Last Act In Palmyra

by Lindsey Davis

  ‘What do you mean?’ Helena picked it up at once. ‘They spend a lot of time together. Is there some rivalry?’

  ‘Plenty!’ Byrria replied quickly, as though it ought to be well known. Uneasily, she added, ‘Tranio really does have more flair as a comedian. But I know Grumio feels that’s merely a reflection of Tranio having more showy parts in plays. Grumio is much better at standing up to improvise, entertaining a crowd, though he hasn’t done it so much recently.’

  ‘Do they fight?’ Musa put in. It was the kind of blunt question I like to ask myself.

  ‘They have occasional squabbles.’ She smiled at him. Must have been an aberration. Musa found enough spirit to mock himself by basking in the favour; then Byrria seemed to blush, though she could have been overheated by the nearness of the fire. I must have been looking thoughtful. ‘Does that help, Falco?’

  ‘Not sure. It may give me a way to approach them. Thanks, Byrria.’

  It was late. Tomorrow there would be more travelling as we pressed on to Canatha. Around us the rest of the camp had quietened. Many people were already asleep. Our group seemed the only active party. It was time to break up. Glancing at Helena, I abandoned the attempt to bring the reluctant pair together.

  Helena yawned, making the hint refined. She began collecting dishes, Byrria helping her. Musa and I confined our efforts to manly procedures such as poking the fire and finishing the olives. When Byrria thanked us for the evening, Helena apologised. ‘I hope we didn’t tease you too unbearably.’

  ‘In what way?’ Byrria responded drily. Then she smiled again. She was an extraordinarily beautiful young woman; the fact that she was barely twenty suddenly became more evident. She had enjoyed herself tonight; we could satisfy ourselves with that. Tonight she was as near to contentment as she might ever be. It made her look vulnerable for once. Even Musa seemed more mature, and more her equal.

  ‘Don’t mind us.’ Helena spoke informally, licking sauce off her hand where she had picked up a sticky plate. ‘You have to make your life as you wish. The important thing is to find and to keep real friends.’ Reluctant to make too much of it, she went into the tent with the pile of dishes.

  I was not prepared to let this go so easily. ‘Even so, that doesn’t mean she ought to be afraid of men!’

  ‘I fear no one!’ Byrria shot back, with a burst of her hot temper. It was a passing moment; her voice dropped again. Staring at a tray she had picked up, she added, ‘Maybe I just fear the consequences.’

  ‘Very wise!’ quipped Helena, reappearing in an instant. ‘Think of Phrygia whose whole life has been embittered and ruined by having a baby and marrying wrongly. She lost the child, she lost her chance to develop fully as an actress, and I think maybe she also gave up the man she should really have been with all these years - ‘

  ‘You give a bad example,’ Musa broke in. He was terse. ‘I could say, look at Falco and you!’

  ‘Us?’ I grinned. Somebody had to play the fool and lighten the conversation. ‘We’re just two completely unsuitable people who knew we could have no future together but liked each other enough to go to bed for a night.’

  ‘How long ago was that?’ demanded Byrria hotly. Not a girl who could take irony.

  ‘Two years,’ I confessed.

  ‘That’s your one night?’ laughed Byrria. ‘How carefree and cosmopolitan! And how long, Didius Falco, do you suppose this unsuitable relationship may last?’

  ‘About a lifetime,’ I said cheerfully. ‘We’re not unreasonable in our hopes.’

  ‘So what are you trying to prove to me? It seems contradictory.’

  ‘Life is contradictory sometimes, though most times it just stinks.’ I sighed. Never give advice. People catch you out and start fighting back. ‘On the whole, I agree with you. So, life stinks; ambitions disappoint; friends die; men destroy and women disintegrate. But if, my dear Byrria and Musa, you will listen to one kind word from a friend, I should say, if you do find true affection, never turn your back on it.’

  Helena, who was standing behind me, laughed lovingly. She ruffled my hair, then bent over me and kissed my forehead. ‘This poor soul needs his bed. Musa, will you see Byrria safely to her tent?’

  We all said our goodnights, then Helena and I watched the others go.

  They walked uneasily together, space showing between them. They did stroll slowly, as if there might be things to be said, but we could not hear them talking as they left. They appeared to be strangers, and yet if I had given a professional judgement I would have said they knew more about each other than Helena and I supposed.

