David Wishart - Parthian Shot

So. Home and a consultation with Perilla. After that and a bit of judicious thought if I did still feel like saying to hell with the consequences and punching the bastard’s lights out I could do it just as well first thing the next morning. I turned off the main drag that would’ve taken me through the Subura and headed down towards the Caelian.

Perilla was out when I got back — according to Bathyllus, a long-standing invitation to one of her literary pals’ cake-and-honey-wine klatshes — so I took the opportunity of shutting myself up in the study and spending the hours before dinner on the postponed household accounts. Like it or not, the case was effectively over; the only remaining question was how and when I handed in my final report, and I doubted that, given the circumstances, anyone would be exactly screaming for that. Besides, if I was going to be in a bad mood anyway I might as well make a proper job of things

Proper job was right: the air in the study was pretty blue when Bathyllus shoved his nose round the door.

‘It’s the consular, sir,’ he said. ‘Lucius Vitellius. Shall I bring him in?’

Joy in the morning! That’s where leading a decent life gets you. Well, it wasn’t my fault. I’d avoided the punch-up with Isidorus, but if the gods wanted to hand me Lucius Vitellius on a plate as a reward then I could only be humbly thankful and take what I was given. I grinned and moved the abacus and tablets to one side.

‘You do that,’ I said. ‘Oh, and Bathyllus?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘If you should happen to hear any screaming or heavy thumping noises while we’re in conference just ignore them, okay?’

‘Ah…yes, sir.’ He withdrew.

I checked the desk and allowed myself a little fantasising. Paper-knife: too extreme, and Bathyllus would complain about the blood stains on the upholstery. Small hunting-dog bronze: Perilla had given me that, and if the bugger’s head left a dent she would not be happy. Ink bottle: suitably shaped, cheap and easily replaceable, difficult to remove in rectal terms. Perfect…

Vitellius came in belly-first and beaming. ‘Corvinus! Glad I was able to catch you! We’re — ’

‘You bastard,’ I said quietly. ‘You and Isidorus both.’

‘Oh, come now! I know you’re upset, boy, but all the same — ’

‘Sit!’

He sat; the beam had disappeared. Now he was looking nervous, as he had every right to be: after today’s events plus a couple of hours on the accounts I wasn’t exactly my easy-going tolerant self. ‘I understand from Isidorus that you’ve found out about — ’

‘Anna’s been in touch already, has she? Fine.’ I’d picked up the ink bottle and was hefting it idly. His piggy eyes locked onto it. ‘Okay. Just to get things clear: I know Zariadres was a traitor and that Peucestas killed him on Phraates’s instructions. I know that Anna told Isidorus the same night it happened. What I don’t know — and let’s start with this, shall we? — is why the slimy little rat let me waste my time chasing around trying to solve a mystery that didn’t exist.’

Vitellius cleared his throat. ‘Isidorus didn’t know about Zariadres,’ he said. I caught the ink bottle on its way down and leaned forward. He yelped; the chair creaked and its wooden legs scraped the floor as he pushed it back. ‘Oh, he knew about the murder, but not that the bugger was working for Artabanus. Not until Phraates told him so two days ago.’

‘Two days. Just before your pals accosted my wife outside the Pollio library.’

‘That was a mistake.’

‘Fucking right it was!’

‘Come on, Corvinus! When we called you in we did it in good faith. We didn’t know who’d attacked the prince’s litter, Zariadres was still alive and as far as we knew he was genuine. If you have to blame someone blame Phraates. What else could Isidorus do?’

‘Tell me the simple truth when he knew it himself, for a start.’

‘That’s not how these things work. Zariadres’s death was — is — politically sensitive. You’re not cleared at that level. In fact, Anna had no right to — ’

‘Anna didn’t tell me anything I hadn’t worked out for myself. You just remember that. And whore or not she’s a lot more honest than you pair of charmers.’ I leaned back. He breathed a small sigh of relief. ‘Okay. That’s Zariadres. Let’s move on to Prince Gaius.’ The relief disappeared. ‘Isidorus was bullshitting me again, wasn’t he? I was right: Gaius is playing his own game, or trying to. He wants Phraates discredited or dead or both and Tiridates crowned as Great King. Now don’t even think of denying it, sunshine, because I’ll laugh in your face.’

Vitellius was looking grey.

‘Corvinus, I can’t — ’

‘Of course you can’t. I don’t expect you to.’ I put the ink bottle down: it had been a good fantasy while it lasted. ‘Still, I’ll make you a little bet. The bet is that whatever Isidorus says to the contrary — and no doubt he believes it, because devious bugger or not he’s the emperor’s man — Phraates won’t last five minutes as Great King. Oh, sure, he’ll start out crowned because that’s what Tiberius wants, but not long after he’ll hand in his soup bowl, probably from natural causes and well on the Parthian side of the border. And Prince Tiridates will take over. Now you want to take me up on that? After all, as Syrian governor you’ll be heading the expedition. If anyone can keep the old guy breathing you can.’

If Vitellius had been grey before now he was the colour of a month-old dishrag. ‘That’s nonsense,’ he said. ‘Also, I’m insulted that you can even think that I would — ’

‘Fine.’ I shrugged; there wasn’t anything I could do about it, and maybe it was for the best in the long run, but the whole boiling just made me sick to my stomach. Gaius would be emperor soon in any case, and if a slime-ball like Vitellius thought he could get in on the ground floor by switching loyalties before the Wart was dead that was between him and his own conscience. ‘So no bet, right?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Last point. Nothing very important, but it was just an idea I had about the Graces. You go there a lot, don’t you? And you recommend it to friends?’

‘Yes. So?’

‘It just occurred to me, from what Anna carefully didn’t say. The owner-manager’s from Palmyra. That’s not Parthia, sure, but it’s east and outwith the Roman borders. I just wondered considering that Isidorus told me categorically that there were no Parthian agents in Rome and that everything else he said was a pack of lies if Helen could be working for Artabanus herself.’

Silence. ‘Corvinus, if you’re implying that I — ’

I held up a hand. ‘Uh-uh. No sweat. You may be conning Isidorus where Gaius is concerned but you’re no traitor to Rome. You haven’t the guts. He told me that, and there I believe him.’ Vitellius frowned, but he said nothing. ‘Still, if the Graces is a sort of clearing house for information it’d be handy having one of your own people in place there, wouldn’t it? Plus the fact that you could slip the Parthians a few googlies of your own on a regular basis and leave them thinking the dope was genuine. Now how about that for a theory?’

‘It’s…interesting.’

‘Yeah. That’s what I thought. Only if it’s true then maybe you and your boss might like to know I was put on to the place by your future Great King.’

‘What?’

He’d gone straight from dishrag-grey to goggling-purple. Yeah, well, it hadn’t been quite in the ink bottle league, but the look on his face had been worth the effort. Telling devious sods that they’ve been sussed and shafted by the opposition and watching the result is one of life’s more satisfying experiences. And after the way the bastards had treated me it was good to pull back a couple of consolation points.