‘No.’
Her face lifted. ‘Then you’re a fool!’
She meant it, too. ‘Maybe I am, at that.’
There wasn’t much more to be said.
She pulled away and turned her back. ‘There was a message for you. When you were out.’
‘Yeah?’
‘From Isidorus. You were right. He’s checked with the guard, and the man admitted that he was sheltering during the worst of the storm under a tree out of sight of the front door.’
‘Good. Good.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’
Hell.
11.
I broke my habit and took the carriage to the Pincian. I hate litters, sure – if Perilla didn’t use the thing I’d get rid of ours and pension off the lardballs we used as bearers – but carriages are okay. You can think in a carriage. Besides, it was cushioned, even after a long, hot bath and a rub I still hurt like hell, and the Happy Bachelors was well out in the sticks, beyond Lucullus Gardens. It’d have to’ve been, in the old days; in any sort of moral climate short of the torrid and tropical the Bachelors would’ve been raided and closed down long before the authorities actually blew the whistle, if it hadn’t been too far from the centre for the element of surprise to work; plus the fact that a raid on any night you cared to mention would’ve netted a fair percentage of Rome’s great and good, who would no doubt have taken serious umbrage. Any local Watch Commander silly enough to try it on without very specific orders from above would’ve found himself so far up shit creek that even a paddle wouldn’t’ve helped.
That was in the old days. What the place was like now, in its new guise of the Acanthus Leaf, I didn’t know. I got Lysias the coachman to drop me at the door and told him and the strongarm boys who were acting as escort torchbearers to wait for me.
I knocked, and the spy-hatch slid open. Well, that much hadn’t changed, anyway.
‘Yes, sir?’ the slave behind it said.
‘Just let me in, sunshine.’
‘Are you a member, sir?’
‘No, but –’
‘Temporary membership is one gold piece. There is also an entrance fee of fifty silver pieces.’
Hell. ‘Look, I just want to talk to a guy by the name of Nicanor. If he’s in there maybe you can tell him that -’
The spy-hole snapped shut. Bugger, this looked like costing me an arm and a leg. I would kill Crispus. I knocked again. The spy-hole slid open.
‘Okay, pal, you win.’ I fumbled in my belt-pouch and handed over the money: one and a half big ones. ‘Here you are. Now open up.’
He did, and I got an eyeful of the surroundings.
The last time I’d been through this door with Perilla the door-slave had been wearing a frizzed gilded wig and a tutu. This guy looked reassuringly normal. Seriously underdressed and definitely on the effete side, sure, but normal. Yeah, well; judging by first impressions I’d bet that different name or not the proclivities of the Bachelors’ clientele hadn’t changed, anyway.
Nor had the decor. It was still way-OTT, with enough marble veneer and gilt to leave the most nouveau of nouveax-riches Market Square execs crying their little eyes out in envy. There were more bronzes scattered around the hallway than you could shake a stick at: Adonises, Harmodius-and-Aristogeitons, Olympic athletes, you name it, so long as it was young, male, well-muscled and stripped for action. The murals...
I took one look at the murals and decided I didn’t even want to see them. The old Bachelors had been tame in comparison.
This was the place after a raid?
‘Now, sir.’ The door-slave was smiling at me. Some would-be aesthete had gilded his teeth and gums. ‘Were you wanting some company, or had you made your own arrangements? We have –’
‘That’s okay, pal,’ I said quickly. ‘No company. Like I told you, I’m looking for a guy called Nicanor. He around this evening?’
I was keeping my fingers crossed. I didn’t know how long temporary membership lasted, but half a gold piece was a pretty stiff entrance fee on its own and I didn’t fancy paying it more than once.
‘He’s in the lounge, sir. Was he expecting you?’
‘No. He, ah, doesn’t know me. But we’ve got a mutual fr–’ I stopped myself. ‘Acquaintance.’
‘A club member? What would the gentleman’s name be, sir?’
‘Just give him mine, sunshine. It’s Corvinus. Marcus Valerius Corvinus.’
‘Very well. I’ll tell him that you’re here.’ He shimmered off between a set of Egyptian columns painted and gilded within an inch of their lives. Well, I couldn’t complain about the standard of service. Given that the guy was only wearing a spangled cache-sexe and diamond nipple-covers he could’ve buttled with the best of them. Jupiter knew where he’d put the entrance money. I twiddled my thumbs and tried not to look at the murals.
