Last Act In Palmyra mdf-6

by Lindsey Davis

  Coincidence has a habit of landing me in tight situations. 'Neither the victim nor his killer knew me. I have merely reported the incident.'

  'Why did you do that?' enquired The Brother sedately.

  'I believe his killer should be traced and brought to justice.'

  'There are laws in the desert!' he rebuked me, his deep voice soft.

  'I was not suggesting otherwise. For that reason I alerted you.'

  'You may have wished to remain silent!' He was still niggling about my role in Petra.

  Reluctantly I conceded: 'It might have been more convenient! I'm sorry if you have been informed I'm a spy. To get this in perspective, let me tell you that your helpful informant is also the man who paid me to come here.'

  The Brother smiled. More than ever he looked like somebody you wouldn't trust to hold your purse while you were undressing at the baths. 'Didius Falco, you have dangerous friends.'

  'He and I were never friends.'

  We had stood talking in the open outdoor area for much longer than could be customary. At first it must have appeared to the onlookers that we were speculating about the dead man. Now people in the crowd were growing restless as they sensed more going on.

  This corpse had become a useful cover for The Brother. It could well be that at some future date the sensible Nabataeans would hand themselves over to Rome on negotiated terms – but there would be ample preparation. No disturbing rumour would be permitted to ruffle commerce prematurely. At this stage The Brother needed to hide from his people the fact that he had been talking with an official from Rome.

  Suddenly my interview reached its end. The Brother told me that he would see me again tomorrow. He stared at the young priest for a moment, said something in Arabian, then instructed him in Greek to conduct me to my lodging. I understood that all too well: I had been released on parole. I was being watched. I would not be permitted to inspect places they wished to keep secret. I would not be allowed free talk with the populace. Meanwhile, a decision on whether or not to let me leave Petra would be taken without my knowledge and without leave to appeal.

  From now on, the Chief Minister would always know where I was. All my movements and even my continued existence, were at his whim. In fact, it struck me he was the sort of unreliable potentate who could well send me off now with a smile and a promise of mint tea and sesame cakes tomorrow – then dispatch his executioner after me in half an hour's time.

  I was escorted from the sanctuary. I had no idea what was intended for the corpse. I never did find out what happened to it.

  But that would not be my last connection with the man I had found on the High Place of Sacrifice.

  Chapter XI

  Helena was waiting in our room. Expecting trouble, she had dressed her hair neatly in a decorated net, though she covered it demurely with a white stole when we entered. Discreet strands of beads were evenly hung on her fine bosom; hints of gold glinted at the tips of her ears. She was sitting very upright. Her hands were folded; her ankles crossed. She looked severe and expectant. There was a stillness about her that spoke of quality.

  'This is Helena Justina,' I informed the young priest, as if he ought to treat her respectfully. 'I am Didius Falco, as you know. And you are?'

  This time he could not ignore it. 'My name is Musa.'

  'We have been adopted as personal guests of The Brother,' I stated, for Helena's benefit. Maybe I could impose duties of hospitality on the priest. (Maybe not.) 'Musa, at The Brother's request, is to look after us while we are in Petra.'

  I could see that Helena understood.

  Now we all knew everyone. All we had to do was communicate. 'How are we off for languages?' I asked, making it a matter of politeness. I was wondering how to shake Musa loose and drag Helena safely out of here. 'Helena is fluent in Greek; she used to kidnap her brothers' tutor. Musa speaks Greek, Arabic and I presume Aramaic. My Latin's low class but I can insult an Athenian, read the price-list in a Gallic inn or ask what's for breakfast of a Celt… Let's stick with Greek,' I offered gallantly, then switched to Latin, using an impenetrable street dialect. 'What's the news, beautiful?' I asked Helena, as if I were accosting her in an Aventine fish market. Even if Musa understood more Latin than he was letting on, this ought to fool him. The only problem was, a respectable young noblewoman born in a Capena Gate mansion might not understand me either.

  I helped Helena unpack some olives we had bought earlier that day; it seemed like weeks ago.

