Last Act In Palmyra

by Lindsey Davis

  Chapter VI

  ‘Anyway, was it really an oversight?’ Helena asked some time later - a girl not easily deflected. If she was thinking that letting me kiss her had softened me up, she was right.

  ‘Forgetting to mention Anacrites? Certainly. I don’t lie to you.’

  ‘Men always say that.’

  ‘Sounds as if you’ve been talking to Thalia. I can’t be held responsible for all the other lying bastards.’

  ‘And usually you say it in the middle of an argument.’

  ‘So you reckon it’s just the line I use? Wrong, lady! But even if that were true, we do need to preserve a few escape routes! I want us to survive together,’ I told her piously. (Frank talk always disarmed Helena, since she expected me to be devious.) ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. Helena never messed me around playing coy. I could tell her that I loved her without feeling embarrassed, and I knew I could rely on her to be equally frank: she thought I was unreliable. Despite that she added, ‘A girl doesn’t come this far across the world with a mere Thursday-afternoon dalliance!’

  I kissed her again. ‘Thursday afternoons? Is that when senators’ wives and daughters have free run of the gladiators’ barracks?’ Helena wriggled furiously, which might have led to more playfulness had our baking rock seat not lain right alongside a well-beaten track. A stone fell somewhere. We both remembered the voices we had heard, and were afraid their owners might be coming back. I did wonder if I could take us off up the hillside, but its steepness and stoniness looked unpromising.

  I loved travelling with Helena - except for the frustrating series of small cabins and cramped hired rooms where we never felt free to make love. Suddenly I was longing for our sixth-floor tenement apartment, where few interlopers struggled up the stairs and only rooftop pigeons overhear.

  ‘Let’s go home!’

  ‘What - to our rented room?’

  ‘To Rome.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ scoffed Helena. ‘We’re going up to see the mountaintop.’

  My only interest in the mountaintop had been the possibilities it offered for grappling Helena. Nevertheless I put on my serious traveller’s face and we continued uphill.

  The summit was announced by a pair of unequal obelisks. Perhaps they represented gods. If so, they were crude, mysterious, and definitely alien to the human-featured Roman pantheon. They appeared to have been created not by transporting stones here, but by carving away the entire surrounding rock-bed to a depth of six or seven metres to leave these dramatic sentinels. The effort involved was staggering, and the final effect eerie. They were unidentical twins, one slightly taller, one flared at the base. Beyond lay some sort of strongly built building that we preferred not to investigate in case it was occupied by priests honing sacrificial knives.

  We climbed on, reaching the ceremonial area by a steep flight of steps. This brought us out on to a windswept promontory. On all sides the high, airy rock offered staggering views of the circlet of harsh mountains within which Petra lies. We had emerged on the north side of a slightly sunken rectangular court. Around it had been cut three benches, presumably for spectators, like the triple couches in a formal dining room. Ahead of us lay a raised platform on which were displayed offerings that we tactfully ignored. To the right, steps led to the main altar. There a tall column of black stone represented the god. Beyond him lay another, larger, round altar like a basin cut from the living rock, connected by a channel to a rectangular water tank.

  By now my imagination was working at a hairy pace. I hoped I was impervious to awe-striking locations and sinister religions, but I had been to Britain, Gaul and Germany; I

  knew more than I wanted about unpleasant pagan rites. I grasped Helena’s hand as the wind buffeted us. She walked fearlessly out on to the sunken court, gazing at the spectacular views as if we were on some balustraded vista provided for the convenience of summer tourists above the Bay of Surrentum.

  I was wishing we were. This place gave me a bad feeling. It aroused no sense of reverence. I hate ancient sites where creatures have long been slain for the grim delight of monolithic gods. I especially hate them when the local populace like to pretend, as the Nabataeans did with great relish, that some of the creatures they sacrificed could have been human. Even at that point I felt alert, as if we were walking into trouble.

