‘And you think the other delegates – Osroes and Callion – knew Peucestas had done it?’
She laughed. ‘But of course they did!’
Of course they did...
I lay back. Out of my depth wasn’t the half of it: none of this made any sense, even in Parthian terms. The guy – head of the fucking delegation – had been murdered in his bed by a colleague and even knowing who the murderer was no one on either the Roman or the Parthian side gave a damn. They never had, right from the start. Plus the fact Peucestas wasn’t a murderer, not that kind, anyway. That I’d swear to. Shit! What was going on? Why should Peucestas –?
And then things shifted.
It was obvious. Change just one word and the whole business was clear, everything added up: why neither the other delegates nor Isidorus had been interested, why both sides wanted the case shoved down a very deep hole and buried, why Phraates had brought his taster to the dinner. Even what Phraates had been trying to tell me in his carriage the night of the Medea...
Change ‘murdered’ to ‘executed’.
‘Zariadres was a traitor, wasn’t he?’ I said. ‘He was working for Artabanus. Peucestas killed him because Phraates, as Great King of Parthia, ordered him to.’
‘Yes,’ Anna said.
‘So why the fuck could Isidorus not say so? Him or Phraates, one of the two?’
She shrugged. ‘I told you, Corvinus. I’m not paid to think, I’m just a whore who collects information. If you really want that question answered you’ll have to ask Isidorus yourself. Now.’ She lay back. ‘We’ve talked enough. I’ve my reputation to consider here, and I reckon you have about three gold pieces’ worth left.’
But I was already up and heading for the door. Too right I’d ask Isidorus. By the time I was finished with that bastard they’d have to wheel him around in a cart.
27.
The anger jag got me as far as the main road. Then I began to cool down and think things through.
Going to see Isidorus in this mood would be a very bad idea, even I could see that. The way I was currently feeling, I would definitely have the bastard by the throat and be shaking his teeth out inside five minutes, and to do that to a senior Roman official who has more Praetorians on call than beans in a bean-bag isn’t a smart move; not unless you seriously undervalue your skin and don’t mind spending a couple of years somewhere the locals trail their knuckles, anyway. Also, there was still the question of the two Pollio library guys. I could be wrong, but with Mithradates and Phraates out of the running and Vitellius the blue-eyed boy again that didn’t leave many names in the hat. Six got you ten the person responsible had been Isidorus himself. And confirmation of that little nugget was something I didn’t want to get while I was within easy punching distance of the bugger’s mouth.
So. Home and a consultation with Perilla. After that and a bit of judicious thought if I did still feel like saying to hell with the consequences and punching the bastard’s lights out I could do it just as well first thing the next morning. I turned off the main drag that would’ve taken me through the Subura and headed down towards the Caelian.
Perilla was out when I got back – according to Bathyllus, a long-standing invitation to one of her literary pals’ cake-and-honey-wine klatshes – so I took the opportunity of shutting myself up in the study and spending the hours before dinner on the postponed household accounts. Like it or not, the case was effectively over; the only remaining question was how and when I handed in my final report, and I doubted that, given the circumstances, anyone would be exactly screaming for that. Besides, if I was going to be in a bad mood anyway I might as well make a proper job of things
Proper job was right: the air in the study was pretty blue when Bathyllus shoved his nose round the door.
‘It’s the consular, sir,’ he said. ‘Lucius Vitellius. Shall I bring him in?’
Joy in the morning! That’s where leading a decent life gets you. Well, it wasn’t my fault. I’d avoided the punch-up with Isidorus, but if the gods wanted to hand me Lucius Vitellius on a plate as a reward then I could only be humbly thankful and take what I was given. I grinned and moved the abacus and tablets to one side.
‘You do that,’ I said. ‘Oh, and Bathyllus?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘If you should happen to hear any screaming or heavy thumping noises while we’re in conference just ignore them, okay?’
‘Ah...yes, sir.’ He withdrew.
I checked the desk and allowed myself a little fantasising. Paper-knife: too extreme, and Bathyllus would complain about the blood stains on the upholstery. Small hunting-dog bronze: Perilla had given me that, and if the bugger’s head left a dent she would not be happy. Ink bottle: suitably shaped, cheap and easily replaceable, difficult to remove in rectal terms. Perfect...