He was back in two minutes. ‘If you’d care to follow me,’ he said.
The lounge was just that: a big room with a pool and fountain in the centre round which couches and tables had been placed at discreet intervals. Half-hidden by potted plants, a Greek lyre-player was going through his Lydian-mode repertoire, and the air was delicately perfumed with the scent of roses. Most of the couches were occupied, doubly so. The door-slave pointed me towards a couch in the corner with only a single occupant. The youngster – he couldn’t’ve been any more than very early twenties, max – was staring at me from over the lip of his wine cup, and even from this distance I could see he was in the process of getting quietly stewed.
‘Would you care for a drink, sir?’ The door-slave murmured.
‘Hmm?’
‘A drink. The first is complimentary, of course.’
‘Uh...yeah.’ The stare above the wine cup was so unblinkingly hostile it was beginning to unnerve me. ‘You have any Caecuban?’
‘Naturally, sir. Which year?’
Oh, shit! ‘Look, just bring me a very large belt of the stuff, okay, pal? Chilled, if possible, but I’m not fussy.’
He sniffed and left. I had the distinct impression my street-cred with the staff had sunk as close to zero as made no difference, but some thorns on the primrose path of life you can live with. I went over to the youngster’s couch, trying not to look at what was going on either side of me; not that any of the occupants seemed concerned.
‘Ah...the name’s Corvinus,’ I said. ‘Valerius Corvinus.’
‘So Myron told me.’ He had an accent you could’ve hammered nails into, and it made the aggressive attitude even more noticeable. ‘What happened to your face?’
‘I test boxing gloves for a living.’
Not a twitch; he stared back at me expressionlessly. Then he said: ‘All right. So what do you want?’
There was a stool next to the table that looked like it might’ve been liberated from the palace at Alexandria. I pulled it over and sat down. ‘Not what you think, for a start,’ I said.
This time he laughed: a quick, sharp bark with no humour in it. ‘No? Well, that’s something. Who’s the mutual friend?’
‘Acquaintance. He said not to give you his name, and it doesn’t matter anyway.’
Nicanor took another gulp of wine, set the cup down and drew the back of his hand slowly across his mouth. His eyes hadn’t left mine. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We’ll leave it at that. You’ve told me what you don’t want. Now tell me what you do.’
‘Just to talk. I asked this...acquaintance...if he could put me in touch with someone who knows about Parthians. Local Parthians. Yours was the name he came up with.’
‘Easy. They’re five-star bastards, all of them. That enough for you?’ His lips stretched in a toothed, drunken, humourless grin. ‘There. Mission accomplished. You can go away now and leave me in peace. Test a few more boxing gloves.’
A slave – not Myron, a kid about eight or nine done up to look like Ganymede – brought my wine. ‘Can I get you another?’ I said. They didn’t seem to believe in half-jugs here, which didn’t augur too we
ll for the prices.
‘It’s your money.’ I nodded to Ganymede and the kid went off. ‘Fine. So you’ve bought yourself some talking time. What’s your interest in Parthians?’
I wanted to ask him a few questions myself, nothing to do with the case; like what the hell his parents were doing letting him waste his life in a hole like the Acanthus Leaf. Certainly, from first impressions he didn’t seem all that thrilled to be here, nor did he exactly blend in with the rest of the clientele. However, it wasn’t my business, and all it would probably have got me was a raised finger. Quite rightly, too. ‘You mind if I don’t answer that one, friend?’ I said. ‘Or would you prefer it if I lied?’
That netted the first really straight, interested look I’d had from him.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Let’s have the lie.’
Jupiter on wheels! This wasn’t supposed to happen! ‘Ah...right. Okay. I own a trading company and I was thinking of expanding. I’m looking for a partner in Rome who’s got connections over the Syrian border.’
He laughed; a genuine laugh, this time, not the sour bark we’d had before. ‘That’s it?’ he said. ‘If that’s the best lie you can manage then trying it’d’ve put out on your fucking ear. My Dad’s a merchant and I’ve lived and breathed the eastern trade all my life. You wouldn’t pass for two seconds.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Name three cities on the spice road east of Bactra; the northern route to Turfan, not the southern. How many camel loads equal one waggon load? How do you tell prime from second-grade cassia?’