  ‘Have we made a mistake?’

  ‘I don’t see what it can be, Marcus.’

  We had done, though it was to be some time before I understood the obvious.

  Helena and I cleared the debris and did what packing we needed, ready to drive on before dawn. Helena was in bed when I heard Musa returning. I went out and found him crouched beside the remnants of the fire. He must have heard me, but he made no move to evade me, so I squatted alongside. His face was buried in his hands.

  After a moment I thumped his shoulder consolingly. ‘Did something happen?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing that matters.’

  ‘No. I thought you had the miserable air of a man with a clean conscience. The girl’s a fool!’

  ‘No, she was kind.’ He spoke offhandedly, as if they were friends.

  ‘Talk about it if you want, Musa. I know it’s serious.’

  ‘I never felt like this, Falco.’

  ‘I know.’ I let a moment pass before I spoke again. ‘Sometimes the feeling goes away.’

  He looked up. His face was drawn. Intense emotion racked him. I liked the poor idiot; his unhappiness was hard to contemplate. ‘And if not?’ he squeezed out.

  I smiled sadly. ‘If not, there are two alternatives. Most frequently - and you can guess this one - everything sorts itself out because the girl leaves the scene.’

  ‘Or?’

  I knew how low the chances were. But with Helena Justina asleep a few feet away, I had to acknowledge the fatal possibility: ‘Or sometimes your feeling stays - and so does she.’

  ‘Ah!’ Musa exclaimed softly, as if to himself. ‘In that case what am I to do?’ I assumed he meant, If I do win Byrria, what am I to do with her?

  ‘You’ll get over this, Musa. Trust me. Tomorrow you could wake up and find yourself adoring some languid blonde who always wanted a flurry with a Nabataean priest.’

  I doubted it. But on the off chance that he might be needing his strength, I hauled Musa to his feet and made him go to bed.

  Tomorrow, if a cold blast of sanity seemed less likely to damage him, I would explain my theory that it is better to show off your multifaceted personality in their own language than to bore them stiff reciting poetry they cannot understand. If that failed, I would just have to get him interested in drinking, rude songs, and fast chariots.

  Chapter LI

  Canatha.

  It was an old, walled, isolated city huddled on the northern incline of the basalt plain. As the only habitation of any substance in this remote area, it had acquired a special reputation and a special atmosphere. Its territory was small. Its commercial activity was greater, for a major trade route up from Bostra came this way. Even with the fine Hellenic attributes we had come to expect - the high acropolis, civilised amenities, and heavy programme of civic refurbishment - Canatha had strange touches. Hints of both Nabataean and Parthian architecture mingled exotically with its Greek and Roman features.

  Though it lay too far out to be at risk of jealous Jewish incursions, there were other dangers lurking beyond the close clasp of its walls. Canatha was a lonely outpost in traditional bandit country. The mood here reminded me more of frontier fortresses in Germany and Britain than the pleasure-grasping, money-loving cities further west in the Decapolis. This was a self-reliant, self-involved community. Trouble had always lain not far outside the city gates.

  We, of co
urse, as a hapless band of vagabonds, were scrutinised keenly in case we were bringing trouble in with us. We played it straight, patiently letting them question and search us. Once in, we found the place friendly. Where craftsmen look long distances for influences, there is often a welcome for all comers. Canatha lacked prejudice. Canatha liked visitors. Canatha, being a town many people omitted from their itinerary, was so grateful to see travelling entertainers that its audiences even liked us.

  The first play we gave them was The Pirate Brothers, which Chremes was determined to rehabilitate after the slurs cast upon it by the Bostra magistrate. It was well received, and we busily plundered our repertoire for The Girl from Andros and

  Plautus’ Amphitryon (one of Chremes’ beloved gods-go-a-fornicating japes). I was anticipating thunder from Musa over Amphitryon but luckily the play had only one substantial female part, the virtuous wife unknowingly seduced by Jupiter, and this role was snatched by Phrygia. Byrria only got to play a nurse; she had one scene, at the very end, and no hanky-panky. She did get a good speech, however, where she had to describe the infant Hercules dispatching a snake with his chubby little hands.

