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Darius Arrento |
Victory Portrait (still looking like an April release) revolves around Darius
Arrento, a famous general whom Peta worships but has never met. The novel
includes Arrento’s POV and this is an excerpt from Chapter Two, showing the
first encounter between the main characters. I could tell you everything about
Darius, but I think this snippet pretty much gives a complete picture, not only
of Darius, but a bit of the artist, Aldous Brazzi, as well.
Peta's excerpt and inspiration picture (yes, I moved this pic and put up a new one) are here.
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Arrento strode into the artist’s studio determined to make his
ordeal as short as possible. The only
thing he disliked more than inaction was frivolity—and he could think of
nothing less active and more frivolous than having his portrait painted, even
if the artist was the famed Aldous Brazzi. Although the man’s methods were
controversial, Brazzi’s portraits were celebrated for their realism: vibrant
colors and a luminous quality that supposedly drew the eye into a deep and
seductive sensuality. Brazzi did not as far as Arrento knew paint soldiers. His
most famous portraits were of women in the boudoir. Still the man’s work graced
the palaces of princes and the galleries of kings and eminences.
The artist’s studio occupied one corner of a bustling temple
yard that two hundred years ago had been consecrated to the fertility goddess
Benuvia, a building of open spaces and wide windows filled with light.
Arrento’s boots struck the worn boards of an ill-used wooden floor, creating
echoes. An elderly slave appeared to acknowledge him, take his cape, and lead
him up metal stairs.
“Welcome, General,” Brazzi greeted him warmly at the top
landing. With a bald pate and deep black eyes, the artist had a recognizable
face often seen at court where he was a favorite of the princess Adora. Green
and blue pigment stained his surprisingly large hands, scarred and shaped by
the demands of his art. He had been a sculptor in his youth, before turning his
talent to portraiture. Brazzi walked Arrento toward one of the loft’s bright
corners and what looked like an arrangement of crates.
An easel held a large blank canvas. In front of the easel was a
stool. Beside the stool was a table bearing brushes, pots of paint, and a
kneeling naked young man. With fair hair that drifted in feathered layers about
his face and pale creamy skin so perfect it could have been carved from
alabaster, he looked like a statue destined for the house of a despot.
“Is that an apprentice—or a catamite?” Arrento took the seat
Brazzi indicated and reluctantly subjected himself to being arranged. Though he
had thought the artist would want him to strike the pose for which he was most
famed—standing erect with a finger raised to illustrate an order or point—the
man wished him to be seated on the edge of a desk, chin raised and looking
directly at the youth.
“The boy? No, no…I prefer women, truth be told. He’s part of my
process. Relax your shoulders…there, like that.” The man stepped back and
nodded approval. “I will need to balance that sizable chest.”
Arrento was aware of the figure he cut. He was tall and broad,
with hair the color of lead and skin weathered by the elements. A warrior since
early youth, he’d endured battle after battle and survived many hardships, and
now in the full of manhood had the physique his hard life had shaped: sturdy
and rough, scarred and thick with muscle. His officers liked to say he was made
of pure granite, his mother having birthed a boulder. He owned a face and body
few praised but many appreciated, especially the emperor whose royal ass he’d
saved several times over.
While the painter puttered, Arrento studied the other person in
the room. The young man looked pale and strained, his downcast eyes fixed on
the table—more specifically, on the palette. The lowered eyelashes feathered
high, lovely cheekbones. And that skin…every creamy inch of it was pampered,
smooth and perfect, not knotted and ridged like his own. Everything about the
lad, from his chiseled wellborn looks to his silent, grave expression, was
beautiful. For the first time in weeks Arrento felt his cock stir with
appreciation. A soldier didn’t find men like this one on the battlefield.
Brazzi ceased his fussing and took a seat on the stool before
the easel. Long fingers selected a stick of charcoal from the table beside him
and he began to sketch in quick, jerky strokes. Arrento of course could not see
what the man was drawing, but at least the process was underway. He had
reviewed some troops that morning and had a meeting with other officers of the
high command within the hour. His schedule didn’t have many minutes to spare,
not for the next two weeks, and he’d only agreed to sit for sketches this
morning because his old friend Gaspar had issued an imperial command.
At least the boy on the table gave Arrento something to ponder.
Why was he even present? He afforded no practical purpose to the artist.
Perhaps he was a model. Arrento knew enough about artists to know they used
models. This indicated to him there would be another figure in the painting,
because this model was too slender to serve as a stand-in for Arrento himself.
The kneeling posture suggested a possibility. One of the vanquished then, a
captive or slave to be rendered kneeling at his feet? Details of the youth’s
anatomy and coloring fell into place.
“He’s Sebboyan,” he said.
The young man shot him a brief and hastily masked glance. The
wide almond-shaped emerald eyes confirmed what Arrento had guessed.
Fingers brandishing charcoal, Brazzi peeked around the canvas.
“Most observant, Sar Arrento. Yes, he is. Our Imperial Majesty sent him over to
grace your portrait.”
“A fitting choice.”
“A perfect choice.”
The man resumed his sketching.
Arrento indulged the tug of a smile as he watched a hint of
pretty color creep up from the youth’s neck into his cheeks. He looked for
traces of a beard and found none, though there was a lovely bright halo of hair
around the base of the youth’s flaccid prick. If Gaspar had ‘sent him over’ the
man was probably a captive, which meant he was also likely a slave.
His cock thickened even more.
“How old is he?”
“Eighteen years…maybe nineteen. I don’t remember. Please stop
fidgeting. I must capture your proper proportions and posture if I am to begin
painting before next week.”
“Do it quickly then. I can only give you an hour.”
Brazzi poked his head past the canvas once more. “If that’s the
case, I shall need another day at least.”
Damn painter. “I might be able to return the day after
tomorrow.”
“Excellent, Sar. That will give me time to create some
preparatory sketches for your approval and also His Imperial Majesty’s.”
Arrento fought a scowl. His emperor was determined to torture
him. He turned his attention back to the artist’s boy, catching and holding the
young man’s alert glance for just a moment before his pretty quarry looked back
down at his knees. Arrento’s gaze skimmed shapely thighs and the smooth pale
curve of a perfect ass.
“The boy…what is his name?”
“I believe he’s called Peta.” Brazzi’s impatience was clear.
His charcoal skipped in fluid strokes across the canvas as color once more
filled the youth’s pretty cheeks.
Arrento attempted to keep his mind on other things, like how to
get Gaspar to issue orders for him and the XIIth to return to the conflict in
Yur, but the youth presented an impossible distraction. When the hour was done,
Arrento gathered his remaining wits and strode out the door.