I gave the guy the once-over, and straight off I felt the ice bunch in my guts. Mithradates was a bad-’un, a real bad-’un. I could tell that from just one look. He reminded me straight off of Aelius Sejanus, and you didn’t get much worse than that long-gone bastard; not so much physically as by the set of his body and the expression on his face. Mid-thirties, black-bearded but with the beard uncurled and unoiled, hair tied back in a pigtail, bare arms thick and muscled and hairy as a gorilla’s, and a sneer that said to the world: ‘I can take you any time I like. Want to see me do it?’
‘Nice,’ I said. ‘Mithradates, I mean.’
Vitellius grunted. ‘Right,’ he said quietly. ‘He’s a proper bastard, born and bred. Tough as hell and twice as nasty. Got the young prince dangling from his little finger. Tiridates may put on the high-and-mighty Parthian Prince act but he’s soft as butter underneath. The two of them run around together.’
My eyes shifted to the couch nearest ours. ‘Who’s the lad next to Callion?’
Vitellius lowered his voice even further. ‘That’s Damon. Phraates’s son by his Greek mistress. You remember? Him I wasn’t expecting. Why he’s rated an invitation tonight I’m not sure.’
I did a quick recap. Yeah; Isidorus had mentioned Phraates had an unofficial family on the Janiculan. I looked more closely. Damon was a watered-down version of Tiridates. Half-Greek or not, he’d chosen to come in Parthian dress, but even at first glance I could see he wasn’t comfortable in it; or maybe it was the typical Roman wide-boy’s short trimmed beard with no moustache that didn’t quite fit in with the rest. That was a mistake, for a start. The guy was no youngster, not even close; I’d put him late thirties at best, twenty years too old for that style, although his sulky face practically yelled ‘spoilt teenager’ over the wine-cup he was already swigging from. I noticed by the way that one of the fingers of the hand he held the cup with was missing.
‘Who made the seating arrangements?’ I asked Vitellius.
‘No idea. Why the hell should you want to know something like that?’
‘Just curious.’
He shot me a look from under his brows, but I didn’t elaborate: now wasn’t the time, and it probably wasn’t all that important, anyway. I carried on with my inspection of the room. There was only one name I hadn’t fitted to a face, and only one face to fit it to: the second man at Osroes’s table, on the extreme right tip of the horseshoe. ‘That’s the eunuch?’ I said, pointing discreetly.
Vitellius looked, screwing up his piggy eyes: he must be short-sighted. ‘Peucestas. Yes, that’s him.’
Jupiter! I hadn’t had much experience of eunuchs, but that guy didn’t measure up to the little I had at all. Forget your smooth-cheeked effete priests of Cybele: Peucestas had a full beard and even reclining I could see he held himself like a soldier. He wasn’t fat, either: solid, sure, but I’d reckon it was beef and muscle, not fat.
‘He looks normal enough,’ I said.’
‘I told you, Corvinus. There’s nothing effeminate about Peucestas. He’s all right.’
‘But the beard. It’s a fake?’
‘Not that I know of, although I wouldn’t risk tugging it to find out myself.’ Vitellius chuckled. ‘He would’ve already had it when he was castrated twenty-odd years back for choosing the wrong bloody side.’
I stared at him. ‘That’s when it was done?’
‘Of course. When did you think? That’s Parthians for you.’
Oh, shit! I didn’t answer, feeling the ice in my own balls. The guy must’ve been in his twenties at the time; thirty, maybe. Sweet holy gods! No wonder he hated Artabanus!
The slaves brought round the starters, one set for each table. Most of them I recognised, even if they were at the luxury end of the market like peahens’ eggs and larks’ tongues in aspic. One or two, though, were strange, like the bowls of what looked like curdled milk with green bits.
‘What’s that stuff?’ I asked Vitellius, pointing.
‘Yoghurt with salt and mint. You eat it with the flat bread.’ Vitellius was digging in to the quails: you didn’t get his size on salad. ‘It’s the traditional Parthian beginning to the meal; a sort of –’
‘Curdled milk.’ So; I’d been right. Yeah, well; that particular delicacy I’d pass on. Definitely one for Mother’s chef Phormio. ‘And how about these?’ I pointed to a collection of amber-coloured lumps artistically arranged on a small silver platter.
