by J B Lucas
THE LORETICUS INTRIGUES
BOOK I
THE CONVENIENT MURDER
J.B. LUCAS
First published in Great Britain in 2017 by J.B. Lucas
Copyright © 2017 J.B. Lucas
The moral right of J.B. Lucas to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. Neither the whole nor any part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.
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Reviews for Loreticus, the first book in the Lost Emperor Trilogy:
“On every one of the pages, readers are sure to [find] the kind of wide-eyed fascination that renders authors unforgettable and their work resonant.”
“High stakes diplomacy on the run”
“Stunning”
“Kept me on the edge of my seat”
“If you like intrigue, cynicism and page-turning backstabbing then this is for you.”
Villa Ferran
Imperial Capital
10th Sabbas, 255
My dear Loreticus,
You know that I rarely offer advice, and I know that you have never heeded any that I’ve given. But please consider the following urgent, serious and without political motive.
Our religious friend has been in a foul mood recently, a sulk which makes his dyspeptic humour welcome in comparison. He’s nicked himself whilst shaving and thinking at the same time, and has decided that you are a devil which needs his immediate attention. Meanwhile, I’m vexed at one of his people for causing my cousin Satrus some embarrassment (some crude gossip for when you’re back).
Claisan has decided to escalate things. He’s leaving town in three days’ time and he has rented every killer in the city to hunt you down as soon as he is past the city’s gates. You’ll not be seen again, and none of us will be able to prove that he was responsible. He’s planning to disappear the famous “disappearer”.
Go travel somewhere, and let he and I bash our heads together. He wouldn’t dare to hurt me too much, and I will need you to help me with my own revenge later this year.
Send me a note when you’re arrived, wherever you’re going.
Your lifelong friend,
Ferran
Chapter 1
The Village of Lores, 12th Sabbas 255
And so he arrived, letting his horse drag its hooves in a semblance of nonchalance. Loreticus caught the people looking at him, whispering to their neighbour or nudging a negligent friend. His urban fashion, the expense of his cloth, the elegance of his pose drew comment, but all this was secondary to why he was the focus of the village. Loreticus was back in his childhood home, back to the village, back to his parents’ empty house which he had left for the intrigue of the empire’s capital.
The village of Lores sat at the edge of tree-crowded hills, and it was a proud hub of calm and gentility. In the small homes of clean white walls and tidily tiled roofs, lived a simple people far removed from the drama of the capital or the bloodshed of the borders. They were a good people, shrewd and honest, undemanding in their tastes and successful in their businesses. Lores was too insignificant in the grand scheme of things to be of natural interest to the conspirators of the capital, however it was also true that the town was loved by a very important man of the empire: Loreticus. That alone put its name in the memories of the emperor, his generals, and a hundred spies and assassins throughout the kingdom.
Lores was a rustic town, and leaves had fallen from the trees to soften the horse’s steps on the cobbles. The air smelled of that slight fermentation which came with the thick piles of brown and amber, but the winds were yet to pick up to wash it all away.
Loreticus rode past the inhabitants, returning a familiar smile or a greeting, and a question kept returning to him, something which had irritated him since he had decided to flee to Lores. What would these good folk make of their young lord if they knew what he did in the capital? Would they thank him for keeping their homes safe, or would they judge him with their unblemished morals?
Their judgment carried an exaggerated weight. Everything from the great forest and its cold morning breath to the gentle grey clouds reminded him of childhood, home, and his parents. In his mind, the capital was only an obligatory evil, with its corrupted atmosphere of ambition. It was a den of sprawling modern houses, where blood-soaked generals preened their feathers around over-fed women with heavy perfumes.
At the northernmost end of Lores, his family’s villa stood proudly on the mountainside. It was nowhere near as grand as some of the modern residences in the capital but, here in this village, it was the largest. Arriving at the foot of the steep private path, Loreticus got off his horse, reached both arms above his head to stretch out the day’s ride, then trod purposefully towards the thick front doors.
One flew open just as he reached out and a raw, dry face thrust itself forward in greeting. This was Selban, Loreticus’s chief agent, who had arrived earlier to get the villa in shape and to organize his diary.
“Welcome, my local lord,” Selban said with an extravagant bow.
“Thank you,” chuckled Loreticus, slapping his friend on the shoulder. “What a mess we’ve left behind. Any idea what happened?”
Selban, the eternal gossip, shook his head. He leaned forward slightly and whispered, “But don’t expect any peace, I’m afraid. The heads of the local families are all here and have been waiting for a time. It seems that our troublesome friend in the capital has sent one of his men to camp out in Lores, and your people are not very happy.” He emphasized the last three words.
Loreticus drew back to read Selban’s expression. He had run from the capital to get away from the intrigue. For General Claisan to have sent someone here – to his home – was, well, against the rules.