  To liven things up, Helena constructed a strangled snake to appear in the play. She stuffed a tube made from an old tunic and sewed on eyes with fringed, flirty lashes to produce a python with a silly expression (closely based on Thalia’s Jason). Musa made it a long forked tongue, utilising a piece of broken belt. Byrria, who unexpectedly turned out to be a comedienne, ran onstage with this puppet dangling limply under her elbow, then made it waggle about as if it was recovering from strangulation, causing her to beat it into submission irritatedly. The unscripted effect was hilarious. It caused a joyous roar at Canatha, but earned some of us a reprimand from Chremes, who had not been forewarned.

  So, with the company funds restored at least temporarily, and a new reputation for the ridiculous among my own party, we travelled from Canatha to Damascus.

  We had to cross dangerous country, so we kept our wits about us. ‘This seems a road on which the unexpected could happen,’ I muttered to Musa.

  ‘Bandits?’

  His was a true prophecy. Suddenly we were surrounded by menacing nomads. We were more surprised than terrified. They could see we were not exactly laden down with panniers of frankincense.

  We pushed Musa, finally useful as an interpreter, up to speak to them. Adopting a solemn, priestly manner (as he told me afterwards), he greeted them in the name of Dushara and promised a free theatrical performance if they would let us go in peace. We could see the thieves thought this was the funniest offer they had had since the Great King of Persia tried to send them a tax demand, so they sat down in a half-circle while we sped through a quick version of Amphitryon, | complete with stuffed snake. Needless to say, the snake received the best hand, but then there was a tricky moment when the bandits made it plain they wanted to purchase Byrria. While she contemplated life being beaten and cursed as some nomad’s foreign concubine, Musa strode forwards and exclaimed something dramatic. They cheered ironically. In the end we satisfied the group by making them a present of the python puppet and providing a short lesson in waggling him.

  We rode on.

  ‘Whatever did you say, Musa?’

  ‘I told them Byrria is to be a sacrificial virgin on a High Place.’

  Byrria shot him a worse glance than she had given the nomads.

  Our next excitement was being waylaid by a band of Christians. Tribesmen stealing our props was fair business, but cult adherents after freeborn Roman souls was an outrage. They were casually scattered across the road at a stopping place so that we had to go round them or submit to conversation. As soon as they smiled and said how pleasant it was to meet us, we knew they were bastards.

  ‘Who are they?’ whispered Musa, puzzled by their attitude.

  ‘Wide-eyed lunatics who meet secretly for meals in upstairs rooms in honour of what they say is the One God.’

  ‘One? Is that not rather limiting?’

  ‘Surely. They’d be harmless, but they have bad-mannered politics. They refuse to respect the Emperor.’

  ‘Do you respect the Emperor, Falco?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Apart from the fact I worked for the old skinflint, I was a republican. ‘But I don’t upset him by saying so publicly.’

  When the fanatical sales talk moved to offering us a guarantee of eternal life, we beat the Christians up soundly and left them whimpering.

  With the rising heat and these annoying interruptions, it took three stages to reach Damascus. On the last leg of our journey I did finally achieve a private talk with Tranio.

  Chapter LII

  Due to these disturbances, we had regrouped somewhat. Tranio happened to come alongside my waggon, whilst I noticed that for once Grumio was some way behind. I myself was alone. Helena had gone to spend some time with Byrria, diplomatically taking Musa. This was too good a chance to miss.

  ‘Who wants to live for ever anyway?’ Tranio joked, referring to the Christians we had just sorted out. He made the comment before he realised whose waggon he was riding next to.

  ‘I could take that as a give-away!’ I shot back, seizing the chance to work on him.

  ‘For what, Marcus Didius?’ I hate people who try to unnerve me by unbidden familiarity.

  ‘Guilt,’ I said.

  ‘You see guilt everywhere, Falco.’ He switched smartly back to the formal mode of address.

  ‘Tranio, everywhere I run up against guilty men.’

