Parthian Shot (Marcus Corvinus Book 9)

by David Wishart

Isak was studying me carefully. ‘He had money to pay for the job up front and a bonus on top if we did it well. That was enough. Roman, foreign, it makes no difference to me.’

  ‘So you don’t know his name?’

  ‘No.’ The woman arrived with the jug, set it down beside him and moved off quickly. Isak poured for both of us, studiously correct. ‘Names I’m not interested in. If that’s what you wanted then you’re wasting your time. And me, if I’m you I don’t push, okay, because if I do happen to know somehow I don’t tell you and that sort of question annoys me.’ He sipped his wine. ‘Just a friendly warning.’

  Warning it certainly was; friendly I wouldn’t’ve betted on, not given the guy’s tone. Well, I couldn’t’ve expected much else. And like I say the contractor wouldn’t’ve worked propria persona in any case, so the chances of Isak fingering Tiridates or whoever by name were on the scale of flying pigs. ‘He told you what the litter party would look like, and where exactly to set up the, uh, meeting?’ I said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How far in advance?’

  ‘A day. Two days. Yes, it was two days.’

  Pretty good notice. I didn’t know how long the dinner party Phraates had been coming back from had been arranged, but that didn’t matter all that much. Naming the particular evening would’ve been relatively easy; getting the time and place right exactly was something else again. Phraates could’ve left early, or even – if it was a good party – stayed the night: any friend of his wouldn’t be stuck for a spare bed if he’d decided to sleep over. And possible routes between the Esquiline and the Agrippan Bridge might not be all that many, but there was definitely more than one. Put all that together and whoever had set the thing up must’ve had access to pretty reliable information; maybe even – if that was possible – someone in the prince’s own household who knew his habits and who could engineer the route in advance. I’d have to have another word with Phraates himself, check if anyone fitted the bill. Besides his son, I mean: it was looking pretty good for the Damon theory here. ‘So,’ I said. ‘You were contracted to hit Prince Phraates’s litter near Maecenas Gardens and the attack went wrong –’

  I stopped. Isak had sat back, and he was scowling at me. Behind my back I could hear a rustle as the incurious punters picked up on the changed vibes and decided it might be playtime after all. My stomach froze.

  Shit; what had I said?

  Isak’s eyes were locked on mine, and they weren’t friendly any more. Not friendly at all. ‘We’re the best in Ostia, my brothers and me,’ he said quietly. ‘In Rome, too. Anything we’re paid to do, it doesn’t go wrong. You have that? You understand, maybe?’

  His Latin was slipping; his accent, too. Oh, bugger; I’d touched his professional vanity. Why the hell couldn’t I just’ve kept my big mouth shut? ‘Ah...I just thought...since the attack was beaten off and the prince survived...’

  ‘If we contract to kill then we kill. Whoever the target, however many bodyguards.’ The eyes were boring holes in my skull. ‘If the client wants a death and pays for it then there’s a death.’

  ‘Uh...right. Right. No problem, pal. I was just –’ I stopped as the implication of what he was saying sank in. ‘Wait a minute. Wait one minute. You’re telling me the client didn’t want Phraates killed?’

  ‘We were told attack the litter party. If one or two of them die then that’s okay, no problem, but we don’t threaten the litter itself. On that the client is very, very clear. That is the contract. You understand me? I think, Corvinus, that maybe you had better.’

  Oh, fuck; I didn’t believe this. It turned the whole case on its head. ‘You were paid to have a quick scrap with Phraates’s bodyguards then give up the fight and run?’

  There was a low growl from behind me. Isak’s stare didn’t waver, but the scowl deepened. ‘If I’m you, Roman purple-striper,’ he said slowly, staring over my shoulder, ‘Then I watch my language better, maybe. I don’t use bad words like “run”. I already told you. The contract was attack the litter party, spill a little blood then leave. If anyone’s hurt on our side there’s blood money paid, generous blood money, but however things go we don’t harm the old man. We keep our part of the bargain, always. We fulfil the contract to the letter; that’s why we’re the best. We fulfil it this time. To the letter. Now I think perhaps you should walk while you still can move. I don’t think my friends want you here longer. Me, I’d agree with them.’

