Parthian Shot (Marcus Corvinus Book 9)

by David Wishart

  I took the second chair. Now I was closer I noticed the guy’s tunic. It was the lounging type, and practically worn through in places; the sort of old, comfortable thing you hang on to despite your wife’s and major-domo’s best efforts to get rid of it. That impressed me like hell, even more than the fancy surroundings. Dress sense on the Palatine or the Capitol’s important. Government officials wear formal mantles, the sharper the better, because they like to score over the underlings and visitors on the other side of the desk. It’s only the really senior types – and I’m talking imperial family here – who can wear what they damn well like because impressing visitors isn’t something they need to worry about. Isidorus wasn’t a blood-imperial, sure, of course not, but the principle was the same. I’d bet that if he stood up and walked around he’d have on the down-at-heel party slippers to match.

  The other thing I noticed was his eyes. They were pale grey, and very, very smart. You didn’t see that very often either.

  Okay; forget freedman. Whatever position Isidorus held in the imperial hierarchy, the guy rated. That was clear as daylight.

  I sipped the Caecuban...

  The stuff went past my palate and down my throat like liquid silk: real spice-route silk, too, not the Coan variety. Any Caecuban’s good, sure, if it’s the genuine article, which a lot of it isn’t, but this wasn’t just any Caecuban; this was the real stuff, from the Caesars’ private cellars. I’d tasted it once or twice before, and believe me there is nothing comes near it, not even the best Falernian. “Managed”, hell; I’d bet springing a jug of that nectar took clout in the five-star, gold-edged super-executive class. That was a clincher, if I’d needed one, which I didn’t. I reckoned if we weren’t quite at the top of the movers-and-shakers tree here we were as close to it as made no difference.

  The ice settled on my spine. First the Wart’s letter, now this. What the hell was going on?

  Isidorus waited for me to put the cup down. Then he said: ‘Lucius will have given you very little information, Valerius Corvinus. On my instructions, so don’t blame the poor man. That’s right, isn’t it, Lucius?’

  Grunt.

  I gave my erstwhile litter companion a sharp sideways glance. Shit; he hadn’t said a word since we’d come in, and he was sitting nice as pie sipping his wine like a dowager. My neck prickled. I just knew the guy had been warned in advance to keep his lip zipped and let Isidorus do the talking. The interesting thing was that he’d done it without a whimper. And consulars, like I say, don’t take a back seat for nobody...

  ‘Now.’ Isidorus sat back. I couldn’t see his feet, but I’d bet they were swinging clear of the floor. ‘No doubt you’re wondering what this is all about.’

  ‘You could say that, yes.’

  ‘Fair enough. You’ve heard, I expect, of Prince Phraates?’

  ‘Who?’

  Vitellius might’ve been playing dumb-man-in-the-middle, but he grunted again like someone had shoved a pin into his ample rump. Isidorus ignored him. ‘That’s a no, then,’ he said. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. Phraates is the youngest son of a former king of Parthia, although the term young is no longer appropriate.’ He paused, then said cautiously: ‘You have heard of Parthia, haven’t you, Corvinus?’

  Beside me, Vitellius choked on his wine.

  Well, I appreciated the guy’s delicacy, and there wasn’t even a smidgeon of sarcasm in the tone, but even with my grasp of geography I couldn’t’ve missed a bloody great empire stretching all the way from the Syrian border to India.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Of course.’

  Isidorus smiled. ‘Good. I’m relieved. Phraates, then, is a Parthian prince. He was sent here by his father, partly as a hostage and partly for his own safety, sixty-odd years ago in the Divine Augustus’s day.’

  Sixty years! Gods! ‘And he’s still alive?’

  ‘Oh, my goodness, yes, very hale and hearty. He lives with his Greek mistress and son in a villa over on the Janiculan; a very nice property, very nice indeed, or so I understand. His survival, though, is very much to the point. Two days ago, on his way home from a dinner party in the early hours of the morning, he was attacked by a gang of knifemen.’

  I sat back in my chair. We were into things here that I understood.

  ‘He was what?’ I said.

