David Wishart - Parthian Shot

‘Corvinus! Don’t you purple-stripers keep decent hours? What the hell brings you here?’

‘I’m sorry, lady,’ I said. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Sure. Feel free.’ She stepped aside. ‘Just give me a minute to wake up. And close your eyes to the mess, okay? Me and the room. I didn’t know I’d be entertaining.’

I followed her through the tiny lobby into the flat itself. ‘Flat’ was dignifying it, which is par for the course at top-floor tenement level: rents go down in these places the further up you are, and so do facilities and floor space. Here, right under the tiles, there was just the one room with a shuttered window and gaps between the ceiling-joists stuffed with straw to keep the worst of the wind and rain out.

Aegle padded barefoot over to the window and opened the shutters. Light streamed in, showing a mattress on the floor, a clothes-chest, a couple of shelves with two or three book rolls plus a few knick-knacks, a flute-case leaning against the wall and nothing else except for the flowering plants on the window-sill.

‘Here,’ I said, giving her the Menander. ‘Add this to your collection.’

She glanced at the title-tag. ‘Hey! Great!’

‘Maybe under the circumstances breakfast would’ve been better.’

‘Uh-uh. They fed us at the gig last night, and I have to watch my figure.’

It was a good figure to watch. The huge birthmark covering half her face might’ve spoiled things in that part of the looks department, but what else there was of her made up for it. That and her personality.

I stepped over the mattress and sat down on the clothes-chest. ‘So. How’re things going?’ I said.

‘Workwise? Okay. I’m booked up all through the festival, which is pretty unusual, I can tell you.’ She rolled Menander back up, fastened his tie-string and put him carefully beside the other rolls on the shelf. ‘You weren’t wanting a slot yourself, were you? Because if so — ’

‘No. No, it isn’t that.’

‘Fine.’ She grinned and settled down cross-legged on the mattress facing me. ‘I couldn’t’ve fitted you in anyway. Although I could recommend two or three other girls who’d be grateful for the work. So. If he isn’t fixing up a gig then what’s a purple-striper doing slumming it in the Subura?’

‘Looking for information.’

‘That’s news?’ The grin widened. ‘On what, for example?’

‘I’m trying to trace a family of jugglers.’

‘You have their names?’

I shook my head. ‘They were booked for — ’ I hesitated — ‘for a foreigners’ dinner party a few nights ago. On the Palatine.’

Aegle leaned back and whistled through her teeth. ‘Oh, Corvinus, you do move in high circles, don’t you? Are we talking imperial here?’

‘Uh-uh,’ I said. ‘And I’m sorry, lady, but I can’t tell you any more, not even the address, okay?’

‘Is that so, now?’ She gave me a long, considering look, then shrugged. ‘Well, you’ve got your reasons, no doubt, but I can’t work on nothing. Were you there yourself?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I was there.’

‘So you remember their act.’

‘Yeah. There were four of them, looked like a family. The youngsters — a girl and a boy built like the Rhodes colossus — had this thing where he held her by the legs and spun her.’

Aegle clicked her tongue. ‘Jarhades and Erato. The older couple, that is. They’ve been around for years, and that used to be their speciality. They must’ve passed it on to their kids.’

‘Jarhades? What sort of name’s that?’

‘He’s Syrian. Or Armenian, maybe, I’m not sure. Erato as well, for all the Greek name.’

‘That right, now?’ Still, it’d make sense; certainly from what I could remember about the troupe they’d all had that eastern look to them. ‘You know where I can find them?’

‘Sorry, there I can’t help. You could try the jugglers’ and tumblers’ guildhouse — that’s in the Remuria near Four Ways Fountain — but I’ll tell you now they’re not keen on giving out addresses. The guildhouse takes a cut from every gig, and some punters try to reach a private arrangement.’

‘Hell.’ The Remuria was way the other side of Rome. And from what Aegle was saying a trip down there might prove to be a wild goose chase anyway. ‘That the best you can do?’

‘I could ask around, sure. That’d find them for certain, but it’d take time. You in a hurry?’

‘Marginally.’

‘Wait a minute, then. Let me think.’ Her brow creased. ‘There’s a wineshop that the easterners hang out in near Cattlemarket Square. I can’t say for certain, but you might find Jarhades there, or at least someone who knows him. That do you?’

‘Sure.’ Cattlemarket Square’d be a lot closer, and I could go down there after my postponed shave. ‘You know the name?’

‘Mano’s.’

‘Got you. I’ll find it.’ I stood up. ‘Thanks, lady, you’ve been a great help. I’ll let you get back to bed now.’

‘Oh, I would’ve had to have been up and around soon anyway. You’re welcome, any time. Come back if it doesn’t work out.’ She got to her feet. ‘By the way. When you get to Mano’s try not to breathe too much.’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. Just remember, okay? And thanks for the Menander.’

I left.

Market Square was heaving, especially the bit under the porticoes of the Julian Hall where the barbers and tooth-pullers plied their trade, and I had to wait twiddling my thumbs for almost half an hour before I got to the head of the queue and a place in one of the chairs. Luckily, though, the guy I got was one of my regulars and after the briefest of exchanges he shut up and left me as usual to my thoughts. Not that these were all that earth-shaking, mind. He’d done the important scraping and was down to trimming my sideburns preparatory to sprinkling on the talc when I had an idea.

‘You’re Syrian, aren’t you, pal?’ I said after the razor was well clear of my cheekbone. Most of the Market Square barbers are Syrians or Asiatics. There ain’t no other profession that combines the eastern loves of personal titillation, chatting and the world of the cars better than barbering.

‘That’s right. Apamea.’

‘You happen to know somewhere called Mano’s? Down Cattlemarket Square way?’

‘Oh, yeah. Sure. I know Mano’s.’

‘Where is it exactly?’

He’d been shaking talc from a perforated cylinder onto his hand. Now he paused. ‘You got a reason for asking, sir?’

‘Yeah. I was hoping to meet someone there.’

The guy almost dropped the talc-shaker. ‘At Mano’s? ’

I was beginning to have a funny feeling about this. ‘It’s just a wineshop, right? Not a male brothel or some sort of pick-up joint?’

‘Nah! Nothing like that.’ He was grinning as he applied the talc. ‘It’s just very…eastern, is Mano’s. You won’t see no Romans there, certainly no purple-stripers.’

‘Suits me. No purple-stripers is a recommendation. So where is it exactly?’

‘On the waterfront past Hercules’s temple, just before the granaries. There’s a narrow alley between two warehouses. Blink and you’d miss it.’

‘Fine. Thanks, pal.’ I paid, gave up my seat to the next punter and headed back towards the Temple of the Twin Gods and the alleyway through to Tuscan Street.

I hadn’t got five yards when someone put a hand on my shoulder.

‘Valerius Corvinus!’

I turned, feeling the ice form in my gut. Shit: Mithradates, not togged out in his Asiatic gear this time but wearing a sharp-looking plain mantle over a blue tunic embroidered in gold at the neck. The bastard was smiling. Not that that made him look any pleasanter. You get smiles like that floating down the Nile an inch clear of the water, with a pair of eyes sitting just behind them.