Lost Glory

A young painter put careful but eager brush strokes to his canvas. His subject was tall, broad shouldered, dressed in a well tailored military uniform with ornate medals pinned to his chest and a velvet cape draped over one shoulder. Vittorio IV di Alomario, Grand Duke of Ravania, Prince of Corvus, Count of Surio, and the young artist’s host and master had been standing stoically in his private quarters for hours. The painter, a man originating in the humble woodland countryside, could not have been more overjoyed to be selected to create the duke’s official portraiture. The duke himself though, was less enthused. He’d been through the process a number of times over the years, each new painting requiring more metal and heavy cloth to be draped uncomfortably around him for long periods of time.

The painter would not know it by looking at him but the duke had seen better days. His time as The Lion of Ravania, waging war under his country’s banner and bringing glory and land to his house was a thing of the past. Now he sat upon his throne, surrounded by pompous aristocrats and scheming politicians, making tedious administrative decisions while longing for the long gone days of his primacy. He gripped tightly the sheathed sword in his hand, holding onto the glory days in the few ways he had left. He may no longer have seen himself as a soldier, but his people still did, and with a cavalry saber by his side instead of the more fashionable royal scepter and orb it would remind them not to forget.

“Your highness, may I ask you to please raise your head?” The painter inquired sheepishly. The duke tilted his head up, peering down at the portraitist over his chiseled jaw and impressive facial hair. The painter was at one point intimidated merely by the presence of his duke, for his naturally aggressive eyes and impressive physique as much as his position as sovereign. He had found the duke not a chatty man, but not unsociable either, and during his initial sketching they had found common ground in their mutual interest in history. They had become somewhat fond of each other but the painter made sure not to become overly familiar, wary of the line between lord and subject.

Their talks had done a considerable amount in easing his anxiety since coming to the palace, but it was the sociable attitude of the grand duchess that had made him feel most at home. She was an outgoing woman, and would often come to greet new arrivals to the palace in all the opulence and splendor of her homeland, wearing designer dresses and enough jewelry to weigh down a carrack. In that fashion she had been the first to greet the painter and his wife as they stepped out of their carriage after a long trip through the countryside. They’d taken to each other well, spending considerable time talking about art and music, seeing plays and discussing the latest happenings around the world. His wife had been less fond of her, daring not to speak ill of her host but certainly not praising her.The painter and his wife had both grown up in the country, but the lifestyle suited her more than him. Artists were not a sought after commodity in small farming villages.

After some discussion they had chosen to use the duke’s personal chamber as the background for the painting. The architecture and ornamentation of the room had been styled in emulation of the ancient Empire of Terrata, with the imperial chambers of the Superiban palace serving as the primary inspiration. Standing close to the room’s terrace allowed a view of the princess Giovanna’s personal garden, which had become somewhat iconic in the preceding years, containing many exotic plants from around the world arranged to spectacular visual effect.

Giovanna had been married to a far off prince as a means of securing a military alliance and favorable trade conditions, leaving the garden to be tended by servants. Letters to her father and mother seemed to indicate that they got on well, which came as a great surprise to many, her most of all. Seeing the way her parents behaved towards one another had given her little hope for happiness in an arranged marriage.

The duke was fond of his daughter, reminding him of her mother before their relationship soured. Upon her request he made sure the gardens would be diligently tended to. The palace staff had told the painter that the duke spent a considerable amount of time there since his daughter’s wedding. Some spread tawdry rumors, saying he was gallivanting about with a mistress. Most dismissed the accusation outright, and those few who were close to him believed the duke was just lonely.The friends he’d made in his youth were mostly dead, and those that weren’t rarely had the opportunity to write. His daughter was gone, his son was enlisted in a foreign military for training and his relationship with his wife had been cold for many years.

“Shall we take a break, your highness?” The painter asked, seeing the duke start to subtly shift his weight tiredly between one leg and another.

