Parthian Shot

4

Vitellius arrived prompt at sunset, as promised, in a very upmarket litter with more than the usual complement of escort, complete with enough torches to make for a decent-sized comet: evidently we were representing Rome here, and out to impress. Me, I’d rather have indulged my hatred of litters and hiked it; although the clouds were building up from the north, promising a seriously-wet night, it wasn’t actually raining, and the Palatine wasn’t all that far. However, as per instructions I was wearing my best party mantle and carrying my snazziest pair of party slippers under my arm, and if the heavens did actually open before I got there my contribution as half-drowned rat to Rome’s diplomatic brownie points would’ve been zilch.

Not, it transpired, from the sour look Vitellius gave the mantle as I climbed in opposite him, that I was likely to figure among the high scorers anyway.

‘That the best you can do?’ he growled.

‘Yeah, that’s about it,’ I said equably. I cast an eye over his effort, which had dinky little designs picked out in seed-pearls. ‘You look as if you’ve mugged an oyster-bed.’

His mouth opened, then shut in a tight, hard line. The bearers took the strain, which was nine-tenths Vitellius, and we were off.

For the first part of the journey, Vitellius sat and sulked, which in a large, jowly man is not a beautiful sight. I gave it ten minutes, then I said: ‘Maybe you’d better fill me in about who we’re going to meet here.’

He looked across at me like I’d made the most bloody inane suggestion in the universe. Finally, when I’d decided he wasn’t going to bother answering, he did.

‘Fair enough. Pin your ears back. Phraates you know about. There’re four delegation members. The leader’s a noble from Ctesiphon — that’s the Parthian capital, Corvinus, if you didn’t know, inasmuch as these buggers have a capital — by the name of Zariadres. Oily chap, a courtier to his fingernails, don’t trust him an inch even for a Parthian. Then there’s Osroes. He’s a different kettle of fish entirely, not a courtier, one of those bloody Magians from the back country near the Caspian that’ve been pushing their way onto the Royal Council recently. He — ’

‘What’re Magians?’

Vitellius glared at me. ‘Jove’s balls, you’re hopeless! If I was as bloody ignorant as you are I’d slit my wrists.’

‘Yeah, well.’

‘They’re a religious sect, or maybe an elitist social group. Either or both, whatever you like to call the buggers, they’re trouble. We don’t have an equivalent at Rome, unless you think of a cross between an ultra-pukkah old-patrician family and the high-priesthood of Jupiter, and even that doesn’t go far enough. Sunny, open, tolerant personalities they aren’t, and Osroes is a fair representative sample. They’re narrow-minded as hell, they’ve got all sorts of bees in their bonnets, and they hate everything that comes from the wrong side of the Syrian-Parthian border. Plus a lot of what goes on inside Parthia, to boot. Currently, they’re trying to become a power at court whether Artabanus likes it or not, which by all accounts to give him his due he doesn’t. Osroes knows that and he takes considerable exception. Which explains Osroes.

‘Okay. So who else have we got?’

‘Peucestas. He’s a eunuch.’

My face must’ve shown my feelings, because Vitellius grinned in the half-light of our flanking torch-bearers. ‘Get this through your skull now,’ he said. ‘There’s no stigma attached to having no balls in Parthia. Quite the reverse. Eunuchs have a special place, and it’s a highly respected one at that. You’d best get used to the idea.’

‘Fine. Fine.’

‘Peucestas is okay. At least he looks normal, and he isn’t effeminate. Like the other three he comes from a top aristocratic background. Family is — or was — big in Eastern Media. They chose the wrong side in a wrangle over the kingship twenty-odd years back when we were pushing another claimant. Artabanus broke them and Peucestas was one of the prime victims. He hates the Great King’s guts, which is one reason why he’s here.’

‘Who’s the fourth guy?’

‘That’s Callion.’

I blinked. ‘He’s a Greek?’

‘One hundred percent pure-blooded, both sides. And don’t you forget it, boy, especially if you’re talking to him and the subject comes up in conversation because you won’t be popular if you do. Callion is not — I repeat not — a Parthian, not in his own view. There’ve been Greeks in Parthia since Alexander’s time, when it was still Persia and the Parthians were just a bunch of hooligans living in tents out in the sticks. Callion’s descended from a Macedonian cavalry commander who fought at Issus. His family’s the richest and most influential in Seleucia.’ He paused. ‘Seleucia. That’s a very big Greek city just across the Tigris from Ctesiphon, incidentally. In case you were wondering, which no doubt you were.’

I ignored the sarcasm: yeah, I had been wondering, as a matter of fact, because the only Seleucia I knew was the port for Antioch. ‘Parthia has Greek cities?’ I said. ‘I mean real Greek cities?’

‘Juno’s bloody tits!’ Vitellius shifted irritably on his elbow, making the litter shake. I felt the bearers stagger. ‘Corvinus, don’t you dare come out with a half-assed remark like that in Callion’s hearing, okay? Ignorance is one thing but bloody stupidity’s another. Look. Parthia’s like us in one way: we’ve both got a lot of different peoples inside our borders and it saves hassle to allow them a certain amount of latitude in self-government. Right?’

‘Uh…right,’ I said.

‘Only there’s a difference between us and the Parthians where our provincials are concerned. We can draw a sharp line. If the buggers step across it they get hammered. We know it, they know it, there’s no argument and no beefing. So they generally stay quiet and do as they’re told. You’re with me?’ This time I didn’t answer. ‘Parthia can’t do that because the Great King doesn’t have the military clout. Seleucia may not be independent but she’s big enough to warrant respect and careful handling. The Seleucians’ve always been awkward bastards where the Parthians are concerned, and being so close to Ctesiphon doesn’t help matters because the king can’t ignore them. On the other hand, it means they can’t ignore the king either. Especially these days.’

He was still looking and sounding tetchy as hell, but I could appreciate that the guy was doing a conscientious job. This was all stuff I needed to know, and despite the grumbles he was giving it to me straight. Also, in a perverse way, I was interested.

‘“These days”?’ I said.

‘More or less. I’m trying to simplify things for the sake of your weak brain. There’s an anti-Greek push on at present, and the Seleucians are edgy because they reckon — quite rightly so — that they’ve been sold out. And unless there’s a change of regime things can only get worse. Hence Callion. You understand?’ He grinned suddenly, revealing a mouthful of bad teeth. ‘Oh, Parthian politics are endless fun. Keeping track of them beats banging your head against a brick wall any day.’

So it would appear. I sat back against the cushions. I’d seriously underestimated Vitellius. Ten-ton broad-striper or not, the guy was no fool, and no slouch. He’d done his homework, he obviously knew what he was talking about, and for an off-the-cuff thumbnail sketch what I’d just had wasn’t bad at all. I wasn’t surprised that the Wart had chosen him as his prime dickerer. Tiberius was no fool either. ‘Isidorus mentioned some others,’ I said.

‘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.’