F0120 · The Maroon Kingdom / Singing in the Casa de Dante
Alberto looked at himself in the mirror in the drawing room of the Casa de Dante, where the shadows of the oil lamps danced across the stone walls, enveloping the room in an air of mystery. Outside, in Trastevere, the streets pulsed with life: a troubadour’s song, the murmur of broken conversations, and the echo of the Tiber, which seemed to whisper ancient stories. Inside the house, the air was heavy, laden with heat, the scent of spices, and the distant sound of a duduk weeping a melancholy melody.
In the adjoining room, Alberto knew that Inés Méndez de Sotomayor was waiting for him. She had not said so, but he felt it. Since he had arrived in Rome as a guest of the lord of Carpio, Inés had made no attempt to hide her fascination with him, or, more specifically, with his voice. That voice, which, when it joined the lament of the duduk or the soft whisper of the oud, became something more than music: a bridge between pain and desire, between the human and the divine.
Alberto arranged his hair in front of the mirror, letting the golden light bring out the contours of his face. He knew what he stirred in others, but he had never felt the power of his voice so clearly as when he sang accompanied by Farid. The slave, with his skilled hands and unfathomable gaze, transformed any melody into something that seemed to draw along the very souls of those who heard it. Although they believed Farid was mute, his instruments spoke for him with an eloquence that needed no words.
From the main drawing room, the melody of the oud began to fill the house, and Alberto felt his chest vibrate with the first notes. It was a call, a reminder that he could remain in the shadows no longer. Inés would be there, listening, waiting, and he had to be perfect.
When he entered the drawing room, the heat of the fire in the hearth enveloped him, together with the scent of wine, melted wax, and the spices floating in the air. Inés’s eyes met his at once. She was seated in a velvet armchair, her silhouette framed by the firelight. Her gaze, intense and fixed, pierced him as though searching for something beyond what he was willing to show.
Farid was seated in a corner, the duduk resting on his lap, but now it was the oud he held in his hands. His fingers moved with a delicacy that contrasted with his silent bearing and hardened face. When Alberto crossed the threshold, the notes of the instrument changed slightly, as though the musician had recognized his presence and adjusted the melody to accompany him.
Alberto took his place beside Farid, letting the music envelop him. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the notes of the oud to guide him. When he began to sing, his voice emerged with an almost ethereal softness, filling the space as though there were nothing else in the world but sound. The words mattered less than the nuances, the tones that seemed to carry all the longing and desperation he could express in no other way.
Inés gazed steadily at him, with a mixture of devotion and desire she could not conceal. Her hands rested on her lap, but her body was tense, as though each note passed through her. To Alberto, her gaze was both a compliment and a reminder of the power he held over her. But it was also a weapon. He knew that his voice was his most effective tool, and he used it with an almost cruel precision.
When the song ended, the drawing room fell utterly silent. Farid lowered his gaze to the oud, letting the last notes fade away, and Alberto slowly opened his eyes. He looked at Inés, whose expression reflected the emotion he had just aroused.
—It is… —Inés began to speak, but her voice faltered slightly. She cleared her throat and tried to compose herself—. It is impossible to describe what I feel when I hear you. It is as though your songs were a mirror, one in which I see myself more clearly than ever.
Alberto gave a faint smile, inclining his head in a gesture that seemed humble but concealed his satisfaction.
—Music has that power, my lady —he replied, letting his words flow with the same softness as his singing—. But it is not only my voice. Without Farid, none of this would be possible.
Inés looked at the slave, and for an instant something more than curiosity appeared in her eyes. Farid raised his head and looked straight at her, with an intensity that seemed to belie his silence. But he said nothing. He simply set the oud aside and rose, bowing slightly before withdrawing into the shadows.
—He is fascinating —Inés said, almost to herself, watching Farid disappear into the half-light—. His music, his presence… it is as though he spoke without needing words.
Alberto nodded but did not answer. He knew that Farid was much more than he seemed, but at that moment he was not the one who mattered. The night was still alive, Trastevere whispered outside, and in the Casa de Dante, the threads of a complex game were beginning to weave themselves around Inés Méndez de Sotomayor.
F0120 · The Maroon Kingdom / Singing in the Casa de Dante
Alberto looked at himself in the mirror in the drawing room of the Casa de Dante, where the shadows of the oil lamps danced across the stone walls, enveloping the room in an air of mystery. Outside, in Trastevere, the streets pulsed with life: a troubadour’s song, the murmur of broken conversations, and the echo of the Tiber, which seemed to whisper ancient stories. Inside the house, the air was heavy, laden with heat, the scent of spices, and the distant sound of a duduk weeping a melancholy melody.