Vitellius came in belly-first and beaming. ‘Corvinus! Glad I was able to catch you! We’re –’
‘You bastard,’ I said quietly. ‘You and Isidorus both.’
‘Oh, come now! I know you’re upset, boy, but all the same –’
‘Sit!’
He sat; the beam had disappeared. Now he was looking nervous, as he had every right to be: after today’s events plus a couple of hours on the accounts I wasn’t exactly my easy-going tolerant self. ‘I understand from Isidorus that you’ve found out about –’
‘Anna’s been in touch already, has she? Fine.’ I’d picked up the ink bottle and was hefting it idly. His piggy eyes locked onto it. ‘Okay. Just to get things clear: I know Zariadres was a traitor and that Peucestas killed him on Phraates’s instructions. I know that Anna told Isidorus the same night it happened. What I don’t know – and let’s start with this, shall we? – is why the slimy little rat let me waste my time chasing around trying to solve a mystery that didn’t exist.’
Vitellius cleared his throat. ‘Isidorus didn’t know about Zariadres,’ he said. I caught the ink bottle on its way down and leaned forward. He yelped; the chair creaked and its wooden legs scraped the floor as he pushed it back. ‘Oh, he knew about the murder, but not that the bugger was working for Artabanus. Not until Phraates told him so two days ago.’
‘Two days. Just before your pals accosted my wife outside the Pollio library.’
‘That was a mistake.’
‘Fucking right it was!’
‘Come on, Corvinus! When we called you in we did it in good faith. We didn’t know who’d attacked the prince’s litter, Zariadres was still alive and as far as we knew he was genuine. If you have to blame someone blame Phraates. What else could Isidorus do?’
‘Tell me the simple truth when he knew it himself, for a start.’
‘That’s not how these things work. Zariadres’s death was – is – politically sensitive. You’re not cleared at that level. In fact, Anna had no right to –’
‘Anna didn’t tell me anything I hadn’t worked out for myself. You just remember that. And whore or not she’s a lot more honest than you pair of charmers.’ I leaned back. He breathed a small sigh of relief. ‘Okay. That’s Zariadres. Let’s move on to Prince Gaius.’ The relief disappeared. ‘Isidorus was bullshitting me again, wasn’t he? I was right: Gaius is playing his own game, or trying to. He wants Phraates discredited or dead or both and Tiridates crowned as Great King. Now don’t even think of denying it, sunshine, because I’ll laugh in your face.’
Vitellius was looking grey.
‘Corvinus, I can’t –’
‘Of course you can’t. I don’t expect you to.’ I put the ink bottle down: it had been a good fantasy while it lasted. ‘Still, I’ll make you a little bet. The bet is that whatever Isidorus says to the contrary – and no doubt he believes it, because devious bugger or not he’s the emperor’s man – Phraates won’t last five minutes as Great King. Oh, sure, he’ll start out crowned because that’s what Tiberius wants, but not long after he’ll hand in his soup bowl, probably from natural causes and well on the Parthian side of the border. And Prince Tiridates will take ove
r. Now you want to take me up on that? After all, as Syrian governor you’ll be heading the expedition. If anyone can keep the old guy breathing you can.’
If Vitellius had been grey before now he was the colour of a month-old dishrag. ‘That’s nonsense,’ he said. ‘Also, I’m insulted that you can even think that I would –’
‘Fine.’ I shrugged; there wasn’t anything I could do about it, and maybe it was for the best in the long run, but the whole boiling just made me sick to my stomach. Gaius would be emperor soon in any case, and if a slime-ball like Vitellius thought he could get in on the ground floor by switching loyalties before the Wart was dead that was between him and his own conscience. ‘So no bet, right?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Last point. Nothing very important, but it was just an idea I had about the Graces. You go there a lot, don’t you? And you recommend it to friends?’
‘Yes. So?’
‘It just occurred to me, from what Anna carefully didn’t say. The owner-manager’s from Palmyra. That’s not Parthia, sure, but it’s east and outwith the Roman borders. I just wondered considering that Isidorus told me categorically that there were no Parthian agents in Rome and that everything else he said was a pack of lies if Helen could be working for Artabanus herself.’
