Drakenfeld (4 page)

Up the slope, in the distance, stood some of the most important buildings in the city, where the highest echelons of society – priests, senators and King Licintius – would mix. As we
came closer to the city gates the smell was overwhelming: in addition to the strong scent of horse manure and the bitter smell of the tannery, small plumes of smoke hung above residences as the
hearths cooked food, and through the haze, way in the distance to one side, were the higher tiers and arches of the Stadium of Lentus, in which games would regularly be held, and which hadn’t
been quite completed ten years ago.

We registered at the city gates with a young priest and an elderly censor, both of whom immediately became flustered when I gave them my name and office. They could not help me
quickly enough, yet stared suspiciously at Leana. I wondered how her Atrewen profile, her elegant narrow nose and strong jawline, her skin the colour of rosewood, and her compact, muscular body
would have gone down with these people. Presumably, being by the gates, they must have seen people from all corners of the world, yet they still eyed her warily.

‘May we ask,’ the censor said, ‘about your business in the city?’

I informed them of my father’s death, and that I was a member of the Sun Chamber.

‘You are the son of Calludian Drakenfeld?’ the priest asked, surprised.

‘I am.’

‘His death was a shock to us. There was not a man or woman of quality in this city who did not know of his name or his deeds.’

I felt again that same annoyance: that I could probably never be my own man in this city, along with a pang of regret that I would never see my father again. This conversation was happening too
soon, so my short answers and sense of urgency saw to it that we were permitted through quickly.

A few steps later and we were inside Tryum. The wide, well-kept stone road led in a straight line through the centre of the city. Carts rocked through these immediate poorer districts, while
further along livestock was being driven along the road, barging people out of the way.

All along the side streets, people lived in squalor: women sat outside houses, homeless men lay in the shade with bowls in front of them, and dogs nosed the legs of passers-by. Ragged bits of
cloth were strung between walls.

‘I thought you said this was different from Venyn City?’ Leana asked. ‘Could be the same place.’

‘No city is without problems,’ I replied. Though I never recalled Tryum’s problems being quite as bad as this.

The family residence was located in one of the ancient parts of Tryum. The walls of the house were made of thick stone, in the old style – a blessing in any season. But
even more fortuitous was how the old buildings blunted the sound of hammering by the local smiths in the streets beyond. Set further away from the streets were the main living quarters, a simple,
classy affair, with chequered stone tiles, rich red drapes, pleasant seats and rustic tables. On the walls were paintings of great battle scenes and of gods.

All of which was a step up in the world from our hovel in Venyn City.

Outside the front gates was the splendid architecture that had echoed in my dreams for so long: the colonnades, fountains, market gardens, statues, frescoes, and the bowed or domed rooftops so
typical of the Polyum and Regallum quarters. In the street, two children were practising their spelling by scratching low down on the pale walls, as I used to do myself. From here the view that
presented itself was of the hill leading towards Regallum, filled with temple roofs and, just beyond that, the mighty royal residence and centrepiece of that district, Optryx.

Leana had been on a brief tour of the house, investigating all the little nooks and crannies. There was a new cook who lived here also, a different one from when I lived here, and she had not
left when my father died.

Her name was Bellona, named after a Maristanian goddess of food, which I took as a good portent. Older than me, she stood a shade shorter than Leana. Her nose was broad, her lips thin, her eyes
gentle and intelligent – her pale, sweaty face had a welcoming demeanour. With a deep voice and a local accent, she spoke affectionately about my father and told me how handsome I looked.

I could get used to that.

After I confirmed I would of course keep her in my employment, she unceremoniously rushed forward to bow at my feet. Leana’s gaze was one of amusement, and I must admit to feeling rather
uncomfortable. I helped Bellona up again and asked, if it wasn’t too much trouble, to prepare a little dinner before dusk.

‘Of course, master,’ she replied, before tentatively adding, ‘though we need some coin to replenish provisions.’

‘Oh, right.’ I reached into my pocket and handed over a couple of silver pieces that came to ten pecullas. She seemed to gaze at the coins as if they were god-blessed.
‘I’ll eat whatever you eat.’

‘I eat very poorly, despite my appearance,’ she said. ‘Cheap things, not food fit for the master of the house.’

‘Honestly, I’ll eat what you do,’ I repeated. ‘If that means you have to buy better food for yourself, then so be it.’

With a warm, toothy smile, she turned to leave.

‘And please, there’s no need to call me master,’ I shouted after her. When I faced Leana again, she gave me that look of hers. ‘You can stop grinning,’ I said.

‘Yes,
master
,’ Leana replied. ‘I tell you now, she will have you overweight within one month.’

‘I’ll be careful what I eat.’

‘I will have to train you twice as hard,’ Leana warned me as she stepped around leisurely, absorbing the place that was to be our home for the time being – not that it was
known how long we might be staying.

It would only be a matter of time until her room became filled with skulls and tribal offerings, and I wondered what the upper classes of Tryum would make of such trinkets.

‘So, you grew up here?’ Leana asked.

‘I did.’

‘It is very different from that bottom-floor apartment in Venyn. I did not know your family was . . . so wealthy.’

I shrugged. ‘So, what do you think of the place?’

‘Far too many furnishings. Too many precious paintings. Such things make for a soft upbringing. It would at least explain your gentle nature.’

‘Among other things, I like to think. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about it.’ I gestured all around me. ‘They’re just walls. And all this art does wonders for
one’s soul.’

Without reply Leana meandered back into the house and, breaking the lingering silence, Bellona returned to ask what meat I’d like to eat. I exchanged a few more pleasantries with her, and
enquired whether or not there were any other staff on my father’s payroll. Bellona replied negatively, but she seemed coy about the subject, so I didn’t press it any further. She must
have been unhappy discussing money with a relative stranger and returned to the kitchen.

