David Wishart - Parthian Shot

‘Fortunately?’

‘Because he’ll always choose the winning side, and he’s clever enough to work out which that will be. Oh, yes; he, too, would love to see me dead and Tiridates on his way to Parthia with a Roman army behind him. On the other hand, he knows that neither Rome nor the anti-Artabanus faction wants a puppet king.’ He smiled. ‘At least, not a king who’s someone else’s puppet. At present, he has the promise of Armenia, which is enough for anyone. He’d be a fool to sacrifice a bird in the hand for two very doubtful ones in the bush, and Mithradates whatever else he may be is no fool.’

Yeah, okay, I’d accept that, especially his final assessment. Still, I wasn’t entirely convinced that Phraates was right this time. Personally, I wouldn’t lay any hefty bets that Mithradates wouldn’t go for the two birds option after all, only it’d turn out that the bastard had already limed the twigs.

‘Incidentally,’ I said, ‘we had a sort of brush, the two of us, a couple of days back. Maybe I should mention that, just in case it’s relevant.’

Phraates gave me a sharp look. ‘“Brush”? What kind of brush?’

I indicated the bruise on the side of my face. It wasn’t so noticeable now as it had been, but it was still pretty obvious. ‘Down an alleyway off Tuscan Street. He had three hired gorillas with him.’

‘He attacked you?’

‘Yeah. No bones broken, but he didn’t seem too pleased that I was taking an interest in the case.’

Phraates’s chin lifted, nostrils flared and lips set in a straight line. The expression was pure outraged eastern royalty. ‘What happened?’ he said quietly. ‘Tell me. Exactly.’

I told him. His face didn’t change. If anything it hardened. When I’d finished, he said:

‘You have my apologies, Corvinus. And my thanks. There will be no repetition, I can promise you that. Be very, very sure. I’ll have a word with our Iberian friend personally.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, right.’ Well, the point had been made and taken on board, and like I’d said there’d been no bones broken. ‘Okay. We’ll leave it at that. Last name, then. Damon.’

Phraates reached for his cup and sipped again before he answered. His expression had gone blank again.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I was wondering when you’d ask me about Damon.’

‘He’s your son. A descendant in the male line. Doesn’t that make him a candidate for the kingship too? At least a sort of one?’

‘His mother and I aren’t married, under either Roman or Parthian law. If we had been then yes, it would. Or it might, in the first case. The fact that she’s Greek, and a former courtesan, wouldn’t be all that important. As it is’ — he shrugged — ‘no, not at all. Simply being my son doesn’t qualify him.’

‘In your eyes or in his?’

Phraates looked straight at me for a long time, toying with the stem of his wine cup. ‘You’re very perceptive, Corvinus,’ he said at last. ‘However, your answer is, in my eyes, in Parthia’s, and in Rome’s. Those are the only three factors which matter. I’ve been very careful all his life to give Damon no reason to think otherwise.’

Uh-huh. The answer was clear enough, sure, but I hadn’t missed the fact that he’d pussy-footed. Interesting. ‘You don’t have any other children? Legitimate ones?’

Again, I thought he wasn’t going to answer, but finally he did. ‘Yes. And a wife. Or I used to have. Two sons and a daughter. They died of a summer fever, all four of them, along with most of my house staff.’

My skin prickled. There hasn’t been a major outbreak of plague in the city for a long, long time, sure, but localised killer diseases that destroy whole families or even whole neighbourhoods and then vanish as suddenly as they came aren’t too uncommon. Some people survive, some die, some never catch the disease at all; there doesn’t seem to be any logic behind it, and as far as doctors are concerned you can forget the buggers because they don’t have a clue either. ‘When was this?’ I said.

‘Over twenty years ago. They died within days of each other. I wasn’t touched.’

Twenty years. The guy would only’ve been in his mid- to late-forties. No big deal: lots of men married and had kids at that age, even non-widowers. ‘You didn’t think of remarrying?’

‘No. There was little point. I was my father’s youngest son and at that time my brothers were still alive. I’m not a particularly religious or superstitious man, but I did feel that in taking away my whole family perhaps the gods were telling me I wasn’t fated to have legitimate issue. Besides, I already had…let’s call it my unofficial menage; which, let me say, my wife knew of, if she didn’t actually approve. That predated my marriage by several years. It would’ve been a terrible insult to Polyclea if I’d simply taken another, younger wife after being with her for over a quarter of a century and fathering her child.’

Polyclea. I hadn’t even known his mistress’s name. ‘But you didn’t marry her.’

‘I offered. She refused.’ He smiled. ‘Polyclea always has been a woman of probity and very strong conviction. She said, as I remember, that while she knew my late wife hadn’t minded her sharing my bed as a mistress she’d certainly disapprove if she shared it as wife. I took her point. Still, it was another reason to marry no one else.’

‘So at this time Damon would be what, mid to late teens?’

‘Eighteen, yes. Two years older than my dead elder son.’

‘How did he feel about the situation?’

Phraates set his cup down. ‘Corvinus, I’m sorry, but this is getting rather too personal for my comfort. What Damon feels or felt isn’t relevant. If I had married his mother after my wife’s death then yes, under Parthian law it would have made him legitimate retrospectively, but that would have been a technicality. He could never have been a serious candidate for the Great Kingship. Besides, the question of his legitimacy is academic. Even if Damon were of pure royal blood through the male and female line he would, now, still be ineligible. He knows this himself.’

‘Yeah? Why’s that?’

‘Another rule governing the choice of a Great King is that the candidate must be whole and unblemished. Two months ago Damon got himself involved in a silly knife-fight and lost most of a finger.’ Phraates’s lips tightened. ‘As I say, being maimed makes no real difference to his prospects, but it does put the seal on things. No; Damon is not eligible for the kingship; not even — now — in his own mind. He knows that as well as I do. Now I’d be grateful if you’d leave him, please. We have plenty of other things to discuss.’

‘In a moment. Just one more question?’

I was working on the edge here, and I knew it. Phraates had stiffened. ‘If you must,’ he said. ‘But only one.’

‘He was at the dinner party. If he doesn’t have…let’s call it an official status then why was he there?’

‘Not by my doing. Nor by Zariadres’s, for reasons you’ll appreciate. Tiridates — and Mithradates — asked for him to be invited as a personal favour. The three of them are good friends.’

‘The Immortals?’

His eyebrows lifted, and the stiffness with them. He almost smiled. ‘You’ve heard the name? Well, now, you have been busy! Yes. I don’t approve, and Damon knows that I don’t, but he has a right to lead his own life as he sees fit. It’s just youthful high spirits. They don’t cause any real trouble — lasting trouble, I mean — and giving the boy money to spend is the least I can do for him.’

Right; I’d heard all that before, a million times. The usual father’s justification, with a large helping of guilt behind it and the blinkers firmly in place. It came strange from Phraates, but still -