‘Deep-fried locusts in honey.’
‘Is that so, now? Ah...someone told me once that locust was also the name of a fruit.’
‘Maybe. Not in this case, though.’
‘Got you.’ Feeling slightly queasy, I reached for the jellied larks’ tongues. At least they were decently Roman. I hadn’t forgotten my promise to Meton, sure, but crispy-fried insect was one Parthian recipe that we could safely give a miss.
I was helping myself to the tongues when I realised that everyone was looking behind me at Phraates’s table. Or looking but trying not to be caught looking, rather, if you know what I mean. I dropped my napkin off the side of my couch and leaned down to pick it up, allowing me the chance to eyeball the prince myself.
A guy – obviously a slave – was leaning over his shoulder, tasting each of the dishes while Phraates sat smiling, waiting until he’d finished. Meanwhile Zariadres was looking on, not saying anything but with an expression like he’d had a very long poker inserted in his rectum.
I straightened, clutching the retrieved napkin, brain buzzing. Not only had Phraates very carefully refrained from telling the delegation what my particular job was, but he’d brought a food-taster with him.
Interesting, right?
6.
‘It’s the standard royal custom, Corvinus.’ We were speaking Latin, of course, but Vitellius had still lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘The Great King never eats anything that hasn’t been tasted first. Very sensibly, given these buggers’ hands-on approach to the succession.’
‘Yeah? Then how come as the so-called Parthian expert you’re the only one who isn’t batting an eyelid while all the real Parthians have their eyes out on stalks?’ I shelled a peahen’s egg and dipped it in fish sauce. ‘Me, I can see their point. If I invited a guy to dinner and saw him check the porridge for rat poison I’d feel pretty pissed off too. Phraates is no fool, he knows he’s putting backs up, so why –?’
‘Look, just shut up, will you?’ Vitellius hissed. ‘Gods, man, this is a bloody diplomatic dinner! Ignore it! Later, if you must, when we’re alone, but not now!’
I shrugged. He was right, of course: it wasn’t any of our business. Still, it was odd, and I hadn’t been mistaken about the reaction. Nor could Phraates himself be unaware of it. So what the hell was he playing at?
The rest of the meal was uneventful but good. Me, I’m a wine man, mostly, but I know good food when I taste it, and this was the real thing. One of the dishes just had to be Meton’s guinea-fowl, and I came to a private arrangement with our waiter re sneaking me the recipe; plus another that caught my fancy, of paper-thin slices of lamb marinated in herbs and wrapped around a minced wild boar stuffing.
We’d got to the fruit and nuts stage and were filling up the corners when the girls slipped in. Three of them. If it’d been a Roman dinner party – at least a certain kind of Roman dinner party – I wouldn’t’ve been all that surprised because girls with the dessert are pretty much standard, but at diplomatic dinners you don’t expect that sort of thing. I didn’t, anyway, and although Vitellius never said a word he choked on a mouthful of wine, so maybe he didn’t either. Wherever they’d sprung from they were stunners, two eastern-looking ones and a tall negress. I could’ve predicted which couches they’d head for: one – the negress – to Damon, Phraates’s ageing problem teenager, one of the easterners to Tiridates and the other to –
But the third girl – a real honey with long unplaited jet-black hair and perfect bone structure – didn’t go to Mithradates’s couch after all. She crossed
the room and joined Callion.
I dug Vitellius in the ribs. ‘Ah...would this be standard diplomatic practice?’ I murmured.
‘No.’ He dabbed fiercely with a napkin at where he’d spilled wine down his front. ‘No, it bloody wouldn’t! Still, they aren’t doing any harm, and female company – not wives, of course, they don’t count – isn’t unusual at Parthian dinner parties. They’re none of our business. Ignore them.’
‘Fine. You’re the one throwing your wine around, pal, not me.’
‘Shut up.’
There was a whoop from the direction of the serving door. I turned just as the slim, long-legged girl in the G-string and bra who was responsible came out of the backward roll that’d taken her onto the stage, bounced to her feet and reached for the baton which the man following her was already throwing...
