Parthian Shot

18

It was well past noon when they let me go. I was grateful to be out in the street again. The unexpected connection between Zariadres and Peucestas had come as a real facer, and I needed peace and quiet to think it over.

Peace and quiet and a wine-shop. Sure, I’d had the two cups of Syrian, but that was pleasure, not business. If I was going to think, I needed a wine-shop wall at my back, half a jug within easy reach and the soporific drone of bar-flies slagging off the city admin dole-queue clerks, analysing the last set of races in the Circus or explaining at alcoholic length to the barman how their wives-stroke-girlfriends didn’t understand them and what bastards their bosses were. The usual, in other words. I headed back in the direction of Iugarius and Renatius’s place.

So; Peucestas might come across as pretty straight, but he had motive in spades. Plus, of course, a prime opportunity: he’d been the one to find the body, and I only had his word for it that Zariadres had been dead before he got there. Sure, the real villain of the piece had been the other Zariadres, his father or uncle, and he was probably long gone — Erato had said, later, when I asked her, that he’d been pushing sixty when Peucestas’s wife and kids had been executed — but for easterners, like our backwoods Sicilians, guilt’s an inherited thing and revenge doesn’t stop with the guy immediately responsible. Having a close relative a corridor’s length away, practically unguarded, in a foreign city where the authorities would chew their own legs off before getting involved would be practically an open invitation to murder.

The question was, of course, how the situation had been allowed to arise in the first place. I might not know Parthians, or the diplomatic world in general, but common sense told me that sending two men on an embassy one of whom was related to someone who’d been responsible for lopping the bollocks off the other and sticking his family on pointed stakes wasn’t too bright an idea; especially if — as had to be the case — both parties were aware of the link. No doubt Isidorus would say that sort of thing happened all the time in diplomatic circles, but to me it made no sense at all. If Peucestas was the killer then it’d been a crime just waiting to happen.

Having the motive and the opportunity were one thing; being guilty of the actual murder was another. Besides, from what I’d seen of him I liked Peucestas, and if he’d slit Zariadres’s throat I couldn’t altogether blame him. This case was turning into a real bugger.

Then, naturally, there was the other important question that Erato’s little scrap of information had raised…

I was on Iugarius now. As usual this time of day it was packed to the gunnels, both sides and the middle. Not that Renatius’s would be crowded: most of the punters you see around the Market Square district are sharp city types, plain-mantles and above, and Renatius’s is definitely spit-and-sawdust tunic territory. He serves good honest wine, though, better than the overpriced stuff you get in the chichi places in this area that cater for the upwardly-mobile set. And give me droning barflies over pushy execs doing private deals and knifing their absent colleagues in the back over jugs of second-rate Alban any time.

I’d just passed one of the chichi-est wineshops — there’re quite a few on that stretch, which is another reason why Renatius’s isn’t heaving — when someone called my name. I turned. Nicanor was coming out of the door with two other youngsters of about the same age. All three were wearing party mantles and looking, among the respectable whites of the pedestrian traffic, like louche peacocks in a duck-run. One of his pals was carrying a wine-jug, the other had an arm round his shoulder, and all that was holding the two of them up was hope.

‘Hey, Corvinus! How are things?’ The words were slightly slurred: Nicanor mightn’t be as far-gone as his mates, or if he was he carried it a lot better, but he’d still’ve given a newt a close run for its money. ‘Still chasing Parthians, are you?’

The lad with the wine-jug whispered something into his pal’s ear and they giggled together.

‘Yeah, more or less,’ I said easily, ignoring the looks we were getting from disgruntled mantles forced to edge round the sudden pavement-jam. City-centre mantles are the starchiest in Rome. ‘You’re pretty late back from your night out, aren’t you, pal?’

Nicanor raised his shoulders. The garland slipped down over one eye, and he absently pushed it back. ‘A going-away party. Quintus here’s cousin’ — he nodded at the kid with the jug — ‘is off to join his legion this morning.’ He glanced up at the sun. ‘Oh, shit! Is that the time?’

