David Wishart - Parthian Shot

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I understand. Lippillus said the same.’

‘Fine. Just so’s you don’t come whining to me if you end up in an alley with a knife between your ribs. And put just one foot wrong and that’s a definite possibility.’

Cheery bugger, this; all the same, if he said it was dangerous then I’d be a fool to think otherwise, and Lippillus’s unsolicited warning put the cap on it. I was glad Perilla hadn’t been up and around when he’d called that morning; in her present jumpy mood the lady would’ve had kittens. ‘So,’ I said. ‘How do I get to talk to him?’

‘You’re sure you want to? Hundred-percent, cast-iron sure?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Fine.’ He shifted on the bench. ‘Only you play it exactly as I tell you, right? Your best bet’s a wineshop near the old boatyard, name of Mamma Scylla’s. I can’t guarantee he’ll be there, mind, or if he is that he’ll talk to you, but that’s your worry. Mention my name. Like I say, Isak’s on the other side of the fence but we know each other and the respect goes both ways. Not that that’ll help if he decides he doesn’t like you or if you choose to play silly buggers, but it’ll at least give you a fair chance of a hearing. Got me?’

‘Got you.’

‘One other thing. Suggest — just suggest — that this is even slightly official and you may as well slit your own throat and save Isak’s boys the trouble of doing it for you, because they won’t think even once about it let alone twice. Right?’

‘Right.’ Jupiter in a bucket, I must be crazy!

‘Good.’ He levered his huge bulk off the bench. ‘Now. I have to be getting on. You know where the old boatyard is? Down near the harbour to the left at the end of a line of granaries.’

‘I’ll find it.’

‘You’ll see the slipway clear enough, two or three hundred yards along the front. Head for that. If you get lost, which you won’t, ask for the boatyard rather than Mamma Scylla’s. Questions in that direction tend not to be too well-received, especially if the person asking them’s a Roman purple-striper. Best of all, just don’t ask anyone anything, find it yourself. Mamma Scylla’s is the lean-to next the horse trough, fifty yards or so on the far side.’ He held out his hand. ‘It was nice meeting you. I hope I have the pleasure again in future.’

Shit; maybe I should just nip in to the undertaker’s next door and make my arrangements now. Well, I was committed, but I didn’t like the sound of this at all.

‘Same here, pal,’ I said.

We shook. ‘Tell Lippillus I was asking for him.’

I could see, once I left the comparatively upmarket area of the harbour, what Lanuvinius had meant about not asking help from the locals: if this’d been the City, the average specimen would’ve been definitely of the corn-dole variety, with signs of even lower social predilections like a bored-through ear or a brand across the cheek. Covering the last stretch between the harbour and the old boatyard was no joke; I could feel eyes on me all the way, and the hairs on the back of my neck were so stiff I could hear them rasp against the edge of my cloak. I had a knife, sure, tucked away at the side of my tunic belt, but I wasn’t fool enough to think it gave all that much of an edge. If for reasons of their own the buggers who were eyeing me wanted me dead, then I was dead, no argument. There were at least fifty of them to every one of me, for a start.

Lanuvinius’s directions had been spot-on: I saw the wineshop just where he said it would be, beyond the old slipway — abandoned now; they don’t build ships of any size at Ostia any more, at least this close to the Tiber mouth — and next to a crudely-made stone horse trough.

There was no point in faffing around. I took a deep breath, pushed the door open and went in.

Crowded though it was, when I crossed the threshold you could’ve heard a mouse fart. There were maybe a dozen punters sitting at the tables and propped against the bar. That made two dozen eyes that were zeroed in on me and the purple stripe on my tunic. Or maybe a few less, because a fair sprinkling of the punters weren’t fully equipped in the optical department.

That included the barwoman. At least, I assumed she was a woman, from the length of her hair and what she was wearing. Mamma Scylla was right. Given the choice between passing within her grabbing range or Charybdis’s I’d’ve had to think carefully myself. And even with two eyes she’d be no beauty; not if you didn’t like your women built on the scale of arena chasers with a serious attitude problem.

‘What do you want, son?’ she said. There were a few snickers, but most of the punters just carried on staring, which was worse.

‘A cup of wine’d be perfect,’ I said. There was no board in evidence, and now wasn’t the time to quibble over details. I didn’t think ordering half a jug would be good policy, either. No point being extravagant when you’re not absolutely certain you’ll have the time to finish the stuff. Or the throat to pour it down.

Still looking at me, she reached for the jug on the counter and poured into an empty cup.

‘That’ll be two coppers.’

Well, I couldn’t complain about her prices. I walked over to the bar like I was walking on eggshells, reaching into my pouch as I went and finding the coins by touch. The snickers died down. Now there was only silence. She took the coppers and put them into a bag at her belt. Fighting the urge not to look left or right, or behind me for preference, I took a sip. The wine wasn’t bad; not bad at all. Not Alban, sure, but a long way from Gallic rotgut. ‘I’m looking for a guy named Isak,’ I said. ‘He here at all?’

If I’d thought the place was quiet before, I had the impression now that my ears had seized up altogether. Forget the mouse; you could’ve heard a farting gnat. The hairs on my neck and scalp went into overdrive.

‘He might be,’ said a man to my left.

I turned slowly, cup raised. The guy was at least six-three, built like the business end of a trireme, and smiling was something he wasn’t doing. I had the impression of oil, teeth, black tight-curled hair, olive skin and hard, hard muscle. Also, that the punters in the immediate vicinity had drawn back like they might when a cat at the Games had the bolt slipped on its cage.

‘You’re Isak?’ I said.

He didn’t blink. I noticed that his hands, both resting on the counter, were the size of plates. The backs weren’t so much covered with hair as fur. ‘That’s me. What’s your name and who sent you?’

‘Marcus Corvinus. The Watch-commander. Publius Lanuvinius.’

Pause. ‘You a friend of his?’

‘He told me to use his name. We’re not in the same business, if that’s what you mean.’

‘So what is your business?’

‘I need to talk to you. Just that.’

‘You’re talking. How long it’ll last is another matter.’ Someone on my other side sniggered. I didn’t turn round, but he glanced over my shoulder and the guy clammed up. The silence lengthened. ‘Talk about what?’

This was the tricky part. Even so, a lie wouldn’t get me anywhere. ‘Word is, you and your family hit a litter party some time back in the City. On the Esquiline,’ I said. Somewhere behind me, a cup was set down and a throat was cleared. Isak’s eyes didn’t shift. ‘I’ve got a…call it an interest in that. Not an official one. I told you, I’m not in that line. I just have a few questions that only you can answer. Private questions.’

‘Private questions.’ The eyes still hadn’t left my face. ‘You say Lanuvinius sent you? So he knows what these “private questions” are?’

‘No. I didn’t tell him. They’re my business, no one else’s.’ I sipped the wine and tried to make it look casual. ‘Just like the answers would be.’