David Wishart - Parthian Shot

‘Yeah, I know. But only because you were Rome’s candidate, the guy with the army at your back. What if you weren’t? Or if they were given a genuine choice?’

‘Carry on.’

‘Who decides imperial policy these days?’

‘The emperor, naturally.’

‘All the time? One hundred percent off his own bat? You like to bet on that, maybe?’

I could tell he saw where I was heading. His mouth hardened. ‘Tiberius would never allow Prince Gaius to formulate major state policy.’

‘Yeah, I realise that, but he’s placed close enough to give it a few nudges. After all, the situation isn’t clear-cut to begin with. You’re both eligible candidates for the kingship, so that part balances. On the other hand, and I’m sorry to have to say this, Rome has to think of her returns. Just getting to Parthia’ll be no pleasure trip for you, and then there’s the military campaign. You’re nearly seventy, and Tiridates isn’t half that. Plus, Gaius knows the guy well, they’ve been pals for years, and whether Tiberius likes it or not Gaius is Rome’s next emperor, probably not that long distant. Me, if I was Tiberius, I’d at least give the idea house-room. Especially if the Parthian embassy weighed in on Tiridates’s side.’

I thought I’d gone too far. The room was so quiet you could’ve heard paint dry, and Phraates’s expression looked like it had been carved with a chisel.

Finally, he relaxed. I could see, though, that it took an effort.

‘That, Corvinus,’ he said, ‘was definitely one of the spades I mentioned. You don’t mince words, do you?’ I kept my mouth shut. He laughed quietly. ‘Well, I shouldn’t complain, should I? Not when I complimented you on precisely that quality. You’re right again, of course, up to a point. All I can put against it is what I said earlier: whatever his personal aspirations in that direction may be, judged by both Parthian and Roman standards Tiridates would make an appallingly bad Great King. And neither the Romans nor the Parthians are stupid.’ He tried a smile that didn’t quite work this time. ‘I’m afraid as a working hypothesis, in its present form at least, your second theory has certain practical flaws which outweigh its attractions. Do you have a third?’

Sure I did, or rather a strand that would tie in with what I’d been saying, but I was keeping that to myself at present: if he hadn’t liked the last offering he’d be even less chuffed if I trotted that little gem out into the open. He might be a smart cookie, one of the smartest I’d ever met, but he was only human after all. He had his own blindnesses. And his own areas of weakness.

‘Not at the moment,’ I said. ‘Not as such.’

‘Then we’ll rejoin your wife and see how dinner is progressing.’ Phraates stood up. ‘I’ve enjoyed our talk very much.’

I didn’t move. No; I couldn’t leave it there, not and square it with my conscience, even if he didn’t like it. ‘One more thing, prince.’

‘Say it.’

‘Bodyguards are fine, but me, I’d take it further. I’d watch myself at home as well.’

Pause; long pause. I thought for a moment he was going to bite my head off, and I would’ve deserved it, but in the end he only nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Oh, yes. I had thought of that possibility myself, thank you.’ A half-smile, this time with no humour to it at all. ‘Incidentally, you would, I think, make an excellent Parthian royal yourself. In some respects, at any rate.’

I didn’t answer. I’d made my point, and both of us knew it. Maybe Phraates wasn’t totally blind to certain aspects of the situation after all.

‘That was marvellous.’ Perilla snuggled down among the carriage’s plump silk cushions. ‘We should get out more often.’

‘Yeah.’ I was feeling comfortably full. The old guy hadn’t been kidding about the quality of the dinner: only the three of us or not, his chef couldn’t’ve pulled out more stops for a twenty-plate banquet. You didn’t get to taste wine like that every day, either.

‘And the spices he gave me will be the perfect peace offering for Meton. It’s almost as if he knew we’d need something or other.’ The lady giggled to herself. She’d broken her usual rule and had a cup of Phraates’s eighty-year-old Falernian. Now she could let her metaphorical hair down the effects were beginning to show. ‘He really is a very charming man.’

I grinned. ‘You’re smitten, aren’t you?’

‘Slightly.’ She poked me with the toe of her sandal. ‘I’m also, as you’ve probably noticed, slightly drunk, and that doesn’t happen very often. But then, he does set out to charm. I’m not surprised he’s going to be Great King. How was your little chat?’

‘Okay.’ I glanced out of the carriage window. We hadn’t got Phraates’s full complement of bodyguard, just the usual four torchbearers, but then we didn’t need them. We weren’t Parthian royals. ‘I think his son Damon might be out to kill him. Or at least involved somewhere along the line.’

Perilla’s eyes widened and she sat up. ‘Oh, no!’ she said. ‘Oh, Marcus!’

‘It’s only a theory, but it makes sense. Where his father’s concerned he’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of a log. He’s a prince but not a prince, and it’s all Phraates’s doing. The old guy didn’t say so in as many words, but I’d guess that when he swans off to be Great King of Parthia his only son’ll be left kicking his heels in Rome, and that will’ve gone down like a lead balloon. On the other hand, Damon’s in thick with Tiridates and Mithradates, and one gets you ten those bastards have something on the boil. As an insider he’d be the perfect accomplice.’

‘But he’s the man’s son!’

‘That’s no bar. In fact for a Parthian royal — which is what I’d bet Damon sees himself as — it’s practically an invitation. The guy can’t expect to have a crack at the kingship himself, sure, but if he throws in with Tiridates and the bugger makes Great King then he’s sitting pretty for a major provincial governor’s job, at least. And in Parthia that practically amounts to a kingship anyway. Not bad in exchange for helping to kill a father you hate.’

‘Marcus, you have no proof.’

‘No. But like I say, it fits. Damon would’ve known where his father was going the night of the attack, maybe even the route the litter-bearers would take on the way home. And it explains his invite to the embassy dinner. That was pure ego-feeding. Tiridates had got the guy his rights for once. If it’d been left to Phraates he’d still be waiting in the wings when hell froze over.’

‘All right,’ Perilla said. ‘How do you think it works?’

‘It’s a two-pronged plot. Separately, each prong could do the job, just, in theory at least. Together they support each other and make the thing certain. On the one side, they kill off Phraates. That’s where Damon comes in, and it clears the field. On the other, they work on the mood of the embassy — that’s why Zariadres had to die — and engineer a Roman policy change so we support Tiridates. That’s — ’

‘Marcus.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I may be slightly drunk but there’s nothing wrong with my cognitive processes.’

‘Right. Right.’

‘Listen to yourself, dear. Policy is policy. It’s decided at imperial level.’

‘Yeah.’ I shifted uncomfortably. ‘Sure it is. Only for this to work — have a chance of working — there has to be a fourth member of the team.’

‘And who might that be?’

‘Prince Gaius.’ Her mouth opened. I went on quickly. ‘Look, lady, it’s just an idea, okay? But Gaius is definitely a crony of the three of them and — ’

‘Marcus, I’ve said this before! That incident with Mithradates was bad enough. If there is any — any — possibility of Gaius being mixed up personally in this then orders from Tiberius or not I think you should drop the case forthwith. I am serious.’