A large narrow-striper clutching a precarious bundle of wax tablets in the fold of his mantle glared at us and stepped carefully round, muttering. Quintus blew a raspberry after him. I grinned: those kids weren’t all bad. ‘Yeah. I’m afraid so,’ I said. ‘Maybe you’d best get home.’

He shook his head, almost dislodging the garland again. ‘No hurry. And I owe you a cup of wine.’

‘You don’t think maybe you’ve had enough?’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’ He leaned against the wall and forced himself upright. ‘Not here, though. The bugger who runs the place threw us out. We’ll go further up the street.’

‘What about your friends?’

Both of them were out of things. Quintus — the guy with the wine-jug — had sat down and was grinning into space. The other one had his back to the bricks and looked like he was seriously considering throwing up.

‘They’ll be OK. They’re used to it.’ Nicanor took my arm. ‘Come on, Corvinus. I owe you a drink, and I pay my debts.’

Yeah, well; I couldn’t just leave him, that was sure. And after my conversation with Jarhades and Erato I had questions to ask. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Just the one. But I choose the wineshop, right?’

‘Deal.’

We left Quintus and his pal — I’d bet the missing bits of their names figured pretty high on the social roll — communing with nature and carried on up Iugarius, drawing disapproving stares and tuts all the way from passing punters. At least Renatius’s would be safe: I could have a quiet word with Renatius himself to make sure that the one cup didn’t turn into five or six, and slip one of the regulars a silver piece or two to see him safe home at the end of it. I owed his parents that much.

‘So where was the party?’ I said.

‘The Quirinal. Or at least that’s where it started. Quintus had a friend near the old Flaminian Racetrack. We were going to drop in on him when it finished.’

‘Iugarius isn’t on the way to Flaminius Circus from the Quirinal.’

‘Yeah, I know, but we took a detour. Decimus wanted to make a speech on the rostrum. We never did reach Quintus’s friend’s. We were pretty drunk.’

Were pretty drunk! Bacchus on skates! They’d been lucky the Watch hadn’t lifted them, or worse: the city streets are no picnic area after dark, especially for three legless youngsters with more money than brains. Which in their case wouldn’t be difficult. ‘You’ve been out all night?’

‘Sure. We slept in the portico of the Julian Hall until the slaves turned up at dawn and threw us out.’ He sounded like it happened most nights of the month. Maybe it did.

‘So how about this morning?’

‘It seemed a shame to go home. Flavius’s serves a good breakfast, the wine’s good and one thing led to another. We’d’ve been all right if that bastard Quintus hadn’t been sick over the guy at the next table. He turned out to be a praetor with no sense of humour.’ He glanced at me owlishly. ‘How far’s this place of yours, then?’

‘We’re at it.’ I pushed open Renatius’s door and went in.

Half a dozen pairs of eyes swivelled towards us, the same number of eyebrows climbed towards the ceiling and there were a couple of whistles. Then the punters went back to their drinks. As far as reaction went, that was it: as a whole, Renatius’s customers tend to keep themselves to themselves, at least until the newcomer’s bought his own wine and if he doesn’t look a soft touch.

Nicanor was looking around the bare wooden tables and benches and the plain walls. ‘You drink here?’ he said.

One of the tunics in the corner next to us sniggered into his cup and I sighed. Yeah, well, at least Charax the loud-mouthed cowboy builder wasn’t in evidence today. The mileage that smart bugger could’ve got out of a spoilt-brat kid dressed up in a fancy party mantle just didn’t bear thinking of. ‘My choice, remember?’ I said. ‘And I happen to like it. Sit down and I’ll get the drinks.’

‘No, it’s my treat. I’ll get the — ’

‘Shut up.’

For a wonder, he did. While he parked himself none too steadily at an empty table I went over to the bar. Renatius was rinsing cups, and from the sour look on his face he’d heard the kid’s initial comment.

‘Afternoon, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Who’s your fancy friend? Or are you nursemaiding?’