  Helena busied herself dividing salad into bowls. She replied to me off-handedly as if discussing dressed beans and chickpeas: 'When I came down from the High Place, I reported what had happened to a man who looked in authority who was standing outside the theatre – ' She peered at some strangely white cheeses.

  'Ewe's milk,' I said cheerfully, in Greek. 'Or camel's!' I was not sure that was possible.

  'People nearby must have been listening in,' Helena continued. 'I overheard speculation from a company of actors that the drowned man might belong to them, but I was so exhausted I just said they could contact you if they wanted more information. They seemed an odd lot; I don't know if we'll hear from them. The official collected his favourite cronies and went up to see about the body.'

  'I saw it later,' I confirmed.

  'Well, I left them to it and slipped away.'

  We sat on rugs and cushions. Our Nabataean guardian seemed shy of small talk. Helena and I had a lot to think about; the apparent murder at the High Place had upset both of us, and we knew we were in a sticky predicament as a result. I stared into my supper bowl.

  'Didius Falco, you have three radishes, seven olives, two lettuce leaves and a piece of cheese!' listed Helena, as if I was checking the equality of our rations. 'I divided it fairly, so there would be no quarrelling…'

  She had spoken Greek herself this time as a courtesy to our silent guest. I switched back to Latin, like the man of the house being stubborn. 'Well, that's probably the last we'll hear of the drowned man, but you will gather you and I are now the subject of a tense political incident.'

  'Can we shed this overseer?' she queried in our own tongue, smiling graciously at Musa and serving him the burned segment of our flat Petran loaf.

  'Afraid he sticks.' I spooned him some mashed chickpeas.

  Musa politely accepted our offerings, though with a worried air. He took what he was given – then did not eat. He probably knew he was the subject under discussion, and given the brevity of his instructions from The Brother he may have been feeling anxious about being alone with two dangerous criminals.

  We tucked in. I wasn't his foster-mother. If Musa chose to be picky, as far as I was concerned he could starve. But I wanted my strength.

  Knocking summoned us to the door. We found a gang of Nabataeans who did not look like passing lamp-oil salesmen; they were armed and determined. They started jabbering excitedly. Musa had followed us to the threshold; I could tell he disliked what he heard.

  'You have to go,' he told me. His startled tone seemed genuine.

  'Leave Petra?' It was amazing these people managed to conduct so much lucrative commerce if everyone who came to their city got sent away so promptly. Still, it could have been worse. I had been expecting The Brother to decide we should stay – probably in custody. In fact I had been pondering ways I could sneak us down the Siq to collect our ox-cart from the caravanserai in secret, then dash for freedom. 'We'll pack!' I volunteered eagerly. Helena had jumped up and was already doing it. 'So this is goodbye, Musa!'

  'Oh no,' replied the priest, with an earnest expression. 'I was told to stay with you. If you leave Petra, I shall have to come.'

  I patted his shoulder. We had no time to waste in argument. 'If we're being asked to leave, no doubt somebody forgot to countermand your orders.' He was unimpressed with this reasoning. I didn't believe it myself. If my corns had been in The Brother's boots, I too would have made sure an underling followed us to the Nabataean borders and put us firmly on board ship. 'Well, it's
your decision.'

  Helena was used to me acquiring eccentric travel companions, but looked as if this one had stretched her tolerance. Grinning unconvincingly, I tried to reassure her: 'He won't come with us far; he'll miss his mountains.'

  Helena smiled wearily. 'Don't worry. I'm quite used to handling men I could do without!'

  With as much dignity as we could muster we allowed ourselves to be marched out of Petra. From shadows among the rocks, dark figures watched us leave. The odd camel did us the honour of spitting after us disparagingly.

  Once we stopped. Musa spoke almost crossly to the armed escort. They didn't like waiting, but he darted into a house and came back with a small baggage roll. Equipped with Nabataean underwear and toothpicks, presumably, we were hurried on.

