David Wishart - Parthian Shot

‘Yeah?’

‘Name three cities on the spice road east of Bactra; the northern route to Turfan, not the southern. How many camel loads equal one waggon load? How do you tell prime from second-grade cassia?’

‘Uh…’

‘You see? You’re not even good enough to be a poor ringer.’

I sipped my wine. It was good Caecuban, chilled to perfection. ‘Right. Granted. So you’re left with the first alternative. Does that make a difference?’

‘Not one I can’t live with. So what do you want to know?’

‘Anything and everything. But we’ll start with three names. Phraates, Tiridates and Mithradates.’

He stared at me for a long time over the top of his winecup. Finally he said quietly, too quietly: ‘Mithradates isn’t Parthian. He’s an Iberian.’

‘So I lied again.’

‘“Lied.”’ He drained his cup at a gulp and scowled. ‘You know what the Parthians say about lying, Corvinus? It’s the straightest way to hell. That’s their general word for evil: the Lie. Druj , in Parthian. The joke is, they’re the biggest fucking liars in existence.’

‘Is that so, now?’

‘Sure it’s so. Forget the Greeks, the Cretans, they’re amateurs. Parthians lie for the fun of it, or twist the truth so many ways from nothing you don’t know whether you’re on your feet or your head. Never believe a Parthian. Any Parthian. Especially when he claims he’s telling the truth.’

Interesting. The Ganymede lookalike drifted over and swapped the empty cup for the new full one. Nicanor took a swig of the fresh wine and belched softly.

‘So how about my three names?’ I said.

‘Phraates is the Grand Old Man of the Parthian contingent. He’s been in Rome forever, got a big, fancy place on the Janiculan. The others call him the Geriatric. They despise him.’

‘You know Phraates?’

‘No. I’ve met him, but that’s all. We’ve talked once or twice. He’s okay, for a Parthian, and no fool, whatever they say.’

Yeah, well; the guy was pushing seventy. I couldn’t expect a twenty-year-old to be too interested or knowledgeable in that direction. ‘What about his son Damon?’

It was like I’d pulled a string directly connected with Nicanor’s brain. He set his winecup down carefully, like it was made of eggshell.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I know Damon.’

There was something in his voice that stirred the hairs on the back of my neck. He’d spoken calmly enough, but I felt, suddenly, like I was standing on a piece of ground that the next moment just wouldn’t be there any more.

‘But you’re not a friend of his,’ I said cautiously.

Silence. Then, finally: ‘No.’

‘Want to give me a reason?’

‘No,’ he said again. He reached for his cup and took a long swallow. ‘He lives with his father in that fancy place over on the Janiculan I mentioned. Not that that’s out of choice, mind.’

‘They don’t get on?’

That got me the short, barking laugh again. ‘No. But then there’s nothing unusual in that, is there?’

Yeah, well; I could see where he was coming from. I hadn’t got on with my own father, to put it mildly, and we were living in separate houses. For a man in his late thirties living with parents couldn’t be easy. Also, maybe I was wrong but I’d guess from the sourness in Nicanor’s voice that his own circumstances weren’t all that far different. If he hung out in joints like the Acanthus Leaf then everything couldn’t be exactly sweetness and light in his family, either. I sipped my wine. ‘So what sort of a guy is he?’

‘He’s a bastard.’ Nicanor reached for his cup and took another swig. ‘Oh, yes, I know I said that all Parthians are bastards, but he’s a bastard even by Parthian standards.’

‘Yeah? In what way exactly?’

‘How long have you got? This place closes at dawn.’ He paused. ‘You ever hear of the Immortals?’

The name rang a faint bell, sure — you can’t live with a lady who’s a history nut for upwards of fifteen years without something rubbing off — but I didn’t think it was the right kind of bell. ‘They were some sort of crack Parthian legion in the old days, weren’t they?’

‘Persian, not Parthian. Before Alexander. Yes, they were, but it’s not what I meant. These Immortals are a frat. Damon’s one of the founder-members and Tiridates is the other. He chose the name.’

I knew where he was now. Fraternities — ‘brotherhoods’ — are pretty common in Rome and getting commoner. They’re exclusive gangs formed by rich wide-boys out for kicks of an evening: lots of hard drinking, heavy spending, night-time tours of the city’s cat-houses, that sort of thing. It’d be good innocent fun that harmed no one if it didn’t usually involve some not so innocent breaking-and-entering, vandalism and mugging, sometimes even murder. Frats are the Watch’s bane, because even when the young buggers are caught in the act Daddy’s influence and Daddy’s money tend to get things hushed up.

‘Mithradates a member as well?’ I asked. My ribs gave a twinge.

It’d been a guess, but Nicanor’s brows came down. ‘Sure. He’s the group leader. Has been ever since he came to Rome two or three years back.’

Yeah, that made sense. Whatever group that bastard chose to join, even on our short acquaintance I’d’ve betted he’d be the leader automatically, straight off. And frats would be just right up his street. ‘That so? You aren’t involved with them yourself?’

‘I used to be.’ His eyes were clearly warning me off. ‘Once. Not any more.’

‘Now you just hang around this place instead.’

I’d deliberately kept my voice neutral, but he half-flared up all the same. ‘I’ve got my reasons. Not just the obvious one either.’

Right. ‘Your father know where you go of an evening?’

He grinned; not a pleasant grin. ‘Oh, yes!’

‘And he doesn’t mind?’

‘He minds like hell. That’s one of my reasons.’

I winced. It wasn’t just the words, it was the way they came out: flat, matter-of-fact. Passionless. ‘You an only son?’ I said. ‘Or have you got any brothers or sisters?’

It was a natural question, and I didn’t expect the reaction it got. Nicanor’s face suddenly flushed a deep purple. ‘Fuck off, Corvinus!’ he snapped; so loud that the couple on the nearest couch stopped what they were doing and gaped at us. ‘You just fuck off! Leave my family out of it! Stick to your bloody Parthians!’

Jupiter! I held up both my hands, palm out. ‘Okay. Okay! Forget I asked!’

He was glaring at me, and I could see that it was touch and go whether he’d answer or call Ganymede to have me thrown out. Finally, though, he raised his shoulders and took another slug of wine. ‘Fine,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry. Just keep your distance, agreed?’

‘Agreed.’ I took a sip of my own wine to give him some space and set the cup down. ‘Tell me more about these Immortals.’

‘Like I said, Mithradates is the leader, the ideas man. Tiridates and Damon tag along on his coat-tails. Mostly it’s just wineshops and brothels, but Mithradates and Damon have a taste for trouble. The evening usually ends up in a fight, somewhere or other.’

‘What about Tiridates?’

Nicanor grinned. ‘He’s a coward. He blows hard enough, sure, but he keeps clear of any real action. The same goes Damon, for that matter, but if he can be sure of winning he’s right in there. That’s why he’s a bastard. Mithradates I can take; he’s just a thug.’ He swallowed the last of the wine in his cup. ‘A clever thug, mind. Mithridates is smart.’

Yeah; I’d bet he was. That was why he’d reminded me so strongly of Sejanus. There was another smart thug who’d used brawn and brain to reach the top of the ladder. ‘He’s been in Rome two, three years, you say?’