David Wishart - Parthian Shot

I sank a mouthful of wine and topped up my cup. I didn’t know, I just didn’t know. The whole thing was probably a mare’s nest. All the same, I had a gut feeling about it; it was too much of a coincidence to be coincidental, if you like, and two members of the triangle being involved with the Parthian business was suspicious as hell. It was just lucky that when I’d asked Crispus to recommend a Parthian expert he’d put me on to young Nicanor. If he hadn’t done that then I’d never have known…

I stopped as the implication hit me. Bugger. Crispus! Caelius fucking Crispus!

It hadn’t been an accident, no way had it been an accident: the devious, muck-raking bastard had given me Nicanor’s name deliberately. Why he’d done it — probably, knowing Crispus, for unsavoury reasons of his own — I didn’t know; but I’d bet a year’s income to a mouldy sprat that he had all the answers at his greasy fingertips.

The foreign judge’s staff would be back after their festival break, and the afternoon still wasn’t all that far gone. If I hurried I could catch him.

I got Renatius to put the rest of my half jug on the shelf, bolted the rest of the cheese and headed off for the Capitol.

He was in; just. And he wasn’t too pleased to see me either. But then, what else was new?

‘Hi, Crispus,’ I said. ‘Have a nice Festival?’

I thought he was going to bite my head off. When I’d come in he’d been fastening a very pricey-looking dove-grey cloak round his shoulders while the secretary I’d seen last time adjusted the folds at the back. His hand paused on the buckle-pin like he was thinking of taking it off again, but he didn’t. ‘It’s been a long hard day, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘You don’t improve it.’ He turned to the secretary. ‘Tell the others I’ll be along shortly, Menelaus. And don’t forget the bathing cap.’

The secretary left with a sniff. I sat down in the visitor’s chair. ‘Bathing cap?’ I said.

Crispus sighed, took the cloak off after all and went back behind his desk. ‘What do you want this time? Make it quick, please.’

Shit, not a nibble; he was certainly coming on. Just a few months ago we’d’ve had threats and temper tantrums, but he’d got the busy executive manner down pat. Maybe it was the snazzy new office. Yeah, well, I shouldn’t criticise: being a linchpin of the great wheel of government a whole six hours out of the twenty-four was a pretty gruelling job. ‘What’s Lucius Vitellius got cooking with the Armenian Anacus?’ I said.

Pause. ‘Who?’

‘Come on, pal! You put me on to his son Nicanor. You mentioned the guy’s name yourself.’

‘Did I?’ He was inspecting his nails, but I had the distinct impression of nervous smugness. ‘Oh, yes. He’s a spice merchant, isn’t he? Now why on earth should Lucius Vitellius be involved with someone like that?’

It occurred to me that so far the bugger had asked more questions than I had. And I knew prevarication when I met it. I leaned forward and had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch.

‘Crispus, you bastard,’ I said evenly, ‘you gave me Nicanor’s name on purpose so I’d find out about the father and Vitellius having business together. And if you say “Did I?” again I’ll wring your scraggy neck.’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Then I won’t. That’s not an admission, mind.’

‘Sure it isn’t. Perish the thought. So why did you do it?’

Crispus cleared his throat; he was nervous now more than smug. His shifty eyes shifted. ‘Come on, Corvinus!’ he said. ‘You told me you were engaged in an official investigation. As a conscientious public servant I was — I am — trying to help you. But splitting on senior members of the senate, especially where their private business is concerned, is another matter. After all, I do have my professional reputation to consider.’

I laughed. ‘Jupiter in a fucking hand-cart, pal! You’ve been dishing the dirt on guys like Vitellius for years! Why should now be any different?’

‘There may be…complications.’ Was it my imagination or was the bastard sweating slightly? ‘Don’t press me. Not this time.’

I didn’t like the sound of this; I didn’t like it at all. Crispus was a born dirt-disher; professional, sure — he wouldn’t’ve got where he was without being shit-hot at finding out things Rome’s administrative movers and shakers would rather keep buried and were willing to give him a discreet hand up so they stayed that way — but he enjoyed the game for its own sake. If he said that he didn’t want to play any more, it meant whatever he’d dug up in the dirty laundry basket was a lot worse than just a set of soiled smalls. Maybe I should back off, at that. Give him a bit of room to slither, anyway.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Just this once I’ll compromise. All you’ve got to do is nod or shake your head. Does it have anything to do with Prince Tiridates?’

Crispus’s naturally pasty face went even whiter, and he swallowed. ‘Look, let’s just — ’

‘Just nod or shake your head.’

Slowly, he nodded. Bull’s-eye!

‘Some sort of three-way scam, then? Tiridates, Vitellius and Anacus?’

Swallow. Nod.

‘And Vitellius’s bosses don’t know about it?’

A hesitation; a nod, turned into a head-shake.

‘They do know?’

No response; evidently that was all I was getting on that point. Odd. ‘But it’s political?’

Another hesitation, followed by a reluctant nod. The guy was sweating now in earnest. ‘Corvinus, please — ’ he said.

‘You’re doing well. Don’t give up now.’

‘No.’ He pushed his chair back and got up like someone had jerked him on strings. ‘That’s as much as I’m giving you. You’re okay, you’re an outsider, but I’ve got my job and my neck to consider. Work the rest out for yourself. And I swear if anything gets back to me over this, official or not, I’ll hunt you down. I’m serious. Clear?’

Yeah, well; maybe I was expecting too much. The guy had played fair by his own lights, better than fair, and as a senior senator Vitellius would have major clout even if he wasn’t directly concerned with the foreign judge’s department. At least now I knew I wasn’t chasing shadows; I’d just have to find a lead some other way. I stood up. ‘Thanks, pal,’ I said. ‘You’ve been a big help. This time I mean it. Enjoy your evening.’

He didn’t move. Then, when I had my hand on the doorknob, he said:

‘Wait.’

I turned. ‘Yeah?’

‘Talk to a man in the spice market by the name of Gaius Praxa. Ask him about pepper.’

I didn’t reply. I just opened the door and went out.

Pepper, eh?

Yeah. Right.

The spice market was on the east side of the Velabrum, near the end of Tuscan Street and facing the slopes of the Palatine. Not all that far, in other words, and I had a fair slice of the afternoon left. There was no time like the present.

I’m no traveller, me: boats make me sick, give me Roman cooking any day, and as for sightseeing you can drop it down a very deep hole and forget it. All the same, a walk through the spice market can send even my pulse racing. Rome’s a pretty olfactory city, in places too olfactory: some bits down by the Tiber, near the big meat market where the slaughterhouses and tanneries are, or in the fullers’ quarter you breathe through your mouth because using your nose is a bad, bad idea. The spice market’s the opposite. You walk through it with both nostrils wide open, taking in as much as you can get and begging for more. I didn’t recognise many of the scents — you’d need a culinary nut like Meton for that — but even I picked out the hot, peppery tang of ginger and the rich aromatic smell of cinnamon. For most people, mind, a sniff’s about as close as they come. Spices — any spices — are seriously pricey, some literally worth their weight in gold. Even the spiced-honey pastries you can buy from the hawkers at the market’s edge cost as much as a cookshop takeaway.