‘Just make it two cups of the usual, pal,’ I said. ‘No added smartass comments. And some bread, cheese, sausage and olives.’ It was past lunchtime, I was getting peckish and no doubt Nicanor could do with something to soak up the booze.

Renatius’s eyebrows rose for the second time. ‘Cups?’

‘Cups. And don’t come over asking if we want refills, either.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Renatius cast a professional eye over my shoulder. ‘He looks like he’s had as much as he can take for one afternoon, anyway.’

‘Right. Exactly.’ I opened my belt-pouch to pay, adding a few silver pieces on the side. ‘And see if you can get one of the lads to scare up a litter and watchdog him home when we’ve finished.’

Renatius poured the wine. ‘This another of your cases?’ he asked.

‘Could be.’

‘You certainly pick them, don’t you?’

‘He’s OK. Or he will be in a few years when he comes out the end of it. If he lives that long.’

I carried the wine and the plate of food over to the table. Now he was off his feet, Nicanor had taken on a sort of boiled-fish look: stiff and slightly glazed. I put a winecup in front of him, laid the plate between us and sat down opposite.

‘Cheers,’ he said, taking a swig. ‘Hey, this isn’t bad.’

I took a mouthful from my own cup. ‘Renatius’s Spoletian is about the best in Rome,’ I said. ‘He gets it from his cousin’s farm. Same goes for the cheese and sausage. Tell me about Damon and your sister.’

I’d been wondering how to broach the subject, and I’d decided the in-your-face approach was best. For the next five seconds, I thought I’d made a mistake. It was as if I’d thrown a bucket of ice-water over him. Nicanor set his cup down slowly, staring at me and reddening, all the signs of drunkenness gone.

‘How do you know about Sebasta?’ he said.

So that was the girl’s name. ‘One of the jugglers at the dinner party when you cut off the guy’s finger told me.’ Deliberately, I avoided his eyes and reached for a slice of sausage. ‘He got her pregnant, didn’t he?’

‘That’s none of your fucking business!’

‘No, it isn’t,’ I agreed.

He took another swallow of wine. ‘She was sixteen. Three years younger than me. Yes, Damon got her pregnant. When she found out she killed herself.’

‘She had an affair with him?’

‘Sebasta wouldn’t’ve looked twice at that piece of filth. He raped her.’

Uh-huh. Yeah, well, it was possible, but only just: families in Rome keep a close eye on their daughters of marriageable age, and under these circumstances rape isn’t all that common. More often than not, a pregnancy comes about because the girl has made at least some of the running and has been seeing the lad concerned behind her parents’ backs. That was more likely, in this situation too. Besides, Nicanor had been fond of the girl — more than fond from his reaction — and any account I got from him was bound to be biased.

Nicanor had been watching me, scowling. He got to his feet, lurching slightly. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ he said. ‘Well, Corvinus, you can just — ’

I grabbed his arm across the table and pulled him down. Although I had my back to the room, I could feel the other punters’ sudden interest. You don’t often get a floor show in Renatius’s, and the customers tend to make the most of it.

‘Sit down,’ I said. ‘Sure I believe you. Why not? Besides, like you say it’s none of my business.’

Nicanor sat. The effort seemed to have taken all the energy he had, because he slumped like a sack of grain. ‘My fucking father had been throwing her at Tiridates,’ he said. ‘Tiridates wasn’t interested. Damon was, though, but not in marriage. The two of them — and that bastard Iberian — cooked it up between them. They got her on her own one day and Damon raped her. Satisfied?’

So. It made some sort of cockeyed sense, anyway. Maybe I might believe the story after all. ‘You want to tell me the whole thing from the beginning?’ I said quietly.

