero said nothing and made his way closer to the centre of the hall.
Nero had not rehearsed this dance for long; it was simple, as far as such things went. An aristocrat had to keep his back straight, springing aristocratically, kicking out first one leg, then the other, in time to the music. Yet after a mere ten minutes of such leaping, even the hardiest soul would surrender.
Nero was especially hardy, and could have danced for an hour; his problem was the rhythm and the sequence of steps. He could never quite grasp at what moment he should leap higher than usual, but when he was not dancing alone, the nuances were easier to pick up.
And so his bout was finished. He was sweating, more from nerves than fatigue. He was making his way to the corner where food was being served when he overheard aristocrats gossiping about him.
An elderly lady, once a renowned dancer, was well known. Trish had mentioned her in passing, and Nero had quite forgotten her, as he’d had to memorise hundreds of other names.
“The boy is not bad for a commoner, but there is not a trace of divine lightness in his leaps,” she was saying to her small circle. “The brute force of a butcher, nothing more. True galliard demands breeding from the cradle.”
Nero would have liked to answer, but he could not. Trish and Dante had been forced to beat his reflex to attack out of him throughout all the days of training. His teeth ground together at the injustice. He knew he had performed well and had seen that, unlike the others, he had not lost tempo by the end.
“Signora, your words wound me to the very heart!” came the familiar drunken voice. Nero tensed, not knowing what to expect—shame or salvation. “For it was I who taught the boy. It seems I am a worthless tutor. Permit me to prove otherwise!”
Nero turned to the group, as did many others. Dante’s voice was loud; his declaration must have been heard by the whole hall.
“You, with your experience and taste, undoubtedly know this dance better than anyone. I beseech you, do me the honour. But to make things… more interesting for all, let us add a pinch of carnival to this dull evening. I shall perform your part, and you—mine. Let us show these youngsters how they danced at the court of Lorenzo the Magnificent!”
Nero could not move. Dante had already led the aristocrat to the centre, having signalled the orchestra. Trish had surely taught him that such antics were the height of insolence—something he understood even without reminders.
He glanced at his father, trying to gauge how to react, but Vergil did not appear the least bit impressed. *He’s… road gravel…* flashed through Nero’s mind, and he decided simply to watch the dance.
Dante took the lady’s position. His lightness and grace struck everyone present in an instant. He did not clown or joke. In his steps, there was lightness and assurance. Nero had seen Dante perform this dance more than once, but now, in comparison with the other dancers, the difference was stark.
Unfortunately for the aristocrat, Dante was too perfect, which made her male part seem especially lame. Age and inexperience in the man’s role told against her, so her steps were not as high or as nimble.
Out of the corner of his eye, Nero saw Sparda approach them.
“Οὐ ταχέως τὸ γένος ἡμῶν ἀπαλλαγήσεται τῆς αἰσχύνης ταύτης. Ὁ υἱός μου, γελωτοποιὸς ἐγένετο...” said Sparda, and Nero understood not a word.
“Πάτερ, δέομαι, σαυτὸν ἔχε,” Vergil answered his father without the slightest hesitation.
Nero chose to ignore their exchange. After all, applause was already spreading through the hall. The aristocrats’ astonishment was plain: the staggering, drunken Dante had performed the dance as though it had cost him nothing.
Grimani was among those applauding. He was making directly for them. Nero tensed; he executed the perfect greeting, trying to feel calmer, but the gaze of his grandfather and father pricked like needles.
*Think of road gravel…* Nero repeated to himself. But it was not working well. He marvelled at how Sparda and Vergil could slice with a look so deftly, even knowing there was nothing behind it.
“Your dance was truly beautiful, though your tutor executed perhaps the finest galliard the world has ever seen.”
“I thank you, signore.”
“I am delighted to welcome the heir of the illustrious House of Sparda to Venice officially, and as a token of my deepest respect and the blessing of the Holy See, I pray you accept my humble gift.”
The aristocrat turned. A servant bore a luxurious length of silver brocade upon a velvet cushion. The fabric, embroidered with silver, had a particularly noble sheen, and Nero felt ashamed to touch such a gift. Yet he was obliged to accept it. Still, the sharp scent of incense unsettled him.
Nero was naïve, but not a fool. This was already the third suspicious object to appear in his vicinity. Yet etiquette could not permit him to refuse when a gift was presented publicly.
“Let it be placed upon your shoulders, signore. I am certain it becomes you.”
Nero had already humbly extended his hand when something incredibly heavy dropped onto his shoulder. Dante—who else? His loud hiccup likewise threw him off balance.
“Good God, what a dazzling rag!”
It seemed to Nero that each time they met, Dante was only drunker. Now even Grimani could smell the claret, and if he wished, could even taste it—one had only to breathe deeply through one’s mouth.
“Πάτερ, νομίζω ὅτι πρέπει ἡμᾶς μᾶλλον ἐπανελθεῖν εἰς τὴν οἰκίαν.”
“Ὀρθῶς. Ὁ ἀδελφός σου μόλις ἵσταται ἐπὶ τῶν ποδῶν. Οὐ βούλομαι αὐτὸν ἔτι αἰσχύνειν ἡμᾶς.”
Again Vergil and Sparda spoke quietly between themselves, and Nero understood not a word. Yet he saw that Dante’s condition was not at its best, and he clearly saw how suspiciously heavily the wine glass in his hand swayed from side to side.
Thus, Nero was not at all surprised when the strong claret splashed over the gift, leaving a trail of crimson stains.
“God! What a clumsy oaf I am!” Dante croaked, still draped over Nero. Grimani’s smile and laughter seemed especially cloying and forced.
Dante scattered apologies, barely keeping on his feet. Nero saw other aristocrats tactfully chuckling at the drunken clumsiness, but there were those who did not laugh, tactfully hiding their mouths behind fans. Isabella d’Este was observant and saw how Dante, with feline grace, had tipped the glass and poured the wine over the cloth.
“Do not trouble yourself over the fabric…”
“Signore, pray forgive my son,” Sparda began. “Regrettably, we must leave the ball earlier than planned. Do not take it amiss.”
“Not at all. The evening has been unforgettable as it is…”
Nero was glad to be leaving the ball. Stepping out to the gondolas, he could breathe fully. Dante behaved like a great child, begging for more wine, women, and amusements, but his father was in no mood to continue the evening.
The night had proved shorter than planned, but the boy was little concerned by that.
“You did well.”
The words came suddenly from Vergil. And they drove the boy into a deep blush.
Yes. It seemed he had done rather well.