  I should like to pretend that my reputation as an informer was so grand that Tranio felt drawn to stay and challenge my skills. What really happened was that he tried hard to get away. He kicked his heels into his animal to spur it off, but being a camel it refused; a pain in the ribs was better than being obedient. This beast with the sly soul of a revolutionary was the usual dust-coloured creature with unsavoury bare patches on its ragged pelt, a morose manner and a tormented cry. It could run fast, but only ever did so as an excuse to try and unseat its rider. Its prime ambition was to abandon a human to the vultures forty miles from an oasis. A nice pet-if you wanted to die slowly of a septic camel bite.

  Now Tranio was surreptitiously attempting to remove himself, but the camel had decided to lollop along beside my ox in the hope of unsettling him.

  ‘I think you’re trapped.’ I grinned. ‘So tell me about comedy, Tranio.’

  ‘That’s based on guilt mostly,’ he conceded with a wry smile.

  ‘Oh? I thought it was meant to tap hidden fears?’

  ‘You a theorist, Falco?’

  ‘Why not? Just because Chremes keeps me on the routine hack work doesn’t mean that I never dissect the lines I’m revising for him.’

  As he rode alongside me it was difficult to watch him too closely. If I turned my head I could see that he had been to a barber in Canatha; the cropped hair up the back of his head had been scraped off so close the skin showed red through the stubble. Even without twisting in my seat, I could catch a whiff of the rather overpowering balsam he had slopped on while shaving - a young man’s mistaken purchase, which as a poor man he now had to use up. An occasional glance sideways gave me the impression of darkly hairy arms, a green signet ring with a gash in the stone, and whitened knuckles as he fought against the strong will of his camel. But he was riding in my blind spot. As I myself had to concentrate on calming our ox, which was upset by the bared teeth of Tranio’s savage camel, it was impossible to look my subject directly in the eye.

  ‘I’m doing a plodder’s job,’ I continued, leaning back with my whole weight as the ox tried to surge. ‘I’m interested, did Heliodorus see it the way I do? Was it just piecework he flogged through? Did he reckon himself worthy of much better things?’

  ‘He had a brain,’ Tranio admitted. ‘And the slimy creep knew it.’

  ‘He used it, I reckon.’

  ‘Not in his writing, Falco!’

  ‘No. The scrolls I inherited in the play box prove that. His cor
rections are lousy and slapdash — when they are even legible.’

  ‘Why are you so intrigued by Heliodorus and his glorious lack of talent?’

  ‘Fellow feeling!’ I smiled, not giving away the true reason. I

  wanted to explore why Ione had told me that the cause of the previous playwright’s death had been purely professional.

  Tranio laughed, perhaps uneasily. ‘Oh come! Surely you’re not telling me that underneath everything, Heliodorus was secretly a star comedian! It wasn’t true. His creative powers were enormous when it came to manipulating people, but fictionally he was a complete dud. He knew that too, believe me!’

  ‘You told him, I gather?’ I asked rather drily. People were always keen to tell me too if they hated my work.

  ‘Every time Chremes gave him some dusty old Greek masterpiece and asked to have the jokes modernised, his dearth of intellectual equipment became pitifully evident. He couldn’t raise a smile by tickling a baby. You’ve either got it or you haven’t.’

  ‘Or else you buy yourself a joke collection.’ I was remembering something Congrio had said. ‘Somebody told me they’re still obtainable.’

  Tranio spent a few moments swearing at his camel as it practised a war dance. Part of this involved skidding sideways into my cart. I joined in the bad language; Tranio got his leg trapped painfully against a cartwheel; my ox lowed hoarsely in protest; and the people travelling behind us shouted abuse.

  When peace was restored, Tranio’s camel was more interested than ever in nuzzling my cart. The clown did his best to jerk the beast away while I said thoughtfully, ‘It would be nice to have access to some endless supply of good material. Something like Grumio talks about - an ancestral hoard of jests.’

  ‘Don’t live in the past, Falco.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Grumio’s obsessed - and he’s wrong.’ I seemed to have tapped some old professional disagreement he had had with Grumio. ‘You can’t bid at auction for humour. That’s all gone. Oh maybe once there was a golden age of comedy when material was sacrosanct and a clown could earn a fortune raffling off his great-great-grandfather’s precious scroll of antique pornography and musty puns. But nowadays you need a new script every day. Satire has to be as fresh as a barrel of winkles. Yesterday’s tired quips won’t get you a titter on today’s cosmopolitan stage.’