  By then night had fallen, so our journey took place by the light of flares. Their pallid flames flickered eerily on the lower carvings of the rock tombs, sending long shadows up the sandstone. Columns and pediments were glimpsed, then quickly lost. Square-topped doorways assumed a menacing air, their openings like mysterious black cave mouths. We were on foot. We let the Nabataeans carry our baggage across the city, but when we reached the narrow gorge through the mountains it was clear we were being sent on alone – almost. Musa definitely intended to stick all the way. To reach the outside world, I had to grapple with our baggage while Helena lit our way with a flaming brand. As she strode ahead of us in high annoyance, she looked like some devastating sibyl leading the way down a cleft into Hades.

  'Lucky I hadn't spent my inheritance on a lifetime's supply of bales of silk and incense jars!' muttered Helena, loud enough for Musa to hear. I knew she had been looking forward to what ought to have been an unrivalled chance to make luxury purchases. If her mother was as efficient as mine, she had come with a three-scroll shopping list.

  'I'll buy you a pair of Indian pearl earrings,' I tried offering to her stately back.

  'Oh thanks! That should overcome my disappointment…' Helena knew the pearls would probably never materialise.

  We stumbled down the rocky path between cliffs that now craned together in complete blackness overhead. If we stopped, occasional tumbling stones were all that broke the silence of the Siq. We kept going.

  I was now feeling mild despair. I always like to accomplish my tasks for the Emperor with dispatch, but even by my economical standards spending barely one day in Petra was not a good basis for briefing His Caesarship on the usual dire subjects (topography, fortifications, economics, social mores, political stability and mental state of the populace). I could just about manage to tell him the market price of radishes – information Vespasian probably knew from other sources, and not much use for helping a war council decide whether to invade.

  Without hard information to offer, my chances of screwing a fee from the Palace must be slim. Besides, if Anacrites had sent me here in the hope that it would be a terminal journey, I could assume he had never budgeted for a large outlay. Probably nobody expected to see my happy grin at the accounts kiosk again. It meant that not for the first time I was nose to nose with bankruptcy.

  Helena, who discovered her sense of discretion whilst she was trying to handle a wildly flaring torch, found little to say about our situation. She had money. She would, if I allowed it, subsidise our journey home. I would let her do it eventually, if that was the only way to spare Helena herself discomfort. Biting back my pride would make me pretty short-tempered, so for both our sakes she refrained from asking pointedly what plans I had now. Maybe I could extricate us myself. More likely not.

  Most likely, as Helena knew from experience, I had no plans at all.

  This was not the worst disaster of our lives, nor my worst failure. But I was dangerously angry about it. So when a small group of camels and ox-carts came rattling down the gorge behind us, my first reaction was to stay in the middle of the gravel track, forcing them to slow and stick behind us. Then, when a voice called out offering a lift on a cart, irrational frivolity took over. I turned round, dumping my load. The first cart stopped, leaving me gazing into the dolorous eyes of an edgy-looking ox.

  'Your offer's welcome, stranger! How far can you take us?'

  The man grinned back, responding to the challenge. 'Bostra, perhaps?' He was not Nabataean. We were talking in Greek.

  'Bostra's not on my itinerary. How about dropping us at the caravanserai here, where I can pick up my own transport?'

  'Done,' he said, with an easygoing smile. His intonation had the same overlay as mine; I was now sure of it.

  'You from Italy?' I asked.

  'Yes.'

  I accepted the lift.

  Only when we were ensconced on the waggon did I notice what a raggle-taggle company had picked us up. There were about ten of them, split between three carts and a couple of moth-eaten camels. Most of the people looked white-faced and anxious. Our driver caught the question in my eyes. 'I'm Chremes, an actor-manager. My company has been ordered to depart from Petra. We saw them lift the curfew to let you out, so we're doing a quick flit before anybody changes their mind about us.'

  'Might somebody insist you stay?' I asked, though I had already guessed.

  'We lost a friend.' He nodded to Helena, whom he must have recognised. 'You are the couple who found him, I believe. Heliodorus, who had the unfortunate accident up on the mountaintop.'

  That was the first time I heard our drowned man's name.

  Immediately afterwards I heard something else: 'Bostra might be an interesting town to visit, Marcus,' suggested Helena Justina in a speculative voice.

  That young lady could never resist a mystery.