  ‘The attack happened not far from the Esquiline Gate, near Maecenas Gardens. Fortunately it was beaten off and the attackers never reached the prince’s litter, but three of his bodyguard were killed outright and one died later.’ The smart grey eyes hadn’t left mine, not for an instant, and there wasn’t even the hint of a smile now. ‘There. Your comments, please.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ I said.

  ‘Really? Now why would you say that?’

  I was being tested, and I knew it. I wasn’t looking at Vitellius, but I could feel him watching me. ‘Jupiter, where do you start? You might as well’ve said that the guy’d been raped by a passing walrus. Knifemen don’t operate in gangs. They’re solo artists, or they work in threes or fours at most. Second, they go for pedestrians, usually lone drunks. They steer clear of heavily-guarded litters and carriages because taking on opposition like that just isn’t worth the risk. And last, in that part of the city even at that time of night there’s plenty of well-heeled traffic about with protection of its own that would wade in and sort the buggers out. Will that do you?’

  The smile came back, but the eyes behind it were still cold and level. ‘Oh, yes, Corvinus. Thank you, very concise. That will do very well indeed. And yes, I agree that it makes no sense; I agree absolutely. The problem is that it did actually happen. Now. We’ll move on. There’s something I haven’t told you which may have a bearing on matters. And I must emphasise that the information is totally confidential.’ He glanced at Vitellius. ‘Five days ago, three days before the attack on Phraates’s litter, a Parthian delegation arrived in Rome. If negotiations with them are successful then Prince Phraates will be sent east with Roman military backing to be made Great King of Parthia.’

  My guts went cold.

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ I said.

  Beside me Vitellius gave a sharp, pained grunt and closed his eyes. Yeah, well; as diplomatic expressions go it probably did leave something to be desired.

  ‘Quite.’ Isidorus cleared his throat. ‘That aside, you see now, of course, the significance of the attack. And its implications. If Phraates had been killed – which was certainly the intention – then our whole plan for replacing Artabanus would have become unworkable at a stroke.’

  ‘Uh...Artabanus?’

  ‘Do forgive me, Corvinus. Artabanus is the present Great King.’

  ‘Of Parthia.’ Vitellius muttered. His eyes were closed again, so he missed Isidorus’s glare.

  Well, if you don’t ask you never know. ‘Right. Got you,’ I said.

  ‘Artabanus isn’t popular at present with a fair percentage of the Parthian nobility. Hence the delegation.’

  I took another sip of the Caecuban. ‘This may be a silly question,’ I said, ‘but why should the Parthians send to us for a king?’

  ‘Because they’ve no choice. When Artabanus came to power he had all his potential rivals executed. Which left our two candidates, who were beyond his reach. Or have been up to now.’ He was watching me closely. ‘I’m sorry. I have tried to simplify things, but the situation really is quite complex. That will do us for the present, but if you have any questions of your own I’d be glad to answer them, or try to.’

  Fair enough. ‘Just the one,’ I said.

  ‘Ask away, then.’

  ‘It’s simple. I’m no diplomat, I’m not even political, and it’s obvious what I know about Parthia you could write on the back of a bust sandal strap. Whatever you want doing in this business, the Roman bureaucracy’s full of sharp cookies a lot more qualified than I am. So why choose me?’

  Isidorus rubbed his temples. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Yes. A fair point. My instructions came directly from the emperor.’ He turne
d to Vitellius. ‘You did show Corvinus the letter, didn’t you, Lucius?’

  I shifted in my chair. ‘Yeah, he did, but still –’

  ‘Tiberius gave me no explanation – as, naturally, was his right – but I would imagine his choice of you in particular was based largely on, ah, certain events which took place a few years back.’ He cleared his throat again. Vitellius’s attention, I noticed, was suddenly on his wine-cup. ‘Events which we won’t go into here. I understand, though, that in the course of them you met the emperor personally.’

  ‘Ah...yeah.’ Sure I did. My balls still shrank at the memory.

  ‘Then you obviously made a lasting impression on him.’

  I swallowed. Shit; now there was an uncomfortable thought. Just the mere notion that I figured anywhere at all in that cold, calculating, abacus-minded bastard’s world view made my skin crawl. ‘Okay. Fine. Forget me as such. Why anyone outside government circles?’

