Parthian Shot (Marcus Corvinus Book 9)

by David Wishart

  That was putting it mildly; the old guy had given me cause to be grateful in spades. If hauling the top off an unexpected can of worms was a reason for gratitude.

  I left. The sun was pretty far over now. It had been a long, long day and I should be heading back to the Caelian. Perhaps a chat with Perilla was in order.

  21.

  I got back just in time for dinner. Just in time: Bathyllus had brought in the starters and Perilla was already parked on the dining-room couch.

  ‘Marcus, where have you been?’ She lifted her chin for the welcome-home kiss. ‘You only went out for a shave. I was getting worried.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ I lay down on the couch opposite and took a restorative swig from my wine-cup. ‘Things developed. You know how it is. How are you feeling,?’

  ‘Better, thank you. And speaking of developments there has been one on the lamprey front.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Meton, dear, and his missing basket of lampreys. You remember?’

  Oh, gods! This I could do without. I took another swallow of wine. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’m anaesthetised. Tell me.’

  Perilla sniffed. ‘There’s no need to dramatise. I simply happened to bump into Titus Petillius this afternoon and I asked him if any of his household had seen anything.’ Petillius was our next-door neighbour, a seriously large guy from Veii with widespread commercial interests in the dyeing and laundering field. ‘He said that he’d check.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘One of his slaves was polishing the door brasses on the morning in question and saw the thief actually walk out carrying the basket.’

  I stared at her. ‘He did what? And he didn’t stop him?’

  ‘No. He never even thought of it. The man was decently dressed – the slave said he was wearing a freedman’s cap – and didn’t appear unduly furtive. Obviously a professional.’

  Yeah, right. And the fact that the lampreys had been nicked wouldn’t’ve come to light subsequently, either; not as far as Petillius’s household were concerned. Perilla and me got on okay with the neighbours, sure – or as well as we’d ever done, the guy being a water-drinker who thought I was a dipso – but since the abortive love affair the year before between Bathyllus and the then-not-yet-Mrs Petillius relations between the two sets of bought help had been strained, to say the least. On reconsideration we were just lucky that the lamprey-napper hadn’t had ‘thief’ embroidered on his tunic. If he had, Petillius’s slave would probably have offered to help carry the basket.

  ‘Would he recognise the guy again if he saw him?’ I asked. ‘The slave, I mean.’

  ‘It’s possible. But he certainly wasn’t from around here. The man was very sure about that.’

  Yeah, well; me, for reasons given above, I wouldn’t rate that assurance particularly highly. Still, it’d been Petillius himself asking the questions and you don’t buck the master, so perhaps I was maligning the bugger. I sighed. ‘Well, that seems to stitch it up. There’s nothing we can do about it now. It’s a shame, but there you go. File and forget.’

  ‘Indeed.’ She dipped a quail’s egg. ‘Now, you were saying. About things developing.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I told her about the Peucestas business. ‘At least we’ve got someone with a strong motive at last.’

  ‘You think Peucestas was the killer?’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’ I reached for the nearest plate of nibbles. ‘Certainly one that makes sense. If the guy’s uncle was responsible for the deaths of his wife and kids, not to mention his own castration, then he’d have reason in spades. Add that to opportunity and he’s a prime candidate.’

  ‘But?’

  Yeah; there was always that ‘but’. ‘From what I’ve seen of him, Peucestas isn’t the murdering type. Killing, yes, he’s capable of that. But he wouldn’t cover well, or if he is covering then he’s pretty good at it. Added to which, if he was responsible then how does the Phraates side of things fit in? He hates Artabanus, he wants him gone, and if Phraates has Roman backing for a coup then what does he gain from screwing things up?’

  ‘Perhaps your Phraates element doesn’t fit in.’ Perilla selected one of Meton’s chickpea rissoles and dipped it in the fish sauce bowl. ‘Does it have to? The two might be quite separate.’

  ‘It’s possible. But it’s messy.’

  ‘Real life often is.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I took another swig of wine. ‘Even so, there’s an explanation that makes just as much sense and covers more ground.’

  She paused, the rissole half way to her mouth. ‘And that is?’

  ‘You’re not going to like it. I can tell you that now.’

