By Tom Holt
Historical past tells us that during 69AD, on the ripe outdated age of 32 and on listening to that basic Glaba's forces have been final in, Nero fled his palace in Rome. He stabbed himself within the throat with a pen and used to be trampled to loss of life by means of horses in a muddy ditch. His final phrases have been, 'What an artist dies with me'. yet there's one other danger: Nero didn't die in that ditch, yet a person who seemed a great deal like him did. this offers Nero the chance to begin a brand new existence in pursuit of his old flame: track. yet there's an issue - Nero is being pursued by way of those that have cause to suspect he's nonetheless alive - one desires him lifeless, the opposite is a passionate fan of his dreadful tune and desires his genius recognized ... Tom Holt is an cutting edge, difficult and fantastically unique author of old fiction. NERO is vital interpreting for all fanatics of Tom Holt and old fiction.
Paperback: 576 pages
Publisher: Abacus; New Ed variation (15 Jan 2004)
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Additional resources for A Song for Nero
I am said to have made the company laugh but no one can recall my witticism. I was precocious. I was a genius for the piano. I had a high opinion of myself. By 1812, the year I turned seven, I was accomplished in Latin and Greek. It was during this very particular summer that the Hero of the Vendée arrived at the Château de Barfleur. It was my father’s birthday but the visitor brought no gift—or left arm either, the latter presumably sliced away by some horrid machine. His empty white silk sleeve was like a ghost, but what I noticed most of all was my mother.
She knew each house by family name. “There, Blacksmith, there,” she cried. ” At that moment there appeared, on the penumbra of the wavering light, some towering phantom, as tall as a house, pressing down toward the carriage, bleeding black against the charcoal sky. “Maman,” I shrieked. ” she demanded, her voice rising to a pitch quite equal to my own. I was literally dumb with terror, all the hairs on my neck and head bristling. I could do no more than point. ” She saw, then slapped my leg. ” If it was the Blacquevilles’ wisteria it was also a living thing, abused, attacked, wounded, hacked, pulled away from the house so it teetered in a mass above our heads.
Shortly before lunch I observed, with some alarm, a swarm of the strange Paris servants piling various items of my clothing, willy-nilly, upon the billiard table. Having at first taken exception to their appalling method, it took me a moment to see, among the tangle, the Ch’ien-lung bowl. Then I finally understood why she, a servant, had called me a pauvre petite créature. I was to be sent away with her. When my mother confirmed these fears, I threw up on my shoes and declared myself too sick to travel.
A Song for Nero by Tom Holt