David Wishart - Parthian Shot

‘So how did he get out again? It wasn’t a simple case of unlocking the door and drawing the bolts; he’d have to arrange for the drugging of the door-slave. Also — ’

‘Sure he would. He had help.’

‘What?’

‘I’m not claiming he was a total outsider. That wouldn’t work, no way. He had to have an accomplice on the inside, someone who could get him in and make sure he was safely bedded down, then slip the door-slave his wobbler with no questions asked. Which brings us back to Osroes. Osroes is a natural: the porter was his slave, he could have arranged that easy. Another thing: if Vitellius wasn’t kidding about him having a religious thing about dead bodies then getting someone else to do the killing would make sense.’

‘Hmm.’ Perilla twisted her hair. ‘What about the guard?’

‘Jupiter in bloody spangles, lady! I told you, Vitellius is checking on that! The theory’s dependent on there being no sodding guard! He was keeping his head dry somewhere round the corner!’

‘But Osroes — or whoever — wouldn’t know that at the time, would he? Certainly not in advance.’

Oh, shit; she’d got me there. I took another swallow of wine. ‘Okay. Point taken. So there are flaws.’

‘Flaws is right. What’s your second explanation?’

‘That the killer was an insider all the time, and opening the door was a blind. Not much of one, sure, especially with the guard there, but as good as he could manage. At least it would muddy the waters.’

‘Very well. That seems reasonable. Three?’

‘The door was never opened at all. Or not until the next morning, anyway.’

‘But, Marcus, that doesn’t make sense! The door-slave — ’

‘Listen. We’re round to Osroes again. We only have his word for what happened, and the timings involved. He was the one who found the door unlocked and the porter asleep. And he had the poor bastard killed before we could get his side of the story. Like I say, an open door muddies the waters. Without it, it had to be an inside job; this way at least there’s a doubt. We don’t even know for sure that the guy was asleep, let alone drugged. Osroes could’ve made that up too.’

Perilla was quiet for a long time. Then she said: ‘Osroes is Zoroastrian, isn’t he?’

‘Yeah, of course he’s Zoroastrian! What has that got to do with — ?’

‘Didn’t your friend Isidorus — or Lucius Vitellius — tell you about Zoroastrians? Strict ones? They have a deep-seated, almost pathological aversion to lying. And Magians are very, very strict.’

‘Gods, Perilla! Don’t tell me that if — ’

‘No, wait, dear. This is important. He may be lying, of course, but it’s extremely unlikely, especially if the lie was as direct as you say. Telling a direct lie, particularly for personal gain, is the worst thing a Magian can do. They believe it puts the soul in terrible danger, and Magians believe in the soul completely. I’m sorry, Marcus, and I’m no expert on Parthians, but I really do not think your third explanation will work.’

Bugger. Well, I bowed to the lady’s superior knowledge; and Vitellius, I remembered, had said something similar about Peucestas, so that just about nailed the lid on. ‘Then we’ll just have to assume the fucking door was open then, won’t we?’ I snarled.

‘Yes, we will. And please don’t swear. Even if you are disappointed.’

‘Disappointed’ wasn’t the word I’d’ve used; what I felt was frustrated.

‘It’s not as simple as that,’ I said. ‘I just don’t know where I am here generally. The problem’s getting inside these bastards’ minds. They’re foreigners, even the ones who’ve been brought up in Rome; I don’t understand how they work. What makes them tick.’

‘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.