Last Act In Palmyra

by Lindsey Davis

  ‘Heliodorus was no good,’ Helena answered, impatiently.

  ‘So why didn’t Chremes simply pay him off?’

  ‘Playwrights are difficult to find.’ She kept her head down while she said it. I growled. I was not enjoying reading through the dead man’s box of New Comedy. New Comedy had turned out to be as dire as Chremes had predicted. I was already tired of separated twins, wastrels jumping into blanket chests, silly old men falling out with their selfish heirs, and roguish slaves making pitiful jokes.

  I changed the subject. ‘Chremes hates his wife and she hates him. Do we know why? Maybe she had a lover -Heliodorus, say - so Chremes put his rival out of the way.’

  ‘You would think that,’ Helena sneered. ‘I’ve talked to her. She yearns to star in serious Greek tragedy. She feels dragged down by having to play prostitutes and long-lost heiresses for this ragged troupe.’

  ‘Why? They get to wear the best dresses, and even the prostitutes are always reformed in the last scene.’ I was showing off my research.

  ‘I gather she gives her all powerfully while longing for better things — a woman’s lot in most situations!’ Helena told me drily. ‘People tell me her speech when she gives up brothelkeeping and becomes a temple priestess is thrilling.’

  ‘I can’t wait to hear it!’ In fact I’d be shooting out of the theatre to buy a cinnamon cake at a stall outside. ‘She’s called Phrygia, isn’t she?’ The players had all taken names from drama. This was understandable. Acting was such a despised profession any performer would assume a pseudonym. I was trying to think up one myself.

  Phrygia was the company’s somewhat elderly female lead. She was tall, gaunt, and flamboyantly bitter about life. She looked over fifty but we were assured by everybody that when she stepped on stage she could easily persuade an audience she was a beautiful girl of sixteen. They made much of the fact that Phrygia could really act - which made me nervous about the talents of the rest.

  ‘Why does Chremes hate her?’ I wondered. ‘If she’s good on stage she ought to be an asset to his company.’

  Helena looked dour. ‘He’s a man, and she is good. Naturally he resents it. Anyway, I gather he’s always lusting after more glamorous bits.’

  ‘Well that would have explained it if he had been found in the pool, and we had heard Phrygia luring him uphill.’ It seemed irrelevant to Heliodorus. But something about Chremes had always bothered me. I thought about him more. ‘Chremes himself plays the parts of tiresome old fellows - ‘

  ‘Pimps, fathers and ghosts,’ Helena confirmed. It didn’t help.

  I gave up and tried considering the other actors. ‘The juvenile lead is called Philocrates. Though he’s not so juvenile if you look closely; in fact he creaks a bit. He takes on prisoners of war, lads about town, and one of the main set of twins in every farce which has that gruesome identity mix-up joke.’

  Helena’s summary was swift: ‘A dilettante handsome jerk!’

  ‘He isn’t my chosen dinner companion either,’ I admitted. We had exchanged words on one occasion when Philocrates had watched me trying to corner my ox to harness it. The words were cool in the circumstances - which were that I asked his assistance, and he snootily declined. I had gathered it was nothing personal; Philocrates thought himself above chores that might earn him a kicked shin or a dirty cloak. He was high on our list to investigate further when we could brace up to an hour of insufferable arrogance. ‘I don’t know who he hates, but he’s in love with himself. I’ll have to find out how he got on with Heliodorus. Then there’s Davos.’

  ‘The opposite type,’ Helena said. ‘A gruff, tough professional. I tried to chat with him, but he’s taciturn, suspicious of strangers, and I guess he rebuffs women. He plays the second male lead - boasting soldiers and such. I reckon he’s good -he can swagger stylishly. And if Heliodorus was a liability as a writer, Davos wouldn’t think much of it.’

  ‘I’ll watch my step then! But would he kill the man? Davos might have despised his work, but who gets shoved in a pool for bad writing?’ Helena laughed at me suggestively.

  ‘I rather took to Davos,’ she grumbled, annoyed with herself for being illogical. Somehow I agreed with her and wanted Davos to be innocent. From what I knew of Fate, that probably put poor Davos at the top of the suspects list.

