David Wishart - Parthian Shot

Even for the Janiculan, Phraates’s place was certainly something, taking up quite a slice of east-facing slope. Once through the gates the carriageway led up through parkland and stretches of formal garden that wouldn’t’ve disgraced Maecenas Gardens itself, and the villa, when we finally reached it, covered the best part of half an acre. Serious stuff. As the carriage came to a halt slaves rushed out with torches and a major-domo who could’ve done Creon in the play we’d just seen without changing costume opened the door and bowed.

‘Tell the chef we’ve two more for dinner, Hermogenes,’ Phraates said, getting down. ‘We’ll eat in the blue dining-room.’

‘Yes, lord,’ the major-domo murmured. I glanced at Perilla. Not a batted eyelid. Right; well: some people seemed to manage it okay. Me, if I told Bathyllus we had two surprise mouths for the nosebag I’d have a sniff and a kitchen rebellion on my hands.

Phraates dismissed the carriage and bodyguard — we’d been flanked from Marcellus Theatre by what seemed like half a cohort of mean-looking heavies armed with clubs; clearly the guy wasn’t taking any chances of a second attack — and led the way up the marble steps.

‘Come in, please,’ he said.

I’d been expecting something pretty upmarket, sure, but even so I was gobsmacked. For size the formal atrium would’ve done justice to a city-centre public hall, and the decor left most art galleries in the shade. To provide that amount of statues and wall paintings must’ve taken an army of artists. Not second-raters working from catalogues and skimping on materials, either.

‘We’ll go somewhere more amenable, I think.’ Phraates had taken off his embroidered mantle and handed it to a bowing slave in exchange for a silk dressing-gown. The major-domo was waiting respectfully. ‘The east sitting-room, Hermogenes. See that the wine is taken there, will you? And some fruit juice for the lady Rufia Perilla. That suit you, my dear?’

Perilla dimpled and blushed. Sickening. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Yes. Certainly.’

‘This way, then.’ We carried on through the atrium towards the panelled doors at the far end. ‘The wine will be Greek, Corvinus. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘No. Not at all.’

‘I prefer Greek wine to Italian myself, although I’d value your opinion. This one’s a rather nice Samian I laid down about forty years back, and it’s at its best. I don’t drink much these days, but I do find a cup or two of it is very pleasant before dinner. If you’d rather have a Caecuban or something similar then please do say. Hermogenes would be delighted to look out a decent jar for you.’

‘Right. Right.’

The major-domo moved ahead of us and opened the doors, then stepped back and bowed again. Beyond was another pillared hall in flecked-pink marble, with a fountain spilling water into a broad pool at its centre. Phraates led the way down a cedar-panelled corridor and opened another door.

‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Make yourselves at home. If you’ll excuse me for a moment I’ll just go and get the manuscript I promised. Then, Corvinus, perhaps we can have our little chat.’

He left.

The room was a lot smaller and a lot less formal than the atrium, but the decor was just as pricey. The three couches were antiques, wood inlaid with ivory and upholstered in red satin with a matching table, and although there weren’t any statues or wall paintings the walls, like those of the corridor, were panelled in fine-grained wood. The floor was covered with carpets, in the Parthian style. I noticed there was another door, presumably leading to a side room.

‘Nice,’ I said.

Perilla settled herself on one of the couches. ‘I like him,’ she said. ‘Phraates, I mean.

‘Yeah, lady. I noticed. I think the word is “dripping”.’

‘Stop it, dear. You know what I mean. He’s not at all what I expected.’

I lay down on one of the other couches. ‘Well, he’s lived in Rome all his life. That makes him a Roman, practically.’

She frowned. ‘No, I don’t think it does,’ she said slowly. ‘Or not quite. He’s not Roman. Something somewhere in the middle of Roman, Greek and Parthian, perhaps.’ She paused. ‘He isn’t married, is he?’

‘Uh-uh.’ I stretched out. ‘As far as I know, he has a long-term live-in Greek mistress. And a son, of course. Damon.’ I’d been wondering about the dining arrangements. The mistress, sure, I doubted if she’d be joining us — social niceties aside, the Greeks are like the Parthians: barring the ordinary domestic side of things men and women tend to lead their own lives, and the villa would have separate women’s quarters — but Damon was another matter. After my talk with Nicanor I’d’ve liked the chance to see Damon at first hand.

‘That’s curious, isn’t it?’

‘What’s curious?’

‘Damon’s not a Parthian name. It’s Greek.’

‘He’s illegitimate. And his mother’s Greek.’

‘Yes, I know. But Phraates recognises him, or I assume that he does. I’d’ve expected him to have a Parthian name, myself.’

‘I don’t know how these things work. Maybe — ’

The door opened and a slave came in with the wine tray, cups and two jugs. He set it on the table, poured a cup and handed it to me, then did the same with Perilla’s fruit juice.

‘Thanks, pal,’ I said. The slave bowed — still without a word — and left. I sipped…

Forget Euripides; this was real Greek poetry.

‘How’s the fruit juice?’ I said.

‘It’s apple, and chilled. Absolutely delicious.’

There was a plate of dried fruit and nuts beside the jug. I was helping myself when Phraates came back in.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘They’ve brought the wine.’ He poured himself a cup. ‘What do you think, Corvinus?’

‘Best Samian I’ve ever tasted.’ It was, too, by a mile. I’m not generally taken with Greek wines — they tend to be on the heavy, sweet side — but this one was superb.

‘I’m glad. I thought it was rather nice.’ Phraates was holding a book-roll canister. ‘Here we are, Rufia Perilla. My part of the bargain.’ I swear he winked at me as he handed it over. Like I say, Phraates was a seriously smart cookie. The lady took it like it was spun glass. ‘We’ll go into the adjoining room so we don’t disturb you.’

The next room. — the one through the door I’d noticed — was a smaller version of the one we’d just left, with hardly enough space for a reading couch, a chair and a twelve-lamp candelabrum. Like in the sitting-room, there were lamps already in place and lit. Interesting.

‘You have the couch, Corvinus,’ Phraates said, closing the door. ‘I prefer a chair in any case.’

I lay down, cradling my wine cup. Okay, maybe I was being picky, but before we got seriously down to things a scrap more honesty might be in order.

‘None of this is accidental, is it?’ I said.

The blank look I got back was perfectly judged; but then given the level of Phraates’s other accomplishments that wasn’t surprising.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m not with you.’

‘This whole evening was a fix from the start. The meeting at the theatre. The dinner invitation. The carriage. The Euripides original that hooked Perilla then got rid of her. You set everything up in advance, including this room.’

‘Indeed?’ The blank look had disappeared; Phraates didn’t look too pleased, to put it mildly. ‘And what leads you to that conclusion?’

‘Come on, pal! I may not know my Jason from my Theseus but I’m not stupid.’ I indicated the oil-lamps. ‘As far as these’re concerned, it’s obvious. Even someone as rich as you are doesn’t keep every room in the place lit on the off-chance it’ll be used. Your major-domo had his instructions long before we got here. Now tell me I’m wrong.’