David Wishart - Parthian Shot

‘Corvinus, you are so transparent that it is not true!’ She laughed; not altogether a happy laugh, but a laugh nevertheless. The laugh died and she was suddenly serious again. ‘Well, no doubt I’m being silly and I’ll get over it. Don’t forget, though, will you, that silly is not the same as stupid. Not the same at all.’

‘No.’ I kissed her again. ‘No, I won’t forget.’

‘Good.’ She kissed me back. ‘Now perhaps you’d better have that word with Meton. Before he decides on what sauce to serve with the lampreys.’

Oh, hell. Still, there was no point in putting it off. Bite on the shield-strap, get it over. ‘Right,’ I said.

I turned round and yelled for Bathyllus.

The little bald-head soft-shoed in within ten seconds flat. He hadn’t been eavesdropping, I knew that: Bathyllus, like all the best major-domos, has the uncanny ability of materialising where he’s wanted, when he’s wanted, from whatever part of the property he’s been in before. Me, I’ve given up wondering how he does it. It’s a mystery, like how vultures conceive or how senators manage to tie their sandal-straps.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Fetch Meton in, would you, pal?’ There was no way — no way — that I was going to beard that surly bugger in his own kitchen. Even if he’d let me over the threshold.

I’d tried to sound offhand, and Bathyllus’s expression didn’t change, but I noticed his Adam’s-apple went up and then down briefly, the way someone’s might if you said to them: ‘I have grave news concerning your grandmother and a patch of spilled oil at the top of the stairs.’

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, and exited in the direction of the kitchen.

I went back to my own couch, lay down and took a large, nerve-steadying swig from my winecup. Shit! This wasn’t how it was supposed to go between the master and the bought help. Technically as the warped, evil-minded, misanthropic bugger’s owner I had literal power of life or death over him. I could sell him to a male brothel, have him flogged, sent to the mines or the quarries, thrown to his own bloody lampreys as a special dinner course himself, recycled for cat-meat. I could -

‘Yeah, what is it? Only I got a stock simmering that has to be skimmed every five minutes.’

I refocused. Not that Meton was a pretty sight to focus on. ‘Right. No problem, pal. None at all. I just wanted to talk to you about dinner tonight.’

The proto-human that was probably one of the best chefs in the city glowered, which for Meton passes as a beam. ‘The mistress told you about the lampreys, then?’ He glanced at Perilla, who’d picked up her tablets again and was studying them like Trebius Niger was the greatest thing since Aristotle. Traitor.

‘Yeah. Incidentally, where did you get them from?’

‘Special cut-price deal, bankrupt goods. A friend’s master died sudden and the old bugger had a cash-flow problem. He let me in on the ground floor.’

Oh, shit; a horrible thought struck me: lampreys were notoriously unfussy feeders. ‘This, er, master, Meton. He didn’t happen to die by drowning and/or being digested, did he?’

‘Nah. Hit by a lump of tenement down the Subura.’

‘Fine. Fine. Just checking.’

‘They’re prime fish. Practically full-grown. Real beauties.’ Meton’s eyes under their solid eyebrow matting gleamed. ‘I reckon slow-stewed in Pramnian with bay, peppercorns and a touch of lovage, then reduce the stock as a gravy. Or I might do some of them — ’

‘Meton…’

‘- sliced and pickled in juniper-berry vinegar, then set in a fennel jelly with capers. I picked up a few crayfish in the market this morning. Crayfish’d go nice on the side split and grilled au naturel with — ’

‘Meton…’

‘- a basting of cold-pressed extra-virgin oil, some rosemary and a touch of good fish-sauce. Valentian, not Tarraconian, that bloody stuff’s overrated. Then there’s — ’

‘Meton, pal, I’ll be eating out tonight.’

He stopped like he’d run into a brick wall. He didn’t say anything, he just… looked . The effect plus the hair was unnerving.

‘It’s an unexpected dinner party. I didn’t know anything about it until this morning.’

Silence. Dead silence. The colour had drained from Meton’s face. What I could see of it, anyway. Then it began to spread back up, starting from the neck and working its way north to the eyebrows. The huge hands began to twitch like matted spiders…

‘Tomorrow’s okay, though,’ I said quickly. ‘Tomorrow would be fine. Lampreys’ll keep for a day easy, right?’

The fingers were beginning to curl. The guy still hadn’t spoken, but everything visible and non-hirsute above the tunic-top was an interesting puce.

‘You could…ah…Perilla won’t be coming.’ I was babbling now, to fill the awful vacuum of silence. ‘She’d be happy with just the crayfish. Or maybe you could do just half the lampreys, the ones in wine, and we could have the cold ones in jelly tomorrow. How does that sound, pal? Nice, eh? That okay with you, Perilla?’

Her nose was still buried in the tablets so all I could see was the top of her head.

‘Yes, dear,’ she murmured. ‘That would be lovely.’

Oh, great, So much for conjugal support. Hell, I was beginning to sweat in earnest. ‘It’s a really important dinner, Meton. Really important. You see, there’re these Parthians, and…’

The brows came down like feral caterpillars.

‘Parthians?’ he said. ‘You’re eating with fucking Parthians? ’

‘Uh…yeah, as it happens. A delegation of Parthian aristos.’ Bugger; so much for confidentiality. Still, Meton was safe; you could tell Meton that the Wart had sneaked back into Rome disguised as a pork-butcher and he’d’ve asked what kind of sausages he’d brought with him. ‘They’re having a special dinner.’

‘A Parthian dinner? With Parthian food? Real Parthian food?’

‘Could be. Could be.’ I was watching him closely. The fingers had uncurled and he was almost smiling, or doing what for Meton amounted to smiling, which wasn’t scowling too hard. Maybe we were going to come through this yet. ‘I didn’t think to ask at the time.’

He looked at me with total incredulity, then shook his head. Yeah, well; people have different priorities. If you can categorise Meton as people.

‘You think there might be guinea-fowl?’ He’d taken on a sort of inward look. ‘Parthians have this stuffing for guinea-fowl with dates and pine nuts, see. I’ve heard of it, sure, but I’ve never come across a recipe.’

‘Is that so, now?’ I hadn’t seen the bugger so animated since he’d got his hands on a giraffe left over from the Games. We had recognisable grammar and syntactical cohesion, for a start. I began to breathe again. ‘Great. Look, Meton, let’s do a deal, okay? We leave the lampreys for tomorrow and I have a word with the Parthian chef, see if he can help. How about that, eh, pal?’

The simian brows knotted. ‘They’ve got this other thing, a dessert. It’s a compote of apples and pears with ginger, poppy seeds and mountain honey done in a pastry shell…’

‘Just leave it with me, pal,’ I said quickly. ‘Have we a deal or not?’

‘Dessert included?’

‘No problem.’

He stuck out a massive hairy paw, and we shook

‘Great,’ I said. ‘You’d best go and, uh, stock the skim.’

‘Skim the stock,’ Perilla murmured, eyes still fixed on Trebius Niger.

‘Crawl back under your stone, lady. Okay, Meton, that’ll be all.’

He left, walking like the marble floor was blue empyrean, and I breathed a sigh of relief: first crisis of the case over. Second, counting Perilla.