Parthian Shot (Marcus Corvinus Book 9)

by David Wishart

  My brain hurt; enough for one day. I shut my eyes and dozed.

  15.

  Perilla was still fast asleep when I came down to breakfast the next morning, and when she finally surfaced I was already almost finished. Seeing her coming with a definite preoccupied expression on her face, I steeled myself for round two as promised, but as she passed my couch she leaned down and kissed me.

  ‘You haven’t had a shave this morning,’ she murmured.

  We breathe again. Evidently for reasons of her own the lady had decided on a truce, at least temporarily. I mopped up the last of my honey with a crust. ‘I thought I’d go down to Market Square for a change,’ I said. ‘Have one there.’

  Bathyllus was hovering with a tray of rolls. Perilla lowered herself onto the facing couch like she was afraid her head would fall off if she moved it too much. Yeah, right; that explained things. I offered up a silent prayer of thanks to whatever god protected peabrain husbands who couldn’t keep their mouths shut in carriages.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll bother with breakfast this morning, Bathyllus,’ she said. ‘Perhaps just a camomile tisane. Or preferably something a little more fatal.’

  ‘Yes, madam. I will consult with the chef.’

  I grinned. ‘You should stay off the booze, lady. You aren’t used to it.’

  That got me a level, bleary-eyed stare and a set to the lips you could’ve drawn lines with. ‘I’m feeling quite recriminatory enough for both of us at the moment, thank you,’ she said tartly. ‘And the next time one of your cronies asks me to try his sixty-year-old Falernian just say “Phraates” to me. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, sure. And it was eighty-year-old.’

  ‘Fine. Good. That makes me a lot happier. Now I’m sorry, dear, but I really don’t really feel capable of breakfast conversation at present, especially if it takes the form of smart repartee. If you’re going out then go and leave me to die in peace.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, getting up and dabbing my lips with the napkin. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Marcus.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You will be careful, won’t you? You know what I mean.’

  ‘Yeah. I know what you mean. I’ll be careful. Promise.’ I bent down and kissed her. Sure I would. If Gaius was involved in this business I’d go as careful as a flea in party slippers.

  It was a beautiful day: the weather had cleared completely, the sky above the city was a pure cloudless blue and there was a stiffish breeze from the east. Good walking weather, and after the previous night I needed the cobwebs blowing away. I turned up Head of Africa in the direction of Suburan Street.

  The shave had been a good idea. A Market Square barber’s stool is almost as good as a wineshop for thinking, so long as you choose your barber carefully and avoid the chat merchants, and thinking was something I needed to do. There’d been no word yet from Lippillus over at Public Pond re the knife gang, which was a pity since it was still the most promising avenue. On the other hand, I’d had enough of theorising to be going on with. What we needed here were a few more hard facts. It was time, perhaps, to chase up a loose end or two.

  Such as the puzzle of the dinner party juggling troupe. Maybe it meant nothing, but the woman’s fluffed catch had nagged at me because it’d been the only one she’d made, it’d come right at the start of the act, and as far as I could tell there was no reason for it. Professionals – and she’d been a top-notch professional, pick of the bunch – didn’t slip up like that. Oh, sure; the explanation was obvious: that she’d seen someone – or something – she hadn’t been expecting to see, and it’d thrown her. But who or what was it?

  I replayed the scene in my head. The woman had run through the door on the right to the other side of the stage, then turned and reached for that first baton, the one she’d missed...

  Yeah; that was the key moment. When she fluffed the catch she’d been facing towards the audience on the far right-hand side of the room – her left –, seeing them for the first time. So who had we got? Who had she seen? Top table nearest the door was Osroes and Peucestas; next pair Mithradates and Tiridates...

  Right. Those two were the obvious bets, especially my pal the Iberian. If I wasn’t mistaken and Mithradates had set the whole thing up then for it to work he’d have to know in advance that the girl would be sticky about co-operating and that her brother – or whoever the guy with the muscles had been – would back her up. He couldn’t assume that, quite the reverse: pleasing the customer after the show’s over is how most girls in the entertainment business make enough to pay the rent, and their relatives or boyfriends just have to grin and bear it. So if Mithradates did know, then it meant he’d tried it on before and could be certain of the outcome; and that suggested familiarity on both sides. Not an amicable familiarity, either. My bet would be that the older woman – the girl’s mother – hadn’t known he’d be there until she turned and saw him sitting ten feet away, and it put her off her stride.