  ‘Because sixty years in Rome or not Phraates is still a bloody Parthian.’

  I blinked; not at the mild swear-word, although I hadn’t expected it from Isidorus, but because of the tone. For the first time in the guy’s bland delivery I detected what sounded very like a note of exasperation. ‘Very illuminating,’ I said.

  Isidorus gave a tight smile. ‘I’m sorry. You’re quite right; in itself that answer was not particularly helpful. Still, it’s the one you want. As a guest of the Roman state, Phraates is under our protection and eligible for our help – our official help – as and when necessary. As following the attack on his litter it now is. You’d agree?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Obviously. Yes. I would have thought so too. The problem is that Prince Phraates is having none of it. Neither the protection nor the help.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’

  ‘Because he’s a Parthian. Parthians may ask for Roman help – the delegation is a case in point – but they don’t do so lightly. Also, there’s a certain amount of professional pride involved. Phraates has always had a private bodyguard: technically illegal on Roman soil, of course, but under the circumstances we’re not going to be picky. He also has his own espionage system; again unofficial, naturally, but which, to be fair – and I’m speaking professionally – is not one to be sneered at. He considers both these factors to be quite sufficient for countering any threat and has told us in no uncertain terms that he will look after his own safety. Which, from Rome’s – from my – point of view is extremely worrying. You’re with me?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, sure.’

  ‘On the other hand, Prince Phraates for all his faults is very much the pragmatical diplomat. As am I. The two of us may have our own opinions and priorities, but in this instance like it or not we have to agree on a common policy and course of action. His sticking point was and is that he wants no official nursemaiding – the word is his – because that, as he sees things, would compromise his new status as prospective Great King. He is, however, willing to compromise over an independent investigator with no vested interest in either camp. The compromise – as suggested by the emperor – is you.’

  I kept my tone and my expression neutral. ‘Is that so, now?’

  ‘That, I’m afraid, is so. Your task, of course, would be to find out who is trying to kill Prince Phraates before he succeeds.’

  Yeah, well; I’d assumed that might be it. Still, it was as well to have it out in plain Latin. None the less...

  ‘You don’t ask for much, do you?’ I said.

  That got me a level stare. ‘Trust me, I know exactly how much I’m asking. Although I’d remind you the idea did not originate with me.’

  ‘And things would depend on me agreeing, naturally?’

  The grey eyes were still fixed on mine. ‘In theory, yes. In practice...well, I’m afraid that in the light of circumstances you would be a very brave man to refuse.’

  Well, at least the guy was being up front about it. And he was spot on. Saying no to the Wart was about as smart a move as taking a stroll through a snake-pit.

  ‘Point taken,’ I said.

  ‘Believe me, Corvinus, I’m no happier about the situation than you are. I dislike having to use amateurs at the best of times, and on this occasion it worries me very much.’ He must’ve seen something in my expression, because he held up a hand. ‘No. Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mean to be disparaging, I’m simply stating a fact. As you’ll discover for yourself, dealing with Parthians – Parthian aristocrats, especially – isn’t easy. They’re touchy, vain, two-faced as Janus, and it takes a lifetime’s study to understand the way their minds work. If you ever get that far.’

  ‘No different to Roman senators, then, right?’ I glanced at Vitellius. He coloured to the eyeballs but didn’t bite.

  ‘Oh, a great deal more complicated than that. I never said your task would be easy. What I am saying is that it’s important for Rome. And, I believe, for Parthia.’

  ‘Not to mention for this Phraates.’

  His lips twitched in a smile. ‘Quite.’

  ‘One last question?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘It’s the obvious one, sure, but it has to be asked and answered. This King Artabanus; he have any spies – agents – operating in Rome?’

  Isidorus leaned back. Obvious question or not, he took his time answering. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘He does not. Not that I am aware of, certainly. And before you ask, I would, Valerius Corvinus, be very aware of something like that, believe me.’

  Well, you didn’t get much more definite, and from Isidorus I’d take it as final. No one had told me what the guy’s exact job was, but I’d bet a sturgeon to a pickled walnut he knew what he was talking about there. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘So. When do I get to talk to Phraates?.’