  I stood up. ‘Uh...right. Fine. Thanks for the chat.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ The eyes were like nails. ‘Give my regards to Lanuvinius. Tell him he owes me.’

  I walked to the door through a silence that had razors in it. One of the punters at a nearby table got up, opened it for me and then stood aside. I went out into the fresh air and the door was slammed behind me.

  That had been a close one.

  I made my way back to the Watch-house, but Lanuvinius wasn’t there so I left a message and my thanks, collected my horse from Market Square and began the long trip home. Not that, this time, I grudged the ride; I needed space to think.

  What the fuck was going on?

  23.

  I didn’t stay over at Agron’s after all, so it was late when I got back, well after sunset. Even so, I wasn’t the least bit tired; in fact, what with all the thinking I’d been doing over the fourteen miles when I turned into our side street off Head of Africa my brain was on overdrive. There could be just the one explanation for the terms of Isak’s contract, and for that to make any sense at all I reckoned you had to be a Parthian.

  I wasn’t tired; I was just angry as hell.

  I took the mare round to the stables and handed her over to a yawning Lysias to rub down and put away. Then I went inside. Bathyllus was waiting for me in the lobby, as I’d known he would be, with the jug and wine-cup.

  ‘That’s okay, little guy,’ I said. ‘Off you go to bed.’ I took a long swallow to clear the taste of the Ostian road from my throat. ‘The baths hot?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But –’

  ‘Fine. Don’t bother to wake the bath slaves, I can manage to scrape myself for one evening. Oh – before you pack in see what you can scrounge for me from the kitchen. Nothing major, but if Meton’s left anything cold that’d be –’

  ‘Sir, I’m sorry, but would you listen, please?’

  I blinked. You might get the occasional sniff or sarky comment from Bathyllus, but the guy’s a professional to his fingertips, and real major-domos don’t interrupt the master. Especially in that tone.

  ‘Yeah?’ I said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The mistress, sir. She’s waiting for you in the atrium.’

  It wasn’t so much the words, or the news that Perilla was still up and around, that warned me as the look on his face. I shoved the cup back at him so hard the wine spilled down his tunic and made a rush for the door.

  Perilla was sitting in her usual chair by the pool, a book roll in her lap. She looked up as I came in. One glance at her face was enough: my guts went cold.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I said.

  ‘I’m quite all right, Marcus.’ She set the roll down on the table beside her. ‘No damage done, none at all. In fact, they were really quite polite.’

  ‘What the fuck has happened?’

  ‘Don’t swear, it doesn’t help. And sit down, please. I can’t talk to you like this.’

  Bathyllus had padded in with the refilled wine-cup. I took it without a word and lay down on my usual couch. The cold feeling in my gut intensified.

  ‘That’s better,’ Perilla said calmly. ‘Now. I’ve been asked to ask you to drop the case. All right?’

  ‘Jupiter, lady, will you just –!’

  ‘There. That bit’s done. Now the circumstances.’ She adjusted a fold of her mantle. Her voice was matter-of-fact enough, but I could see her fingers were trembling. ‘I took the litter to the Pollio library this afternoon. I’d left it at the foot of the steps and was going through the portico when t
wo men stopped me and said – very politely – that they wanted a quick word concerning a very important matter. There didn’t –’

  ‘What kind of men?’

  ‘Marcus, dear, if you’re going to interrupt with questions we’ll never get finished. Now just let me speak, will you?’ I subsided. ‘They were decently dressed and, as I say, politely spoken, so there didn’t seem any reason to refuse. I sent my maid on ahead and asked them what they wanted; to which they replied with the message I’ve just given you.’

  Holy gods! ‘They say who sent them?’

  ‘No. I asked, of course, but they simply ignored the question and repeated the message. That, more or less, was all that happened. They left me standing and walked away.’

  I knew obfuscation when I met it, and the lady was a born obfusticator. ‘“More or less” meaning what?’

  ‘Just what it says.’ Perilla looked down at her hands. I looked at them too. The fingers were locked tightly together. ‘I was...quite upset at the time, and I honestly can’t recall any other details. They were, however, most insistent.’

  ‘They threatened you?’