Only moments later, I could smell something wonderful.

I stood perfectly still in the hall, and closed my eyes to the paintings, statues, terracotta walls and slender pillars. Pots rattled in the kitchen. Water bubbled in the fountain outside. Just
beyond the house – my house – carts clattered along the cobbled street. Vaguely I tried to match the noises with my youth: soon, layered above the ambient sounds, came my mother’s
tender Loccon voice, her sisters, my cousins. My father, for whatever reason, seemed to possess no firm memory in my mind. No, that wasn’t quite true – I remembered him with a belt in
his hands as he threatened to strike me over some misdemeanour. Then of course our foulest argument came back to me, when he betrayed my trust with regard to a girl I’d once known and
loved.

Leana reappeared, without her doublet on, and her fitted white shirt was striking against her dark skin.

‘There is a room on the north side of the building. It is the one with many green cushions on the bed, also. If you have no objections, I will take this for my quarters.’

‘Why not?’ I replied. With a smile, I added, ‘Just make sure you don’t find all these furnishings too soft and comforting.’

My very first engagement back in the city was to identify and honour my father’s body at the temple, before making suitable arrangements for his burial. Over a green,
silk shirt I wore a dark brown cloak, on which I pinned the golden brooch of my office.

Leana and I stood at the gates of the house, regarding the street. A vendor was frying meats nearby, while further along came the smell of pine-scented incense. The noises were startling now we
were closer to the throng. Traders were packing up or travelling from the market at the forum – if I was of the right mind I would have rummaged among their wares to take advantage of the
cheaper prices at this time of day.

‘Will you be all right on your own?’ Leana asked, pushing the hilt of her sword beneath her cloak.

‘I’m going to a temple not a battlefield.’

‘That is not what I mean.’

I shook my head. ‘I’ll be fine. Look, first, sell our horses – we’ll have little need of them in Tryum and we could do with the spare coin. Then go, explore, stay in
Polyum or near Regallum,’ I replied. ‘Don’t head too far down-city, avoid Plutum and Barrantum after dusk, and don’t go finding any trouble, or you might need to ask your
spirit gods for a little help.’

Leana snorted with derision. ‘It will be the locals who would require the help of their gods.’ As she walked slowly into the darkness of the adjacent lane, I could only agree with
her.

I passed through the evening traffic towards the temple and found the humidity and crowds suffocating. Traders rolled their carts past, nearly knocking me over, before scraping
their wheels on the walls or slightly raised kerb, while boys ran ahead ringing small bells to warn of the oncoming traffic. From nearby came the stench of decaying matter from whatever foods had
not been sold and thrown in the gutters. Graffiti was to the point as always: no matter where one travelled in Vispasia, a hastily scrawled penis followed by a name was forever in fashion.

I walked down one familiar street where two good childhood friends had grown up, Clidus and Aetos. It was a wide, well-to-do street with a high pavement and cloth merchants folding away their
wares, pulling down awnings. I lingered there for a while, half wondering what I’d say to them if they ever came by, but mainly observing who came out of the red and yellow doors from their
big houses. It seemed neither them nor their families were to be seen. I asked an old man who was sitting in the sun with a cup of wine if he knew of them, and he said that he did, but they had
long since left the area.

In a nostalgic mood, I continued on my way.

A farmer was attempting to drive five cows through the narrow lanes, and people had to press themselves against the wall to avoid being trampled. An attractive woman walked by and flashed me a
bright smile before she was lost in the throng. Preachers leered or chanted from the relative sanctuary of decorative archways, a dozen dialects rising to my ears, whilst passers-by lit incense to
offer to small statues of their gods. The sheer variety of people in Tryum was mesmerizing. From clothing to foods to the decorations on clay pots, one could almost walk the length of the continent
in a single street.

The two main libraries were still here, exactly as I remembered. Their symmetrical limestone facades towered into the sky. Torches flared at regular intervals along the passageways, and
philosophers had gathered on the front steps overlooking the forum, posing for the masses to see them engaged in debate, as they always did. I recalled having to bustle past them whenever I needed
to study. The graffiti here was more satisfying – full of electoral slogans and statements of support from wealthy businessmen. Hardly a phallus in sight.

Loathed by many, loved by others, the street theatres were doing a roaring trade. There were several different performances on today, makeshift stages and melodramatic actors with exaggerated
expressions. Further along the street, the taverns were full with all manner of clients, all the chatter here in the Detratan tongue. I tried to recall the haunts of my younger days, of
conversations in the morning sunlight, of minted teas shared with a young lady on a good day, or with a dull legal scholar on an average one. They were discussions that people could lose themselves
in, and which could be forgotten about soon after. It wasn’t so much about what was said, but the energy, the sparring, the craft of carving out one’s sense of being.

Much of my understanding of the world had developed in those establishments. In fact, I’d spent many an hour there with the one woman – though she was then a girl – the only
significant romance I’d ever had. Her name was Titiana, and I wondered vaguely what became of her.

Now, looking back at the taverns, oil lamps stood on tables, shining their mellow light on new faces, none of which I recognized, even though I somehow hoped I might: the stories shared here
were no longer for my ears.

People moved on, I had moved on, and that was life.

The Temple of Polla dominated the street that bordered the city districts of Polyum and Regallum. Two immense torches burned within iron cressets, framing a staircase of twenty
steps. Polla’s slender face set within a blazing sun was carved into the centrepiece of the facade and from her lofty position she gazed down on all those who entered.