David Wishart - Parthian Shot

He was looking at me like I’d just asked him to confirm that I only had one head. ‘But of course they do. They always have.’

‘And the trade would be pretty profitable, would it?’

He laughed. ‘Oh, yes. I don’t know the exact figures but the overall profit for the luxury trade must be in the region of a hundred million a year. And spices — including pepper — account for a considerable slice of that.’

I almost choked. Holy immortal gods! A hundred million a year profit? That was more than the tax levy on a fair-sized province brought in, and even that was gross, not net. The back of my neck was beginning to itch. ‘So any merchant who controlled the trade at both entry points into Syria — the Armenian and the Mesopotamian — would clean up?’

‘If he controlled both, yes. It would have to be both. In practice that would be impossible because the situation could never arise. There are too many individual merchants, and too many vested interests, to produce that sort of monopoly. He would need two kings in his pocket, for a start: the Great King himself, or his Mesopotamian governor at least, and the king of Armenia. Not to mention a blind eye on the part of the Syrian authorities on the Roman side.’

Forget the itch; my brain had gone numb. Oh, shit. Impossible or not, it was too much of a coincidence to ignore: Anacus the spice merchant; Tiridates the Parthian prince and — if anything happened to Phraates — Rome’s candidate for the Great Kingship; Tiridates’s bosom buddy Mithradates, ditto for Armenia; and finally Lucius Vitellius who, unless I missed my guess, as a result of his Parthian duties would be next in line for the all-important Syrian governorship…

Coincidences happen, sure, but not that calibre of coincidence. It all fitted. How it fitted, and what the practicalities would be, I didn’t know, but the whole thing smelled like a cartload of month-old fish.

‘That’s…ah…fascinating,’ I said.

‘Indeed?’ Praxa was watching me closely. ‘You seem to have found a reason for your interest, Corvinus.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, I have.’ Gods! What was I into here? No wonder Crispus had preferred to keep his mouth shut. A business scam like that, massive as it was, wasn’t technically illegal, sure, especially since any monopoly would only apply outside Roman jurisdiction so Vitellius wouldn’t be breaking any laws, but still -

I skidded to a mental halt. Hang on, Corvinus, hang on! Mithradates, fine, no problem: he was the current choice for Armenian king nem. con. Vitellius — well, he was Rome’s chief dickerer with the Parthians, any subsequent dealings with them would almost certainly involve him and so the Syrian governorship was practically a cert. But Tiridates wasn’t in the running for Great King at all, was he? Unless, of course, Phraates died leaving him the only other candidate…

Damon. Phraates’s son. He couldn’t ever be Great King himself, and his father had made it clear that he couldn’t expect any sort of position with him in charge. On the other hand, he was definitely persona grata with Tiridates, and if he were to take the kingship by stepping over Phraates’s corpse there might be a key Parthian governorship — such as Mesopotamia, for example — up for grabs. Especially if Damon had helped arrange for him to be the only living candidate…

That fitted, too. Oh, shit. Make that two cartloads of month-old fish.

Praxa was waiting politely. ‘You ever come across a guy by the name of Anacus?’ I asked.

‘Yes, of course. I buy from him regularly. His family have been merchants and shippers in Antioch for generations. Is Anacus another interest of yours?’

‘Yeah. You mind?’

‘Should I?’

‘It’s a big company?’

‘Very. One of the biggest in Syria.’

‘What’s he like? Anacus?’

‘As a person? An excellent businessman. In fact, I might say business is his life.’

‘Straight?’

‘Certainly. I wouldn’t deal with him if he weren’t. He drives a good bargain, but his spices are top quality. He does his own shipping, as well, and that’s as important for spices as it is for wine. Now I really must ask you, Corvinus. Natural curiosity is one thing, but we seem to have moved off pepper and on to areas a great deal more personal. Why do you want to know about Anacus?’

‘He’s pretty well-off, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. Although as I say business is his life and the money aspect is secondary. I don’t wish to seem impolite, but I’ll ask you again: what’s your interest in Titus Anacus?’

‘No particular reason. I know his son, that’s all.’

‘Nicanor?’ Praxa frowned. ‘A disappointment, that lad. Good business brain, as he would have coming from that family. But no interest, I’m afraid. Also, relations between him and his father are somewhat strained.’

‘Because of his sister’s death?’

‘Perhaps. Because of that, and for other reasons. I don’t know the details, nor do I wish to. They are none of my business. Nor, I would suggest, are they of yours.’

‘Right. Right. I’m sorry.’ Jupiter! I felt like crowing. Crispus had come up trumps after all. Now I needed space to think. ‘Thanks for your help, friend. I’ve learned a lot.’

‘About pepper?’ The old man’s tone was as dry as one of his peppercorns, and his grey eyes rested on me in a considering way. ‘Don’t mention it, Valerius Corvinus. I hope — whatever the reason for your interest may be — that I’ve managed to satisfy it.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ I said. ‘Absolutely.’

That was putting it mildly; the old guy had given me cause to be grateful in spades. If hauling the top off an unexpected can of worms was a reason for gratitude.

I left. The sun was pretty far over now. It had been a long, long day and I should be heading back to the Caelian. Perhaps a chat with Perilla was in order.

I got back just in time for dinner. Just in time: Bathyllus had brought in the starters and Perilla was already parked on the dining-room couch.

‘Marcus, where have you been?’ She lifted her chin for the welcome-home kiss. ‘You only went out for a shave. I was getting worried.’

‘Yeah, well.’ I lay down on the couch opposite and took a restorative swig from my wine-cup. ‘Things developed. You know how it is. How are you feeling,?’

‘Better, thank you. And speaking of developments there has been one on the lamprey front.’

‘What?’

‘Meton, dear, and his missing basket of lampreys. You remember?’

Oh, gods! This I could do without. I took another swallow of wine. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’m anaesthetised. Tell me.’

Perilla sniffed. ‘There’s no need to dramatise. I simply happened to bump into Titus Petillius this afternoon and I asked him if any of his household had seen anything.’ Petillius was our next-door neighbour, a seriously large guy from Veii with widespread commercial interests in the dyeing and laundering field. ‘He said that he’d check.’

‘And?’

‘One of his slaves was polishing the door brasses on the morning in question and saw the thief actually walk out carrying the basket.’

I stared at her. ‘He did what? And he didn’t stop him?’

‘No. He never even thought of it. The man was decently dressed — the slave said he was wearing a freedman’s cap — and didn’t appear unduly furtive. Obviously a professional.’

Yeah, right. And the fact that the lampreys had been nicked wouldn’t’ve come to light subsequently, either; not as far as Petillius’s household were concerned. Perilla and me got on okay with the neighbours, sure — or as well as we’d ever done, the guy being a water-drinker who thought I was a dipso — but since the abortive love affair the year before between Bathyllus and the then-not-yet-Mrs Petillius relations between the two sets of bought help had been strained, to say the least. On reconsideration we were just lucky that the lamprey-napper hadn’t had ‘thief’ embroidered on his tunic. If he had, Petillius’s slave would probably have offered to help carry the basket.