  ‘Not as such, no, but –’

  That ‘but’ was enough. I got to my feet, setting the wine-cup down. ‘Bathyllus!’ I snapped. ‘Study! Now!’

  He was at my heels all the way. I opened the door, lifted the lid of the chest in the corner and took out the long cavalry sword I keep in there under wraps. Bathyllus’s eyes widened.

  ‘Sir, I don’t think –’ he began.

  ‘Shut up.’ I checked the edge with my thumb. ‘Two things. One, I need an address for that fucking Iberian Mithradates. And don’t tell me you don’t know where he lives, sunshine, because a) you know where to find anyone who’s anyone in Rome and b) even if you didn’t originally you keep a watching brief on the master’s concerns and you would’ve made a point of finding it out anyway just in case. Right? So give.’

  Bathyllus swallowed. ‘Ah...on the Esquiline, sir, near the southern entrance to the Lamian Gardens. The house with the blue-painted iron gates.’

  ‘Fine. Got you. Second, tell Lysias I need a horse saddled. Not the mare, she’s done her whack for today, but anything that’ll move faster than a walk. Considerably faster, for preference.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He dithered. ‘Sir, I really wouldn’t advise –’

  ‘Great. Taken on board. Now just do it, okay?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Very well.’ He left.

  Perilla was waiting for me outside the door. ‘Marcus –’ she began.

  ‘Don’t say it. Don’t even think about saying it.’ I was still wearing my travelling cloak. The sword didn’t have a scabbard, but I stuck it through my tunic belt and arranged the cloak to hide it: for a private citizen, carrying a sword is strictly illegal in Rome, and if I fell foul of the Watch purple stripe or not I was in serious trouble. They wouldn’t have a hope in hell of catching me, mind, but that was by the way.

  ‘You’re going to Mithradates’s, aren’t you?’ Perilla said.

  ‘Yes. And if the bugger isn’t behind this I’ll eat my fucking sandals, so don’t try to stop me.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to, dear.’

  I’d been on the point of heading past her for the door. I paused. ‘What?’

  ‘If you’re convinced he sent the men then you’re absolutely correct.’ The lady was speaking quietly, but there was steel in her voice. ‘I don’t like being intimidated either.’

  Hey! I grinned and kissed her. When the chips are down, Perilla’s no fragile pushover herself. ‘Good,’ I said. ‘That makes things much easier.’

  ‘Just leave the sword behind.’

  ‘Now look –’

  ‘No. You look. If you take it you may have to use it, and under the circumstances the consequences don’t bear thinking about.’ She held out her hand.

  ‘But –’

  ‘Marcus! Please!’

  Shit. In my present mood three feet of sharpened iron was not something I wanted to give up. All the same, I could see that she was right. Killing Mithradates, or even just seriously wounding him, could get me exile at the very least. And on my side I couldn’t prove a thing. I pulled the sword back out and handed it over.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said; just that. Then she reached up and kissed me. ‘Off you go. Good luck.’

  I left her and headed for the stables.

  I found the place no bother: a swanky property half-way to a full-fledged urban villa. There were plenty of lights, including torches along the outside wall itself and three or four litters with their attendants squatting in a pool of torchlight nearby killing time with a dice match. They glanced at me with the slaves’ usual lack of interest as I dismounted, fastened the horse’s reins to the hitching-ring and banged on the door with the flat of my hand.

  Eventually, the doorman opened up.

  ‘Take me to the master,’ I said.

  The guy was about to object, but then he must’ve seen the expression on my face and decided very wisely that that was not a good idea because he turned without a word. I followed him through the fancy lobby and the atrium, then along a corridor to the dining room.

  Dinner was over and they’d got to the drinking stage. Mithradates was reclining on the central couch in a snazzy party mantle and wreath, and there must’ve been six or seven other guys, but I wasn’t in any mood to count and I didn’t recognise any of them anyway.

  The room went very quiet.

  ‘Valerius Corvinus,’ Mithradates said. ‘Now this is an unexpected pleasure.’

  I levelled a finger. ‘I want to talk to you, you bastard!’

  ‘Really?’ He set his cup down. The click it made on the table was the only sound in the room. ‘About what?’