‘Uh...’
‘You see? You’re not even good enough to be a poor ringer.’
I sipped my wine. It was good Caecuban, chilled to perfection. ‘Right. Granted. So you’re left with the first alternative. Does that make a difference?’
‘Not one I can’t live with. So what do you want to know?’
‘Anything and everything. But we’ll start with three names. Phraates, Tiridates and Mithradates.’
He stared at me for a long time over the top of his winecup. Finally he said quietly, too quietly: ‘Mithradates isn’t Parthian. He’s an Iberian.’
‘So I lied again.’
‘“Lied.”’ He drained his cup at a gulp and scowled. ‘You know what the Parthians say about lying, Corvinus? It’s the straightest way to hell. That’s their general word for evil: the Lie. Druj, in Parthian. The joke is, they’re the biggest fucking liars in existence.’
‘Is that so, now?’
‘Sure it’s so. Forget the Greeks, the Cretans, they’re amateurs. Parthians lie for the fun of it, or twist the truth so many ways from nothing you don’t know whether you’re on your feet or your head. Never believe a Parthian. Any Parthian. Especially when he claims he’s telling the truth.’
Interesting. The Ganymede lookalike drifted over and swapped the empty cup for the new full one. Nicanor took a swig of the fresh wine and belched softly.
‘So how about my three names?’ I said.
‘Phraates is the Grand Old Man of the Parthian contingent. He’s been in Rome forever, got a big, fancy place on the Janiculan. The others call him the Geriatric. They despise him.’
‘You know Phraates?’
‘No. I’ve met him, but that’s all. We’ve talked once or twice. He’s okay, for a Parthian, and no fool, whatever they say.’
Yeah, well; the guy was pushing seventy. I couldn’t expect a twenty-year-old to be too interested or knowledgeable in that direction. ‘What about his son Damon?’
It was like I’d pulled a string directly connected with Nicanor’s brain. He set his winecup down carefully, like it was made of eggshell.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I know Damon.’
There was something in his voice that stirred the hairs on the back of my neck. He’d spoken calmly enough, but I felt, suddenly, like I was standing on a piece of ground that the next moment just wouldn’t be there any more.
‘But you’re not a friend of his,’ I said cautiously.
Silence. Then, finally: ‘No.’
‘Want to give me a reason?’
‘No,’ he said again. He reached for his cup and took a long swallow. ‘He lives with his father in that fancy place over on the Janiculan I mentioned. Not that that’s out of choice, mind.’
‘They don’t get on?’
That got me the short, barking laugh again. ‘No. But then there’s nothing unusual in that, is there?’
Yeah, well; I could see where he was coming from. I hadn’t got on with my own father, to put it mildly, and we were living in separate houses. For a man in his late thirties living with parents couldn’t be easy. Also, maybe I was wrong but I’d guess from the sourness in Nicanor’s voice that his own circumstances weren’t all that far different. If he hung out in joints like the Acanthus Leaf then everything couldn’t be exactly sweetness and light in his family, either. I sipped my wine. ‘So what sort of a guy is he?’
‘He’s a bastard.’ Nicanor reached for his cup and took another swig. ‘Oh, yes, I know I said that all Parthians are bastards, but he’s a bastard even by Parthian standards.’
‘Yeah? In what way exactly?’
‘How long have you got? This place closes at dawn.’ He paused. ‘You ever hear of the Immortals?’
The name rang a faint bell, sure – you can’t live with a lady who’s a history nut for upwards of fifteen years without something rubbing off – but I didn’t think it was the right kind of bell. ‘They were some sort of crack Parthian legion in the old days, weren’t they?’
‘Persian, not Parthian. Before Alexander. Yes, they were, but it’s not what I meant. These Immortals are a frat. Damon’s one of the founder-members and Tiridates is the other. He chose the name.’
I knew where he was now. Fraternities – ‘brotherhoods’ – are pretty common in Rome and getting commoner. They’re exclusive gangs formed by rich wide-boys out for kicks of an evening: lots of hard drinking, heavy spending, night-time tours of the city’s cat-houses, that sort of thing. It’d be good innocent fun that harmed no one if it didn’t usually involve some not so innocent breaking-and-entering, vandalism and mugging, sometimes even murder. Frats are the Watch’s bane, because even when the young buggers are caught in the act Daddy’s influence and Daddy’s money tend to get things hushed up.