  ‘Ah.’ Isidorus turned briefly to Vitellius. ‘This is where Lucius comes in.’ Yeah; I’d been wondering – barring the messenger-boy angle – why our broad-rumped consular had been invited to this little confab. ‘Lucius is heading the imperial sub-committee negotiating with the Parthian envoys. That side of things doesn’t affect you, of course, but fortunately it does provide you with an excellent natural opportunity to meet the prince and certain...others.’ There was something in his tone, and in the hesitation before that last word, that made me frown, but the eyes discouraged questions. ‘Lucius?’

  Vitellius shifted his massive weight in his chair and leaned forward. The wooden joints of the chair creaked. ‘We’ve put the Parthians in one of the imperial guest-houses, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘West slope, facing the Capitol. They’re giving a dinner there tonight for Phraates and a couple of the other local eastern bigwigs. I’m invited, and I’ve cleared it with Phraates for you to come too. As my aide.’ He scowled. ‘Which last fact you’ll remember, please, and act on accordingly, because as far as the delegation’s concerned that’s all you are at present. That clear?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jupiter on a trolley! ‘It’s clear.’

  ‘Fine. Don’t forget it, then.’ The scowl didn’t lift. Obviously, my fat pal the consular wasn’t any more tickled to have me aboard the good ship Diplomacy than his boss was. Only Isidorus covered it better.

  Isidorus stood up. I’d been right about his lack of height; the top of his head was about level with my chin. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘I wish you luck, Corvinus.’ He held out his hand and we shook. ‘Luck, and success. Incidentally, I’ll have a word with Quintus on the front desk. If you do need to see me at any stage without Lucius here in attendance you should have no trouble.’

  Meeting over, evidently. I drank the last of the Caecuban at a gulp – that I wasn’t going to waste – and got to my feet.

  ‘I’ll pick you up at sunset,’ Vitellius growled. ‘Wear your best mantle.’

  Well, that was the easy part over. Now I had to explain things to Perilla.

  3.

  Perilla was in when I got back, copying out the notes she’d taken at the Pollio library. I carried Bathyllus’s welc
ome-home jug and cup over to my couch, planting the usual smacker on her raised lips in passing.

  ‘Marcus, where on earth were you?’ She put the pen down. ‘Bathyllus just said you’d gone out. I thought you were doing the household accounts today.’

  ‘Yeah, I was.’ Gods! This wasn’t going to be easy. ‘I got sort of sidetracked. You have a good time?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Very interesting.’ She consulted her notes. ‘Did you realise that the goby can stop a ship under full sail dead in the water, just by fastening itself by its jaws to the hull?’

  ‘What the hell’s a goby?’

  ‘A small carnivorous marine fish, two inches long.’

  ‘Really? And where did you find that little nugget of information?’

  ‘In Trebius Niger. Seemingly one of them immobilised Antony’s flagship at the Battle of Actium. He also says that swordfish exist which sink ships by puncturing them.’

  ‘Trebius Niger is a credulous prat.’

  She frowned down at the wax tablet and closed it. ‘Yes, perhaps you’re right, dear. I wasn’t totally convinced by the goby, I must admit. I mean, why would it bother? Some of him is quite good, though. Niger, that is. Oh, and apropos of fish, Meton asked me to tell you that he’s got a basket of lampreys. We’re having them for dinner tonight.’

  My blood ran cold. Hell; I hadn’t even thought of Meton. Our prima-donna food-fixated chef needed three days’ notice in writing for an ordinary skipped meal. A few hours and a special fish evening combined put the potential repercussions into the mythical bracket, up alongside the punishment of Sisyphus. ‘Er...I won’t be in for dinner tonight,’ I said.

  Her eyes met mine; the lady had got the implications as well as I had. ‘Oh, Marcus!’ she said.

  ‘Don’t worry; I’ll speak to Meton.’

  She was still staring at me in horror. ‘He’ll go berserk. Do you know how often he has a whole basket of lampreys? I mean, these things cost a fortune. When you can even get them.’

  ‘Yeah, well...’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘The, ah, Palatine. With Lucius Vitellius and a few Parthians. It’s a sort of...diplomatic dinner.’