David Wishart - Parthian Shot

Isidorus’s eyes hadn’t left my face throughout. There was a long pause. Finally, he said quietly: ‘We seem to have got off the subject of Zariadres.’

‘His death fits in somewhere. It’s the “where” part that’s beating me.’

Isidorus leaned forward, placed his hands palm down on the desk and took a deep breath.

‘Corvinus, listen to me,’ he said. ‘I advise you very strongly to forget all of this. Prince Gaius is not involved.’

‘Yeah? You sure about that?’

‘Very. The same goes for Lucius Vitellius. Lucius is greedy, venal and totally self-seeking, yes, I admit all that, but — as I said before, and I stress it now — he is definitely not a fool. Nor is he a gambler. He knows exactly how far he can go, and treason, which is what you’re accusing him of, is well beyond his personal pale. Besides, and most important, he is an excellent diplomat and one of the few Romans I’ve ever met who is a match for the Parthians on their own ground. Rome needs him, I need him, and I have absolutely no intention of jeopardising our relationship just because he happens to take a few piddling backhanders from a pushy Armenian with more money than sense. As for Prince Gaius, as you say he is our future emperor, which is a prime reason for his not getting involved with Tiridates’s schemes. Tiberius, although you may not think it, is still very much in charge; he’s certainly very well aware of what goes on, in the empire and beyond, and septuagenarian or not his mind is still razor-sharp. Gaius — and as you can appreciate we’re speaking in strict confidence here — may wish things were different, but if he wants to stay in favour then he must accept the realities. In any case, he’s not as self-seeking as you might think. Gaius has his limits, and they would certainly stop short of giving the Parthian throne to a drinking friend simply because he was a drinking friend.’ He paused. ‘So you see, all things considered Tiridates has no chance whatsoever of becoming Great King.’

‘Even if he manages to murder Phraates?’

‘He won’t. Of that I am absolutely sure.’

‘Yeah? And why’s that, now?’

‘Because Phraates won’t let him. And nor will we.’ He looked down at the wax tablet on the desk. ‘Now, I’m sorry, but I’ve given you all the time I can spare. I can’t absolutely forbid you to take any further interest in this business, naturally, but do think things over carefully. Whatever you decide, remember you have my total respect, and in any case keep me informed.’

Yeah, right. I stood up. Interview over. Well, if that was the best I could do I’d have to settle for it. Still, if Isidorus had pulled down the shutters on Vitellius and Gaius — or appeared to, anyway — then I hadn’t: the theory made too much sense just to dismiss altogether. Besides, I wouldn’t trust anything Isidorus told me the length of my arm, especially if it sounded convincing. If I was wrong then great, but I needed to find out for myself.

It was time for a visit to the Three Graces.

I found the place just where Phraates had said it was, in a quiet side street about half way between the gate and the nearest entrance to the gardens. Upmarket was right: the brothel was an old, rambling property in its own grounds, with a pillared entrance at the top of a short flight of scrubbed-marble steps and a front door that gleamed with fresh paint and polished brass. I knocked and a slave in a smart lemon-yellow tunic opened up. After a day traipsing around Rome I wasn’t looking too well-groomed, but as he gave me the usual once-over you always get in these places his eyes found the purple stripe on my tunic — I don’t wear a mantle, if I can help it — and his pursed lips relaxed.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said, stepping back. ‘Welcome. If you’d care to follow me?’

Whoever had chosen the decor for the lobby had had taste. The floor mosaic was plain but good quality, and the frescos covering the side walls were a lot better than the mass-produced tat of boobs and bottoms that proprietors usually go for to put customers in the mood: a countryside scene with goats and a shepherd boy on one side, and on the other the eponymous Graces, decently clothed, with a round temple to one side. The slave led me through to the atrium: the usual pool and couches, with more tasteful frescos and a lifesize bronze just inside the door. The Graces again, this time stripped to the buff but not looking too self-conscious about it.

‘Make yourself comfortable, sir. If I could take your cloak? Thank you. Some wine?’

‘That would be great.’ I stretched out on one of the couches: tasteful again, plain wood with thick, dark-blue leather upholstery. ‘Is the mistress in?’

He folded the cloak carefully and laid it on the back of one of the other couches, then poured wine from a silver jug on a side table into one of a matching set of cups. ‘Yes, sir. Of course. Forgive me, but this is your first time at the Graces, isn’t it? Then naturally the mistress will want to know your preferences before we accommodate you.’ He handed me the full cup, then said delicately: ‘We do by the way have excellent bathing facilities, if you’d care to make use of them.’

‘No, that’s okay.’ I sipped. Lovely stuff, but interesting: not an Italian wine, or if it was it wasn’t familiar. Could be Greek — I wasn’t all that well up on Greek wines — but it reminded me of Jarhades’s Syrian.

‘Your name, sir? In complete confidence, of course.’

‘Corvinus. Valerius Corvinus.’

‘Thank you.’ He collected my cloak and laid it over his arm. ‘The mistress will be with you shortly.’

Left to myself, I looked round. Nice place, and as I say top end of the market. There were other bronzes besides the big one, plus a couple of marble statues, all good copies of Greek originals. The fountain in the pool was in the shape of a dolphin, without the silly grin or po-faced constipated look you sometimes get on these things. And though there were plenty of boobs and bums on offer among the frescos the artist had taken care over the women’s faces and the background as well.

I was no more than a quarter down the wine-cup when the mistress appeared. Like the room itself, she was definitely high-class: no silks or flashy jewellery, a simple, good-quality woollen mantle and plain emerald earrings. Late forties — although she must’ve been a looker at one time — Greek features, an eastern colouring and slightly almond-shaped eyes. I’d guess Syrian. That would explain the wine, too.

‘Valerius Corvinus,’ she said. ‘Welcome to the Graces. I’m Helen.’ There was a bronzework chair on the other side of the table. She sat in it, adjusting the folds of her impeccable Greek mantle. ‘We were recommended to you?’

Straight in, no messing, polite enough but all business. ‘I’m a colleague of Lucius Vitellius,’ I said.

‘Ah.’ She nodded, obviously satisfied. ‘About your requirements. We have — ’

‘I was interested in one girl in particular. Name of Anna. Would she be free at all?’

Had it been my imagination, or had the black-lined eyes shifted? ‘Anna,’ she said. ‘Now that is… The ex-consul suggested her?’

‘Yeah, more or less. If she’s available — ’

‘Oh, Anna is free. And if you already know what you want then it makes my job a great deal easier.’ She smiled and glanced over at the slave who’d brought me in and had followed her through. ‘Praxas, tell Anna we have a guest.’ The slave bowed and left. She turned back to me. ‘Although please don’t feel that you have to keep to your initial choice. After all, much as I respect Lucius Vitellius’s judgment choosing a partner is a very subjective thing and we pride ourselves in being able to match a gentleman to a nicety. If you’d care to take a look at some of the other girls before you finally decide, then — ’