“What is the black shroud, there?”

The tour guide looks over his shoulder. “You noticed that, hm?”

The black shroud in question isn’t real. It’s a thing of pigment and plaster, a painted drape of fabric high-- extremely high, around the crown molding that edges the ceiling-- on the wall. 

There are hundreds of portraits that surround it on either side. 

“That,” the guide says, satisfaction clear in his voice, “is the portrait of one of the doges of Venice.”

A pause. “It’s not exactly a portrait,” someone offers after a moment, and there’s a half-nervous titter that comes from the group. 

The guide smiles widely, and they shy away at his expression. “It is,” he corrects, “if you’ve been subject to damnatio memoriae.”

He lets that fall heavily into the large empty room in the Doge’s palace, with all its gold finery and painted walls. The small group he leads huddles amongst the history, small figures out-flanked and out-ranked by the assembled Doges that look down on them. 

“Damnatio memoriae,” the guide says, beginning to pace. His steps are soundless on the polished floor. “Meaning ‘condemnation of memory’, it was a punishment, meant to strike that person from official records-- to actively erase them from history.” 

He pauses. “Do you know why,” he says silkily, “he would’ve received such a punishment?”

He looks out the window, onto the dark grounds of the palace. His tour group shifts nervously behind him. 

It’s a treat, to be able to look upon the well manicured lawns glowing in the starlight without the impediment of his reflection getting in the way. 

“Because…” one of them says on half a lisp. “Because we can’t take political office?”

The guide whirls around, stabs a finger at the group. They cluster together again at it, half fear, half surprise. “Exactly!” he says, grins wider. They shudder. His teeth are much sharper than theirs. 

“We cannot take political office,” he repeats. “We cannot, saints forbid, take religious office. We are not meant to be in the public eye. We are creatures of the shadows,” the guide says in ponderous, dramatic tones, “and in the shadows we shall remain.”

He straightens his shoulders, watches in poorly hidden amusement as the group unconsciously copies him. “He broke our code, and so was subjected to the worst punishment we have-- after his death, he was forgotten. Except for educational moments like this one,” the guide says, as an afterthought. 

“His death? Wh--” One of the group starts, clears their throat. “What happened to him?”

The guide, already striding briskly toward the next room, doesn’t turn. Throws over his shoulder, “Oh, we staged a coup d’etat. He was beheaded, body mutilated. We waited till he started to pull himself back together, and then staked him and threw the pieces in the canals for the rats. Come now, you lot. We have a lot more of our history to cover before the sun rises.”

The group of fledglings exchange a glance as one entity, and hurry after him.