David Wishart - Parthian Shot

‘Right.’ Vitellius glanced through the curtains, and my eyes followed his: we were past the top of Scaurus Incline now and onto the crest of the Palatine proper. ‘Two in particular. Tiridates and Mithradates. Tiridates is Phraates’s nephew.’

‘He’s a Parthian prince?’

‘Damn right. He knows it, too. Cocky young bastard. Like Phraates he’s been here since he was a kid, which isn’t that long. And as you’ll no doubt find out he doesn’t like his uncle at all.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Interesting. ‘So who’s Mithradates? Another Parthian?’

‘No. He’s the younger brother of the Iberian king.’

Shit, I wished I could get my head round this foreign geography. I’d enough trouble with our variety. ‘Okay, tell me,’ I said. ‘Where the hell’s Iberia?’

‘In the Caucasus, to the north of Armenia. The kingdom’s got Greek connections, or so they claim.’

‘What’s he doing in Rome?’

‘Keeping out of his brother’s way. They hate each other’s guts.’

‘Is that so, now?’ I wasn’t unduly surprised: hating relatives’ guts seemed to be endemic in the eastern world. ‘So why the invite, if he’s not a Parthian?’

‘You heard of Armenia?’

‘Of course I’ve heard of bloody — !’

‘Fine. Then you’ll know that whoever holds Armenia holds the key to Parthia. That’s why it’s changed hands more often in the last hundred years than a whore at a glee club party. Currently, the kingship’s vacant. Artabanus has sent his son to take it over, but we can’t have that. The emperor’s on the point of backing Mithradates as king, with his brother’s active support because that way he’s rid of the sod. And a future king of Armenia is worth a Parthian dinner ticket, right?’ Vitellius scowled. ‘Look, Corvinus, this isn’t for general consumption, so keep your bloody lip buttoned. Understand?’

I didn’t bother to answer. Gods above! Talk about complexities! And I was definitely moving in high political circles here. It’s not often you’re invited to dinner with not one but two potential kings. Plus the aristocratic extras.

Vitellius was looking out of the window. ‘Incidentally,’ he said, ‘just remember that you’re in the diplomatic corps. Temporarily, but you follow the ground rules all the same. Play the smartass and I’ll have your balls. Agreed?’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’ll do my best.’

‘You’ll bloody well do better than that, boy, if you know what’s good for you. And you can start now, because we’ve arrived.’

I got my first taste of what I was in for as soon as the door slave opened up and we crossed the threshold. Normally, the vestibule of a house is pretty bare, with maybe some lamps on a portable stand so the evening guest can take in the host’s pricey floor mosaic and possibly a mural or two without squinting and avoid the embarrassment of groping his way through to the atrium. I’d never actually walked on a carpet before: you get them in Rome, sure, but mats aside they’re strictly wall decoration, and not that common, either. This one was big, covering practically the whole floor, and your feet just sank into it: a sort of woollen mosaic with a hunting scene worked into the pattern. In the wall-niche to one side was a perfume-burner which filled the lobby with what I’d reckon was the equivalent of several gold pieces-worth of very expensive smells.

‘Nice,’ I said to Vitellius. He didn’t bother to answer, just gave me a nasty look. Yeah, well: maybe diplomats on the job aren’t supposed to notice these things.

The door slave took our cloaks and outside sandals. I’d expected him to be locally-grown bought help, part of the furniture and fittings that came with the house, but he was some sort of easterner. Obviously the delegation had brought their own staff.

‘Drinks are being served in the atrium, sirs,’ he murmured in Greek. ‘If you’d care to go on through.’

We did; and if the lobby had been an eye-opener, the atrium was a real gob-smacker. Government guest-houses are generally pretty bare places, not least because statues and the more portable items of furniture tend to disappear pretty quickly into some of the rougher guests’ diplomatic bags and don’t get replaced. Neither Isidorus nor Vitellius had told me how the delegation had travelled to Rome, but judging by the amount and appearance of the furniture and fittings my guess would be they’d hired an Egyptian grain barge. ‘Travel fast, travel light’ obviously wasn’t a Parthian maxim; nor, for that matter, was ‘You can’t take it with you’. From the looks of things, these Parthian buggers had done just that, and they hadn’t skimped themselves, either. There were more carpets, on the walls too, this time; more perfume-burners; and the number of lamps burning would’ve powered Alexandria’s lighthouse.

‘Stop gaping, you fool!’ Vitellius muttered as we crossed the threshold. ‘Remember, you’re a fucking Roman diplomat!’

‘Ah…right. Right.’

The atrium was full, and just glancing round I could see that I’d been wrong about Vitellius’s mantle. If anything, he was underdressed. Most of the other men in the room — there weren’t any women — had on long, brightly-coloured embroidered tunics over silk trousers. Their beards — most of them were bearded — were curled and glistened with what was probably perfumed oil. What with that, the burners and the heat from the oil lamps I reckoned if I could get through the evening without keeling over I’d be one step ahead of the game.

‘Ah, Lucius Vitellius! Welcome, my dear! Welcome!’

One of the beardies had detached himself from a nearby group and was homing in on us like a gilded barge. Before I knew quite what was happening he’d grabbed Vitellius by the shoulders and planted a smacker on each of his pendulous jowls, then a third full on the mouth. I winced, but Vitellius didn’t seem fazed at all. Yeah, well: they do things different beyond the Orontes. Mind you, if he’d tried it in the Subura he’d’ve got himself decked.

‘Good evening, Zariadres,’ Vitellius said. Right; so this was the delegation leader, the smoothie from Ctesiphon. ‘You’re well, I trust. May I introduce Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus?’

Zariadres turned to me with a smile. I stuck out my hand quickly: diplomacy has its limits. We shook. His hand was soft, but not flabby: there was a strong grip there, and the eyes were sharp as knives. Right, then; scrub first impressions.

I hadn’t fazed him, either. Smoothie or not, I reckoned Zariadres could keep up with the best of them.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Your aide, Vitellius. Prince Phraates did mention that you’d be bringing him.’ We were speaking Greek, of course, but I’d expected that, and after a few years in Athens it was no problem. Zariadres’s was standard Ionian: more liquid than the Athenian version, but completely fluent. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Valerius Corvinus.’

‘Likewise.’

Without turning, Zariadres snapped his fingers. A slave — another easterner — materialised with a wine tray. Jupiter! They must even’ve brought the ordinary house slaves with them!

‘Help yourselves to a drink and join us. We have a few minutes before dinner.’

I took a glass — they were Syrian, a matching set, and they must’ve cost a bomb — and sniffed the contents while Vitellius glared at me. In that company I was half-expecting date wine or some aberration with honey in it, but the stuff was Caecuban. Not quite up to Isidorus’s imperial standard, but pretty good all the same. I sipped appreciatively.

The other guys in the group Zariadres had left — there were two of them — had turned to us politely. The first was an old man in his late sixties, bearded, wearing a fetching embroidered tunic with a broad belt that dripped rubies and emeralds and made even Zariadres’s getup look dowdy. His hair and beard were oiled and curled, and he wore a headband with a single huge pearl at the front. That last was the giveaway. This just had to be Phraates. Only royals were allowed the diadem — even I knew that — and as prospective Great King the guy was obviously making a statement.