David Wishart - Parthian Shot

‘So where was the party?’ I said.

‘The Quirinal. Or at least that’s where it started. Quintus had a friend near the old Flaminian Racetrack. We were going to drop in on him when it finished.’

‘Iugarius isn’t on the way to Flaminius Circus from the Quirinal.’

‘Yeah, I know, but we took a detour. Decimus wanted to make a speech on the rostrum. We never did reach Quintus’s friend’s. We were pretty drunk.’

Were pretty drunk! Bacchus on skates! They’d been lucky the Watch hadn’t lifted them, or worse: the city streets are no picnic area after dark, especially for three legless youngsters with more money than brains. Which in their case wouldn’t be difficult. ‘You’ve been out all night?’

‘Sure. We slept in the portico of the Julian Hall until the slaves turned up at dawn and threw us out.’ He sounded like it happened most nights of the month. Maybe it did.

‘So how about this morning?’

‘It seemed a shame to go home. Flavius’s serves a good breakfast, the wine’s good and one thing led to another. We’d’ve been all right if that bastard Quintus hadn’t been sick over the guy at the next table. He turned out to be a praetor with no sense of humour.’ He glanced at me owlishly. ‘How far’s this place of yours, then?’

‘We’re at it.’ I pushed open Renatius’s door and went in.

Half a dozen pairs of eyes swivelled towards us, the same number of eyebrows climbed towards the ceiling and there were a couple of whistles. Then the punters went back to their drinks. As far as reaction went, that was it: as a whole, Renatius’s customers tend to keep themselves to themselves, at least until the newcomer’s bought his own wine and if he doesn’t look a soft touch.

Nicanor was looking around the bare wooden tables and benches and the plain walls. ‘You drink here ?’ he said.

One of the tunics in the corner next to us sniggered into his cup and I sighed. Yeah, well, at least Charax the loud-mouthed cowboy builder wasn’t in evidence today. The mileage that smart bugger could’ve got out of a spoilt-brat kid dressed up in a fancy party mantle just didn’t bear thinking of. ‘My choice, remember?’ I said. ‘And I happen to like it. Sit down and I’ll get the drinks.’

‘No, it’s my treat. I’ll get the — ’

‘Shut up.’

For a wonder, he did. While he parked himself none too steadily at an empty table I went over to the bar. Renatius was rinsing cups, and from the sour look on his face he’d heard the kid’s initial comment.

‘Afternoon, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Who’s your fancy friend? Or are you nursemaiding?’

‘Just make it two cups of the usual, pal,’ I said. ‘No added smartass comments. And some bread, cheese, sausage and olives.’ It was past lunchtime, I was getting peckish and no doubt Nicanor could do with something to soak up the booze.

Renatius’s eyebrows rose for the second time. ‘Cups?’

‘Cups. And don’t come over asking if we want refills, either.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Renatius cast a professional eye over my shoulder. ‘He looks like he’s had as much as he can take for one afternoon, anyway.’

‘Right. Exactly.’ I opened my belt-pouch to pay, adding a few silver pieces on the side. ‘And see if you can get one of the lads to scare up a litter and watchdog him home when we’ve finished.’

Renatius poured the wine. ‘This another of your cases?’ he asked.

‘Could be.’

‘You certainly pick them, don’t you?’

‘He’s OK. Or he will be in a few years when he comes out the end of it. If he lives that long.’

I carried the wine and the plate of food over to the table. Now he was off his feet, Nicanor had taken on a sort of boiled-fish look: stiff and slightly glazed. I put a winecup in front of him, laid the plate between us and sat down opposite.

‘Cheers,’ he said, taking a swig. ‘Hey, this isn’t bad.’

I took a mouthful from my own cup. ‘Renatius’s Spoletian is about the best in Rome,’ I said. ‘He gets it from his cousin’s farm. Same goes for the cheese and sausage. Tell me about Damon and your sister.’

