David Wishart - Parthian Shot

My skin crawled. ‘That so, now?’ I said. I was having a struggle to keep the dislike out of my voice. Again, sure, given the circumstances the master of a Roman slave would have an equal right to question the guy under torture, but even allowing for that the matter-of-fact tone made me feel sick to my stomach. ‘So what did he tell you?’

‘Only what I knew already. That he’d been asleep on duty.’

‘Soundly enough for someone to take the key from his belt, unlock a door and slip back two heavy bolts three feet away without waking him?’

‘Yes. As soundly as that.’

‘Was he deaf?’

‘No. Of course not.’

Our eyes met, and for a split second the barriers were down. We both knew what he was saying, and what the implications were. It was possible — given, like I say, favourable circumstances — that someone might’ve picked the lock or unlocked the door from the outside using a duplicate key, sure, but drugging the door-slave and slipping the bolts were another matter. Nothing had really changed: we were still looking at an inside job, even if we did now have the added question of why the door had been opened at all. And that was something, pace Vitellius, that Osroes wouldn’t admit to; certainly not to me, or to any Roman. After that split second, his expression settled into a careful blankness.

‘So why have the poor bugger killed if it wasn’t his fault?’ I said.

I thought for a moment he was going to damn me for my impudence. However, he only said: ‘Because he failed in his duty. That was reason enough. Now if you’re quite finished…’

‘Who leads the delegation, by the way, now that Zariadres is dead?’

He’d been on the point of turning, assuming the conversation was over, and I thought the question might catch him off-guard. In the event, he didn’t so much as blink, but he took his time answering, and when he did his tone was cold as a Riphaean winter. ‘In practical terms,’ he said, ‘as the next in seniority I do. Does that answer your question?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, thanks.’

‘You’re welcome. Prince Phraates was very insistent that you should be satisfied. You must ask what you like. This way, please.’

He led us into the atrium. Satisfied. Interesting choice of word. I wasn’t too sure about the way he’d said the prince’s name, either. Maybe it was my imagination, but I had the distinct impression that he didn’t think all that much of Phraates. Not that that meant a lot, mind: I doubted if this sour-natured bastard thought much of anyone besides himself.

The other two delegates were lying on couches. Callion was wearing a short-sleeved Greek lounging tunic that showed off his muscles, and he was giving me a stare that was definitely unfriendly. Peucestas — the only one of the three I hadn’t met — had on what was probably the Parthian equivalent of Callion’s tunic, a soft woollen affair sleeved to the wrist over baggy cotton trousers. The close-up view confirmed what I’d seen at the party: he must’ve been a very powerful man in his day, and he still looked more solid muscle than fat. A soldier; maybe a wrestler or some sort of athlete, although whatever games he’d be good at would be ones where heaviness and strength counted more than speed and agility. His dark, almost black eyes rested on me expressionlessly.

‘Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen.’ Osroes waved us to two more couches and pulled up a cushioned chair for himself. Slaves came forward silently and set cups of wine and plates of fruit on the tables beside us. ‘Now.’

I glanced at Vitellius, but he was already digging into the fruit, oblivious. Quite deliberately so, too; the more I saw of Lucius Vitellius the more I appreciated that he was a much sharper cookie than I’d originally taken him for. Yeah, well; this was my job, after all, and from the way they were ignoring him and concentrating on me all of them clearly knew it, whether I had any official standing or not.

‘Maybe you can just start by telling me what happened,’ I said. ‘Who found the body?’

‘I did,’ Peucestas said. It was the first time I’d heard him speak. His voice was soft and controlled, a light tenor, not the squeaky treble I’d expected. ‘The door was open. Zariadres was lying in bed with his throat cut. When I saw that he was dead I roused the others.’

Callion glanced sharply at him, and a message passed that I couldn’t read. Interesting. ‘What time was this?’ I said.

‘About an hour after dawn. The time I usually wake.’

Right. Well, all that was pretty straightforward. ‘Where’s the body now, by the way?’ I said.

Osroes’s lips pursed. ‘We arranged for it to be preserved in honey. For eventual shipment back to Parthia.’

‘He’s not being cremated? That’d be easier, surely?’

I knew I’d made a mistake as soon as the words were out of my mouth, although what it was I didn’t know. Osroes positively hissed, Peucestas looked scandalised, and Callion — for the first time — grinned widely. Vitellius was glaring at me from behind a bunch of grapes.

Bugger, I thought. Here we go again. ‘Uh,’ I said quickly, ‘that is, -’

Vitellius trod on my foot, hard, and I shut up like a clam. Then he said smoothly: ‘Forgive my colleague, gentlemen. His knowledge of Parthian custom is very limited. If you’ll excuse me a moment, please?’ He turned and whispered in rapid Latin: ‘Listen, you prat! To a Zoroastrian — and two out of the three of them are just that — fire’s the most sacred bloody thing there is! Burying a corpse is bad enough, but suggesting that they should burn it is like suggesting they should share the bugger out for breakfast! Now shape up, you stupid bastard!’

‘So what do they do with the corpses?’

‘They lay them out for the vultures and collect what’s left after the fucking birds have finished. What else would they do?’

I felt faintly sick. Oh, shit; the east-west divide had never seemed so broad. I took a slug of the wine the servants had left and we hadn’t touched, then turned back to Osroes. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Let’s start again. I’m sorry if I caused any offence. I really didn’t know.’

Peucestas nodded stiffly, but Osroes was still giving me a look like I’d pissed on his lunch. Callion glanced at him, and his grin widened. Yeah, right; he was a Greek, and so normal. Well, at least I’d broken the ice there.

‘Of course you didn’t know, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Unless you were being intentionally crass, that is. Nevertheless, if I were as ignorant about Parthian customs as you seem to be I’d be seriously wondering what I was doing in the diplomatic service.’ Grin or not, there was that questioning look in his eye I’d noticed when we’d first met. I had the feeling that Callion couldn’t quite place me, and it was worrying him.

‘Hear bloody hear!’ Vitellius murmured, in Latin.

‘I, uh, assume no one heard or saw anything?’ I said quickly. ‘Where the actual murder was concerned, that is?’

‘Zariadres’s room was down a corridor of its own to the left at the top of the stairs,’ Osroes said. ‘Our rooms are all to the right, well to the other side.’

‘What about the slaves?’

‘They sleep in the kitchen, or in the attics.’

‘And there was no one else in the house?’

Osroes was still looking at me like he had a month-old fish under his nose, and it was Callion who answered.

‘No one,’ he said.

‘Perhaps you’d like to see over the house yourself now, Valerius Corvinus,’ Osroes said. ‘I’d be very happy to show you.’

That I didn’t believe for one minute, but at least he’d made the offer and saved me the embarrassment of asking. I got up. ‘Vitellius? You coming?’