David Wishart - Parthian Shot

‘Then who was responsible?’

‘Who knows?’

Bland as hell, and ambiguous enough for a pythoness, although I couldn’t really say I’d been expecting anything else. I felt my temper slipping again. ‘This isn’t a game,’ I said.

‘You think not? Well, perhaps that’s another difference between your Roman view and mine. I don’t say it’s not a serious game; not all games are frivolous or harmless. But that’s no reason not to enjoy them.’

‘I doubt if Isidorus would agree with you. He’s — ’

‘Oh, yes he would.’ Phraates reached for a slice of melon. ‘Isidorus plays the game very well indeed, most of the time. And he enjoys it just as much as I do.’

Bugger; I was getting tired of this. ‘Look, let’s get this straight. Me, I don’t play games, right, nothing more complicated than dice or knucklebones, anyway, and as far as I’m concerned both of you can play this one until you go blind or hell freezes. All I want to do is find out who killed Zariadres and why, hand in my report and get shot of the whole fucking business. Full stop, draw the line and roll up the book. You get me?’

Phraates had set the slice of melon on his plate. Carefully, his eyes on what he was doing, he separated the red flesh from the rind and, with the point of his knife, began removing the black seeds. I could hear distinctly — I hadn’t been conscious of it since the guy had come in — the drip of water from the water-clock in the corner.

Finally, he raised his eyes. ‘Very well, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘I’m going to break my own rule. Just a little, you understand, and if you want a reason then I’ll cite the incident involving your wife, which I most certainly do not approve of. In return you will ask no questions. Agreed?’

I nodded; the back of my neck was prickling. ‘Agreed.’

‘Good. You will find, then, in a small side-street between the Esquiline Gate and Maecenas Gardens, a brothel called the Three Graces. The owner-manager is a woman by the name of Helen and the girl you want to talk to is Anna. I strongly suggest, for reasons you’ll appreciate later, that you present yourself as an ordinary paying customer. If you need to prove credibility and credit, which you will because the Graces is a most exclusive establishment, then mention that you’re a friend of Lucius Vitellius. No’ — he held up a hand — ‘No questions, remember, or comments. There; that’s all I intend giving you. Now let’s drop the subject and have breakfast properly, shall we? If you’re not hungry I am.’

Yeah, well, a bargain was a bargain: I clamped my lips together and, brain in overdrive, forced myself to reach for the jug of fruit juice.

Lucius Vitellius, eh?

Hmm.

It was barely mid-morning when I left the villa and made my way back to the Agrippan Bridge. I was thinking hard.

I didn’t know what the hell connection Phraates’s brothel had with things, although finding that out was my main priority. Still, the fact that Vitellius’s name had cropped up again — and Phraates had dropped it deliberately — couldn’t be a coincidence. We were back with the unholy alliance between Vitellius, Mithradates and Tiridates, plus Damon as facilitator and the grey eminence of Prince Gaius lurking in the wings. That all fitted. It meshed especially with what Mithradates had said about me being out of my depth. If I was right — and at this stage I’d bet a rotten sardine against Meton’s missing basket of lampreys that I was — there was some pretty drastic skulduggery going on at very high levels. Phraates didn’t seem too worried, mind, which on the surface was surprising because in the last analysis the purpose of the conspiracy had to be to put him in an urn before his time, but then I suspected that the cunning old bugger had more survival capability than a Suburan alley-cat. Even so -

I stopped. Shit, if Vitellius was involved then it would clear up another problem too. As far as the guys at the Pollio library were concerned, I’d scratched — for different reasons — both Mithradates and Phraates from the suspect list. How about Vitellius? For someone in his position, organising an intercept would be easy-peasy, and his reasons for wanting me off the case would be the same as his Iberian pal’s. Added to which, a slime-ball like Vitellius wouldn’t have any scruples in the arm-twisting department; at least, as far as the threat went. That qualification was important. Mithradates, he was more the straightforward type: I’d seen for myself that his idea of discouragement was to take the offending punter down an alleyway and kick his lights out. Vitellius would be more subtle, and more nasty…

Yeah, right. If Lucius Vitellius was responsible, and I ever managed to prove it, then consular or no I’d haul the fat bastard’s guts out from between his teeth.

I was level with the Agrippan Bridge now. I crossed over — it was a lot quieter than the Sublician would be, this time of day — and made my way through the Aesculetum in the direction of Marcellus Theatre and the city centre. The Palatine wasn’t exactly on the way to Maecenas Gardens and the Esquiline Gate, but while I had the chance I’d drop in on Isidorus. After all, technically the job was half over: I’d found out who’d attacked the prince’s litter and why, which was all that had been involved originally; the fact that I still had no idea about the whys and wherefores of Zariadres’s death was a separate issue. Also, if Phraates hadn’t been shooting the breeze about Isidorus knowing he was responsible for the attack already I had some pretty important questions to ask Rome’s head Parthia-watcher, preferably while my thumbs were digging into the bastard’s windpipe. That he’d have an explanation I didn’t doubt: these diplomatic buggers always do. All the same, I wanted to be looking him in the eye when he gave me it. Knowing he was telling porkies would be just as interesting as hearing the truth.

It was a long, hard slog; the day before was finally catching up on me, and I still had a long way to go to the Esquiline. I took a break and three cups of wine in a wineshop at the Velabrum end of Tuscan Street before tackling the steps up to the Germalus, the Palatine proper and the House of Augustus. The front-man secretary — Quintus, I remembered — passed me in without a murmur.

‘Ah, Corvinus.’ Isidorus was behind his desk as usual, and looking genial. I wondered if he ever changed that threadbare tunic, but maybe he had several in the same condition. ‘How are you? You had a pleasant festival?’

‘Yeah.’ I nodded to the gopher as he closed the door behind me, then walked over to the guest chair, pulled it up and sat. ‘Phraates’s litter was attacked by a Jewish gang from Ostia led by a guy called Isak. The prince picked up the tab for the operation himself. Now tell me you didn’t know either of those things and we’ll take it from there.’

Isidorus didn’t blink, but his grey eyes lost their focus just for an instant and the geniality disappeared. ‘Very well,’ he said evenly. ‘I will. I didn’t know.’

Right. And I was Caesar’s grandmother. ‘You’re lying,’ I said. ‘The only question in my mind is when you found out, before or after you called me in.’

Isidorus pulled at his ear; puzzled, not angry, and that was significant. If you call a man a liar to his face you expect a stronger reaction than puzzlement. ‘I’m afraid you’re making no sense,’ he said. ‘Why, if I already knew the details, would I invite you to help discover them?’

‘Seach me. But things’re so twisted around in this whole business that the question stands.’

There was another long silence. Finally, he said: ‘All right. I had no idea as to the identity of the gang, but yes, I did know that Phraates had organised the attack, and why. In mitigation I should say that I didn’t have the information myself until two days ago, or not in any confirmed form, at least. I give you my word on that.’