  ‘I warned you. My wife’s off-limits. This thing’s between you and me, no one else.’

  Somebody to my left sniggered. I ignored him. So did Mithradates.

  ‘I’ve never even met Rufia Perilla,’ he said softly.

  ‘Fuck that. You know what I mean. You had a couple of your pals hassle her today outside the Pollio library.’

  His eyes hadn’t left my face. Seconds passed. Then he slid from the couch and stood up. ‘We’ll discuss this in private,’ he said.

  ‘Suits me, pal!’

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen. My apologies. This shouldn’t take long.’ He crossed the room, pushing past my shoulder, making for the door. I followed him out. Behind us I could hear the silence break.

  The slave who’d brought me in was still standing goggle-eyed. Mithradates snapped his fingers at him and pointed to a twelve-lamp candelabrum in one of the side alcoves. The guy picked it up and the three of us walked back along the corridor. Mithradates opened a door on the left.

  ‘In here,’ he said. Then, to the slave: ‘Leave the lights and go.’

  It was a study, with the usual desk, reading couch and book cubbies. Surprisingly – I hadn’t set Mithradates down as much of a reader – most of them were full. He waited for the slave to close the door behind us.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘What is this shit?’

  ‘I told you. You had two of your men hassle my wife outside the Pollio library this afternoon.’

  ‘I did nothing of the kind.’ He was speaking very quietly. ‘And, Corvinus, if you ever dare to call me a bastard in public again I’ll make it my personal business to see that you regret it. That’s a promise. Now get out of my house.’ He walked back past me and opened the door again.

  I didn’t move. ‘You’re lying,’ I said. ‘Perilla told me the guys warned her I should drop the case. You’ve made that suggestion to me direct twice already, once with the help of a couple of Suburan boot-boys. As far as I’m concerned you’re it, pal, nem. con. And “bastard” describes you perfectly.’

  ‘Out!’

  ‘First tell me about the pepper scam.’

  He went very still. Then, slowly, he reached over and pushed the door to.

  ‘What pepper scam?’ he said.


  ‘The one you’ve got going with the Armenian merchant. Anacus. Plus your mates Tiridates and Damon, with Lucius Vitellius thrown in for good measure on the Roman side.’ And Prince Gaius, I added silently, but angry or not I wasn’t going to bring that name into the conversation. No way. ‘The kickbacks from a monopoly – even a partial monopoly – of the empire’s supplies of pepper would be pretty substantial, wouldn’t they? Worth a couple of deaths and a bit of political skulduggery, certainly worth the trouble of leaning on a no-account purple-striper in the hope he’ll pull his nose out before it leads him too far for your own good. Only I’m one thing, friend, my wife’s another. If you want to stop me then believe me, leaning on her is a bad, bad idea.’

  He was watching me closely like I was some sort of performing insect. Finally, he shook his head and half-smiled.

  ‘Corvinus,’ he said, ‘you’re being incredibly silly. Not stupid, because you’re far from that, just silly.’

  ‘You deny it?’

  ‘I don’t admit or deny anything except that I’d nothing to do with hassling your wife today. Why should I bother? You don’t matter, your opinions don’t matter, and I’m not accountable to you or to anyone.’ He took a step closer and I could smell the wine on his breath. ‘I’ll tell you again, and you just remember it. You’re well out of your depth and none of this affair is any business of yours. If you choose to carry on digging then Isidorus or not, Phraates or not, fucking Tiberius or not, don’t be surprised if you end up in the hole yourself and someone fills it in on top of you.’ Carefully, he stepped round me and put his hand on the doorknob. ‘Now. That’s all I’ve got to say. You can leave peacefully or I can have my slaves throw you out. Literally. The choice is up to you.’

  I shrugged; I’d be a fool not to admit, if only to myself, that what he’d said – and more especially how he’d said it – had planted a hook in my guts, but I couldn’t let him see that. Perilla was right: intimidation was something that you just didn’t accept. ‘Fine,’ I said, matching his quiet tone. ‘So long as you don’t forget that if any harm comes to Perilla, directly or indirectly, then friends in high places or not, consequences or not then one way or another, pal, I’ll see you dead. Agreed?’