The duke immediately dropped his regal posture. He unclasped the chain holding the cape from around his neck and tossed the thick fabric onto his bed. His sword he placed on the dining table. The painter took the opportunity to review his work, looking for imperfections and improvements that could be touched upon while he waited for his lord to resume. The duke sparked up a cigar and strode over to the balcony, leaning over the railing to look into the garden. He ran a hand through his thick but slowly receding hairline and took a long, contemptuous drag on his cigar.

People were milling about the garden, a collection of ministers, noblemen and wealthy businessmen who’d managed to secure invitations to the palace, mostly through his wife and her overly gregarious attitude. The duke was not fond of seeing people he didn’t like or barely knew roaming around his daughter’s garden, feeling them interlopers into a private sanctuary. Few of them appreciated the effort the princess had gone to to amass and catalog such a collection, taking it as a silly young girl’s flight of fancy. He’d considered shutting down access, allowing only entry to guests he pre-approved, but the headaches he would get from dealing with petitioners requesting entry would be too much.

The painter saw the duke’s wistful looks and knew he would not be persuaded to continue for the day. He ordered a servant passing through the hall to send all of his painting tools back to his quarters. The painting itself would be put in a secure room that only the chief of the palace staff had immediate access to.

“I shall consult with your planners to find a suitable day to continue.” the painter said, stepping onto the balcony. “I bid your majesty good day” he bowed slightly, planning to leave, but his eye caught an unexpected sight in the garden.

An older man in a fresh suit was groping a well dressed woman perhaps half his age under the shadows of a large tree from the eastern lands. The painter was appalled, he turned to the duke, expecting anger and disgust, but the duke appeared not to be bothered at all, calmly taking another drag of his cigar.

From the corner of his eye the duke looked at the open mouthed artist. “You’re wondering I’m letting this go on.” he said in his authoritative voice.

The artist stuttered, looking for words to not seem accusatory or neglectful of the situation. “I...I don’t-”

“It’s an understandable question. Ten years ago I would have broken my fist against his jaw for defiling my daughter’s garden.” The duke paused, leaving an awkward vacuum of silence before continuing. “A woman like that would never touch someone like him without the expectation of compensation. She’s young and lovely, the daughter of a well to do family, and he’s a slovenly pig in a gentleman’s uniform. Do you know why he’s able to seduce her?”

The painter closed his gaping mouth and took sidelong glances at them. He could not think past how revolting he found their affair. Not only was it distasteful and disrespectful to embrace your baser urges in public, but the sun hadn’t even set. “Money?” He said, scrambling to think of any kind of response.

“Influence. That fat animal has a seat in parliament, and is well respected amongst his peers.” The duke was unkind in his words, but devoid of tone.

It was strange to find familiarity in a person looking at them from behind, but with his large frame and thinning black hair there was something recognizable about the older man in the garden. A recent newspaper article he'd read about the man sitting in a small restaurant came to the painter’s mind. It had been said he was working behind the scenes to try and gather support for an underhanded plan to curb the monarchy’s influence.

“Vincenzo...Vincenzo Sagatto.” The painter said, just managing to recall the name. “What would he be doing here after what happened?”

“When his base in the Worker’s Union heard about his planning there were a number of them calling for his removal. There are those who are still quite fond of me, despite what liberal newspapers would have you believe.”

“I see. He’s hoping to save face by being granted an audience with you and acquiring your goodwill.”

“Aye. The snake thinks he can curry favor with me to retain his seat. As soon as he has it he’ll return right back to what he was doing. There’s no loyalty among politicians.” The duke sighed. “I’d sooner spit in his eye, but he’ll have what he wants.”

The painter was perplexed, unsure of what wisdom could be found in compliantly cavorting with people who made themselves an enemy of the crown.

“He’ll have my support, but he’ll know what I’ve seen here. He’ll know that if he again seeks to disrupt the order of this country that his adulterous ways will be exposed and his life destroyed.” The duke took another puff of his cigar and spoke again, more to himself than the painter. “I can’t fathom how anyone would desire a throne if this is what they have to deal with, these petty games played by whores and charlatans.”