  There was trouble at Dushara’s shrine all right, though it did not yet directly involve us. We still had time to avoid it -though not for much longer.

  ‘Well, this is it, my darling. Let’s go back now.’

  But Helena had spied some new feature. She pushed her hair back out of her eyes and dragged me over to look. To the south of the ceremonial area lay another rectangular reservoir. This one apparently drained the summit to provide an ample supply of fresh water for the rites of sacrifice. Unlike the rest of the High Place, this cistern was occupied.

  The man in the water could have been taking a swim in the sunlight. But as soon as I spotted him I knew that he was not floating there for pleasure or exercise.

  Chapter VII

  If I had had any sense I would still have convinced myself he was just bathing peacefully. We could have turned away without staring too closely, then a rapid stroll downhill would have taken us back to our lodging. We should have done that anyway; I should have kept us out of it.

  He was almost submerged. His head was under water. Only something bulky, caught under his clothing, was holding him afloat.

  We were both already running forwards. ‘Unbelievable!’ Helena marvelled bitterly as she scrambled down from the sacrificial platform. ‘Just two days here, and look what you’ve found.’

  I had reached the rock-formed tank ahead of her. I lowered myself over the edge into the water, trying to forget I couldn’t swim. The water came above my waist. The chill made me gasp. It was a large cistern, about four feet deep: ample to drown in.

  The swirl of water as I entered caused the body to move and start sinking. I managed to grab at the garments that had helped buoy him up. Arriving a few moments later, we could have avoided this trouble. He would have been lying out of sight on the bottom as the drowned do - assuming, of course, that drowning was the real cause of his death.

  Slowly I pulled my burden to the side. An inflated goatskin floated out from under his tangled cloak as I manoeuvred him. Helena leant down and held his feet, then helped me haul him half out of the water. She had the nice manners of any senator’s daughter, but no qualms about helping out in an emergency.

  I climbed out again. We completed the operation. He was heavy, but together we managed to remove him from the cistern and flop him face down. Without more ado I turned his head sideways. I leaned on his ribs for a respectable period, trying to revive him. I noticed my first shove seemed to expel air rather than water. And there was none of the froth I had seen with other corpses who had drowned. We get plenty in the Tiber.

  Helena waited, at first standing above me with the wind blowing her clothes against her body while she gazed thoughtfully around the high plateau. Then she walked to the far side of the cistern, examining the ground.

  As I worked I was thinking things through. Helena and I had been climbing quite slowly, and our pause for recreation had taken up time. But for that, we would have arrived at the crucial moment. But for that, we would be sharing the fabulous windswept views with two men, both alive.

  We had come too late for this one. I knew even before I started that my efforts would be useless. Still, I gave him the courtesy. I might need to be resuscitated by a stranger myself one day.

  Eventually I rolled him over on his back and stood up again.

  He was fortyish. Too fat and flabby. A wide, berry-brown face with a heavy chin and thuggish neck. The face looked mottled under its tan. Short arms; broad hands. He had not troubled himself with shaving today. Lank, rather long hair merged with coarse black eyebrows and dripped sluggishly on to the rock floor beneath him. He was dressed in a long, loose-weave br
own tunic, with a more sun-bleached cloak tangled wetly around him. Shoes knotted on top of the foot, a toe-thong apiece. No weapon. Something bulky under his clothes at the waist, however - a writing tablet, not written on.

  Helena held out something else she had found beside the cistern - a round-bottomed flask on a plaited leather cord. Its wicker casing, stained brown with wine, made me pull out the stopper: wine had been in it recently, though only a couple of drops shook out on to my palm. Maybe the goatskin had contained wine too. Being tipsy could explain how he came to be overpowered.