  It could still be nothing, but like I say it was a loose end that might lead somewhere, and so worth checking out. So how did I go about it?

  I was down Suburan Incline and on the edges of the Subura itself when I remembered Aegle, the girl who’d helped me out back when the young Vestal had got herself murdered. She was a flute-player not a tumbler, sure, but the entertainment business in Rome’s a small world and if she didn’t know the troupe herself she’d probably be able to put me in touch with someone who did. The shave could wait: Aegle’s flat was in one of the older tenements near the Shrine of Picus, along Suburan Street in the other direction from Market Square. She could’ve moved, sure, but it wasn’t far out of my way and it might save a lot of hassle. I was pretty hopeful about finding her in, too: this being the Augustalia she’d be playing evening gigs herself, which meant she’d be sleeping late. I might get a stool thrown at my head for disturbing her, mind, because from what I remembered of the girl she was no respecter of persons.

  Apropos of which. Most of the good bookshops are in the Argiletum, but I’d seen one tucked down an alleyway near the Shrine where I could buy a peace offering. Aegle wasn’t your typical good-time girl, and books were a passion, drama especially. I rooted through the guy’s limited stock and came up with a copy of Menander’s Curmudgeon. Second-hand, but it was all there as far as I could tell, the rollers and the pages themselves were all in good condition and the copyist wasn’t one of the spider-in-the-inkwell brigade. Perfect.

  I found the tenement – not one of the most salubrious, even for Suburan Street – climbed the stairs to the fourth floor avoiding the occasional pool of bodily fluids and knocked. No answer. Bugger. I knocked again, louder this time.

  Feet padded to the other side of the door and a voice said: ‘Yeah? Who is it?’

  Aegle, and sarky as hell. Maybe this hadn’t been such a smart idea after all. Well, at least she was in. ‘Marcus Corvinus,’ I said.

  The bar on the inside was lifted and the door opened. I’d been right about her sleeping late. Her strawberry-birthmarked face was puffy and her tunic was sleep-creased. Still, she was smiling, which was a good sign.

  ‘Corvinus! Don’t you purple-stripers keep decent hours? What the hell brings you here?’

  ‘I’m sorry, lady,’ I said. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Sure. Feel free.’ She stepped aside. ‘Just give me a minute to wake up. And close your eyes to the mess, okay? Me and the room. I didn’t know I’d be entertaining.’

  I followed her through the tiny lobby into the flat itself. ‘Flat’ was dignifying it, which is par for the course at top-floor tenement level: rents go down in these places the further up you are, and so do facilities and floor space. Here, right under the tiles, there was just the one room with a shuttered window and gaps between the ceiling-joists stuffed with straw to keep the worst of the wind and rain out.

  Aegle padded barefoot over to the window and opened the shutters. Light streamed in, showing a mattress on the floor, a clothes-
chest, a couple of shelves with two or three book rolls plus a few knick-knacks, a flute-case leaning against the wall and nothing else except for the flowering plants on the window-sill.

  ‘Here,’ I said, giving her the Menander. ‘Add this to your collection.’

  She glanced at the title-tag. ‘Hey! Great!’

  ‘Maybe under the circumstances breakfast would’ve been better.’

  ‘Uh-uh. They fed us at the gig last night, and I have to watch my figure.’

  It was a good figure to watch. The huge birthmark covering half her face might’ve spoiled things in that part of the looks department, but what else there was of her made up for it. That and her personality.

  I stepped over the mattress and sat down on the clothes-chest. ‘So. How’re things going?’ I said.

  ‘Workwise? Okay. I’m booked up all through the festival, which is pretty unusual, I can tell you.’ She rolled Menander back up, fastened his tie-string and put him carefully beside the other rolls on the shelf. ‘You weren’t wanting a slot yourself, were you? Because if so –’

  ‘No. No, it isn’t that.’

