Parthian Shot (Marcus Corvinus Book 9)

by David Wishart

  ‘Much the same as with anyone else, I’d expect. Power. Money. Past grudges. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Fine. Okay. But this Osroes is a case in point. Perilla, he was disgusted when I suggested Zariadres should be cremated. Genuinely disgusted. His idea of a good funeral is leaving the corpse out for the crows. And he’ll quite happily torture a slave to death when he knows perfectly well that the poor bugger hasn’t any information to give him. How the hell can you expect to understand people like that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She smiled. ‘What you need, Marcus, is an expert. A real expert.’

  ‘I’ve got a fu–’ I stopped myself. ‘I’ve got a real expert. Two. One of them’s a bureaucrat’s bureaucrat and the other one thinks I’m an idiot.’

  ‘No. I mean a non-technical expert, as it were. Another Parthian, for preference, one who isn’t involved in the case. There must be someone like that in Rome you can talk to.’

  I sat back. Yeah; now there was an idea! Also, it’d give me a different angle to work from, and that I needed badly. Some background on the Roman Parthians, Phraates and Tiridates – not the political stuff but something more personal – would be useful. Or potentially so, anyway. Not to mention Mithradates. Whether I liked it or not - and I didn’t, much above half - that bastard would be relevant somewhere along the line, I’d bet my last copper piece on it.

  So. What we wanted here was someone from the expat community these guys belonged to, someone not connected with the case but who might be able to dish any dirt there was going on the unofficial side...

  ‘Caelius Crispus,’ I said.

  ‘Crispus?’ Perilla frowned. ‘Crispus isn’t a Parthian, dear. Not even close. And he’s scarcely been outside Rome.’

  ‘Yeah, I know that. But the sort of person I’m looking for is right up his street. If anyone can suggest a name, it’s that slimy bugger.’

  ‘Ah.’ She sniffed. ‘I see. Well, if you put it that way...’

  I grinned; Perilla didn’t approve of Caelius Crispus. To be fair, it was mutual: given the choice between being visited by her or by a plague of boils Crispus would’ve taken the boils every time. Me – well, I’d known him since pre-Perilla days, and if we weren’t friends by a long chalk we were on firm exchanging-insults terms. Certainly on my part I had a sneaking respect for the guy: anyone who’s made it his business for years to rake through high society’s dirty linen basket for profit and still isn’t at the bottom of the river wearing concrete sandals has to have something going for him.

  ‘Is he still with the foreign judge’s office?’

  ‘Yeah, I assume so,’ I said. It was one of life’s little ironies that Crispus was currently a praetor’s rep; largely, I suspected, because he knew things about his boss that’d hand the guy a one-way ticket to an island if it ever got out. ‘Unless he’s managed to get something on someone higher up and weaselled his way into an even better job.’

  ‘Then you’d better see him first thing tomorrow morning.’

  Ah. Right; good point. I’d forgotten about the Augustalia. It started in two days’ time, and although it wasn’t a major festival and places tend to stay open throughout the government offices would be closed on day one. Given that Crispus wasn’t exactly a conscientious civil servant where working hours were concerned he’d probably slope off early the afternoon before.

  ‘Incidentally, Marcus, now we’re on the subject and before I forget’ – Perilla ducked her head and tugged at a fold in her mantle – ‘there’s a performance of the Medea on the festival’s first day. I thought we might go.’

  I froze, the wine-cup an inch from my lips. Damn. ‘Forget’, nothing: she’d slipped that in deliberately. Not unexpected, mind: plays – Greek plays especially – are obligatory at the Augustalia. Unlike Perilla who’s a sucker for anyone in a mask, I’m no theatre-goer; light comedies I can just about take apart from the godawful plots, but tragedy bores the pants off me. Still, I could always sleep through it. Perilla doesn’t mind, so long as I don’t snore, which I try not to because the lady packs a wicked elbow-jab.

  ‘Great. Great,’ I said, and took a substantial swig. Well, now, that was something to look forward to, wasn’t it?

  She leaned over and kissed me. ‘What I like about you, Marcus Valerius Corvinus,’ she said, ‘is that you are so enthusiastic.’

  ‘Yeah. Right.’

  Bathyllus shimmered in, and coughed.

