David Wishart - Parthian Shot

That was in the old days. What the place was like now, in its new guise of the Acanthus Leaf, I didn’t know. I got Lysias the coachman to drop me at the door and told him and the strongarm boys who were acting as escort torchbearers to wait for me.

I knocked, and the spy-hatch slid open. Well, that much hadn’t changed, anyway.

‘Yes, sir?’ the slave behind it said.

‘Just let me in, sunshine.’

‘Are you a member, sir?’

‘No, but — ’

‘Temporary membership is one gold piece. There is also an entrance fee of fifty silver pieces.’

Hell. ‘Look, I just want to talk to a guy by the name of Nicanor. If he’s in there maybe you can tell him that — ’

The spy-hole snapped shut. Bugger, this looked like costing me an arm and a leg. I would kill Crispus. I knocked again. The spy-hole slid open.

‘Okay, pal, you win.’ I fumbled in my belt-pouch and handed over the money: one and a half big ones. ‘Here you are. Now open up.’

He did, and I got an eyeful of the surroundings.

The last time I’d been through this door with Perilla the door-slave had been wearing a frizzed gilded wig and a tutu. This guy looked reassuringly normal. Seriously underdressed and definitely on the effete side, sure, but normal. Yeah, well; judging by first impressions I’d bet that different name or not the proclivities of the Bachelors’ clientele hadn’t changed, anyway.

Nor had the decor. It was still way-OTT, with enough marble veneer and gilt to leave the most nouveau of nouveax-riches Market Square execs crying their little eyes out in envy. There were more bronzes scattered around the hallway than you could shake a stick at: Adonises, Harmodius-and-Aristogeitons, Olympic athletes, you name it, so long as it was young, male, well-muscled and stripped for action. The murals…

I took one look at the murals and decided I didn’t even want to see them. The old Bachelors had been tame in comparison.

This was the place after a raid?

‘Now, sir.’ The door-slave was smiling at me. Some would-be aesthete had gilded his teeth and gums. ‘Were you wanting some company, or had you made your own arrangements? We have — ’

‘That’s okay, pal,’ I said quickly. ‘No company. Like I told you, I’m looking for a guy called Nicanor. He around this evening?’

I was keeping my fingers crossed. I didn’t know how long temporary membership lasted, but half a gold piece was a pretty stiff entrance fee on its own and I didn’t fancy paying it more than once.

‘He’s in the lounge, sir. Was he expecting you?’

‘No. He, ah, doesn’t know me. But we’ve got a mutual fr-’ I stopped myself. ‘Acquaintance.’

‘A club member? What would the gentleman’s name be, sir?’

‘Just give him mine, sunshine. It’s Corvinus. Marcus Valerius Corvinus.’

‘Very well. I’ll tell him that you’re here.’ He shimmered off between a set of Egyptian columns painted and gilded within an inch of their lives. Well, I couldn’t complain about the standard of service. Given that the guy was only wearing a spangled cache-sexe and diamond nipple-covers he could’ve buttled with the best of them. Jupiter knew where he’d put the entrance money. I twiddled my thumbs and tried not to look at the murals.

He was back in two minutes. ‘If you’d care to follow me,’ he said.

The lounge was just that: a big room with a pool and fountain in the centre round which couches and tables had been placed at discreet intervals. Half-hidden by potted plants, a Greek lyre-player was going through his Lydian-mode repertoire, and the air was delicately perfumed with the scent of roses. Most of the couches were occupied, doubly so. The door-slave pointed me towards a couch in the corner with only a single occupant. The youngster — he couldn’t’ve been any more than very early twenties, max — was staring at me from over the lip of his wine cup, and even from this distance I could see he was in the process of getting quietly stewed.

‘Would you care for a drink, sir?’ The door-slave murmured.

‘Hmm?’

‘A drink. The first is complimentary, of course.’

‘Uh…yeah.’ The stare above the wine cup was so unblinkingly hostile it was beginning to unnerve me. ‘You have any Caecuban?’

‘Naturally, sir. Which year?’

Oh, shit! ‘Look, just bring me a very large belt of the stuff, okay, pal? Chilled, if possible, but I’m not fussy.’

He sniffed and left. I had the distinct impression my street-cred with the staff had sunk as close to zero as made no difference, but some thorns on the primrose path of life you can live with. I went over to the youngster’s couch, trying not to look at what was going on either side of me; not that any of the occupants seemed concerned.

‘Ah…the name’s Corvinus,’ I said. ‘Valerius Corvinus.’

‘So Myron told me.’ He had an accent you could’ve hammered nails into, and it made the aggressive attitude even more noticeable. ‘What happened to your face?’

‘I test boxing gloves for a living.’

Not a twitch; he stared back at me expressionlessly. Then he said: ‘All right. So what do you want?’

There was a stool next to the table that looked like it might’ve been liberated from the palace at Alexandria. I pulled it over and sat down. ‘Not what you think, for a start,’ I said.

This time he laughed: a quick, sharp bark with no humour in it. ‘No? Well, that’s something. Who’s the mutual friend?’

‘Acquaintance. He said not to give you his name, and it doesn’t matter anyway.’

Nicanor took another gulp of wine, set the cup down and drew the back of his hand slowly across his mouth. His eyes hadn’t left mine. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We’ll leave it at that. You’ve told me what you don’t want. Now tell me what you do.’

‘Just to talk. I asked this…acquaintance…if he could put me in touch with someone who knows about Parthians. Local Parthians. Yours was the name he came up with.’

‘Easy. They’re five-star bastards, all of them. That enough for you?’ His lips stretched in a toothed, drunken, humourless grin. ‘There. Mission accomplished. You can go away now and leave me in peace. Test a few more boxing gloves.’

A slave — not Myron, a kid about eight or nine done up to look like Ganymede — brought my wine. ‘Can I get you another?’ I said. They didn’t seem to believe in half-jugs here, which didn’t augur too well for the prices.

‘It’s your money.’ I nodded to Ganymede and the kid went off. ‘Fine. So you’ve bought yourself some talking time. What’s your interest in Parthians?’

I wanted to ask him a few questions myself, nothing to do with the case; like what the hell his parents were doing letting him waste his life in a hole like the Acanthus Leaf. Certainly, from first impressions he didn’t seem all that thrilled to be here, nor did he exactly blend in with the rest of the clientele. However, it wasn’t my business, and all it would probably have got me was a raised finger. Quite rightly, too. ‘You mind if I don’t answer that one, friend?’ I said. ‘Or would you prefer it if I lied?’

That netted the first really straight, interested look I’d had from him.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Let’s have the lie.’

Jupiter on wheels! This wasn’t supposed to happen! ‘Ah…right. Okay. I own a trading company and I was thinking of expanding. I’m looking for a partner in Rome who’s got connections over the Syrian border.’

He laughed; a genuine laugh, this time, not the sour bark we’d had before. ‘That’s it?’ he said. ‘If that’s the best lie you can manage then trying it’d’ve put out on your fucking ear. My Dad’s a merchant and I’ve lived and breathed the eastern trade all my life. You wouldn’t pass for two seconds.’