Silence. ‘Corvinus, if you’re implying that I –’
I held up a hand. ‘Uh-uh. No sweat. You may be conning Isidorus where Gaius is concerned but you’re no traitor to Rome. You haven’t the guts. He told me that, and there I believe him.’ Vitellius frowned, but he said nothing. ‘Still, if the Graces is a sort of clearing house for information it’d be handy having one of your own people in place there, wouldn’t it? Plus the fact that you could slip the Parthians a few googlies of your own on a regular basis and leave them thinking the dope was genuine. Now how about that for a theory?’
‘It’s...interesting.’
‘Yeah. That’s what I thought. Only if it’s true then maybe you and your boss might like to know I was put on to the place by your future Great King.’
‘What?’
He’d gone straight from dishrag-grey to goggling-purple. Yeah, well, it hadn’t been quite in the ink bottle league, but the look on his face had been worth the effort. Telling devious sods that they’ve been sussed and shafted by the opposition and watching the result is one of life’s more satisfying experiences. And after the way the bastards had treated me it was good to pull back a couple of consolation points.
I stood up grinning; if that was the case, then we’d had it and I’d quit while I was temporarily ahead. ‘Well, I’ve got things to do,’ I said. ‘Tell Isidorus that I’ll be round with a full report at some stage, written out in triplicate, and warn him to keep some piles cream and a large set of pliers handy, right? Nice talking to you, Vitellius. I’ll see you out.’
I walked past him and opened the door. He left meek as a lamb. If lambs can clench their teeth.
Perilla was in the atrium with a short, tubby, balding guy I didn’t recognise perched on the visitor’s chair opposite her. Probably one of the literary klatsch dropped in to borrow an anapaest, only he didn’t look too pleased about something. Perilla didn’t look too happy either.
‘Marcus –’ she said.
‘Yeah. Just a second, lady. I’ll see you around, Vitellius.’ I handed the outgoing consular over to a hovering Bathyllus for disposal. The bugger didn’t even grunt, or even spare Perilla a glance. ‘Now. What is it?’
‘This gentleman is Gaius Minucius Thermus. I found him just about to knock when I got home a few minutes ago. He wants to talk to us about lampreys.’
Oh, shit.
‘Damn right I do!’ The little guy was glaring at me like any moment he’d go for my ankles. ‘Filched from my own fishpond!’
‘Ah,’ I said, lowering myself onto the couch.
‘Well may you say “ah”, Valerius Corvinus! Luckily my bailiff managed to track down the beggar who did it and he confessed who he’d sold them to so we got them back, but all the same –’
‘Hold on, pal.’ I held up a restraining hand. ‘Let’s get this clear. My chef said he’d bought these lampreys of yours from a sale of bankrupt stock after the master of a friend of his had been killed by a falling tenement.’
Thermus bristled. ‘Do I look bloody dead to you, young man? Or a bankrupt?’
‘Er...’
‘Perhaps, dear,’ Perilla said, ‘before we go any further we’d best get Meton in.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Bathyllus had come back from showing the consular out and he was hovering. ‘Bathyllus, ask Meton if he’d be good enough to step in for a moment, would you?’
‘Good gods, man, if that’s the way you talk to your slaves no wonder they’re running riot!’
Bathyllus ignored him and cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid Meton has already left, sir,’ he said. ‘I saw him go out by the side door while the ex-consul was boarding his litter.’
‘And you didn’t stop him?’ Thermus opened his eyes so wide his hairline went back another couple of inches. ‘Bloody hell, boy..!’
I winced. No one – no one – calls Bathyllus ‘boy’ and gets away with it. Our major-domo froze like he’d been hit with a dozen Riphaean winters all at once.
‘Ah...that’s all, Bathyllus,’ I said quickly. ‘When Meton does turn up tell him I want to see him, okay?’
‘Yes, sir.’ He gave Thermus a long look that would’ve pickled an entire elephant, sniffed and stalked out. Bugger; if the guy hadn’t been stiffed by a falling brick after all he’d best be careful when he did finally walk out the door.
‘That fellow needs a good thrashing!’ Thermus snapped. ‘And as for that chef of yours –!’