  His attire was Eastern, protecting him from the burning heat. Those swathes of cloth would have impeded his movements if he had been struggling to escape an attacker. I had no doubt he had been attacked. His face was grazed and cut, probably where he had been pushed bodily over the edge of the water tank. Then someone must have jumped in alongside, probably not to hold his head under; marks on his neck looked more like strangulation to me. Helena showed me that in addition to the ground that had been soaked when I clambered out, beside the tank on the far side was a similar wet area where the killer must have emerged sopping wet, The sun had made his tracks faint already, but Helena had found them leading back towards the ceremonial platform.

  We left the body and recrossed the summit in front of the altar. The trail petered out, already evaporated by sun and wind. To the north we found a moon god’s shrine with two crescent-crowned pillars flanking a niche; beyond that lay a wide staircase leading downwards. But now we could hear voices approaching - a large number of people, intoning a low ceremonial chant. This was plainly a major ceremonial route to the High Place. I doubted whether the killer could have rushed down that way, or the procession now winding up the stairs would have been disturbed.

  Helena and I turned away and climbed back by the same steps that had brought us up. We scrambled down as far as the priests’ house or guardpost. We could have knocked and asked for help. Why take the easy way? Still loath to encounter anybody with a sharp implement who might view me as an easy catch for the altar, I convinced myself the murderer would have crept past anonymously too.

  Now I noticed a second path. This must be the one he had taken; he had certainly not passed us while we were canoodling. Helena was a senator’s daughter after all; she was supposed to know the meaning of modesty. We had been alert for voyeurs.

  I never know when to leave well alone. ‘Go down,’ I commanded Helena. ‘Either wait for me near the theatre, or I’ll see you back at the lodging. Go down the same way we came up.’

  She made no protest. The sight of the dead man’s face must have stayed in her mind. Anyway, her attitude mirrored my own. I would have done this in Rome; being a visiting flea on the rump of civilisation changed nothing. Somebody had just killed this man, and I was going after whoever did it. Helena knew I had no choice. Helena would have come with me if she could cover ground as fast.

  I touched her gently on the cheek and felt her fingers brush my wrist. Then without a second thought I started down the path.

  Chapter VIII

  This path was much less steep than the one we had come up by. It seemed to be heading into the city, a much longer way down. Sudden wicked turns forced me to watch my footing above astounding aerial vistas that would have made me quake if there had been time to look at them properly.

  I was trying to be quiet as I hurried. Though I had no reason to think the fleeing man knew pursuit was hot on his tail, murderers rarely hang about studying the view.

  I was passing through another valley gorge cut by watercourses, like the one that had brought Helena and me to the summit. Flights of steps, inscriptions in the cliff face, sharp corners and short stretches of narrow corridor led me downhill as far as a rock-carved lion. Five strides in length and pleasingly weathered, he served as a fountain; a straight channel brought fresh water down through a pipe and out of his mouth. Now I was certain the killer had come this way, for the sandstone ledge beneath the lion’s head was damp, as if a man with wet clothing had sat there snatching a drink. I splashed water hastily over my own forehead, thanked the lion for his information, and rushed on again.

  The water that had flowed through the lion now trickled downhill in a waist-high runnel cut into the cliff face, keeping me company. I stumbled down a steeply winding flight of steps then found myself in a secluded stretch of the wadi. Overhung by oleanders and tulips, its peaceful stillness nearly made me abandon my quest. But I hate murder. I strode on. The path came to a pleasant temple: two freestanding columns in a pilastered frame, with a shrine behind, darkly dug out of the mountain like a cavern. The portico was approached by wide steps, a parched garden in their base. There I saw an elderly Nabataean priest and a younger man, also a priest. I had the impression they had just come out from the temple sanctum. Both were gazing downhill.

  My arrival made both of them gape at me instead. In Latin first, automatically, then in careful Greek I asked the elder man if anyone had just passed that way in a hurry. He merely stared at me. There was no way I could attempt the local Arabic tongue. Then the younger man suddenly spoke to him as if translating. I explained briskly that somebody had died at the High Place, apparently not by accident. This too was relayed, without much result. Impatient, I started walking on again. The elder priest spoke. The younger one came straight out from the garden, and loped downhill alongside me. He said nothing, but I accepted his company. Glancing back I saw that the other had turned to go to the place of sacrifice and investigate.

