Parthian Shot

9

The litter was still waiting for us outside. I let Vitellius get in first, then joined him. I was still fuming. Even so, I took the time to look left and right, up and down the road outside the house. Opposite, a blank wall stretched unbroken in both directions. There wasn’t any cover — no doorways or overhanging trees — on the house side, either. Interesting.

‘Bastards!’ I said as the litter guys headed off.

‘They’re Parthians,’ Vitellius said equably. ‘Even Callion, for all he’s a Greek. Of course they’re bastards.’

‘I’ve met straighter snakes.’

‘You were warned.’ He settled back among the cushions. ‘Well?’

‘That business with the door. You didn’t know it was open?’

‘No.’ Vitellius was frowning.

‘And you’re sure your men were on duty?’

He stirred uncomfortably. ‘Not from personal knowledge. Corvinus, what are you getting at?’

It was just an idea, and I hated peaching, but we had to cover all the angles here. ‘I was just thinking,’ I said. ‘These guys are only human, like the rest of us. We had a rip-snorter of a rainstorm last night. There isn’t any shelter anywhere near the door. I just checked.’

Vitellius’s little piggy eyes skewered me like knives. ‘Ah,’ he said. Just that: like I say, the guy was a lot smarter than he looked, although that wouldn’t be hard. ‘Good point, boy. I’ll pass it on and get an answer for you. But I can tell you now, if the bugger out front wasn’t in place then Isidorus will personally string him up somewhere high by his wollocks until he drops off.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, that’ll be really useful, pal. Shutting the stable door isn’t in it.’

‘It would certainly broaden the options, though.’

‘Uh-huh.’ I was looking out between the curtains. ‘That’s what I’m afraid of. Three more questions.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘One: Zariadres’s death. How does it affect the negotiations?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He was the delegation leader. Now he’s gone, what authority do the others have to negotiate?’

‘The murder doesn’t change anything at all. Zariadres was the leader, but he was first among equals. The delegation’s principals gave all four of them carte blanche.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I thought. Still, Osroes steps into Zariadres’s shoes as prime dickerer, doesn’t he? And Osroes is a different kettle of fish from Zariadres. The two didn’t get on, to put it mildly. Or at least that’s the impression I got. And he isn’t too sweet on Phraates, either.’

Vitellius was looking at me for the first time with something approaching respect. ‘You might have a bit of the diplomat in you after all, Corvinus,’ he said slowly. ‘No, you’re right; he doesn’t. Not that that changes things either.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because Phraates is Rome’s choice for Great King. Osroes’s personal feelings are neither here nor there.’

‘But — ’ I stopped. Okay; leave it. There was the beginnings of an idea there, but it was no more than that. I wasn’t going to go out on no theoretical limbs, certainly not with Lucius Vitellius.

‘But what?’

‘Nothing. That was question two. Third question.’

‘You’ve got the floor.’

‘Peucestas. He’s the only one of the three I didn’t meet before Zariadres’s death. How did he get on with the guy?’

‘Ah.’ Vitellius leaned back. ‘Peucestas is…rather a complicated man. In some ways, anyway. As far as I can tell — and that’s not going far, because the bugger’s not all that forthcoming — he’d nothing against him. Certainly he’s no Osroes.’

‘He’s capable of killing, though.’

Vitellius shot me a look. ‘Now why would you think that?’

‘Because he’s the quiet, solid type. Osroes is all mouth and no action. Not any action that would threaten him personally, anyway. Callion thinks too much, and if he killed someone he’d plan it better. Eunuch or not, Peucestas is a soldier. If he thought Zariadres ought to die, for whatever reason, then he’d kill him. No fancy plans, just a death. And we’ve only his word for it that Zariadres was dead when he found him.’

‘Peucestas swore he didn’t kill him.’

‘So?’

‘He’s a Zoroastrian. A good one, as far as I can tell, or if not then he’s a bloody superb actor. That may not mean much to you, but believe me it’s a clincher. Zoroastrians don’t take oaths lightly, especially if they offer them freely with no arm-twisting. Breaking an oath is the worst thing they can do. Take it from me, whoever killed Zariadres it wasn’t Peucestas.’

‘Then who did kill him?’

Vitellius grinned. ‘Shit knows.’

A fair assessment of the situation as it currently stood. ‘Yeah,’ I sighed. ‘Yeah, right.’

Perilla was waiting for me.

‘Well?’ she said.

I unlimbered the mantle and settled down on the atrium couch with Bathyllus’s cup of wine. ‘We’ve got our corpse,’ I said. ‘Not Phraates after all. Zariadres.’

‘Who is Zariadres?’

Oh; right; I’d forgotten she didn’t know anything about this business yet, barring in its wider features. That we would have to remedy. The hell with Isidorus’s strictures on confidentiality: I’d need the lady’s not inconsiderable brain in on this one p.d.q. She’s a lot more devious than me, for a start, and deviousness, I’d reckon, was going to be an important quality in this case.

I gave her a quick guide to the turf and generally filled her in on the background. Such of it as there was. I thought she’d be upset we were back to the gory nasties, but she was relieved rather than not.