‘So it was your bailiff who removed the basket?’ Perilla said.
‘Yes. The fish were already dead, of course, but fortunately my wife and I entertain frequently and we were giving a dinner party that evening so they weren’t wasted. None the less –’
I was getting a bit tired of Minucius Thermus. And I didn’t much like being told how to deal with my own slaves, either. Even if Meton was a thrawn, anarchic, unprincipled bugger, he was our thrawn, anarchic, unprincipled bugger. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Look, pal, as far as I can see it was a genuine mistake, at least on Meton’s part, anyway. He bought them in good faith. Whatever he paid I’ll –’
‘Genuine mistake! He told you –!’
‘That’s between me and my chef.’ I stood up. ‘Now. I apologise for the inconvenience, but you’ve got your fish back and I’m willing to pay the handling charge over and above. Let’s leave it at that, okay? You say you entertain frequently. How’s your cook with Parthian dishes?’
He looked at me suspiciously. ‘Parthian dishes?’
‘Yeah. They’re all the rage this year at the best dinners, and Meton’s a whizz. Let’s say I lend you the guy the next time you have important friends round. As a sort of goodwill gesture. How would that be?’
‘Hmm. Well, I suppose I might –’
‘Only you’ve got to remember, you have to crack the whip, right? Stand over the lazy bugger while he’s cooking, personally, I mean, and make sure he does things just exactly as you want them done. And then have him in to the dining room when the meal’s served, so if everything’s not absolutely perfect you or your guests can tell him so there and then.’
‘Marcus, dear –’ Perilla said quietly. I ignored her.
Thermus was beaming. ‘Now that does sound an absolutely splendid suggestion, sir! If you’re sure then I’ll take you up on it. By coincidence we do have a rather special dinner party arranged for three days’ time: the head of Aqueducts and Sewers and his lady wife. They are most particular about their food. Total sticklers!’ He stood up. ‘Well, we’ll say no more about it. Our house is on Patrician Street, just before the Viminal Gate – everyone knows it – so if you send your boy round then I’d be most obliged. But do have the fellow well thrashed, won’t you? After the dinner, naturally.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, be
lieve me, Meton isn’t going to forget this one in a hurry.’ I stood up too. ‘I’ll see you to the door myself. I think our major-domo may be temporarily unavailable. A pleasure to meet you, Minucius Thermus.’
I waved him off in his litter then came back to the atrium whistling.
‘Marcus, that was dreadful!’ Perilla snapped. ‘The poor man!’
‘Meton or Thermus?’
‘Thermus, of course! How could you do something like that?’
‘They deserve each other.’ I bent down and kissed her, then stretched out on the couch. Time for a cup or two of wine before dinner: no doubt Meton would’ve seen the coast was clear and slipped back in. I was really, really looking forward to telling him about his cooking assignment.
It was good to be shot of the diplomatic world, at least. And you never knew: Thermus might even send us an invite.
_________________
Author’s note
I sometimes wake up in a cold sweat at the thought that someone, somewhere, will take the behind-the-scenes skulduggeries of the Corvinus plots for historical fact. They’re nothing of the kind, of course, and I would not – being in no way either by nature or qualification an academic – have the nerve to claim otherwise. I am, however, an inveterate Times crossword-solver and a sucker for conspiracy-theorising, with the result that in ‘Parthian Shot’, as in the other ‘political’ Corvinus books, I’ve done what I most enjoy doing: used a combination of actual events, subjective interpretation from hindsight and a quite shameless attribution of motive to historical characters to construct a work of fiction which I hope will ring true to anyone who knows anything about the period but is primarily just a story. Certainly, this applies to the main plot. Although the delegation itself was real – Tacitus mentions it in his Annals for AD35, which is when the story is set – the ambassadors’ names, the murder itself and all the associated details are complete inventions.
That said, those interested in such things and are of a masochistic turn of mind may like to know something of the historical events subsequent to the story’s ending. A small sanity warning here: although I’ve simplified these they do get pretty convoluted, so if you must read on then have a stiff drink first. Or, preferably, skip the whole boiling.
Parthian Shot (Marcus Corvinus Book 9) Page 25
