Thraxas - The Complete Series (167 page)

I’m not exactly keen on Lodius myself. He’s always going on about the need to distribute the city state’s wealth more fairly. I could do with some wealth being distributed in my direction, but he’s always struck me as a man who’d say anything in order to gain power for himself. I have the strong feeling that if he ever did come to power, all talk of democratic reform would be quietly forgotten about. Apart from this, he blackmailed me into helping him last year, and I resent being blackmailed.

Lodius is accompanied by Rittius, a political ally of his. Rittius hates me more than anyone in the city.

Being at such a meeting is a strange experience. I’ve had little to do with officialdom in any capacity and have never served on a committee before. It goes against the grain. Due to the urgency of the situation and the danger we’re all facing, I’ve managed so far to forget my natural mistrust of the city authorities. I’ve even managed to take orders from Prefect Drinius without abusing him to his face, but as I sit in the room listening to Prefect Resius drone on about the capacity for grain storage in Jade Temple Fields, I find myself impatiently wishing the meeting to be over. The organisation of the city’s defence is important but it’s starting to get on my nerves.

While Prefect Drinius is giving a report on the available stock of raw material for weapon making—which will be followed by another report on the capacity of the royal armoury—I find myself nodding off and have to concentrate to stay awake. I’m looking forward to a break for food. By my calculations lunch should be served any time now. Unfortunately, Cicerius seems dissatisfied with some elements of Prefect Drinius’s report and begins a long series of questions which Drinius responds to with equally long answers. I sigh. When I fought in the last war I had no involvement in its planning. I didn’t realise it was so tedious.

I start daydreaming about the possible food on offer. It will, I understand through some determined questioning of the catering staff, be delivered through the back door on a series of trolleys. Will it be a proper meal with platters of beef and venison? Or just a collection of those small fancy pastries they seem so fond of in the Consul’s offices? I’m hoping for something more substantial. Not that there’s anything wrong with the pastries—they’re made by a fine hand in the kitchen—but they’re not really enough to sustain a man. Not when he’s faced with several hours of talk about aqueducts. I look suspiciously round, wondering who else might be planning a sudden dash towards the food. It could be I’ve made something of a tactical error in sitting in the middle of the room. When the victuals arrive I might miss out. Prefect Galwinius, right at the back, is a notable eater, as is his assistant. They both have a hungry look about them and they’re well placed for a sudden dash to the trolleys. If they get to the food first there’ll be precious little left for latecomers. I curse myself for my carelessness and start edging my chair backwards. If Prefect Galwinius thinks he’s having it all his own way with the provisions he can think again. I’ve outsmarted better men than him at the pastry cart.

“By this time next month there must be at least one hundred tons of raw iron ore at the—”

The Deputy Consul is interrupted by the clattering noise of food trolleys appearing through the door. I’m on my feet and halfway to the back before anyone else has moved. Galwinius sees me coming and makes a brave effort at hauling himself out of his chair, but I knock him out of the way and tread on his assistant’s foot as I pass, leaving them reeling in confusion. I make it to the trolleys first and start hacking a thick slice off a slab of venison before grabbing a handful of yams and loading them on to my tray, followed by as much of everything else as I can lay my hands on.

“You ill-mannered oaf,” hisses Galwinius, appearing at the rear.

“Wartime,” I reply. “A man needs to be quickly into action.”

All in all, it’s a successful mission and I’m moving away from the trolleys with a heavy tray of food while the stragglers are still making their first approach. It’s the sort of fast and deadly assault which made me such a force on the battlefield. I find myself next to Deputy Consul Cicerius and greet him affably.

“You did not take long to avail yourself of the Consul’s hospitality,” he says, drily.

“When it comes to a crisis I know how to act.”

Cicerius eyes me with distaste.

“I was in the middle of a speech.”

“And very interesting it was too. I count it an honour to be in your service.”

I excuse myself and make for my chair, head down, ignoring the crowd. In truth, the crowd are pretty much ignoring me. I’m out of my social class here, and well aware of it. Most of those at the meeting belong to Turai’s aristocracy and are clad in togas. My dull tunic is shabby in comparison. Their hair is short, neatly styled. Mine hangs long down my back. Their voices are more refined and their manners far better. Even my name, Thraxas, gives me away as low-born. It’s an odd quirk of fate, really, that I’ve ended up in this position. Had Cicerius known he was going to be stuck with me as a city official when he made me a Tribune, he might have thought twice about it.

The venison is excellent and the yams are cooked to perfection. Whoever takes care of the cooking for the Consul’s office really knows his business. The man is a credit to his city. So fine is the food that it’s a positive shock to the system when I bite into a sweet pastry and find it’s not been baked quite properly. Inside it’s doughy, as if it’s not been in the oven for long enough. I shrug, and push it to the side of my plate. Even the greatest chef can have an off moment, I suppose. Maybe one of his assistants was responsible. The next pastry is well up to the usual standard and I forget my disappointment, particularly when I see Cicerius and Hansius standing at the trolleys looking like two men who’ve arrived late at the party. There’s nothing left except a yam or two. Cicerius, always keen to maintain his dignity, pretends he doesn’t care, but I can tell he’d have liked a slice of venison, or maybe some grilled fish. The grilled fish was quite superb, and I speak as a man who doesn’t eat a lot of fish as a rule. When you’re in a stranger’s house you just have to take what you can get.