  ‘Fine.’ She grinned and settled down cross-legged on the mattress facing me. ‘I couldn’t’ve fitted you in anyway. Although I could recommend two or three other girls who’d be grateful for the work. So. If he isn’t fixing up a gig then what’s a purple-striper doing slumming it in the Subura?’

  ‘Looking for information.’

  ‘That’s news?’ The grin widened. ‘On what, for example?’

  ‘I’m trying to trace a family of jugglers.’

  ‘You have their names?’

  I shook my head. ‘They were booked for –’ I hesitated – ‘for a foreigners’ dinner party a few nights ago. On the Palatine.’

  Aegle leaned back and whistled through her teeth. ‘Oh, Corvinus, you do move in high circles, don’t you? Are we talking imperial here?’

  ‘Uh-uh,’ I said. ‘And I’m sorry, lady, but I can’t tell you any more, not even the address, okay?’

  ‘Is that so, now?’ She gave me a long, considering look, then shrugged. ‘Well, you’ve got your reasons, no doubt, but I can’t work on nothing. Were you there yourself?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I was there.’

  ‘So you remember their act.’

  ‘Yeah. There were four of them, looked like a family. The youngsters – a girl and a boy built like the Rhodes colossus – had this thing where he held her by the legs and spun her.’

  Aegle clicked her tongue. ‘Jarhades and Erato. The older couple, that is. They’ve been around for years, and that used to be their speciality. They must’ve passed it on to their kids.’

  ‘Jarhades? What sort of name’s that?’

  ‘He’s Syrian. Or Armenian, maybe, I’m not sure. Erato as well, for all the Greek name.’

  ‘That right, now?’ Still, it’d make sense; certainly from what I could remember about the troupe they’d all had that eastern look to them. ‘You know where I can find them?’

  ‘Sorry, there I can’t help. You could try the jugglers’ and tumblers’ guildhouse – that’s in the Remuria near Four Ways Fountain – but I’ll tell you now they’re not keen on giving out addresses. The guildhouse takes a cut from every gig, and some punters try to reach a private arrangement.’

  ‘Hell.’ The Remuria was way the other side of Rome. And from what Aegle was saying a trip down there might prove to be a wild goose chase anyway. ‘That the best you can do?’

  ‘I could ask around, sure. That’d find them for certain, but it’d take time. You in a hurry?’

  ‘Marginally.’

  ‘Wait a minute, then. Let me think.’ Her brow creased. ‘There’s a wineshop that the easterners hang out in near Cattlemarket Square. I can’t say for certain, but you might find Jarhades there, or at least someone who knows him. That do you?’

  ‘Sure.’ Cattlemarket Square’d be a lot closer, and I could go down there after my postponed shave. ‘You know the name?’

  ‘Mano’s.’

  ‘Got you. I’ll find it.’ I stood up. ‘Thanks, lady, you’ve been a great help. I’ll let you get back to bed now.’

  ‘Oh, I would’ve had to have been up and around soon anyway. You’re welcome, any time. Come back if it doesn’t work out.’ She got to her feet. ‘By the way. When you get to Mano’s try not to breathe too much.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. Just remember, okay? And thanks for the Menander.’

  I left.

  Market Square was heaving, especially the bit under the porticoes of the Julian Hall where the barbers and tooth-pullers plied their trade, and I had to wait twiddling my thumbs for almost half an hour before I got to the head of the queue and a place in one of the chairs. Luckily, though, the guy I got was one of my regulars and after the briefest of exchanges he shut up and left me as usual to my thoughts. Not that these were all that earth-shaking, mind. He’d done the important scraping and was down to trimming my sideburns preparatory to sprinkling on the talc when I had an idea.

  ‘You’re Syrian, aren’t you, pal?’ I said after the razor was well clear of my cheekbone. Most of the Market Square barbers are Syrians or Asiatics. There ain’t no other profession that combines the eastern loves of personal titillation, chatting and the world of the cars better than barbering.

  ‘That’s right. Apamea.’

  ‘You happen to know somewhere called Mano’s? Down Cattlemarket Square way?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Sure. I know Mano’s.’

  ‘Where is it exactly?’

  He’d been shaking talc from a perforated cylinder onto his hand. Now he paused. ‘You got a reason for asking, sir?’