  ‘Next we have the clowns, Tranio and Grumio.’

  ‘Marcus, I find it hard to tell the difference between those two.’

  ‘You’re not meant to. In plays that have a pair of young masters who are twins, these two play their cheeky servants -also identical.’

  We both fell silent. It was dangerous to view them as a pair. They were not twins; they were not even brothers. Yet of all the company they seemed most inclined to carry over their stage roles into normal life. We had seen them larking about on camels together, both playing tricks on the others. (Easy to do on a camel, for a camel will cause trouble for you without being asked.)

  They went around in tandem. They were the same slim build - underweight and light-footed. Not quite the same height. The slightly taller one, Tranio, seemed to play the flashy character, the know-all city wit; his apparent crony, Grumio, had to make do with being the country clown, the butt of sophisticated jokes from the rest of the cast. Even without knowing them closely I could see that Grumio might grow tired of this. If so, however, surely he was more likely to put the boot into Tranio than strangle or drown the playwright?

  ‘Is the clever one bright enough to get away with murder? Is he even as bright as he likes to think, in fact? And can the dopey one possibly be as dumb as he appears?’

  Helena ignored my rhetoric. I put it down to the fact that only senators’ sons have rhetoric tutors; daughters need only know how to twist around their fingers the senators they will marry and the bathhouse masseurs who will probably father those senators’ sons.

  I was feeling sour. An intellectual diet of The Girl from Andros, followed by The Girl from Santos, then The Girl from Perinthos, had not produced a sunny temperament. This turgid stuff might appeal to the kind of bachelor whose pick-up line is asking a girl where she comes from, but I had moved on from that two years ago when a certain girl from Rome decided to pick me up.

  Helena smiled gently. She always knew what I was thinking. ‘Well that’s the men. There’s no particularly striking motive there. So maybe the killer we heard was acting for somebody else. Shall we reconsider the women?’

  ‘I’ll always consider women!’

  ‘Be serious.’

  ‘Oh I was… Well, we’ve thought about Phrygia.’ I stretched luxuriantly. ‘That leaves the eavesdropping maid.’

  ‘Trust you to spot the beauty at the bar counter!’ Helena retorted. It was hardly my fault. Even for a bachelor who had had to stop asking strange women where they hailed from, this beauty was unmissable.

  Her name was Byrria. Byrria was genuinely young. She had looks that would withstand the closest inspection, a perfect skin, a figure worth grabbing, a gentle nature, huge, glorious eyes…

  ‘Perhaps Byrria wanted Heliodorus to give her some better lines?’ wondered Helena far from rhapsodically.

  ‘If Byrria needs anyone murdered, it’s obviously Phrygia. That would secure her the good parts.’

  I knew from my reading that in plays which could barely support one good female role, Byrria must be lucky to find herself a speaking part. Such meat as there was would be snaffled by Phrygia, while the young beauty could only watch yearningly. Phrygia was the stage manager’s wife so the chief parts were hers by right, but we all knew who should be the female lead. There was no justice.

  ‘In view of the way all you men are staring,’ said my beloved icily, ‘I shouldn’t wonder if Phrygia would like Byrria removed!’

  I was still searching for a motive for the playwright’s death - though had I known just how long it would take me to find it I should have given up on the spot.

  ‘Byrria didn’t kill Heliodorus, but good looks like hers could well have st
irred up strong feelings among the men, and then who knows?’

  ‘I dare say you will be investigating Byrria closely,’ said Helena.

  I ignored the jibe. ‘Do you think Byrria could have been after the scribe?’

  ‘Unlikely!’ scoffed Helena. ‘Not if Heliodorus was as disgusting as everyone says. Anyway, your wondrous Byrria could take her pick of the pomegranates without fingering him. But why don’t you ask her?’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘I’m sure you will!’

  I was not in the mood for a squabble. We had taken the discussion as far as we could, so I decided to abandon sleuthing and settled down on my back for a snooze.

  Helena, who had polite manners, remembered our Nabataean priest. He had been sitting with us contributing total silence - his usual routine. Perhaps restraint was part of his religion; it would have been a tough discipline for me. ‘Musa, you saw the murderer come down the mountain. Is there anybody in this group of travellers whom you recognise?’