  ‘Marcus, if you’re going to advance one of your half-baked political theories –’

  ‘It isn’t half-baked. And it’s only partly political.’

  ‘Oh, marvellous! That makes me feel a lot happier.’

  ‘I think Lucius Vitellius might be conspiring with Tiridates and his Iberian pal to sideline Prince Phraates for Great King.’

  Perilla put the rissole down. ‘Marcus,’ she said. ‘That is political.’

  ‘Only slightly. I haven’t explained yet.’

  ‘You don’t have to. It’s absolute nonsense. Lucius Vitellius is an ex-consul, a very respected member of the Senate in good standing with the Emperor and, as far as I know, no one’s fool. Why on earth would he do a stupid thing like that?’

  ‘For money. Quite a lot of money. Or, of course, he could just be stringing his partners along for what he can get in the short term, because although he’s a greedy pig like you say he’s no fool. Which of the two I don’t know yet, but the rest fits like a glove.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. Less of the sarcasm, lady. Just hold your fire and pin your ears back.’

  I told her the rest of the day’s news, from my conversation with Nicanor (‘That boy needs a good shaking!’) to what I’d learned about the spice trade from Gaius Praxa; minus, naturally, any reference to the little incident with Mithradates. That might go further than anything else to back the theory up, sure, but the less Perilla knew of that side of things the better.

  ‘And that’s it?’ she said when I’d finished.

  Bathyllus was serving the main course. I leaned sideways while he ladelled pork stew with barley and fennel dumplings onto my plate: Meton was obviously in one of his hearty moods. ‘More or less,’ I said.

  ‘Then let me get this clear. You think that this man Acanus –’

  ‘Anacus.’

  ‘– is after some sort of monopoly of the spice trade –’

  ‘Pepper. Probably just pepper. That was what Crispus implied anyw –’

  ‘– between Parthia and Rome, and to get it he is conniving at the assassination of the Roman candidate for the Great Kingship, with the assistance of two eastern royals and a Roman consular. Correct?’

  ‘Ah...yeah. Yeah, that just about –’

  ‘And you’re sure you didn’t have any of that qef stuff your friend Jarhades was sniffing?’

  Gods! I didn’t deserve this! ‘Look, lady, I told you. It all fits. How or why I don’t know, certainly not in detail, but it does.’

  She spooned a dumpling. ‘All right. I’m not unreasonable.’ Jupiter! Not so much as a blink! ‘Convince me.’

  Hell. Where did I start? ‘Okay, let’s begin with Anacus. He’s the catalyst; without him, I doubt if any of this would be happening. His family have been in the spice trade for generations, and they’re big but he wants them bigger. He –’

  ‘That’s guesswork, dear. You’ve never met the man. You don’t know.’

  ‘It’s a reasonable assumption. Praxa said he was a career businessman. And are you going to give me a fair run at this or what?’

  ‘Probably what. But carry on in any case.’

  Oh, whoopee; there’s nothing like encouragement. I took a spoonful of pork. ‘Okay. So Anacus hears – probably from Tiridates, who he’s trying to hook for his daughter – that the thr
ones of both Parthia and Armenia are shortly going to be changing hands, and that Vitellius is odds-on favourite for the Syrian governorship. The guy’s no fool; he realises that, Mithradates being a pal of his hoped-for son-in-law, or whatever, as far as personal contacts go he’s sitting on potential control of the empire’s eastern spice route. He –’

  ‘Marcus, dear, I’m sorry for interrupting.’

  ‘Then don’t. Indulge yourself.’

  ‘It’s simply that before you go on I have a few queries. First of all, exactly how does this Anacus manage to corner the spice market? What are the mechanics of the process? Second, even if it’s possible why should Tiridates and Mithradates help him do it? Even if Tiridates were to become king of Parthia, which he almost certainly won’t?’

  Bugger; both reasonable questions, and I wasn’t absolutely sure I had the answers to either of them. Still, with Perilla you can’t afford to show weakness. Where going for the throat in arguments is concerned, the lady could give a wolverine lessons.