  ‘Yeah. I was hoping to meet someone there.’

  The guy almost dropped the talc-shaker. ‘At Mano’s?’

  I was beginning to have a funny feeling about this. ‘It’s just a wineshop, right? Not a male brothel or some sort of pick-up joint?’

  ‘Nah! Nothing like that.’ He was grinning as he applied the talc. ‘It’s just very...eastern, is Mano’s. You won’t see no Romans there, certainly no purple-stripers.’

  ‘Suits me. No purple-stripers is a recommendation. So where is it exactly?’

  ‘On the waterfront past Hercules’s temple, just before the granaries. There’s a narrow alley between two warehouses. Blink and you’d miss it.’

  ‘Fine. Thanks, pal.’ I paid, gave up my seat to the next punter and headed back towards the Temple of the Twin Gods and the alleyway through to Tuscan Street.

  I hadn’t got five yards when someone put a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Valerius Corvinus!’

  I turned, feeling the ice form in my gut. Shit: Mithradates, not togged out in his Asiatic gear this time but wearing a sharp-looking plain mantle over a blue tunic embroidered in gold at the neck. The bastard was smiling. Not that that made him look any pleasanter. You get smiles like that floating down the Nile an inch clear of the water, with a pair of eyes sitting just behind them.

  At least there were no hit-men with him. And Twin Gods’ Alley was a major thoroughfare.

  ‘Yeah. That’s me,’ I said, carefully taking his hand off my shoulder. He had more rings than fingers.

  ‘You have time for a cup of wine?’ he said. ‘My treat. Just to show there’s no hard feelings.’

  Nice as pie. You’d never think that the bugger had stood by and watched me being beaten up, would you? I wondered for a moment if Phraates had already had his little talk with the guy, but that was unlikely.

  ‘You know,’ I said slowly, ‘I don’t think I do. Besides, I’m careful who I drink with.’

  If I’d expected him to flush or get angry I was disappointed. The smile didn’t waver. ‘Pity. Oh, by the way: did you and your wife – Perilla, isn’t it, or am I wrong? – enjoy your meal last night with Phraates?’

  The ice in my gut sent another shaft of cold up my spine. ‘Yeah,’ I said. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking how
he knew; the fact that he did was worrying enough. I didn’t like the mention of Perilla, either; that hadn’t been accidental. ‘Yeah, it was okay.’

  ‘And your talk? Interesting, was it?’ This time I didn’t answer. Carefully, deliberately, he put his hand back on my shoulder and pulled me closer. He wasn’t smiling now, and his breath smelled of some sort of expensive spice; cinnamon, maybe. ‘Listen, Corvinus, because I’m not messing around here with silly warnings. You back off, boy. You back right off, before you get in too deep to haul yourself out, or I’ll see you broken. Not just kicked around a little, but broken. That’s a promise. You understand? And if you’re really persistent I might just extend the same courtesy to that wife of yours, if –’

  He hadn’t been expecting it. Nor had I, for that matter, nor the three or four respectable punters who were passing at the time and kept on passing at about twice their original speed. My hands moved of themselves, grabbing the bugger’s fancy tunic, ramming him backwards so hard against the alley wall that he almost made a dent and holding him there.

  ‘Now you just listen to me, pal,’ I said softly. ‘You so much as think in that direction and tame gorillas or not, Gaius or not, I swear I’ll cut out your fucking liver and feed it to you in slices. Now do you understand that, or shall I draw you a fucking picture in crayon?’

  Our eyes locked. He smiled, and the shoulder above where my right fist gripped the material lifted.

  ‘Oh, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t have done that. You really should not have done it.’

  I let him drop. He winced as his back scraped against the wall, a stretch of rough brickwork that Augustus must’ve missed when he was swapping the stuff for marble. ‘That’s my look-out,’ I said. ‘Just don’t forget, right?’

  ‘I won’t forget. You can be very sure of that.’

  I stepped aside. He flicked a smear of brick dust from the front of the tunic then reached up and – carefully – gave my bruised cheek a friendly pat. Then he smiled again, turned away without another word and walked off back towards Market Square, leaving me staring after him.