David Wishart - Parthian Shot

What the fuck was going on?

I didn’t stay over at Agron’s after all, so it was late when I got back, well after sunset. Even so, I wasn’t the least bit tired; in fact, what with all the thinking I’d been doing over the fourteen miles when I turned into our side street off Head of Africa my brain was on overdrive. There could be just the one explanation for the terms of Isak’s contract, and for that to make any sense at all I reckoned you had to be a Parthian.

I wasn’t tired; I was just angry as hell.

I took the mare round to the stables and handed her over to a yawning Lysias to rub down and put away. Then I went inside. Bathyllus was waiting for me in the lobby, as I’d known he would be, with the jug and wine-cup.

‘That’s okay, little guy,’ I said. ‘Off you go to bed.’ I took a long swallow to clear the taste of the Ostian road from my throat. ‘The baths hot?’

‘Yes, sir. But — ’

‘Fine. Don’t bother to wake the bath slaves, I can manage to scrape myself for one evening. Oh — before you pack in see what you can scrounge for me from the kitchen. Nothing major, but if Meton’s left anything cold that’d be — ’

‘Sir, I’m sorry, but would you listen, please?’

I blinked. You might get the occasional sniff or sarky comment from Bathyllus, but the guy’s a professional to his fingertips, and real major-domos don’t interrupt the master. Especially in that tone.

‘Yeah?’ I said. ‘What is it?’

‘The mistress, sir. She’s waiting for you in the atrium.’

It wasn’t so much the words, or the news that Perilla was still up and around, that warned me as the look on his face. I shoved the cup back at him so hard the wine spilled down his tunic and made a rush for the door.

Perilla was sitting in her usual chair by the pool, a book roll in her lap. She looked up as I came in. One glance at her face was enough: my guts went cold.

‘What’s happened?’ I said.

‘I’m quite all right, Marcus.’ She set the roll down on the table beside her. ‘No damage done, none at all. In fact, they were really quite polite.’

‘What the fuck has happened?’

‘Don’t swear, it doesn’t help. And sit down, please. I can’t talk to you like this.’

Bathyllus had padded in with the refilled wine-cup. I took it without a word and lay down on my usual couch. The cold feeling in my gut intensified.

‘That’s better,’ Perilla said calmly. ‘Now. I’ve been asked to ask you to drop the case. All right?’

‘Jupiter, lady, will you just — !’

‘There. That bit’s done. Now the circumstances.’ She adjusted a fold of her mantle. Her voice was matter-of-fact enough, but I could see her fingers were trembling. ‘I took the litter to the Pollio library this afternoon. I’d left it at the foot of the steps and was going through the portico when two men stopped me and said — very politely — that they wanted a quick word concerning a very important matter. There didn’t — ’

‘What kind of men?’

‘Marcus, dear, if you’re going to interrupt with questions we’ll never get finished. Now just let me speak, will you?’ I subsided. ‘They were decently dressed and, as I say, politely spoken, so there didn’t seem any reason to refuse. I sent my maid on ahead and asked them what they wanted; to which they replied with the message I’ve just given you.’

Holy gods! ‘They say who sent them?’

‘No. I asked, of course, but they simply ignored the question and repeated the message. That, more or less, was all that happened. They left me standing and walked away.’

I knew obfuscation when I met it, and the lady was a born obfusticator. ‘“More or less” meaning what?’

‘Just what it says.’ Perilla looked down at her hands. I looked at them too. The fingers were locked tightly together. ‘I was…quite upset at the time, and I honestly can’t recall any other details. They were, however, most insistent.’

‘They threatened you?’

‘Not as such, no, but — ’

That ‘but’ was enough. I got to my feet, setting the wine-cup down. ‘Bathyllus!’ I snapped. ‘Study! Now!’

He was at my heels all the way. I opened the door, lifted the lid of the chest in the corner and took out the long cavalry sword I keep in there under wraps. Bathyllus’s eyes widened.

‘Sir, I don’t think — ’ he began.

‘Shut up.’ I checked the edge with my thumb. ‘Two things. One, I need an address for that fucking Iberian Mithradates. And don’t tell me you don’t know where he lives, sunshine, because a) you know where to find anyone who’s anyone in Rome and b) even if you didn’t originally you keep a watching brief on the master’s concerns and you would’ve made a point of finding it out anyway just in case. Right? So give.’

Bathyllus swallowed. ‘Ah…on the Esquiline, sir, near the southern entrance to the Lamian Gardens. The house with the blue-painted iron gates.’

‘Fine. Got you. Second, tell Lysias I need a horse saddled. Not the mare, she’s done her whack for today, but anything that’ll move faster than a walk. Considerably faster, for preference.’

‘Yes, sir.’ He dithered. ‘Sir, I really wouldn’t advise — ’

‘Great. Taken on board. Now just do it, okay?’

‘Yes, sir. Very well.’ He left.

Perilla was waiting for me outside the door. ‘Marcus — ’ she began.

‘Don’t say it. Don’t even think about saying it.’ I was still wearing my travelling cloak. The sword didn’t have a scabbard, but I stuck it through my tunic belt and arranged the cloak to hide it: for a private citizen, carrying a sword is strictly illegal in Rome, and if I fell foul of the Watch purple stripe or not I was in serious trouble. They wouldn’t have a hope in hell of catching me, mind, but that was by the way.

‘You’re going to Mithradates’s, aren’t you?’ Perilla said.

‘Yes. And if the bugger isn’t behind this I’ll eat my fucking sandals, so don’t try to stop me.’

‘I wasn’t going to, dear.’

I’d been on the point of heading past her for the door. I paused. ‘What?’

‘If you’re convinced he sent the men then you’re absolutely correct.’ The lady was speaking quietly, but there was steel in her voice. ‘I don’t like being intimidated either.’

Hey! I grinned and kissed her. When the chips are down, Perilla’s no fragile pushover herself. ‘Good,’ I said. ‘That makes things much easier.’

‘Just leave the sword behind.’

‘Now look — ’

‘No. You look. If you take it you may have to use it, and under the circumstances the consequences don’t bear thinking about.’ She held out her hand.

‘But — ’

‘Marcus! Please!’

Shit. In my present mood three feet of sharpened iron was not something I wanted to give up. All the same, I could see that she was right. Killing Mithradates, or even just seriously wounding him, could get me exile at the very least. And on my side I couldn’t prove a thing. I pulled the sword back out and handed it over.

‘Thank you,’ she said; just that. Then she reached up and kissed me. ‘Off you go. Good luck.’

I left her and headed for the stables.

I found the place no bother: a swanky property half-way to a full-fledged urban villa. There were plenty of lights, including torches along the outside wall itself and three or four litters with their attendants squatting in a pool of torchlight nearby killing time with a dice match. They glanced at me with the slaves’ usual lack of interest as I dismounted, fastened the horse’s reins to the hitching-ring and banged on the door with the flat of my hand.

Eventually, the doorman opened up.