I’m about to ask one of the catering staff if there might be any beer on offer when the Consul himself walks into the room and I’m obliged to stand as a mark of respect. The city Prefects who are here—Galwinius, Drinius, Resius—gather around him. There’s a moment’s awkwardness when the Consul turns round and finds himself face to face with Senator Lodius. In the spirit of national unity the Consul greets him courteously. Given some of the things Lodius has accused the Consul of in the Senate this year, this must take some effort. Senator Lodius, probably keen not to be seen doing anything which might rock the boat at such a perilous time, returns the Consul’s greeting, equally courteously. The Consul steps away to talk to Cicerius, leaving the Prefects still in the company of Lodius. Galwinius and Drinius are both opponents of Lodius, though Prefect Resius has been suspected in the past of having some sympathy for the Populares. Again there’s some awkwardness. Galwinius fiddles with a scroll he’s carrying and Resius scratches his head. Despite this, they mange to carry on with their show of civility. No one wants to be seen causing dissension, not even Lodius and Galwinius, who are due to face each other in court soon in a messy fraud case. In an effort to be civil, Senator Lodius even goes so far as to raise the silver platter he holds in his hand, offering Galwinius a choice of food. The Prefect accepts his offer, taking a small pastry from the plate. I’m impressed. National unity is going over big in all quarters.

Prefect Galwinius turns to speak to Senator Bevarius, the Consul’s assistant. Before he can complete his sentence, his face goes red and he puts his hand to his throat, as if choking. There’s a sudden deathly silence in the room as all eyes turn to the Prefect. Drinius reaches out to support him as he sags to the ground.

By this time I’ve hurried over, because I’ve got a good idea that Galwinius is not just choking on his food. It’s hard to see through the clutter of Prefects and Praetors, but from the way his face is turning green and his eyes are bulging I’d say Galwinius has been poisoned. People cry out in alarm and yell for a doctor. I force my way through. Galwinius is already in his death throes. He shivers for only a few seconds more, then goes still. He isn’t going to be needing a doctor. The Prefect is dead.

Chaos erupts in the room. Some people are yelling for assistance while others struggle to get closer to the prone body as if somehow their presence will help. Unable to carry out any sort of examination, I let myself be forced back from the body. I look around. The only person who’s standing quite still is Senator Lodius, the man who handed the food to the Prefect. I cross over to him and look him right in the eye. From the blank way he stares through me I’d say that he was profoundly shocked. Or possibly horrified by what he’s just done.

“Lodius. What do you know about this?”

Lodius looks blank. I shake him by the shoulder and he manages to focus on me.

“Lodius. Where did you get that bowl from?”

“Get your hands off me!” he snarls.

Before I can respond, two uniformed Civil Guards get between us. The room is filling up with Guards, which is only adding to the confusion. Finally a commanding voice rises about the babble of the crowd. Cicerius, the finest orator in the city, speaks in such an authoritative manner that the room falls silent.

“Make room for the doctor,” he says. “And everyone in this room remain where you are until the Consul orders otherwise.”

This causes some consternation. The high-ranking Senators and Praetors in the crowd aren’t used to being treated like suspects in a murder case. I am. I’ve been in the slammer more times than I can count. While others are still milling around, I take a chair and sit down to wait. There are going to be a lot of questions asked and I’ll be here for a long time.

T
urai has been in chaos before. We’ve suffered riots, plague, sorcerous attack and drought, not to mention the civic unrest that erupts every couple of years when elections roll around. In the past few years crime has exploded with the mushrooming of the trade in dwa, the evil drug that has the city in its grasp, adding to the turmoil. But in my long experience, the city has rarely been gripped by fever in the way it is now.

Perfects have died in battle or died from illness but no one can remember one expiring from poison. As Prefect of the richest part of the city, Galwinius was a very important official, ranking almost as highly as the Praetors. More influential in some ways, given the wealth of his constituents. His murder comes as a shocking blow to the population. It doesn’t take long for the truth to come out about the reason behind the meeting. Soon the whole city knows that the Consul had gathered his officials together to plan for the defence of Turai against the Orcs. Panic erupts on all sides. The news-sheets hardly know which terrible story merits more prominence. Crowds gather on the streets and the common opinion is that it’s the end of the world as we know it. Which it might well be.

It was ten hours before I was allowed to leave the consular buildings. Though I had to answer a lot of routine questions, for once in my life I’m not a suspect. That was three days ago, since when I’ve once more applied myself to the task of checking aqueducts. Figuring that if the world is about to end there’s no sense in wasting beer, I make a brief report to Prefect Drinius before heading back to the Avenging Axe. It’s been a hard day and the weather is turning cold. I cheer myself up with the thought of the bottle of klee that’s waiting for me in my office.

Also waiting in my office are Makri, eight other women, a lot of scrolls and a powerful aroma of thazis.

“We’re just finishing,” says Makri.

“Finishing? What are you doing here?”

“Reading.”

“How dare you read in my office! Didn’t you say this wouldn’t happen again?”

“The bakery is still full.”

I inform the assembled women that I don’t care how full the bakery is, they can’t use my office for their classes. I spy an empty bottle of klee on the table.

“Is that my klee? Did you drink my klee?”

Makri is unapologetic.

“Just being hospitable to my guests.”

“With my klee? Were you thinking of paying for it? Where are my pastries? Did you eat them?”

I realise that everyone is looking at me in a particularly disapproving manner. Morixa the baker turns to me and speaks quite sternly.

“The women of Twelve Seas do not exist merely to cook pastries for you, Investigator. We have our own aspirations. And we will pursue our aspirations despite your continual harassment.”

“Harassment? I’m the one who’s being—”

“He reminds me of my father,” says a young prostitute to her companion. “Drove my mother into an early grave. Makri, if this man threatens you in any way, send a message. I’ll bring my guild round to protect you immediately.”

The women collect their belongings and begin to file out of my room. Makri bids them all a polite farewell and shuts the door behind them.