David Wishart - Parthian Shot

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yes, it is. How did you — ?’

‘Very good. The jug’s on that table to your right. Help yourself. And one for Lucius, if you don’t mind. I won’t, myself.’

Feeling slightly unreal, I went over to the side table, poured two cupfuls from the snazzy silver jug and took them over to the desk. Vitellius was already overflowing one of the guest chairs. I handed him his wine, and he grunted.

‘Now. Sit down, my dear fellow. Make yourself at home.’

I took the second chair. Now I was closer I noticed the guy’s tunic. It was the lounging type, and practically worn through in places; the sort of old, comfortable thing you hang on to despite your wife’s and major-domo’s best efforts to get rid of it. That impressed me like hell, even more than the fancy surroundings. Dress sense on the Palatine or the Capitol’s important. Government officials wear formal mantles, the sharper the better, because they like to score over the underlings and visitors on the other side of the desk. It’s only the really senior types — and I’m talking imperial family here — who can wear what they damn well like because impressing visitors isn’t something they need to worry about. Isidorus wasn’t a blood-imperial, sure, of course not, but the principle was the same. I’d bet that if he stood up and walked around he’d have on the down-at-heel party slippers to match.

The other thing I noticed was his eyes. They were pale grey, and very, very smart. You didn’t see that very often either.

Okay; forget freedman. Whatever position Isidorus held in the imperial hierarchy, the guy rated . That was clear as daylight.

I sipped the Caecuban…

The stuff went past my palate and down my throat like liquid silk: real spice-route silk, too, not the Coan variety. Any Caecuban’s good, sure, if it’s the genuine article, which a lot of it isn’t, but this wasn’t just any Caecuban; this was the real stuff, from the Caesars’ private cellars. I’d tasted it once or twice before, and believe me there is nothing comes near it, not even the best Falernian. “Managed”, hell; I’d bet springing a jug of that nectar took clout in the five-star, gold-edged super-executive class. That was a clincher, if I’d needed one, which I didn’t. I reckoned if we weren’t quite at the top of the movers-and-shakers tree here we were as close to it as made no difference.

The ice settled on my spine. First the Wart’s letter, now this. What the hell was going on?

Isidorus waited for me to put the cup down. Then he said: ‘Lucius will have given you very little information, Valerius Corvinus. On my instructions, so don’t blame the poor man. That’s right, isn’t it, Lucius?’

Grunt.

I gave my erstwhile litter companion a sharp sideways glance. Shit; he hadn’t said a word since we’d come in, and he was sitting nice as pie sipping his wine like a dowager. My neck prickled. I just knew the guy had been warned in advance to keep his lip zipped and let Isidorus do the talking. The interesting thing was that he’d done it without a whimper. And consulars, like I say, don’t take a back seat for nobody…

‘Now.’ Isidorus sat back. I couldn’t see his feet, but I’d bet they were swinging clear of the floor. ‘No doubt you’re wondering what this is all about.’

‘You could say that, yes.’

‘Fair enough. You’ve heard, I expect, of Prince Phraates?’

‘Who?’

Vitellius might’ve been playing dumb-man-in-the-middle, but he grunted again like someone had shoved a pin into his ample rump. Isidorus ignored him. ‘That’s a no, then,’ he said. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. Phraates is the youngest son of a former king of Parthia, although the term young is no longer appropriate.’ He paused, then said cautiously: ‘You have heard of Parthia, haven’t you, Corvinus?’

Beside me, Vitellius choked on his wine.

Well, I appreciated the guy’s delicacy, and there wasn’t even a smidgeon of sarcasm in the tone, but even with my grasp of geography I couldn’t’ve missed a bloody great empire stretching all the way from the Syrian border to India.

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Of course.’

Isidorus smiled. ‘Good. I’m relieved. Phraates, then, is a Parthian prince. He was sent here by his father, partly as a hostage and partly for his own safety, sixty-odd years ago in the Divine Augustus’s day.’

Sixty years! Gods! ‘And he’s still alive?’

‘Oh, my goodness, yes, very hale and hearty. He lives with his Greek mistress and son in a villa over on the Janiculan; a very nice property, very nice indeed, or so I understand. His survival, though, is very much to the point. Two days ago, on his way home from a dinner party in the early hours of the morning, he was attacked by a gang of knifemen.’

I sat back in my chair. We were into things here that I understood.

‘He was what? ’ I said.

‘The attack happened not far from the Esquiline Gate, near Maecenas Gardens. Fortunately it was beaten off and the attackers never reached the prince’s litter, but three of his bodyguard were killed outright and one died later.’ The smart grey eyes hadn’t left mine, not for an instant, and there wasn’t even the hint of a smile now. ‘There. Your comments, please.’

‘It doesn’t make sense,’ I said.

‘Really? Now why would you say that?’

I was being tested, and I knew it. I wasn’t looking at Vitellius, but I could feel him watching me. ‘Jupiter, where do you start? You might as well’ve said that the guy’d been raped by a passing walrus. Knifemen don’t operate in gangs. They’re solo artists, or they work in threes or fours at most. Second, they go for pedestrians, usually lone drunks. They steer clear of heavily-guarded litters and carriages because taking on opposition like that just isn’t worth the risk. And last, in that part of the city even at that time of night there’s plenty of well-heeled traffic about with protection of its own that would wade in and sort the buggers out. Will that do you?’

The smile came back, but the eyes behind it were still cold and level. ‘Oh, yes, Corvinus. Thank you, very concise. That will do very well indeed. And yes, I agree that it makes no sense; I agree absolutely. The problem is that it did actually happen. Now. We’ll move on. There’s something I haven’t told you which may have a bearing on matters. And I must emphasise that the information is totally confidential.’ He glanced at Vitellius. ‘Five days ago, three days before the attack on Phraates’s litter, a Parthian delegation arrived in Rome. If negotiations with them are successful then Prince Phraates will be sent east with Roman military backing to be made Great King of Parthia.’

My guts went cold.

‘Oh, fuck,’ I said.

Beside me Vitellius gave a sharp, pained grunt and closed his eyes. Yeah, well; as diplomatic expressions go it probably did leave something to be desired.

‘Quite.’ Isidorus cleared his throat. ‘That aside, you see now, of course, the significance of the attack. And its implications. If Phraates had been killed — which was certainly the intention — then our whole plan for replacing Artabanus would have become unworkable at a stroke.’

‘Uh…Artabanus?’

‘Do forgive me, Corvinus. Artabanus is the present Great King.’

‘Of Parthia.’ Vitellius muttered. His eyes were closed again, so he missed Isidorus’s glare.

Well, if you don’t ask you never know. ‘Right. Got you,’ I said.

‘Artabanus isn’t popular at present with a fair percentage of the Parthian nobility. Hence the delegation.’

I took another sip of the Caecuban. ‘This may be a silly question,’ I said, ‘but why should the Parthians send to us for a king?’