‘It was like waiting for the second boot to drop,’ she said. ‘At least it’s a normal murder now. You know where you are with bodies. Or at least you do, dear.’

I glanced at her sideways. Strange woman, Perilla, sometimes. Me, I blame the reading.

‘So.’ She straightened a fold on her mantle: Perilla doesn’t lounge around the house like I do, and in what she was wearing she could’ve received the Chief Priestess of Juno. ‘What are your thoughts so far?’

‘On who did it? One of the three of them, at least I hope so. Currently I’d bet on the Magian, but that’s just because he’s the only one to have even the sniff of a motive and I don’t like the bugger. It doesn’t mean zilch.’

‘But if the front door was open — ’

‘Yeah. Right. That’s the puzzler. I can think of three possibilities, but there might be more.’

‘Go on.’

‘The first’s the obvious one: that the killer was an outsider.’ She opened her mouth to say something, and I held up my hand. ‘Lady, I know! The door had to be unbolted from inside, there was supposed to be a watchman in the street all night, and Isidorus had all the entrances and exits to the place stitched up tighter than a Vestal’s winter drawers. I’ve thought of all that.’

‘Oh, good.’

‘First of all, we don’t know for sure about the watchman; the guy should’ve been there, granted, but Vitellius is checking for me, and if he wasn’t then given other circumstances an outsider is a distinct possibility.’

‘The door would still have to be open.’

‘Perilla, will you wait? I said “given other circumstances”! Gods!’

She smiled and ducked her head. ‘All right, dear. But you’re not doing too well at present.’

I scowled into my wine-cup. ‘As far as an outside killer’s lying doggo’s concerned there’s no hassle. If he did manage to get in somehow it could’ve been at any time. Osroes showed me round and the place has enough unused rooms and cubby-holes for a dozen murderers. He could just have stayed hidden and waited his chance.’

‘So how did he get out again? It wasn’t a simple case of unlocking the door and drawing the bolts; he’d have to arrange for the drugging of the door-slave. Also — ’

‘Sure he would. He had help.’

‘What?’

‘I’m not claiming he was a total outsider. That wouldn’t work, no way. He had to have an accomplice on the inside, someone who could get him in and make sure he was safely bedded down, then slip the door-slave his wobbler with no questions asked. Which brings us back to Osroes. Osroes is a natural: the porter was his slave, he could have arranged that easy. Another thing: if Vitellius wasn’t kidding about him having a religious thing about dead bodies then getting someone else to do the killing would make sense.’

‘Hmm.’ Perilla twisted her hair. ‘What about the guard?’

‘Jupiter in bloody spangles, lady! I told you, Vitellius is checking on that! The theory’s dependent on there being no sodding guard! He was keeping his head dry somewhere round the corner!’

‘But Osroes — or whoever — wouldn’t know that at the time, would he? Certainly not in advance.’

Oh, shit; she’d got me there. I took another swallow of wine. ‘Okay. Point taken. So there are flaws.’

‘Flaws is right. What’s your second explanation?’

‘That the killer was an insider all the time, and opening the door was a blind. Not much of one, sure, especially with the guard there, but as good as he could manage. At least it would muddy the waters.’

‘Very well. That seems reasonable. Three?’

‘The door was never opened at all. Or not until the next morning, anyway.’

‘But, Marcus, that doesn’t make sense! The door-slave — ’

‘Listen. We’re round to Osroes again. We only have his word for what happened, and the timings involved. He was the one who found the door unlocked and the porter asleep. And he had the poor bastard killed before we could get his side of the story. Like I say, an open door muddies the waters. Without it, it had to be an inside job; this way at least there’s a doubt. We don’t even know for sure that the guy was asleep, let alone drugged. Osroes could’ve made that up too.’

Perilla was quiet for a long time. Then she said: ‘Osroes is Zoroastrian, isn’t he?’

‘Yeah, of course he’s Zoroastrian! What has that got to do with — ?’

‘Didn’t your friend Isidorus — or Lucius Vitellius — tell you about Zoroastrians? Strict ones? They have a deep-seated, almost pathological aversion to lying. And Magians are very, very strict.’

‘Gods, Perilla! Don’t tell me that if — ’

‘No, wait, dear. This is important. He may be lying, of course, but it’s extremely unlikely, especially if the lie was as direct as you say. Telling a direct lie, particularly for personal gain, is the worst thing a Magian can do. They believe it puts the soul in terrible danger, and Magians believe in the soul completely. I’m sorry, Marcus, and I’m no expert on Parthians, but I really do not think your third explanation will work.’

Bugger. Well, I bowed to the lady’s superior knowledge; and Vitellius, I remembered, had said something similar about Peucestas, so that just about nailed the lid on. ‘Then we’ll just have to assume the fucking door was open then, won’t we?’ I snarled.

‘Yes, we will. And please don’t swear. Even if you are disappointed.’

‘Disappointed’ wasn’t the word I’d’ve used; what I felt was frustrated.