  ‘Yeah. Right.’ I took a fortifying belt of wine. ‘As far as the spice route business goes, I’m not sure, not as such. I’ll give you that.’ She opened her mouth. ‘Come on, Perilla! I’m no merchant, and no economist, but it must be possible, okay?’

  ‘That, dear, is what’s termed a circular argument.’

  ‘Look. The Parthians and the Armenians charge duty on any goods crossing their borders, in or out, just like we do, and any merchant trading with the empire has to have a licence. Right?’

  ‘I don’t know, Marcus. I’m no expert on trade either. But yes, I’d assume so.’

  ‘Fine. So put the two together. We’re talking preferential status here, with teeth. My guess is that Anacus – or his contracted suppliers – would skip the export duty so his overheads were lower, while his royal pals would simply make it difficult for any major rival to operate. The two factors combined would give him all the edge he needed. You know how bureaucracy works. If you’ve got enough clout there’re a dozen ways to put even the most successful company on the ropes, and kings’ve got it in spades.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Perilla frowned. ‘Very well. I’ll concede that it’s possible. The likelihood of it happening, though, is completely another matter. Why should Mithradates and Tiridates – assuming he were king of Parthia, which as I say is an impossibility in itself – bother to give Anacus preferential status at all? What do they get out of the arrangement?’

  ‘That’s where Vitellius comes in. Anacus is the catalyst, remember? Tiridates wants to be Great King. He’s eligible by birth, the only thing stopping him is that he isn’t Rome’s choice. That’s his uncle.’

  ‘Wait a moment. Not just Rome’s. The Parthian nobles who sent the delegation want Phraates too.’

  ‘Wrong.’ I was on stronger ground here. ‘All they want at root is no Artabanus. The only reason they’re asking for Phraates is they know that at the end of the day he’s the guy who’ll have the Syrian legions at his back when he crosses the border, because Artabanus isn’t going to go peaceably. If Rome were to switch to Tiridates then the odds are they’d be happy to tag along.’

  ‘But, Marcus, the Roman authorities don’t want Tiridates!’

  ‘No. But say they didn’t have the option. Say Phraates died before the deal was struck.’

  ‘Oh.’ That had got through. Perilla was staring at me wide-eyed. ‘You mean if his nephew had him murdered?’

  ‘Right. Sure, he might swing the changeover nem. con., no problem – after all, he’s the only other Parthian prince on offer – but it’d be far better if he had some insurance: someone on the inside to smooth the way, deflect any awkward objections, argue his case.’

  ‘Lucius Vitellius.’

  ‘Lucius Vitellius. We’re talking diplomacy here, and these political buggers are pragmatists through and through. Vitellius knows the ropes, he knows how to handle them. The choice isn’t just between Phraates and Tiridates. Rome doesn’t need another war with Parthia; the Wart’s no Crassus or Antony out for glory. If he can persuade Artabanus to pull in his claws and knuckle down without a fight then he’s happy. And the death of the main claimant would give both sides the chance for a bit of behind-the-scenes dickering. Only in that case Tiridates would be back out in the cold without the likelihood of another shot at the job.’

  ‘What about Mithradates? How does he gain?’

  ‘Mithradates is easy. Sure, whatever happens he’s got Armenia, because the Wart won’t back down on that one, so that side of things isn’t relevant. All the same, if Phraates becomes Great King he’ll have a sharp and very powerful cookie next door to him who doesn’t like him at all and certainly doesn’t trust him the length of his arm. If Tiridates wins out all that’s changed. They’re old friends, or Tiridates thinks they are, and that Iberian bastard can run rings round him any day of the month. If you were Mithradates, who would you support? My bet is he’s in the scam up to his eyeballs already.’

  Perilla was looking pensive. Both of us had stopped eating. ‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she said, ‘but I’m afraid you’re beginning to make sense.’

  ‘Uh...great. Great. Thanks.’ Well, where praise from Perilla’s concerned you take what you can get. ‘It’s only a theory, mind. But it explains Zariadres’s death as well.’

  ‘Does it? How?’

  ‘If Tiridates is our villain then killing the guy is logical. Insurance again. Zariadres was the delegation leader, and he was right behind Phraates. Now the situation’s changed. With Osroes in the saddle and most of the others at least not against Tiridates for Great King in theory if Phraates does die then there won’t be much opposition from that quarter, either.’