She muffed the catch. The baton skittered across the floor and came to rest against the wall behind her. The girl covered well, walking backwards and hooking it up with a twist of her bare foot to send it spinning among the other three the pair were tossing between them now, but she’d spoiled their entrance and I could see she knew it.
‘Ah,’ Vitellius said. ‘The entertainment. Zariadres did say they’d booked a troupe of tumblers.’
I settled back to enjoy the show. Sure, call me simple, but tumblers and jugglers I’ve always liked; as far as I’m concerned in terms of entertainment value they leave soulful-eyed crooners and these bloody ballet dancers who pretend they’re finding their way round an imaginary wall nowhere, while stand-up comics are beyond the pale. That initial slip aside, these ones were pretty good, among the best I’d seen for a long time. The guy – like the woman, he looked an easterner – gradually fed in more batons until there were a full seven of them. At that point he snatched the first out of the air and replaced it with a sword which may’ve been fake but looked sharp as hell. Then he did the same with the second baton. Finally, there were only the swords.
That was when the second girl came in. She was a dead ringer for the first, but a younger version, maybe early teens: it was only now, when I saw them together, that I realised the original girl – woman, rather – had to be far older than she looked. Obviously, mother and daughter. She stood facing us half way between the other two, just behind the spinning swords, and as each passed her she reached out, caught it by the hilt and tossed it behind her. Finally, when the last sword was grounded, the three turned together and bowed.
I’d thought that was the end and I was getting ready to clap and whistle when another guy came through the serving entrance. He was no tumbler, this one, even I could see that: big and broad as a door, pectorals like you see hammered out on fancy parade armour and a set of biceps that looked more like polished rock than muscle. The first two of the troupe, probably mum and dad – although I couldn’t see much physical resemblance between the elder man and the Last of the Titans here – stepped aside, leaving the stage to the youngsters.
If the juggling had been good, what came next was amazing. Like I say, the second guy was no tumbler and didn’t even make a token effort in that direction – he just played the part of the anchor-man while she did all the fancy work – but they made a good team. They finished their act with a sort of human hammer-throw. The guy held the girl by the waist while she wrapped her legs round his torso; at which point he began to turn, slowly at first, then faster, all the time paying her out like a rope until his hands were almost gripping her ankles. Finally he gathered her in again inch by inch and began to slow, until they came to a stop and she climbed down to take a shaky bow.
I applauded with the rest; as an exhibition of sheer strength, grip and balance it’d been impressive as hell. The two kids were beaming and red as beetroots. Quite rightly so.
‘That wasn’t bad.’ Vitellius was slitting a peach.
I glanced at him.
‘Not bad? It was brilliant!’
‘That’s what I said.’
The other two had made their bows as well and the troupe was backing towards the serving door when Mithradates stood up.
‘Wait a moment,’ he said. ‘Stay where you are.’
They froze. I noticed that the woman had bitten her lip while the younger guy was glowering like thunder, saucepan-lid hands clenched. Uh-oh.
Mithradates pointed to the girl. ‘You,’ he said. ‘Come over here.’
The girl darted a quick, scared glance at the others. The older man’s expression had set hard as concrete. He put out his hand and grasped her wrist. His wife was staring right at Mithradates; and if ever I saw hate on a face I saw it on hers.
Mithradates’s eyes were still on the girl. ‘Over here,’ he repeated. ‘Now.’
The girl shook her head numbly. The big guy’s hands flexed and he leaned towards us; I could see he was within a hair’s-breadth of running forwards and catching the Iberian by the throat, which in this company was not a good idea...
I stood up myself. ‘Hang on a minute, pal.’
Beside me, Vitellius murmured: ‘Sit down, you bloody fool!’ I ignored him.
Mithradates turned slowly to face me. I’d seen eyes like that before, when Sejanus had stared me down after my father’s funeral. Same expression too, of absolute, total disbelief, like a worm had reared up and bitten him.
‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.
I kept my tone low-key and reasonable; no point in pushing for trouble. ‘The show’s over,’ I said. ‘The girl’s done her part. Now let her go home.’