‘It’s not as simple as that,’ I said. ‘I just don’t know where I am here generally. The problem’s getting inside these bastards’ minds. They’re foreigners, even the ones who’ve been brought up in Rome; I don’t understand how they work. What makes them tick.’

‘Much the same as with anyone else, I’d expect. Power. Money. Past grudges. That sort of thing.’

‘Fine. Okay. But this Osroes is a case in point. Perilla, he was disgusted when I suggested Zariadres should be cremated. Genuinely disgusted. His idea of a good funeral is leaving the corpse out for the crows. And he’ll quite happily torture a slave to death when he knows perfectly well that the poor bugger hasn’t any information to give him. How the hell can you expect to understand people like that?’

‘I don’t know.’ She smiled. ‘What you need, Marcus, is an expert. A real expert.’

‘I’ve got a fu-’ I stopped myself. ‘I’ve got a real expert. Two. One of them’s a bureaucrat’s bureaucrat and the other one thinks I’m an idiot.’

‘No. I mean a non-technical expert, as it were. Another Parthian, for preference, one who isn’t involved in the case. There must be someone like that in Rome you can talk to.’

I sat back. Yeah; now there was an idea! Also, it’d give me a different angle to work from, and that I needed badly. Some background on the Roman Parthians, Phraates and Tiridates — not the political stuff but something more personal — would be useful. Or potentially so, anyway. Not to mention Mithradates. Whether I liked it or not — and I didn’t, much above half — that bastard would be relevant somewhere along the line, I’d bet my last copper piece on it.

So. What we wanted here was someone from the expat community these guys belonged to, someone not connected with the case but who might be able to dish any dirt there was going on the unofficial side…

‘Caelius Crispus,’ I said.

‘Crispus?’ Perilla frowned. ‘Crispus isn’t a Parthian, dear. Not even close. And he’s scarcely been outside Rome.’

‘Yeah, I know that. But the sort of person I’m looking for is right up his street. If anyone can suggest a name, it’s that slimy bugger.’

‘Ah.’ She sniffed. ‘I see. Well, if you put it that way…’

I grinned; Perilla didn’t approve of Caelius Crispus. To be fair, it was mutual: given the choice between being visited by her or by a plague of boils Crispus would’ve taken the boils every time. Me — well, I’d known him since pre-Perilla days, and if we weren’t friends by a long chalk we were on firm exchanging-insults terms. Certainly on my part I had a sneaking respect for the guy: anyone who’s made it his business for years to rake through high society’s dirty linen basket for profit and still isn’t at the bottom of the river wearing concrete sandals has to have something going for him.

‘Is he still with the foreign judge’s office?’

‘Yeah, I assume so,’ I said. It was one of life’s little ironies that Crispus was currently a praetor’s rep; largely, I suspected, because he knew things about his boss that’d hand the guy a one-way ticket to an island if it ever got out. ‘Unless he’s managed to get something on someone higher up and weaselled his way into an even better job.’

‘Then you’d better see him first thing tomorrow morning.’

Ah. Right; good point. I’d forgotten about the Augustalia. It started in two days’ time, and although it wasn’t a major festival and places tend to stay open throughout the government offices would be closed on day one. Given that Crispus wasn’t exactly a conscientious civil servant where working hours were concerned he’d probably slope off early the afternoon before.

‘Incidentally, Marcus, now we’re on the subject and before I forget’ — Perilla ducked her head and tugged at a fold in her mantle — ‘there’s a performance of the Medea on the festival’s first day. I thought we might go.’

I froze, the wine-cup an inch from my lips. Damn. ‘Forget’, nothing: she’d slipped that in deliberately. Not unexpected, mind: plays — Greek plays especially — are obligatory at the Augustalia. Unlike Perilla who’s a sucker for anyone in a mask, I’m no theatre-goer; light comedies I can just about take apart from the godawful plots, but tragedy bores the pants off me. Still, I could always sleep through it. Perilla doesn’t mind, so long as I don’t snore, which I try not to because the lady packs a wicked elbow-jab.

‘Great. Great,’ I said, and took a substantial swig. Well, now, that was something to look forward to, wasn’t it?

She leaned over and kissed me. ‘What I like about you, Marcus Valerius Corvinus,’ she said, ‘is that you are so enthusiastic.’

‘Yeah. Right.’

Bathyllus shimmered in, and coughed.

‘What is it, little guy?’ I said.

‘Dinner will be early this evening, sir. If that’s convenient.’

‘Yeah, that’s fine, Bathyllus. What’s on offer?’

‘The chef is serving meatballs, sir.’

Meatballs? Bugger; I’d forgotten about the Great Lamprey-napping Mystery. However, it’d been a hard day, and I just didn’t feel up to any more sleuthing on the domestic front, especially if Meton was involved. We’d just have to grin and bear it for the present. ‘Great,’ I said. ‘Meatballs are a favourite.’

‘Yes, sir.’ He didn’t look convinced, which wasn’t all that surprising. ‘You have time for a bath, if you wish one. The furnace is hot.’

Good idea. Cut my losses. Bath, early dinner and early night. Then tomorrow morning I could beard Caelius Crispus bright and chirpy.