In the adjoining room, Alberto knew that Inés Méndez de Sotomayor was waiting for him. She had not said so, but he felt it. Since he had arrived in Rome as a guest of the lord of Carpio, Inés had made no attempt to hide her fascination with him, or, more specifically, with his voice. That voice, which, when it joined the lament of the duduk or the soft whisper of the oud, became something more than music: a bridge between pain and desire, between the human and the divine.
Alberto arranged his hair in front of the mirror, letting the golden light bring out the contours of his face. He knew what he stirred in others, but he had never felt the power of his voice so clearly as when he sang accompanied by Farid. The slave, with his skilled hands and unfathomable gaze, transformed any melody into something that seemed to draw along the very souls of those who heard it. Although they believed Farid was mute, his instruments spoke for him with an eloquence that needed no words.
From the main drawing room, the melody of the oud began to fill the house, and Alberto felt his chest vibrate with the first notes. It was a call, a reminder that he could remain in the shadows no longer. Inés would be there, listening, waiting, and he had to be perfect.
When he entered the drawing room, the heat of the fire in the hearth enveloped him, together with the scent of wine, melted wax, and the spices floating in the air. Inés’s eyes met his at once. She was seated in a velvet armchair, her silhouette framed by the firelight. Her gaze, intense and fixed, pierced him as though searching for something beyond what he was willing to show.
Farid was seated in a corner, the duduk resting on his lap, but now it was the oud he held in his hands. His fingers moved with a delicacy that contrasted with his silent bearing and hardened face. When Alberto crossed the threshold, the notes of the instrument changed slightly, as though the musician had recognized his presence and adjusted the melody to accompany him.
Alberto took his place beside Farid, letting the music envelop him. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the notes of the oud to guide him. When he began to sing, his voice emerged with an almost ethereal softness, filling the space as though there were nothing else in the world but sound. The words mattered less than the nuances, the tones that seemed to carry all the longing and desperation he could express in no other way.
Inés gazed steadily at him, with a mixture of devotion and desire she could not conceal. Her hands rested on her lap, but her body was tense, as though each note passed through her. To Alberto, her gaze was both a compliment and a reminder of the power he held over her. But it was also a weapon. He knew that his voice was his most effective tool, and he used it with an almost cruel precision.
When the song ended, the drawing room fell utterly silent. Farid lowered his gaze to the oud, letting the last notes fade away, and Alberto slowly opened his eyes. He looked at Inés, whose expression reflected the emotion he had just aroused.
—It is… —Inés began to speak, but her voice faltered slightly. She cleared her throat and tried to compose herself—. It is impossible to describe what I feel when I hear you. It is as though your songs were a mirror, one in which I see myself more clearly than ever.
Alberto gave a faint smile, inclining his head in a gesture that seemed humble but concealed his satisfaction.
—Music has that power, my lady —he replied, letting his words flow with the same softness as his singing—. But it is not only my voice. Without Farid, none of this would be possible.
Inés looked at the slave, and for an instant something more than curiosity appeared in her eyes. Farid raised his head and looked straight at her, with an intensity that seemed to belie his silence. But he said nothing. He simply set the oud aside and rose, bowing slightly before withdrawing into the shadows.
—He is fascinating —Inés said, almost to herself, watching Farid disappear into the half-light—. His music, his presence… it is as though he spoke without needing words.
Alberto nodded but did not answer. He knew that Farid was much more than he seemed, but at that moment he was not the one who mattered. The night was still alive, Trastevere whispered outside, and in the Casa de Dante, the threads of a complex game were beginning to weave themselves around Inés Méndez de Sotomayor.
F0120 · El Reino Cimarrón / El canto en la Casa de Dante
Alberto se miraba en el espejo del salón de la Casa de Dante, donde las sombras de las lámparas de aceite bailaban sobre las paredes de piedra, envolviendo el ambiente en un aire de misterio. Afuera, en el Trastévere, las calles vibraban con vida: el canto de un trovador, el murmullo de conversaciones entrecortadas y el eco del Tíber, que parecía susurrar historias antiguas. Dentro de la casa, el ambiente era denso, cargado de calor, aromas de especias y el sonido lejano de un duduk que lloraba una melodía melancólica.