  ‘What is it, little guy?’ I said.

  ‘Dinner will be early this evening, sir. If that’s convenient.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s fine, Bathyllus. What’s on offer?’

  ‘The chef is serving meatballs, sir.’

  Meatballs? Bugger; I’d forgotten about the Great Lamprey-napping Mystery. However, it’d been a hard day, and I just didn’t feel up to any more sleuthing on the domestic front, especially if Meton was involved. We’d just have to grin and bear it for the present. ‘Great,’ I said. ‘Meatballs are a favourite.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He didn’t look convinced, which wasn’t all that surprising. ‘You have time for a bath, if you wish one. The furnace is hot.’

  Good idea. Cut my losses. Bath, early dinner and early night. Then tomorrow morning I could beard Caelius Crispus bright and chirpy.

  10.

  I was over to the Capitol fairly early the next morning. I checked with the desk slave at the praetor’s office that Crispus was still unhung and on the payroll, got directions to his room – a different one from the last time I’d been here – and knocked on the appropriate door. This I was looking forward to.

  ‘Come!’

  Snappy and just bristling with authority. Evidently the guy was still on his way up. I grinned to myself and turned the knob.

  He was sitting behind a desk dictating to a secretary on a stool next to him.

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ he murmured.

  ‘Hi, Crispus,’ I said. ‘How’s it going, pal?’

  His gaze didn’t shift but his hand fluttered against the secretary’s chest. ‘Off you trot, Menelaus. We’ll finish up later.’ The secretary uncurled himself from his stool, shot me an interested look, tucked his pen behind his ear and drifted out, closing the door behind him. ‘Now. What is it this time?’

  ‘Nice office.’ I pulled up a visitor’s chair and sat down. Crispus would never make consul, sure – he wasn’t on that particular ladder, and even the Roman hierarchy has its standards – but he was clearly well on his way to being a grey eminence. I doubted if the praetor himself rated much better. Even the in-out trays were cedarwood.

  ‘Come on, Corvinus. Just tell me what you want.’

  ‘Perilla sends her regards.’

  ‘Lovely. Now let’s just get this over with, shall we? I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Yeah. I can see that.’ There was only one wax tablet in the in tray; the other tray was empty. ‘It’s a hard life being a bureaucrat.’

  ‘Bugger off. Or come to the point. I’m due in a meeting in half an hour.’

  ‘Fair enough. The Parthian expat community.’

  His eyes shifted. ‘What? There isn’t one.’

  ‘Okay. The closest you can get. Armenian, Arab, you name it. You know what I mean.’

  ‘You said Parthian. What’s your interest in the Parthians?’

  ‘Maybe I’m just broadening my cultural horizons.’

  ‘And my great-grandmother was Cleopatra. There wouldn’t be a connection with a certain group of easterners currently visiting Rome, would there? Also with an attack on a certain long-term resident’s litter a few days back?’

  Uh-huh. Well, Crispus was no fool; he kept his ear close to the ground, he could put two and two together, and information was his business. Still, what he guessed and what I actually told him were different things. And he clearly didn’t know about Zariadres or he’d’ve slipped that in too.

  ‘It’s possible,’ I said.

  His expression had gone hard. ‘In that case if I were you whatever you’re up
to in that direction, Corvinus, I’d back off before you get your knuckles rapped. Seriously rapped.’

  ‘Fine. Advice noted. Now give, pal. I’m not asking for much.’

  ‘Really? You going solo on this?’ Then when I hesitated: ‘Look, you nosey bastard, that’s important. If you are just sniffing around for your own private reasons and the authorities find out that I’ve given you so much as the time of day then I could find myself processing tax returns for fucking Lusitania. So level.’

  Well, he had a point. ‘It’s official, Crispus,’ I said. ‘That’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘You swear it?’

  ‘Yeah, I swear it. Happy?’

  He fizzed for a bit, but it was just for form’s sake. Crispus would cheerfully piss in my urn, sure, but by this point in our relationship we could judge each other to a tee. I wouldn’t mess him around with an oath, and he knew it. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But if you’re lying then I will come after you with a rusty pruning-hook. That’s a promise. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘So long as we understand each other.’ He leaned forward. ‘Now. Just exactly what are you looking for?’