  She did not know I had already asked him, though she ought to have guessed. Musa answered her courteously anyway. ‘He wore a hat, lady.’

  ‘We shall have to look out for it,’ replied Helena with some gravity.

  I grinned at him, struck by a wicked possibility. ‘If we can’t solve this puzzle, we could set a trap. We could let it be known that Musa saw the murderer, hint that Musa was planning to identify him formally, then you and I could sit behind a rock, Helena, and we could see who comes - hatted or hatless - to shut Musa up.’

  Musa received the suggestion as calmly as ever, with neither fear nor enthusiasm.

  A few minutes later somebody did come, but it was only the company billposter.

  Chapter XV

  Helena and I exchanged a surreptitious glance. We had forgotten this one. He had been in Petra and ought to have been included in our list of suspects. Something told us that being forgotten was his permanent role. Being constantly overlooked could give him a motive for anything. But maybe he accepted it. So often it is the people who have who think they deserve more. Those who lack expect nothing else from life.

  Such was our visitor - a miserable specimen. He had appeared around a corner of our tent very quietly. He could have been lurking about for ages. I wondered how much he had overheard.

  ‘Hello there! Come and join us. Didn’t Chremes mention to me that your name is Congrio?’

  Congrio had a light skin covered with freckles, thin straight hair, and a fearful look. He had never been tall to begin with, and his slight, weedy body stooped under burdens of inadequacy. Everything about him spoke of leading a poor life. If he was not a slave now he probably had been at some stage, and whatever existence he snatched for himself these days could not be much better. Being a menial among people who have no regular income is worse than captivity on a rich landowner’s farm. No one here cared whether Congrio ate or starved; he was nobody’s asset, so nobody’s loss if he suffered.

  He shuffled near, the kind of mournful maggot who makes you feel crass if you ignore him or patronising if you try to be sociable.

  ‘You chalk up the advertisements, don’t you? I’m Falco, the new jobbing playwright. I’m looking out for people who can read and write in case I need help with my adaptations.’ . ‘I can’t write,’ Congrio told me abruptly. ‘Chremes gives me a wax tablet; I just copy it.’

  ‘Do you act in the plays?’

  ‘No. But I can dream!’ he added defiantly, apparently not without a sense of self-mockery.

  Helena smiled at him. ‘What can we do for you?’

  ‘Grumio and Tranio have come back from the city with a wineskin. They told me to ask whether you wanted to join them.’ He was addressing me.

  I was ready for bed, but put on my interested face. ‘Sounds as if a sociable evening could be had here?’

  ‘Only if you want to keep the caravanserai awake all night and feel like death tomorrow,’ Congrio advised frankly.

  Helena shot me a look that said she wondered how the town-and-country twins could tell so easily who was the degenerate in our party. But I did not need her permission -or at least not when this offered a good excuse to ask questions about Heliodorus — so off I went to disgrace myself. Musa stayed with Helena. I had never bothered to ask him, but I deduced that our Nabataean shadow was no drinking man.

  Congrio seemed to be heading the same way as me, but then turned off on his own. ‘Don’t you want a drink?’ I called after him.

  ‘Not with that pair!’ he responded, vanishing behind a waggon.

  On the surface he spoke like a man who had better taste in friends, but I noticed a violent undertone. The easy explanation was that they pushed him around. But there could be more to it. I would have to scrutinise this billposter.

  Feeling thoughtful, I made my own way to the Twins’ tent.

  Chapter XVI

  Grumio and Tranio had put up the uncomplicated bivouac that was standard in our ramshackle camp. They had slung a cover over poles, leaving one whole long side open so they could see who was passing (and in their case commentate rudely). I noticed that they had bothered to hang a curtain down the middle of their shelter, dividing it precisely into private halves. These were equally untidy, so it couldn’t have been because they fell out over the housekeeping; it hinted instead at aloofness in their relationship.