“Bloody god-bothering donkey,” muttered Loreticus. He glanced past Selban to examine his guests, members of the local gentry, influential farmers and landowners. He thought he recognized the faces, or at least he felt familiar with the common features of Lores. “This wretch isn’t here tonight, is he?”
“Not invited,” replied Selban with a shrug. “You and I need to talk about him first. I smell trouble and have heard worse since I arrived.”
Behind the peristyle stood the servants of the villa. Scruffy but professional, most had been there for decades. Selban had obviously been gossiping with them all through the day, and the servants seemed at ease with him. The man relished his role as information gatherer, and could merrily sit and eat and blather from breakfast to dusk. That Selban was so sociable with such challenging personal hygiene amazed his patron.
Loreticus produced a smile, a huge expression which wrapped around his nose and squinted his eyes. Both the nose and the grin were inherited from his late father. Loreticus stepped forward, taking handshakes and greeting his guests in a loud voice, occasionally winking at one of the shy servants who caught his glance.
After the ritual formalities were complete, Loreticus led th
em to a second, more spacious room where they sat at an immense square table. Dinner was brought, rich in its freshness and all gifts from the local farmers to celebrate his unexpected visit.
They made light talk and Loreticus watched his guests, talking for most of the meal to his neighbour Mona, an old lady who owned the small lenders in the region. She was entertaining, charming and eloquent, heavy in her disdain of those in the capital and hopeful that he would return to care for the region again. Very few villages had such intelligent landlords, and those that did, flourished.
“You do realise that you have your own children to chastise?” joked Loreticus. “You shouldn’t spend all of your advice on me.”
“Oh, I won’t,” Mona replied with a smile. “But you’re just a new target. Besides, I have daughters to marry off and these local dullards are not coming anywhere near them.”
“I’m glad that you consider me worthy material,” he said. “I always thought that you disapproved of the naughty boy from the villa?”
“I still do. That’s why I’ll get you out of that sewage pit and back up to Lores.”
“One day.”
“Liar,” she rebuked.
Their familiar banter was interrupted by the town judge Attican who sang in his deep tones, “We still do not know what Major Gholan is up to.” His black pupils peered out from under a hairy waterfall of eyebrows, casting an accusation that it was already Loreticus’s fault.
Other guests responded to the comment with groans as if they had heard this conversation repeated before. Loreticus asked innocently, “Who is this Gholan?”
Attican answered the question bluntly. “Major Gholan is an officer of the Imperial Army and he recently arrived in Lores.”
“What’s so special about him then?” Loreticus asked, drinking slowly from his cup, watching the judge.
“Nobody knows what he might be up to, my lord. And it seems he might be up to a lot. As far as is known, he’s not a religious man but strangely, he’s reputed to be a favourite of General Claisan.”
Loreticus nodded slowly.
“I can’t tell you anything yet,” he said with a shrug towards the judge. “I’ll meet him tomorrow and I’ll ask about his businesses and his intentions. Are you sure he’s not religious? Perhaps he’s come up to convert us?”
Claisan, the only zealot general, was a bannerman for the discontented religious community. He was their advocate, their example of a moral leader. For Loreticus, he was a threat. He didn’t care for the proselytizing of the general’s clan, swimming in their own self-congratulatory innocence. Claisan had as many spies, agents, and assassins as either of the other two generals. These three leaders of the army – Claisan, Ferran and Antron – were all threats to the aging emperor, but with the wealth and the influence of a discontented religious community coming to an unexpected boil, Claisan was the one in focus right now.
“No,” replied Selban. “He’s not been to the temple, he doesn’t wear the blue dot. He’s not really been seen out at all.”
“So, Judge, why are we concerned?” Loreticus asked, acting like the news was of no particular importance.
“He has rented a house on the outskirts of the village, the Old Town Manor, I believe, and is staying there with a very beautiful young woman who may or may not be his wife. We believe that there is a fair chance that she is not there by her own free will,” Attican growled, raising his finger as if making a conclusive legal point.
“Well, you speculate that, Judge,” said one of the forgettable bankers, who tended to sit and speak in tight cliques. “None of us have made any such claims.”
Attican ignored him and continued. “On top of that threat of sin, in the past week, he has invited more than a few widowed women from all around the local countryside to the mansion.”
Loreticus nodded, knowing that the judge was more complaining than reporting. The old man liked to be in the company of pretty women, and this new man was an insult to his assumed role as village rogue.
“How is this a problem?” Loreticus asked.
Nobody replied for a moment, but soon Mona spoke up, “Loreticus, his actions really are suspicious. The informed opinion is that he wants to open a brothel for the nearby militia.”
“As bad as a temple!” said the judge. “A brothel.”