En la habitación contigua, Alberto sabía que Inés Méndez de Sotomayor lo estaba esperando. No lo había dicho, pero lo sentía. Desde que había llegado a Roma como huésped del señor del Carpio, Inés no había disimulado su fascinación por él, o más específicamente, por su voz. Esa voz que, al unirse al lamento del duduk o al suave susurro del oud, se convertía en algo más que música: un puente entre el dolor y el deseo, entre lo humano y lo divino.
Alberto ajustó su cabello frente al espejo, dejando que la luz dorada destacara los contornos de su rostro. Sabía lo que provocaba en los demás, pero nunca había sentido el poder de su voz tan claramente como cuando cantaba acompañado por Farid. El esclavo, con sus manos expertas y su mirada insondable, transformaba cualquier melodía en algo que parecía arrastrar el alma misma de quienes lo escuchaban. Aunque creían que Farid era mudo, sus instrumentos hablaban por él con una elocuencia que no necesitaba palabras.
Desde el salón principal, la melodía del oud comenzó a llenar la casa, y Alberto sintió cómo su pecho vibraba con las primeras notas. Era una llamada, un recordatorio de que no podía quedarse en las sombras por más tiempo. Inés estaría allí, escuchando, esperando, y él tenía que ser perfecto.
Cuando entró al salón, el calor del fuego en la chimenea lo envolvió, junto con el aroma de vino, cera derretida y las especias que flotaban en el aire. Los ojos de Inés se encontraron con los suyos de inmediato. Estaba sentada en un sillón de terciopelo, su silueta enmarcada por la luz del fuego. Su mirada, intensa y fija, lo atravesó como si buscara algo más allá de lo que él estaba dispuesto a mostrar.
Farid estaba sentado en un rincón, el duduk descansando sobre su regazo, pero ahora era el oud el que sostenía entre sus manos. Sus dedos se movían con una delicadeza que contrastaba con su porte silencioso y su rostro endurecido. Cuando Alberto cruzó el umbral, las notas del instrumento cambiaron ligeramente, como si el músico hubiera reconocido su presencia y ajustado la melodía para acompañarlo.
Alberto tomó su lugar junto a Farid, dejando que la música lo envolviera. Cerró los ojos por un momento, permitiendo que las notas del oud lo guiaran. Cuando comenzó a cantar, su voz surgió con una suavidad casi etérea, llenando el espacio como si no hubiera otra cosa en el mundo que el sonido. Las palabras no importaban tanto como los matices, los tonos que parecían llevar consigo todo el anhelo y la desesperación que no podía expresar de otra forma.
Inés lo miraba fijamente, con una mezcla de devoción y deseo que no podía ocultar. Sus manos descansaban sobre su regazo, pero su cuerpo estaba tenso, como si cada nota la atravesara. Para Alberto, su mirada era a la vez un halago y un recordatorio del poder que tenía sobre ella. Pero también era un arma. Sabía que su voz era su herramienta más efectiva, y la usaba con una precisión casi cruel.
Cuando la canción terminó, el salón quedó en un silencio absoluto. Farid bajó la mirada hacia el oud, dejando que las últimas notas se desvanecieran, y Alberto abrió los ojos lentamente. Miró a Inés, cuya expresión era un reflejo de la emoción que acababa de provocar.
—Es… —Inés comenzó a hablar, pero su voz se quebró ligeramente. Carraspeó y trató de recomponerse—. Es imposible describir lo que siento al escucharte. Es como si tus canciones fueran un espejo, uno en el que me veo más clara que nunca.
Alberto esbozó una leve sonrisa, inclinando la cabeza en un gesto que parecía humilde, pero que ocultaba su satisfacción.
—La música tiene ese poder, señora —respondió, dejando que sus palabras fluyeran con la misma suavidad que su canto—. Pero no es solo mi voz. Sin Farid, nada de esto sería posible.
Inés miró al esclavo, y por un instante, algo más que curiosidad se reflejó en sus ojos. Farid levantó la cabeza y la miró directamente, con una intensidad que parecía desmentir su silencio. Pero no dijo nada. Simplemente colocó el oud a un lado y se levantó, inclinándose ligeramente antes de retirarse hacia las sombras.
—Es fascinante —dijo Inés, casi para sí misma, observando cómo Farid desaparecía en la penumbra—. Su música, su presencia… es como si hablara sin necesidad de palabras.
Alberto asintió, pero no respondió. Sabía que Farid era mucho más de lo que parecía, pero en ese momento no era él quien importaba. La noche seguía viva, el Trastévere susurraba desde fuera, y en la Casa de Dante, los hilos de un juego complejo comenzaban a tejerse en torno a Inés Méndez de Sotomayor.