  Chapter XII

  Of course we did go to Bostra. Helena knew she was doing me a favour by suggesting it. Having discovered the drowned man, I too was fascinated to have met up with his companions. I wanted to know much more about them – and him. Being nosy was my livelihood.

  That first evening, Chremes took us to recover our own stabled ox, the sad beast I had taken on at Gaza, together with the shaky contraption that passed for our hired vehicle. The night was really too dark now to travel on further, but both our parties were keen to put distance between ourselves and Petra. For added security and confidence we drove on in convoy, sharing our torches. We all seemed to feel that in the desert chance encounters are important.

  After we set up camp I approached the actor-manager curiously: 'Are you certain the man Helena and I discovered was your friend?'

  'Everything fits from your description – same build, same colouring. Same drinking habits!' he added bitterly.

  'Then why didn't you come forward and claim the body?' I sprang at him.

  'We were already in enough trouble!' twinkled Chremes like a conspirator.

  I could understand that. But the situation intrigued me all the same.

  We had all made our tents by hanging black goat-hair covers on rough wooden frames and were sitting outside these shelters by firelight. Most of the theatricals were huddled together, subdued by Heliodorus' death. Chremes came to join Helena and me, while Musa sat slightly apart in a world of his own. Hugging my knees I took my first good look at the leader of the theatre troupe.

  He was, like the dead man, broadly built and full of face. More striking, however, with a strong chin and a dramatic nose that would have looked good on a republican general. Even in normal conversation he had a powerful voice with a resonance that seemed almost overdone. He delivered his sentences crisply. I did not doubt there were reasons why he had come to talk this evening. He wanted to judge Helena and me; maybe he wanted more than that from us.

  'Where are you from?' Helena enquired. She could draw out information as smoothly as a pickpocket slitting a purse-thong.

  'Most of the group hail from southern Italy. I'm a Tusculum man.'

  'You're a long way from home!'

  'I've been a long way from Tusculum for twenty years.'

  I chortled. 'What's that – the old "one wife too many and I was cut out of my inher
itance" excuse?'

  'There was nothing there for me. Tusculum's a dead-and-alive, ungrateful, uncivilised backwater.' The world is full of people slandering their birthplaces, as if they really believe that small-town life is different elsewhere.

  Helena seemed to be enjoying herself; I let her carry on. 'So how did you end up here, Chremes?'

  'After half a lifetime performing on rocky stages in thunderstorms to provincial thickheads who only want to talk among themselves about that day's market, it's like a drug. I do have a wife – one I hate, who hates me back – and I've no more sense than to carry on for ever dragging a gang of tattered strutters into any city we find on our road…'

  Chremes talked almost too readily. I wondered how much was a pose. 'When did you actually leave Italy?' Helena asked.

  'The first time, twenty years ago. Five years back we came east again with Nero's travelling sideshow, his famous Greek Tour. When he tired of receiving laurel chaplets from bribed judges and packed up for home, we kept on drifting until we floated into Antiochia. The real Greeks didn't want to see what the Romans have done to their stage heritage, but so-called Hellenic cities here, which haven't been Greek since Alexander, think we're presenting them with masterpiece theatre. We found we could scrape a living in Syria. They are drama-mad. Then I wondered what Nabataea was like.

  Worked our way south – and now thanks to The Brother we're working north again.'

  'I'm not with you?'

  'Our offer of culture was about as welcome in Petra as a performance of The Trojan Women to a family of baboons.'

  'So you were already departing even before Heliodorus was drowned?'

  'Seen off by The Brother. Happens often in our profession. Sometimes we get driven out of town for no reason. At least at Petra they produced a passable excuse.'

  'What was that?'

  'We were planning a performance in their theatre – though the gods know the place was primitive. Aeschylus would have taken one glance and gone on strike. But we were going to give them The Pot of Goldseemed appropriate, given that everyone there has plenty. Congrio, our poster-writer, had chalked up details all round the city. Then we were solemnly informed that the theatre is only used ceremonially, for funeral rites. The implication was that if we desecrated their stage, the funeral rites might be our own… A strange people,' Chremes stated.