David Wishart - Parthian Shot

Vitellius held out his own hands over the slave’s basin so our heads were close together. He nodded towards the couch to our right, past Phraates’s and Zariadres’s. ‘Okay, Corvinus,’ he murmured. ‘Just so you know where we are here. The nearest man to us is Tiridates. Phraates’s nephew. His couch-mate’s the Iberian.’

I glanced across. Tiridates was a comparative youngster, mid-twenties, in full Parthian fig, with a short curled beard. He had his back turned to his uncle — understandable, sure, given the seating arrangements, but there was something about the way he was lying that suggested his positioning was deliberate. Phraates hadn’t so much as looked in his direction, either, even before the dinner, or not that I’d noticed. I doubted there was much love lost there, which didn’t come as all that much of a surprise given what Vitellius had told me about the relationship between the two. He was holding his own hands out to be washed, ignoring the slave and talking volubly to Vitellius’s Iberian, the future king of Armenia…

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?

‘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!’