  ‘I told you. Someone from the other side of the eastern borders who knows how these bastards think and knows the ins and outs of the expat community in Rome. Preferably someone who isn’t too friendly disposed to his fellow expats and wouldn’t mind dishing a little dirt on them.’

  ‘Hang on.’ He was frowning. ‘You sure this is official? Cast-iron, spit on your grandmother’s grave sure?’

  ‘Believe me, the authorisation comes right from the top. I’m not exaggerating, either.’

  I’d impressed him, I could see that, but he still wasn’t happy. His podgy, ring-covered fingers drummed on the desk. ‘Okay. So let me think for a moment.’

  I sat back and waited. It took him a good two minutes. Finally, he said: ‘You remember the old Happy Bachelors?’

  Sure I did: the chichi all-male club up on the Pincian that Perilla and me had got him thrown out of years ago for letting a woman into. I nodded warily. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I remember that one.’

  ‘It’s changed hands now. Changed name, too, to the Acanthus Leaf.’ I said nothing. ‘The guy you want to talk to is called Nicanor. He’s the son of an Armenian businessman by the name of Anacus, and he spends a lot of time there. Don’t tell him I sent you.’ He reached for the tablet in his in tray. ‘That’s the best I can do. Now piss off and let me earn my salary in peace.’

  ‘You get your membership card renewed, then?’

  That landed me a disgusted snort. ‘Bugger that! I wouldn’t bother applying. The place was raided a year or so back and it isn’t nearly as much fun any more. I spend my free time elsewhere.’

  ‘Yeah? Where would that be, now?’

  ‘Go away, Corvinus. Just go away, all right?’

  ‘Fine. No problem, pal.’ I got up. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘And see if you can’t arrange to be knocked down by a fucking cart en route.’

  I left, grinning.

  There wasn’t any point in going to the Bachelors, aka the Acanthus Leaf, straight away, because it wouldn’t open until after sunset. Home, then, for the moment. Not directly, though; while I was in this part of town I might as well drop in by the Velabrum pastry shops and pick up a few bits and pieces for Bathyllus and the lads as festival presents. After that I could fill in another hour or so very pleasantly at a wineshop, with maybe half a jug of Massic, a crusty roll and a plate of cheese and olives. Not a bad prospect.

  I crossed Market Square – not easy, that time in the morning, the Square was heaving – turned right into Tuscan Street and headed for the Velabrum intersection. At least the weather had cleared up, with not a cloud in the sky. I’d had enough of litters. If that was how real diplomats got around then they could keep it.

  I was just passing the mouth of an alleyway not all that far from Renatius’s when a big guy in a labourer’s tunic who’d been walking on my outside suddenly swerved sideways, catching me hard in a shoulder-charge with the full weight of his body behind it and bouncing me through the gap like a feather ball.

  ‘Hey, pal, what do you think –?’ I stopped. Yeah, right; that answered that question. There were three of them now, the other two just as big as the first, blocking the Tuscan-side exit to the alley, and apologetic was something they didn’t look. Before I could react, the guy in the centre gave me another shove in the chest that sent me staggering back further in. They kept on coming, closing the distance to nothing, and the guy shoved me again. We were deep in the alleyway now, behind a pile of assorted garbage.

  Muggers, obviously; although what the hell they were thinking of going for someone on Tuscan in broad daylight I didn’t know. This time I moved back with the shove, lifted my foot and drove at the middle guy’s groin. Without so much as a check, he caught it in both hands and twisted. I went down hard, sprawling sideways onto my face and getting a fair-sized mouthful of the alley floor. Whatever had been living down there, it hadn’t been house-trained. I spat the stuff out ...

  Just as a seriously-hobnailed boot crashed into my ribs and made oral hygiene the last thing on my mind. Then a second boot came from the other side, closely followed by a third to the head. My knees came up into the hollow of my chest in an involuntary spasm as the fourth kick connected with my spine...

  ‘That’s enough, lads. I don’t want him crippled. Let him up now.’

  A huge hand gripped the neck-seam of my tunic and lifted me like I was a baby. The whole left side of my head was on fire, my ear felt like it was five times its size, and I’d got what sounded like a whole swarm of very angry bees inside my skull. Breathing wasn’t too easy, either.

