David Wishart - Parthian Shot

‘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.

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.