  Surveyed quietly at leisure they were not in the least alike. Grumio, the ‘country’ twin who played runaway slaves and idiots, had a pleasant nature, a chubby face, and straight hair that fell evenly from the crown. Tranio, the taller ‘townee’, had his hair cut short up the back and swept forwards on top. He was sharp-featured and sounded as though he could be a sarcastic enemy. They both had dark, knowing eyes with which they watched the world critically.

  ‘Thanks for the invitation! Congrio refused to come,’ I said at once, as if I assumed the poster-writer would have been asked too.

  Tranio, the one who played the boasting soldier’s flashy servant, poured me a full winecup with an exaggerated flourish. ‘That’s Congrio! He likes to sulk - we all do. From which you can immediately deduce that beneath the false bonhomie, our joyous company is seething with angry emotions.’

  ‘I gathered that.’ I took the drink and joined them, relaxing on sacks of costumes alongside the walkway that ran through our encampment. ‘Almost the first thing Helena and I were told was that Chremes hates his wife and she hates him.’

  ‘He must have admitted that himself,’ Tranio said knowingly. ‘They do make a big thing of it.’

  ‘Isn’t it true? Phrygia openly laments that he has deprived her of stardom. And Helena reckons that Chremes frequently wanders from the hearth. So the wife is after a laurel wreath, while the husband wants to stuff a lyre-player…’

  Tranio grinned. ‘Who knows what they’re up to? They’ve been at each other’s throats for twenty years. Somehow he never quite manages to run off with a dancer, and she never remembers to poison his soup.’

  ‘Sounds like any normal married couple,’ I grimaced.

  Tranio was topping up my beaker almost before I had tried it. ‘Like you and Helena?’

  ‘We’re not married.’ I never explained our relationship. People would either not believe me, or not understand. It was no one else’s business anyway. ‘Do I gather that inviting me tonight is a shameless attempt to find out what she and I are doing here?’ I taunted, probing in return.

  ‘We see you as a Hired Trickster,’ grinned Grumio, the supposedly dopey one, unabashed as he named one of the stock characters in New Comedy. It was the first time he had spoken. He sounded brighter than I had expected.

  I shrugged. ‘I’m trying my hand with a stylus. Finding your playwright’s soused body got me pitched out of Petra. It also happened at about the time I ran out of travelling funds. I needed work. Your job was the soft option: offering to scribble for Chremes looked easier work than straining my back lifting barrels of myrrh, or catching fleas driving camel trains.’ Bo
th twins had their noses deep in their winecups. I was not sure I had deflected their curiosity about my interest in the playwright’s death. ‘I’ve agreed to replace Heliodorus provided I’m not asked to play a tambourine in the orchestra and Helena Justina never acts on a public stage.’

  ‘Why not?’ queried Grumio. ‘Does she come from a respectable family?’ He ought to be able to see that. Maybe pretending to have a few brains was just a pose.

  ‘No, I rescued her from slavery, in return for two bags of apples and a nanny goat…’

  ‘You’re a take-off merchant!’ giggled Grumio. He turned to his friend, who was wielding the wineskin again. ‘We’re on to a scandal.’

  Ineffectively shielding my cup from Tranio, I rebuked the other quietly: ‘The only scandal Helena was ever involved in was when she chose to live with me.’

  ‘Interesting partnership!’ Grumio commented.

  ‘Interesting girl,’ I said.

  ‘And now she’s helping you spy on us?’ Tranio prodded.

  It was a challenge, one I should have been waiting for. They had brought me here to find out what I was doing, and they would not be deterred. ‘We don’t spy. But Helena and I found the body. Naturally we’d like to know who killed the man.’

  Tranio drained his winecup in one gulp. ‘Is it true you actually saw who did it?’

  ‘Who told you that?’ Not to be outdone, I quaffed my drink too, wondering whether Tranio was just nosy - or had a deadly earnest reason for wanting to know.

  ‘Well, everyone’s keen to know what you’re doing with its now - assuming you were just a tourist in Petra,’ Tranio insinuated.

  As I had started to expect, my refill came immediately. I knew when I was being set up. After years as an informer, I also had a clear idea of my limit for drink. I set down my overflowing cup as if I was carried away by strong feelings. ‘A tourist who made the journey of a lifetime only to get thrown out -‘ My rant as a disappointed traveller was received fairly coolly.