  ‘Nothing to be alarmed about, Corvinus. Just settling a small debt.’

  I focused with difficulty. One of the gorillas was holding me up while the other two stood by watching. Behind them was Mithradates.

  I fought for breath. It was like someone had filled my lungs with razors and the bees were still there in earnest. ‘You bastard!’ I whispered. ‘I’m a fucking Roman citizen! I could have you crucified!’

  ‘No, you couldn’t.’ Mithradates grinned. ‘Believe me. And I wouldn’t advise you to try, not unless you’ve got a great deal more clout than I think you have. Besides, the punishment’s over. Like I say, consider it just the settlement of a debt. You owed me that for two nights ago, and I always collect.’ He turned his attention to the gorilla holding me. ‘Let him loose.’ The grip on my tunic relaxed. ‘Now. That aside, I want you to listen to me very carefully. This business with the delegation. It’s none of your concern. I’m asking you, very politely, to drop it. Isidorus will fully understand. All right?’

  ‘Go and screw yourself!’

  He gave a shrug. ‘Well, you have been warned and you can’t say otherwise. It was a pleasure meeting you again. Come on, gentlemen. Fun’s over.’

  He turned and walked back down the alleyway. I would’ve followed, but one of the gorillas stayed behind to see that I didn’t, and in my current state I couldn’t’ve taken him if he’d been an eight-year-old midget. A female one, at that. Then he left too.

  I hobbled back onto Tuscan, getting leery stares as I emerged from two passing large-bellied plain-mantles and a guy with a poleful of chickens. The whole business had taken no more than two or three minutes. max.

  Shit.

  Luckily, Renatius’s wineshop wasn’t all that far. I could have a quick wash and brush up there and repair such of the damage as I could before going back to face Perilla. That I wasn’t looking forward to.

  ‘Marcus, what on earth happened to you?’

  ‘Runaway bull from a butcher’s shop near Cattlemarket Square.’ I took the jug and cup from the goggling Bathyllus, poured myself a belt and swallowed it. ‘I was standing between it and where it wanted to go.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You know there aren’t any slaughterhouses near Cattlemarket Square nowadays. Juno, your face is a m
ess! Bathyllus, send someone for Sarpedon!’

  Sarpedon was our family doctor and – long in the past – one of my father’s slaves. He was currently worth about five times what I was, and the chances of getting him to make a house call at this short notice were zilch. ‘Perilla, I’m fine, okay?’ I said. ‘Just a bit bruised.’ I lowered myself gingerly onto the couch. I was pretty sure my ribs weren’t cracked, but I wasn’t going to be dancing on any tables for the next few days. Bathyllus scuttled out. The little guy could scent trouble brewing, and I didn’t blame him.

  Perilla had sat down too. She was white as a sheet, and her mouth was a hard line. ‘Just tell me exactly what happened,’ she said. ‘And this time don’t lie.’

  ‘I was mugged. In an alleyway off Tuscan.’

  ‘Rubbish. In the middle of the day? And you’ve still got your purse. I can see it on your belt from here.’

  ‘I fought them off.’

  ‘Marcus Valerius Corvinus!’

  Oh, bugger. I held up my hands, palm out. ‘Okay. Okay. It was Mithradates and three hired gorillas. But this is as far as it goes, right? He was peeved about –’ I stopped; I hadn’t told Perilla about Mithradates. Or about the girl in the juggling troupe.

  ‘About what? And who’s Mithradates?’

  ‘An Iberian prince. We had a bit of a disagreement at the Parthians’ dinner.’

  She stood up. ‘You’ll lodge a charge of assault with the praetor’s office.’

  ‘No I won’t.’

  ‘Marcus!’

  ‘Perilla, it’s over. Don’t make waves.’

  We glared at each other. Then, she came over and laid her face on my shoulder.

  ‘I want you to give it up,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Marcus.’ Her voice was muffled, and it wasn’t just from the wool of my tunic. ‘I told you in the beginning. I have a very, very bad feeling about this. The next time you could be killed.’

  ‘That’s –’

  ‘No. It isn’t nonsense. All you have to do is go to Isidorus and tell him to find someone else. He’ll understand.’

  He’ll understand. That was what Mithradates had said...