“In Lores?” Loreticus was astounded. A major who had fought under Claisan would not be the type to retire as a pimp.
His question hung in the air and in the silence that settled, he glanced at Selban. This was his weak spot, the one tender aspect which would turn the detached spymaster into a hasty brawler. The purity of Lores was an integral part of Loreticus’s identity.
In the awkward pause, Mona discreetly moved on to discuss other matters with some of the other guests, but Loreticus still felt the weight of the unanswered question. He didn’t care about the idea of another man’s sin – he had a rather poor history of falling in bed with people’s wives – but the location troubled him. Something evil was underway and he would be the unhappy recipient of the surprise.
The guests left soon after the meal had ended, most with formal handshakes, only Mona holding his arms as she had decades before. Her wise familiarity was unsettling.
“Young man,” she started in a mocking tone, “Don’t do anything foolish that satisfies you in the short term, but brings upset afterwards.” She looked at him. “I know what you do in the capital, and what the emperor asks you to do. We’re all proud of you, but we don’t want you to start practising your ways in Lores. Get rid of this Gholan if need be, but through persuasion, not by burying him behind some tree in the woods.”
“Rather blunt, Mona,” he replied, his throat tight. “What makes you think that I’m some sort of thug?”
“Your reputation has never been that of a thug,” Mona said gravely. “But you do have very similar end results to one. People disappear.”
*
“I can tell that that bothered you,” said Selban, lazing in a sofa in the dining room. All the dishes had been cleared away, but for that with the cold duck skin that he was picking at slowly. The sounds of his open-mouthed chewing filled the room. “We’re not thugs. Thugs are scary because they are unpredictable and indiscriminate. We’re gentlemen agents, with the health of the empire driving us.” He twirled a finger in false humour.
“If that were the case, Selban, we’d be better brothers to our religious community, not bickering with them.” Loreticus turned to the young man, whose face and fingers were smeared with fat. “How can you eat more? And before you answer that, at least finish the food in your mouth.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Selban, duck puffing out a cheek. A piece of food was launched by the sibilant, and it landed gently between them. Loreticus stared at the small grey matter as if it were a knife, still quivering from the impact. He looked up at Selban, who smiled cluelessly. He looked away.
Selban chewed noisily for a few moments, took a drink and then began again. “I don’t understand why Gholan is here, though. If he’s such a big player in Claisan’s forces, why isn’t he retiring onto land under his general’s control? It must be some strategy of intimidation or petty bullying directed at you.”
“Agreed,” said Loreticus. “I think that he wants to find a valid reason for the emperor and Ferran to abandon me.” He plucked at his tunic. It was still dusty from the trip, and he suddenly felt unkempt. His father would never have let him enter a dinner in such a state, and yet Loreticus had hosted one. No wonder Mona had such a poor regard for him.
“So?”
“So what?” retorted Loreticus.
“Oh, for goodness’ sakes,” Selban spat out. “So how did Claisan know that we were coming here? We didn’t know ourselves until a few days ago.”
“That, dear Selban, is a very good question. Found out whether it has anything to do with the scandal in Claisan’s ranks which has him running around with his skirt clenched high.”
“What’s the scandal?”
asked Selban, his chewing slowing down as he listened.
“Don’t know. But it’s just another thing which has enflamed the irritation between him and Ferran.”
“Why would a scandal in the capital be made better by putting the culprit under our noses?”
“Get one or two of their staff on our pay then. We need to find out what he’s doing, and to stop him from fulfilling his mission,” said Loreticus.
“Already thought of that,” moaned Selban. “I asked a couple of friendly faces who would be the right person to offer coins to in the Old Manor. They said that the major had stocked it with all of his own staff from his military unit.”
“Damn,” muttered Loreticus. He folded his arms and thought to himself in rhythm with Selban’s mastication. “Full frontal approach then. I’ll go to see him in the morning.”
As was custom in Lores, the lord would visit the temple before all other business on his first day back in the village. The only remaining family who attended the building, the Egnatius household, received him warmly. Two decades ago, they had led a boisterous community of families in the chapel, and it had been the old man Egnatius who had introduced the teenage Loreticus to his future mentor from the capital. Without this family, Loreticus would be living a different life.
They sat and ate breakfast in silence. There was a comfort at this table, one born of many years as a child and an adolescent playing side-by-side with the children. Bread was baked, warm wine served, and very little conversation made after the initial hugs. They sat in a room as old as the village, the beams of the roof low and dusty with insects, the windows smaller than desirable.
“You seem tired, Loreticus,” commented Sten, the eldest son and now the man of the house.
“I’m always tired, thanks,” he replied playfully. “They give me too much to do, I think too much about what I’m doing, and I never get around to doing what I should have done. It’s not a productive set of habits.”
