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.
Chapter Seven
Turai 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 Ores. 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?'