The painter’s mouth hung slightly ajar, but he quickly realized the discourtesy of gawking at the leader of one’s country and straightened himself up. The nervous look couldn’t hide how uncomfortable with the situation he was.

The old man and his young mistress finished their romp in the garden, narrowly avoiding discovery by another passing couple. They went their separate ways, completely unaware of the unpleasant shift in priorities that they would both have to deal with in the coming days. The duke returned to his chamber, closing the glass doors to the balcony and shutting the curtains.

“My apologies for your having to witness that.” The duke sat at his wooden dining table and snubbed out his half smoked cigar.

“Oh, yes, thank you, your highness” he muttered, confused and disheartened by the whole situation. He felt he needed a break from the palace and planned to discuss a possible temporary relocation with his wife.

“And if you would, please keep this incident to yourself” He sensed no threatening subtext in the duke’s words but he couldn’t help but wonder if that would change were he to open his mouth to someone who shouldn’t be privy to their conversation. The sword sitting between them certainly hadn’t helped put him at ease.

“Yes, your highness, of course.” The painter bowed and made a hasty exit, then beelined to his room and the familiarity of his wife. She was a simple country woman, and the only person he didn’t now suspect of being a liar or having secondary motives. Even the kind gestures of the grand duchess he now felt the need to scrutinize and second guess.

He hadn’t realized just how deceptive life in the city would be. Up until that meeting with the duke he had been optimistic in his dealings with others, despite the many times people had tried to take advantage of him since reaching the capital. He’d always assumed them to be bad elements in a city of good people, but seeing the intrigue reach the highest levels of the country, even if done reluctantly, proved greatly disenchanting.

When the door shut the duke pulled a bottle of imported whiskey from the private stock he kept hidden in his room. He understood well the painter’s sudden disillusionment and desire to escape and did not resent him for his hasty departure. He’d felt the same thing when he was made aware of his father’s complicity in the death of the previous prime minister. The man was a corrupt kleptocrat, guilty of almost every crime one could imagine from a politician. His scandals surely would have rocked the Grand Duchy, severely damaging the country’s standings among the other nations of the continent had they ever come to light. Before his crimes could be revealed to the general populace had he been shot twice in the head by an unknown assailant taking a walk with his wife to a theater. His associates were quietly purged and all of his criminal wrongdoings were dealt with internally by the grand duke and a few trusted members of parliament. Even as it helped maintain the integrity and stability of the country, the duke found himself greatly disturbed by the knowledge. Assassination is a hard thing to stomach for those unaccustomed to it.

He ran his fingers across one of the medals pinned to his chest, again thinking back to his days as a soldier. Presented to him for his wartime contributions by the emperor of Suaria, it was one of his earliest commendations and one of his most illustrious. His wife had especially appreciated it, her mother having hailed from the north. He looked to the bed in his room, far too large for one person and wondered how long it had been since she’d joined him.

The whiskey bottle had been mostly emptied and the duke was beginning to feel its effects. He unpinned all his medals and set them gingerly on his bedside table before falling over the cape he’d never removed from the sheets. He thought of his son who so closely resembled himself during his own youth. Handsome, full of vigor and a righteous sense of honor, he was the object of desire and admiration, none of it had saved him from becoming cynical and despondent. He dreaded the day his son would have to take the reins and discover, as he had, the tiresome, browbeating routine of rulership in a world growing increasingly hostile to those who bore a crown.

He missed his family, even his wife who was only a few rooms down, but whose last bit of fondness for him had left with their daughter. As much as he missed the glory and adoration of soldiering, it was the moments of solitude with his wife and young children that he missed the most. Sitting in a firelit cabin deep in the northern mountains, watching the children play, his wife’s head rested against his chest, that was his favorite memory. Those days were gone, but it was not irreversible, the duchess was a scant few rooms down the hall. He decided that in the morning that he would invite his wife to dine with him for breakfast.