  She hesitated. ‘There is one thing you haven’t considered.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Vitellius. You say he’s paid for his involvement with a share of the profits from Anacus’s spice monopoly.’

  ‘Uh-huh. If what Praxa told me about the volume of trade is right then Anacus can afford to be generous. Besides, like I say he needs to have Vitellius on board in any case to hook Tiridates.’

  ‘Two questions, then. One, how would the payments be made, and two, do you think he has enough influence in his own right to mould imperial policy?’

  ‘How do you mean, how would the payments be made?’

  ‘He wouldn’t be a private citizen, Marcus, he’d be governor of Syria. Syria is an imperial province, and the emperor keeps very careful tabs on his governors, especially where unaccounted-for income is concerned. Vitellius would have an imperially-appointed procurator to oversee the province’s finances, and the procurator would be no fool. He’d certainly be aware of Anacus’s special status vis-à-vis Syria’s foreign neighbours, even although he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. So if Vitellius were receiving money on a large scale from Anacus he’d be running a real danger either of being recalled or of being tried for peculation at the expiry of his governorship.’

  ‘Uh...’

  ‘Unless – and this is where the answer to my second question comes in – he had considerable imperial backing at the highest level. Someone who was close enough to the emperor to engineer the appointment of a more amenable procurator in the first instance or give a reasonable guarantee that Vitellius would not be recalled and no charges would be made subsequently. You do see what I mean?’

  Sure I did. Trouble was, I couldn’t fault her logic. I should’ve thought of that angle myself, especially since the guy was one of the royals’ drinking buddies and his name had cropped up before. ‘We’re back to Gaius again, right?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, dear. I’m afraid we are.’ Perilla’s face was expressionless.

  Oh, shit.

  22.

  I’d scarcely had the stubble scraped off my cheeks the next morning and was settling down to breakfast on the terrace when Decimus Lippillus came through the portico.

  ‘Hi, Corvinus,’ he said ‘You still interested in the crowd that hit Prince Phraates’s litter?’
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  ‘Yeah!’ Hey! I put down my knife. ‘You’ve found them?’

  ‘Probably.’ He pulled out the empty chair opposite – no sign of Perilla as yet – , sat down and took a roll from the basket. ‘You mind?’

  ‘Help yourself. If you’re really hungry we can twist Meton’s arm and spring some cheese and sausage. Maybe even an omelette if he’s in a good mood.’

  ‘No, a roll and honey’s fine.’ He reached for the honey-pot. ‘I’d’ve got the guys sooner but I was looking in the wrong places. They weren’t docklands lads or Transtibbies after all. Like I say I could be wrong, but my money’s on a bunch of Jewish villains all the way from Ostia.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Odd, right? I found out by sheer luck. The Watch Commander down there’s a good man, name of Publius Lanuvinius. He was round at the Pond yesterday about a big break-in at one of the harbour warehouses. The owner has a statue-copying business near the Capenan Gate, and Lanuvinius dropped in at the Watch-house to say hello in passing. We got to talking, I mentioned your problem and it rang a bell. Seemingly one of his narks told him last month he’d overheard one of the gang boasting they’d just been hired for a big job on the Esquiline. Top rate, no quibbles.’

  I was staring at him. ‘And this Lanuvinius didn’t take it any further?’

  ‘Come on, Corvinus.’ Lippillus bit equably into his roll and honey. ‘You know better than that, so don’t play the outraged citizen. The nark didn’t have any details, and an Ostian Watch head has more than enough problems of his own without adding to them. He sent a message to Hostilius, sure – he’s the Esquiline Watch boss, if you remember – but Hostilius probably ignored it like he usually does these things; at any rate, Lanuvinius hadn’t heard anything back. Like I say, we’re just lucky the tip-off stuck in his mind.’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry, pal.’ My brain was buzzing. Ostia was weird enough – criminally speaking, it was a different world from Rome altogether – but a Jewish gang! Shit! That opened up a whole range of possibilities. There weren’t any Jews in the City itself these days, at least not officially, because the Wart had thrown them all out on their ears for persistent troublemaking. Rome’s port, though, was another matter.