Mithradates’s brows came down like hatchets. He raised his hand, finger levelled at me. ‘You,’ he said. ‘You just...’
‘Mithradates,’ Phraates interrupted in a mild voice that cut like a razor. ‘Valerius Corvinus is quite right. It was a good show, but it’s over.’ He reached into his belt, pulled out a purse and flung it for the elder man to catch. ‘Now. You will sit down, please.’ Then, when the guy didn’t move, he snapped: ‘Sit down! Now! You shame us!’
The silence was absolute. Slowly, never taking his eyes off mine, Mithradates lowered himself onto his couch. I could hear pent-up breaths go out all around the room.
The four entertainers bowed and sidled out through the serving door. I lay down too and reached for my winecup.
‘Corvinus, you gormless bastard,’ Vitellius muttered, ‘when we’re alone I will personally rip your guts out. That is a promise.’
Now it was finished I wasn’t feeling too proud of myself, either, and the whole room was staring at me. ‘Yeah, well,’ I said.
Phraates leaned over towards me. ‘You must forgive Mithradates,’ he said quietly, in Latin. ‘He gets rather overexcited.’
I glanced across. Overexcited wasn’t exactly the term I’d’ve used. I was getting the death stare. Shit; I’d made an enemy here, and no mistake. ‘Right. Right,’ I said.
Vitellius didn’t say another word to me the whole evening. He saved it all up until we were in the litter and out of earshot of the Parthian domestics who’d escorted us out.
‘You bloody fool! I warned you! Mithradates is the next sodding king of Armenia! What the hell did you think you were doing there?’
I held up both hands, palm out. ‘Okay. Okay! Point taken! I only –’
‘What would it matter if the bastard had had the girl anyway? She’s just an entertainer! She’s probably been had already a dozen times since the Winter Festival!’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I know. I’m just not a diplomat, pal. I told you, I –’
‘Too bloody right you’re not!’ He punched the cushions behind him and threw himself backwards so hard I felt the litter-bearers stagger. ‘That’s the understatement of the fucking century! Wait until I see Isidorus! He’ll have you out so fast your head’ll spin, Phraates or no Phraates! Holy bloody sodding Jupiter, what a mess!’
I was feeling just a little tetchy myself by this time. ‘Pal, this wasn’t my idea in the first place, remember? If Isidorus wants to pull the plug then it’s fine by me.’
�
�Seconded, by God! Carried nem. bloody con.!’ Vitellius was calming down now; at least, he’d stopped throwing himself around the litter and was just sitting breathing hard and glaring at me. ‘Corvinus, do you know what you’ve done?’ he said finally. ‘I mean, as far as Rome and me personally are concerned?’
‘Uh...no. Not altogether.’
‘No. You fucking well wouldn’t.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Well. For your information I am now in a situation where the future king of Armenia, with whom I may later have to deal both officially and socially, has seen me seeing him publicly humiliated in a petty wrangle over a whore.’
‘She wasn’t a whore, she was a –’
‘Shut up. The person responsible for his humiliation being my aide, who presumably, the gods help us, was under my control and instruction. How do you think Mithradates is going to feel the next time we meet? And remember that the next time may involve sensitive political dickering vital to Rome’s fucking interests.’
‘Ah...right.’ I swallowed. ‘Look, I’m sorry, pal. Really sorry.’
Vitellius turned round and punched the cushions again, savagely. ‘Not a tenth as sorry as I am. Or as much as you soon will be, if I have my way.’
‘At least Phraates backed me up.
His head came round and he stared at me. ‘Corvinus, you really haven’t got a clue what day it is where diplomacy’s concerned, have you? What the hell else could he do? Let the two of you slug it out on top of the candied pears? Phraates couldn’t’ve cared less about the girl, and quite right too. As it is, by forcing him publicly to take Rome’s side – which is what you did – against one of his most important future allies you’ve dropped him in the shit as well. Definitely with Mithradates, and probably with the Parthians to boot. Don’t think they didn’t understand what was happening, because they did. They’ll remember it, too.’
Parthian Shot (Marcus Corvinus Book 9) Page 5