play a song for me -- nadia

[curbside prophecies]

<center>

Evil can be got very easily and exists in quantity:
the road to her is very smooth,and she lives near by.
But between us and virtue the gods have placed the
sweat of our brows; the road to her is long and steep,
and it is rough at first; but when a man has reached
the top, then she is easy to attain, although
before she was hard.

- Hesiod</center>

[curbside prophecies]

Athens, 8th Century B.C.

The sounds of the dithyramb could be heard through the plaster walls of the villa, exotic scents clinging to the air from the incense burning in nearby jars. Expensive carpets from Persia lined the floor and the lamps were providing a small amount of light, just enough for the woman in the center of the room to work. She hummed along with the dithyramb, the hymns sung by the people in honor of Dionysus, every once in a while passing by the window to peer out at the people harvesting grain in the orchestra.

"It has come," she stated, reaching a hand into a woven basket to remove the sleekly coiled snake, it's white scales gleaming in the dim lighting. "We have waited for a long time, haven't we love?" The snake climbed it's way up her arm, coiling about the slender limb while she directed its head towards the opening.

The singing grew louder, a signal that midnight was fast approaching. She draped the snake about her neck, letting it slide along the expensive silk fabric of her toga. The rules of the Dionysia required such garb and the wildness of her dark hair, Medusa's coils looked more time, marked her for one of the revelers.

Sandaled feet prowled through the long winding corridor, barely passing a glance to the expensive frescos lining the wall. Scenes from mythology and the legend of her family, she knew all of the stories illustrated there by heart.

"Where are you going?" The voice came from the darkness, intruding upon her thoughts.

She whirled around abruptly, lips drawing back in a silent hiss, hands raising to quickly readjust the snake. "You know where." A direct stare was leveled at the open doorway, where she knew he hid.

"No, you're not." It was an order, and by the determined set of the older man's jaw, it was one he would not reconsider.

A sculpted brow lifted, and she laughed. The sound was pleasant, but did not match the harsh stare she leveled on him, and the man stepped back instinctively. "Are you giving me an order, Hesiod? Well, that is rich. What do you think, love?" Directed to the snake while she lifted its head enough to be seen. The snake flicked its tongue, testing the air. "Yes, I quite agree," she murmured before glancing back to Hesiod. "Tell me, poet, just why I cannot go out?"

"Because they'll see you -- they'll know," he warned fiercely.

Again, she laughed. "Oh, you simpleton. Apollo only knows why a man with so little brains would be blessed with the gift of poetry, but the gods are always hard to understand." She was sleek as a serpent, with her gilded tongue and dangerous slant of her eyes. Curving a path about him, drawing the snake closer because she knew it scared him. "Tell me, Hesiod, just what will they think I am?"

He watched the snake warily, Adam's apple moving when he swallowed harshly. "A Maenad," he whispered, casting a wide eyed glance about as if looking for some bolt of lightning that would strike him down where he stood.

She tipped her head back, seeming to laugh, though no sound came out. "A Maenad? Truly? Oh, Hesiod. What am I to do with you..You truly believe I am one of those madwomen, who race around tearing apart beast and man in honor my great Dionysus?" She let the snake's body brush against him, before moving to wrap it about his neck.

"Y--you aren't?" He went stock still when the snake was wrapped about his throat.

"No," she answered, stepping back to watch the snake curl even more tightly about his neck, muscles tightening. "I am something far more dangerous."

"What do you want with me?!" A frantic note to his voice, his airflow was beginning to be cut off and his face was turning bright red because of it.

"I wanted you to write, Hesiod. A great poem, inspiring the world. But you couldn't even do that, could you?" Her smile faded into an ugly sneer while she watched him claw at the snake with weakening hands. "Poor Hesiod, always coming so close to genius. So very close."

She lingered until the very last breath had escaped his body, the snake's coils wound tightly about his bulging throat. She tsked, head tipping to the side in a show of pity. "Poor boy.. he had such potential, didn't he love?" Murmured to the snake while she gently untangled it, wrapping it about her arm once more.

The great poet was left there, sprawled out on the floor with unseeing eyes staring up at the ceiling in terror, while she slipped out to join the festival honoring the god of wine and fertility.

[curbside prophecies]

Salieri: Bene.

Mozart: Bene.

Salieri: I, too, wish you success with your opera.

Mozart: You're a good fellow, Salieri! And that's a jolly little thing you wrote for me.

Salieri: It was my pleasure.

Mozart: Let's see if I can remember it. May I?

Salieri: By all means. It's yours, Signore.

Mozart: Grazie, Signore.

[Mozart tosses the manuscript onto the lid of the fortepiano, where he cannot see it, sits at the instrument, and plays Salieri's March of Welcome perfectly from memory -- at first slowly, recalling it, but on the reprise of the tune, very much faster.]