  My new ally had a dark desert-dweller’s skin and intense eyes. He was wearing a long white tunic that flapped around his ankles, but he managed to shift along pretty fast. Although he never spoke I felt we had shared motives. So, feeling slightly better than strangers, we hurried downhill together and eventually reached the city wall, far over in the western precincts, where the main habitation lay.

  We had passed no one. Once we entered by the city gate there were people everywhere, and no way of discerning the man we sought. His clothes must be dry by now, as mine almost were. There seemed nothing else I could do. But the young man with me still strode ahead, so I found myself drawn along with him.

  We had emerged close to the public monuments. Passing through an area of impressive homes built from well-dressed sandstone blocks, we reached the craftsmen’s quarter on the main thoroughfare. The gravelled street cried out for decent paving and colonnades, but possessed its own exotic grandeur. Here, the great covered markets lay to our left, with an area of casual stalls and tethering posts between them. The main watercourse ran alongside this street, about ten feet below. Poky stairways ran down to that lower level, while handsome bridges spanned the gulley to reach important buildings on the far side - the royal palace, and one of the monumental temples that dominated this part of the city. These lay on wide terraces and were approached by spectacular flights of steps.

  We were heading purposefully past them to the large terminal gate. This, I knew, was the heart of the Impressive temples stood back from the street on either side, though the greatest temple lay ahead of us within the sanctuary area. We reached and crossed a small piazza, then went through the tall gateway, which had massive doors folded back. Immediately inside were administrative buildings. My young priest stopped there and spoke to someone in a doorway but then pressed on, waving me to accompany him. We had entered a long open space, enclosed by a high wall on the watercourse side — a typically Eastern temple sanctuary. Stone benches ran around the perimeter. At the far end on a raised platform was an open-air altar. This lay in front of Petra’s main temple, dedicated to Dushara,the mountain-god.

  It was a colossal structure. We clambered up to an immense, marble-clad platform approached by wide marble steps. Four plain but massive pillars formed a portico, deep in welcome shade, below a rather static frieze of rosettes and triglyphs. The Greeks had been to Petra, possibly by invitation. They had left their mark in the carved work, yet it was a fleeting influence, quite unlike the domination they
exerted on Roman art.

  Within, we came to a vast entrance chamber where high windows lit elaborately moulded plasterwork and wall frescos of architectural patterns. A character who was evidently a very senior priest had noticed us. My companion marched forwards in his dogged way. I would have had about two seconds to turn around and make a run for it. I had done nothing wrong, so I stood my ground. Sweat trickled down my back. Hot and exhausted, it was difficult to assume my normal air of confidence. I felt far from home, in a land where mere innocence might be no defence.

  Our news was relayed. There came a sudden upsurge of chatter, as there normally is when an unnatural death has been announced unexpectedly in a public place. The sacrilege had caused a shock. The senior functionary jumped, as if it were the most alarming event of the last six months. He gabbled away in the local dialect, then appeared to reach a decision; he exclaimed some formal pronouncement, and made a couple of urgent gestures.

  My young companion turned and finally spoke: ‘You must tell this!’

  ‘Certainly,’ I answered, in my role as an honest traveller. ‘Whom shall I tell?’

  ‘He will come.’ To sensitive ears it had an ominous ring.

  I recognised my predicament. A person of extreme consequence was about to interest himself in my story. I had been hoping to remain unobtrusive in Petra. As a Roman who was not a valid trader my presence here would be awkward to explain. Something told me that drawing attention to myself might be a very bad idea. Still, it was too late now.

  We had to wait.

  In the desert, extremes of climate and distance encourage a leisurely attitude. Quick settlement of crises would be bad manners. People like to savour news.