David Wishart - Parthian Shot

Bugger. Still, it was my own fault. I should’ve kept my theories to myself. ‘Yeah, well…’

‘I’m not prepared to discuss the matter. We’ll talk about it further in the morning.’

She threw herself back against the cushions tight-lipped with fury and closed her eyes. Hell. Women. Nice going, Corvinus; straight in again with both feet, and only myself to blame this time. I sighed.

My brain hurt; enough for one day. I shut my eyes and dozed.

Perilla was still fast asleep when I came down to breakfast the next morning, and when she finally surfaced I was already almost finished. Seeing her coming with a definite preoccupied expression on her face, I steeled myself for round two as promised, but as she passed my couch she leaned down and kissed me.

‘You haven’t had a shave this morning,’ she murmured.

We breathe again. Evidently for reasons of her own the lady had decided on a truce, at least temporarily. I mopped up the last of my honey with a crust. ‘I thought I’d go down to Market Square for a change,’ I said. ‘Have one there.’

Bathyllus was hovering with a tray of rolls. Perilla lowered herself onto the facing couch like she was afraid her head would fall off if she moved it too much. Yeah, right; that explained things. I offered up a silent prayer of thanks to whatever god protected peabrain husbands who couldn’t keep their mouths shut in carriages.

‘I don’t think I’ll bother with breakfast this morning, Bathyllus,’ she said. ‘Perhaps just a camomile tisane. Or preferably something a little more fatal.’

‘Yes, madam. I will consult with the chef.’

I grinned. ‘You should stay off the booze, lady. You aren’t used to it.’

That got me a level, bleary-eyed stare and a set to the lips you could’ve drawn lines with. ‘I’m feeling quite recriminatory enough for both of us at the moment, thank you,’ she said tartly. ‘And the next time one of your cronies asks me to try his sixty-year-old Falernian just say “Phraates” to me. Is that clear?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, sure. And it was eighty-year-old.’

‘Fine. Good. That makes me a lot happier. Now I’m sorry, dear, but I really don’t really feel capable of breakfast conversation at present, especially if it takes the form of smart repartee. If you’re going out then go and leave me to die in peace.’

‘Okay,’ I said, getting up and dabbing my lips with the napkin. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘Marcus.’

‘Yeah?’

‘You will be careful, won’t you? You know what I mean.’

‘Yeah. I know what you mean. I’ll be careful. Promise.’ I bent down and kissed her. Sure I would. If Gaius was involved in this business I’d go as careful as a flea in party slippers.

It was a beautiful day: the weather had cleared completely, the sky above the city was a pure cloudless blue and there was a stiffish breeze from the east. Good walking weather, and after the previous night I needed the cobwebs blowing away. I turned up Head of Africa in the direction of Suburan Street.

The shave had been a good idea. A Market Square barber’s stool is almost as good as a wineshop for thinking, so long as you choose your barber carefully and avoid the chat merchants, and thinking was something I needed to do. There’d been no word yet from Lippillus over at Public Pond re the knife gang, which was a pity since it was still the most promising avenue. On the other hand, I’d had enough of theorising to be going on with. What we needed here were a few more hard facts. It was time, perhaps, to chase up a loose end or two.

Such as the puzzle of the dinner party juggling troupe. Maybe it meant nothing, but the woman’s fluffed catch had nagged at me because it’d been the only one she’d made, it’d come right at the start of the act, and as far as I could tell there was no reason for it. Professionals — and she’d been a top-notch professional, pick of the bunch — didn’t slip up like that. Oh, sure; the explanation was obvious: that she’d seen someone — or something — she hadn’t been expecting to see, and it’d thrown her. But who or what was it?

I replayed the scene in my head. The woman had run through the door on the right to the other side of the stage, then turned and reached for that first baton, the one she’d missed…

Yeah; that was the key moment. When she fluffed the catch she’d been facing towards the audience on the far right-hand side of the room — her left — , seeing them for the first time. So who had we got? Who had she seen? Top table nearest the door was Osroes and Peucestas; next pair Mithradates and Tiridates…

Right. Those two were the obvious bets, especially my pal the Iberian. If I wasn’t mistaken and Mithradates had set the whole thing up then for it to work he’d have to know in advance that the girl would be sticky about co-operating and that her brother — or whoever the guy with the muscles had been — would back her up. He couldn’t assume that, quite the reverse: pleasing the customer after the show’s over is how most girls in the entertainment business make enough to pay the rent, and their relatives or boyfriends just have to grin and bear it. So if Mithradates did know, then it meant he’d tried it on before and could be certain of the outcome; and that suggested familiarity on both sides. Not an amicable familiarity, either. My bet would be that the older woman — the girl’s mother — hadn’t known he’d be there until she turned and saw him sitting ten feet away, and it put her off her stride.

It could still be nothing, but like I say it was a loose end that might lead somewhere, and so worth checking out. So how did I go about it?

I was down Suburan Incline and on the edges of the Subura itself when I remembered Aegle, the girl who’d helped me out back when the young Vestal had got herself murdered. She was a flute-player not a tumbler, sure, but the entertainment business in Rome’s a small world and if she didn’t know the troupe herself she’d probably be able to put me in touch with someone who did. The shave could wait: Aegle’s flat was in one of the older tenements near the Shrine of Picus, along Suburan Street in the other direction from Market Square. She could’ve moved, sure, but it wasn’t far out of my way and it might save a lot of hassle. I was pretty hopeful about finding her in, too: this being the Augustalia she’d be playing evening gigs herself, which meant she’d be sleeping late. I might get a stool thrown at my head for disturbing her, mind, because from what I remembered of the girl she was no respecter of persons.

Apropos of which. Most of the good bookshops are in the Argiletum, but I’d seen one tucked down an alleyway near the Shrine where I could buy a peace offering. Aegle wasn’t your typical good-time girl, and books were a passion, drama especially. I rooted through the guy’s limited stock and came up with a copy of Menander’s Curmudgeon . Second-hand, but it was all there as far as I could tell, the rollers and the pages themselves were all in good condition and the copyist wasn’t one of the spider-in-the-inkwell brigade. Perfect.

I found the tenement — not one of the most salubrious, even for Suburan Street — climbed the stairs to the fourth floor avoiding the occasional pool of bodily fluids and knocked. No answer. Bugger. I knocked again, louder this time.

Feet padded to the other side of the door and a voice said: ‘Yeah? Who is it?’

Aegle, and sarky as hell. Maybe this hadn’t been such a smart idea after all. Well, at least she was in. ‘Marcus Corvinus,’ I said.

The bar on the inside was lifted and the door opened. I’d been right about her sleeping late. Her strawberry-birthmarked face was puffy and her tunic was sleep-creased. Still, she was smiling, which was a good sign.