The rest is just the same speed isn't it? [He finishes it with insolent speed]

Salieri: You have a remarkable memory.

Mozart: Grazie ancora, Signore!

[He plays the opening seven bars again, but this time stops on the interval of the fourth, and sounds it again with displeasure.] It doesn't work, that fourth, does it? Let's try the third above... Ah yes, much better.

[On and on he plays, improvising happily. The whole time he remains completely oblivious of the offense he is giving.]

Salieri: [To audience] Was it then -- so early --that I began to think of murder?... Of course not: at least not in life. In art it was a different matter. I decided I would compose a huge tragic opera: something to astonish the world! And I knew my theme. I would set the legend of Danaius, who, for a monstrous crime, was chained to a rock for eternity, his head repeatedly struck by lightning! Wickedly in my head I saw Mozart in that position...In reality, of course, the man was in no danger from me at all....Not yet.

<center>-- Amadeus, Peter Shaffer.</center>

[curbside prophecies]

Vienna, 1782

The theatre was a perfect example of Neoclassical brilliance, with gilded statues and rich velvet curtains. Like everything else the nobility touched during the era of Romanticism, it was opulent, and though it came close to being garish, never actually crossed that line. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, illuminating the glittering throng of elegantly dressed people filling the seats of the Opera house. Low cut bodices, powdered wigs and elegant waistcoats could be seen in every box that lined the upper galleries, and all of them were leaning over the rail, tittering and trading gossip behind fans and opera glasses. There were two main points of interest for the gossips of Austria, the enigmatic Emperor, Joseph II, and the young composer, Mozart.

Die Entf?hrung aus dem Serail was his first opera written during his time at the emperor's court, and caused many of the opera glasses to be focused on the emperor during the performance, whispers filling the room whenever Joseph smiled -- and even moreso when he grimaced.

When the performance was over, many rushed forward, craning their necks to hear the emperor's conversation with the young composer, though they tried to make it seem like they weren't actually eavesdropping. They watched with wide eyes when Joseph began giving his evaluation, and another round of tittering began when Salieri was asked to give his opinion.

In the end, it would be the Emperor's parting comment that would gain all of the attention and headline the reviews in the paper the next day: "Too many notes, my dear Mozart."

Thankfully, no one noticed the smirk that lingered on Salieri's face while he followed the emperor out.


<center>---------------</center>

The house was dark when he returned, and he passed his cloak and hat to his butler before dismissing the man, choosing to head for his study alone. The door was closed behind him and he glanced about the shadowed room before kneeling down in front of the fireplace, working on building a fire to remove the early autumn chill from his bones.

"Did you enjoy the Opera?" The question was barely a whisper, a smoky purr coming from somewhere behind him.

He lurched upwards, nearly knocking his head on the mantel before whirling about, gaze searching the darkness intently. "Who said that? Show yourself, I command you!"

A soft chuckle escaped before the voice clucked its tongue, chiding. "Now, now my dear Kapellmeister, is that any way to greet a guest?"

"Who are you?" His voice was tinged with a note of fear, though he was quick to cover it with false bravado. "I should warn you that I am armed and do not take kindly to having my house broken into."

"Silly man," the voice said, the faint softness marking it as feminine. "Very well, light your fire and then we'll talk," she allowed, skirts rustling when she moved.

Salieri turned and obediently finished lighting the fire, rubbing his hands together before shooting a dark-eyed glance back to see his intruder. A bushy brow lifted with surprise when he noticed the delicacy of her features, the natural elegance of her carriage. She was dressed modestly enough, in the latest fashions of the day, and her hair was neatly combed into an elegant coiffure, but there was a wildness to her dark eyes that spoke of wicked thoughts and deeds. Something warned him that she was not to be trifled with.

"What do you want?" He asked again, choosing to remain near the fireplace.

"Is this your new Opera?" She bypassed his question in favor of one of her own, moving to pick up the sheet music.

"Don't touch that!" He rushed forward, eyes widening in alarm.

With a neat twist of her wrist, she kept the music from him, quickly sidestepping him.

"Give it to me!" he ordered, chasing after her again.

She lifted a hand, and he stopped -- though he did not know why.

"Tut tut," she scolded without looking at him, scanning the written chords and notes intently. "This is rubbish, sheer rubbish," she announced before crumbling the parchment into a ball and tossing it into the fire.

"No!" he howled while rushing forward to try and salvage his work, hissing sharply when he the flames scorched his skin. He lurched back, staring at her with wounded eyes. "Why did you do that? How dare you? I'll have you arrested for this!"

In the face of his fury she simply lifted a brow. "Oh, Salieri, you have much to learn." Laughing softly while she watched him.

The laugh caused a shudder to trail down his spine and his fury faded away, disappearing like an early morning mist. "Who are you?" Quietly asked.

"I am Nadia, and I have come to be your muse."