I’d been wondering how to broach the subject, and I’d decided the in-your-face approach was best. For the next five seconds, I thought I’d made a mistake. It was as if I’d thrown a bucket of ice-water over him. Nicanor set his cup down slowly, staring at me and reddening, all the signs of drunkenness gone.

‘How do you know about Sebasta?’ he said.

So that was the girl’s name. ‘One of the jugglers at the dinner party when you cut off the guy’s finger told me.’ Deliberately, I avoided his eyes and reached for a slice of sausage. ‘He got her pregnant, didn’t he?’

‘That’s none of your fucking business!’

‘No, it isn’t,’ I agreed.

He took another swallow of wine. ‘She was sixteen. Three years younger than me. Yes, Damon got her pregnant. When she found out she killed herself.’

‘She had an affair with him?’

‘Sebasta wouldn’t’ve looked twice at that piece of filth. He raped her.’

Uh-huh. Yeah, well, it was possible, but only just: families in Rome keep a close eye on their daughters of marriageable age, and under these circumstances rape isn’t all that common. More often than not, a pregnancy comes about because the girl has made at least some of the running and has been seeing the lad concerned behind her parents’ backs. That was more likely, in this situation too. Besides, Nicanor had been fond of the girl — more than fond from his reaction — and any account I got from him was bound to be biased.

Nicanor had been watching me, scowling. He got to his feet, lurching slightly. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ he said. ‘Well, Corvinus, you can just — ’

I grabbed his arm across the table and pulled him down. Although I had my back to the room, I could feel the other punters’ sudden interest. You don’t often get a floor show in Renatius’s, and the customers tend to make the most of it.

‘Sit down,’ I said. ‘Sure I believe you. Why not? Besides, like you say it’s none of my business.’

Nicanor sat. The effort seemed to have taken all the energy he had, because he slumped like a sack of grain. ‘My fucking father had been throwing her at Tiridates,’ he said. ‘Tiridates wasn’t interested. Damon was, though, but not in marriage. The two of them — and that bastard Iberian — cooked it up between them. They got her on her own one day and Damon raped her. Satisfied?’

So. It made some sort of cockeyed sense, anyway. Maybe I might believe the story after all. ‘You want to tell me the whole thing from the beginning?’ I said quietly.

Nicanor reached for his wine-cup and drank most of what was left at a gulp. ‘You don’t know my family, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘My mother’s OK, most of the time, but she wants to get on in society and she does whatever my father tells her. He’s a real bastard. He’d swim through shit to get his feet on the ladder. Any ladder. Marrying his daughter to a Parthian prince would’ve done that, and to hell with what she thought herself. He could’ve been a pimp and Sebasta one of his whores. Mother wasn’t much better. We had some real screaming matches.’ He swallowed the last of the wine. ‘Trouble was, it was all the one way, wasn’t it? Tiridates wasn’t interested. Why should he be? He’s fucking royalty. You know what that means?’ I nodded, but didn’t interrupt; the guy was off and running with the grudge between his teeth, and all he wanted now was a sympathetic audience. ‘He wouldn’t’ve had Sebasta as even a secondary wife, not the daughter of an Armenian merchant and a low-class Syrian who hadn’t even looks going for her. He strung Dad along, sure, but only for what he could get. Snob or not, Dad’s stinking rich, that’s one thing you can say for him, and he threw money at Tiridates like he was Croesus. I know that crowd. They were just playing games, all of them. I told Dad they were laughing at him up their sleeves and he was wasting his time, but he wouldn’t believe me. It was just a joke to them, a mean, evil, sordid joke.’ He lifted the empty cup to his lips and set it down. Despite what I’d said, I was going to signal Renatius to bring him another, but he didn’t seem too concerned so I left it. ‘Then Tiridates asks him if he can take Sebasta out in his carriage for the day to Fidenae, with just her maid as chaperone. Dad agrees although Sebasta herself’s against the idea, and that’s it. She never reaches Fidenae. They take her to some mutual pal’s fancy villa outside the city where Damon’s waiting and he rapes her. Big laugh all round. Big joke. Who cares about a social-climbing Armenian merchant’s daughter, anyway?’