Nicanor reached for his wine-cup and drank most of what was left at a gulp. ‘You don’t know my family, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘My mother’s OK, most of the time, but she wants to get on in society and she does whatever my father tells her. He’s a real bastard. He’d swim through shit to get his feet on the ladder. Any ladder. Marrying his daughter to a Parthian prince would’ve done that, and to hell with what she thought herself. He could’ve been a pimp and Sebasta one of his whores. Mother wasn’t much better. We had some real screaming matches.’ He swallowed the last of the wine. ‘Trouble was, it was all the one way, wasn’t it? Tiridates wasn’t interested. Why should he be? He’s fucking royalty. You know what that means?’ I nodded, but didn’t interrupt; the guy was off and running with the grudge between his teeth, and all he wanted now was a sympathetic audience. ‘He wouldn’t’ve had Sebasta as even a secondary wife, not the daughter of an Armenian merchant and a low-class Syrian who hadn’t even looks going for her. He strung Dad along, sure, but only for what he could get. Snob or not, Dad’s stinking rich, that’s one thing you can say for him, and he threw money at Tiridates like he was Croesus. I know that crowd. They were just playing games, all of them. I told Dad they were laughing at him up their sleeves and he was wasting his time, but he wouldn’t believe me. It was just a joke to them, a mean, evil, sordid joke.’ He lifted the empty cup to his lips and set it down. Despite what I’d said, I was going to signal Renatius to bring him another, but he didn’t seem too concerned so I left it. ‘Then Tiridates asks him if he can take Sebasta out in his carriage for the day to Fidenae, with just her maid as chaperone. Dad agrees although Sebasta herself’s against the idea, and that’s it. She never reaches Fidenae. They take her to some mutual pal’s fancy villa outside the city where Damon’s waiting and he rapes her. Big laugh all round. Big joke. Who cares about a social-climbing Armenian merchant’s daughter, anyway?’

He was scowling into the empty cup. I reached mine over and poured half the contents in, and he drained them at a swallow. It hung together, sure it did. Especially if you knew Damon and Tiridates. ‘She didn’t say anything? When she got back?’

‘No. But then she wouldn’t. Sebasta hated Dad as much as I do. Mum worse.’

‘And she didn’t tell you?’

‘No. I knew something was wrong because she kept to her room most of the time after that, and Tiridates stopped coming. But I didn’t know what, until she hanged herself a month later and left the note saying she was pregnant. Then I got the story from the maid. Finally. They’d paid the bitch to keep her mouth shut, and she was never Sebasta’s anyway.’

‘Your sister didn’t say anything about Damon in the note?’

‘No. Just that she was going to have a child and preferred to die first. My father thought — he still thinks — it was Tiridates’s. He blamed her — blamed her! — because knowing she carried a Parthian prince’s child she still killed herself when she could’ve had it and put him under an obligation to marry her, or at least taken her as a formal concubine. Bastard!’

Yeah, I’d tend to agree. Social climbers aren’t nice people at the best of times, and Nicanor’s Papa Anicus sounded like the arse-end of the breed. Not that the story was unusual: I’d heard it a dozen times before. Or, if not the third-person-rape permutation exactly, its straightforward equivalent. Marriage brokering isn’t always all sweetness and light, and the upper social stratum has things crawling around in it that’d disgrace a sewer. The people that really get hurt — like Nicanor’s sister — are the poor kids caught in the middle.

‘So you went after Damon?’ I said.

He shook his head. ‘Not at once. And not openly. I’m a coward, too, in my way, and his father could’ve made trouble, especially since no one was accusing him. I waited my chance. I didn’t want to kill him. Killing wasn’t bad enough.’

‘You took the opportunity of a silly drunken brawl to cut off his finger. So even Damon would have to realise he’d never make Great King.’

‘And live knowing it. Knowing who to thank and why. Right.’ Nicanor bared his teeth in a grin. ‘I don’t want Damon to die. Not for a long, long time.’

‘What about your parents? You didn’t tell them? About it not being Tiridates who was responsible?’

‘Why should I? They didn’t care in the first place, and Sebasta’s gone anyway. Besides, Dad’s still pretty thick with him. And he’s got a new prospect lined up to help him on his way.’

‘Yeah? Who’s that?’

‘One of the consulars. A guy by the name of Lucius Vitellius.’

I nearly swallowed my wine-cup.