‘Mithradates a member as well?’ I asked. My ribs gave a twinge.
It’d been a guess, but Nicanor’s brows came down. ‘Sure. He’s the group leader. Has been ever since he came to Rome two or three years back.’
Yeah, that made sense. Whatever group that bastard chose to join, even on our short acquaintance I’d’ve betted he’d be the leader automatically, straight off. And frats would be just right up his street. ‘That so? You aren’t involved with them yourself?’
‘I used to be.’ His eyes were clearly warning me off. ‘Once. Not any more.’
‘Now you just hang around this place instead.’
I’d deliberately kept my voice neutral, but he half-flared up all the same. ‘I’ve got my reasons. Not just the obvious one either.’
Right. ‘Your father know where you go of an evening?’
He grinned; not a pleasant grin. ‘Oh, yes!’
‘And he doesn’t mind?’
‘He minds like hell. That’s one of my reasons.’
I winced. It wasn’t just the words, it was the way they came out: flat, matter-of-fact. Passionless. ‘You an only son?’ I said. ‘Or have you got any brothers or sisters?’
It was a natural question, and I didn’t expect the reaction it got. Nicanor’s face suddenly flushed a deep purple. ‘Fuck off, Corvinus!’ he snapped; so loud that the couple on the nearest couch stopped what they were doing and gaped at us. ‘You just fuck off! Leave my family out of it! Stick to your bloody Parthians!’
Jupiter! I held up both my hands, palm out. ‘Okay. Okay! Forget I asked!’
He was glaring at me, and I could see that it was touch and go whether he’d answer o
r call Ganymede to have me thrown out. Finally, though, he raised his shoulders and took another slug of wine. ‘Fine,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry. Just keep your distance, agreed?’
‘Agreed.’ I took a sip of my own wine to give him some space and set the cup down. ‘Tell me more about these Immortals.’
‘Like I said, Mithradates is the leader, the ideas man. Tiridates and Damon tag along on his coat-tails. Mostly it’s just wineshops and brothels, but Mithradates and Damon have a taste for trouble. The evening usually ends up in a fight, somewhere or other.’
‘What about Tiridates?’
Nicanor grinned. ‘He’s a coward. He blows hard enough, sure, but he keeps clear of any real action. The same goes Damon, for that matter, but if he can be sure of winning he’s right in there. That’s why he’s a bastard. Mithradates I can take; he’s just a thug.’ He swallowed the last of the wine in his cup. ‘A clever thug, mind. Mithridates is smart.’
Yeah; I’d bet he was. That was why he’d reminded me so strongly of Sejanus. There was another smart thug who’d used brawn and brain to reach the top of the ladder. ‘He’s been in Rome two, three years, you say?’
‘That’s right. His brother’s king of Iberia. Mithradates got up his nose once too often and had to clear out in a hurry.’
I turned round, caught Ganymede’s eye and pointed to Nicanor’s cup. Ganymede nodded. ‘Where does he get his money from?’
‘Fuck knows. Not his brother, certainly. He’s not short of a gold piece or two, though, that’s for sure. Probably Tiridates subs him. He’s rich enough, and he follows Mithradates around like a pet dog.’
‘These Immortals ever get into trouble? Real trouble?’
‘You kidding?’ Nicanor laughed. ‘A Parthian prince, a prince’s son and one of the Iberian royals? No way! Or nothing they can’t buy their way out of without missing the cash. Besides, when he’s in Rome Prince Gaius is an honorary member. No one’s going to mess with him.’
My spine went cold. ‘Gaius?’
‘Sure. He’s chummed with them for years. Hand in glove.’
Oh, shit; this was a complication I didn’t need. If Gaius was a friend of Mithradates then I’d made a dangerous enemy. Seriously dangerous. It explained why he hadn’t been all that worried about possible repercussions, too. If he had Rome’s crown prince in his pocket then a complaint of assault to the praetor would be about as effective as a sunshade in an avalanche. That was one nugget of information I definitely wouldn’t be passing on to Perilla.
Parthian Shot (Marcus Corvinus Book 9) Page 10
