Last Act In Palmyra

by Lindsey Davis

  ‘As I thought - he even lied about that!’ I grabbed Tranio by the elbow and yanked him closer.

  ‘What’s the game, Falco?’

  ‘Tranio, I’m trying to decide whether you’re foolishly loyal - or just a complete fool!’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean — ‘

  ‘It’s time to stop protecting him. Believe me, he’s tried quite happily to implicate you! Whatever you think you owe him, forget it now!’

  Other people were listening: Thalia, Musa, many of the cast. Tranio’s eyes flickered towards those present.

  ‘Let them hear,’ I said. ‘We can do with witnesses. Own up. What was the pledge you gave to Heliodorus, then had the row about?’

  ‘Falco, I have to go on - ‘ Tranio was panicking.

  ‘Not yet.’ I gripped his costume by the neck and jerked it tight. He could not tell whether I was really angry, or just playing him along. ‘I want the truth!’

  ‘Your play, Falco - ‘

  ‘Stuff my play.’

  For a moment I felt things were getting away from me. Help came from an unexpected quarter: ‘The pledge was a scroll.’ It was Philocrates who spoke. He really must be worried that he would be blamed for the crimes himself. ‘It was Grumio’s; his collection of terrible old jokes.’

  ‘Thanks, Philocrates! All right Tranio, you’ve got some fast answers to provide! First, were you really with Afrania the night Ione died?’

  He gave up. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you ask her to pretend otherwise?’

  ‘Stupidity.’

  ‘Well that’s honest! And were you conscious or in a stupor in Petra the afternoon Heliodorus was killed?’

  ‘Paralytic’

  ‘What about Grumio?’

  ‘I thought he was the same.’

  ‘Are you certain he was?’

  Tranio dropped his eyes. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I passed out. He could have done anything.’

  I let go of him. ‘Tranio, Tranio, what have you been playing at? If you are not the killer, why protect the man who was?’

  He shrugged helplessly. ‘It was my fault. I’d lost him his scroll.’

  I would never entirely understand it. But I was a writer, not a performer. A comedian is only as good as his script. A writer never has to grieve too long for lost material. Unluckily for the reading and viewing public, writers can easily rattle off more.

  I despaired of Tranio. In the arena Ribes had been covering the unexpected pause with his rapid plectrumming but the audience was tired of it. I could see he was starting to feel desperate as he wondered why Tranio was failing to enter. I took a swift decision. ‘We’ll have to discuss this later. Get out onstage. Don’t warn Grumio, or you’ll be arrested too.’

  Released from my furious grip, Tranio pulled on a sparse two-tone wig, then strode in through the gate. Free members of the cast, together with Thalia, Musa and myself, all crowded around to watch.

  Looking out at ground level, the elliptical space seemed immense. Musa and Thalia stared at me curiously as I wondered what to do. Onstage, Tranio began carrying on as the hectic cook. He seemed to be safely sticking to his lines. Soon he was berating the less sophisticated Grumio, playing a farm boy who had brought meat for the feast. Chremes rushed on to give them orders, made some jokes about voracious women wanting sex night and day, then rushed off again.

  To one side, Philocrates as my hero, Moschion, interjected adolescent bile, sitting on a costume basket covered in a blanket to represent a couch. Davos, the ghost, was concealed in a portable oven. From time to time he leant out to address Moschion — the only person who could ‘see’ him. The ghost then became worried because Tranio was about to light a fire in the oven: sophisticated stuff. You can see why I had been proud of it. Not that the play mattered to me now. I was about to confront the killer; I had bile in my mouth.

  Being set on fire was nothing to what I intended for Tranio for frustrating my enquiries. As for Grumio, I noted with relish that in provincial locations criminal executions usually take place in the local arena. I glanced up at the garrison commander. I wondered if he held the right to award the death penalty. Probably not. But the governor, Ulpius Traianus, would.

  Davos let out a terrific shriek, which most characters onstage ignored. Clutching the seat of his ghostly robe, he ran off through the gate as if alight. The crowd really loved seeing a character in pain. The atmosphere was excellent.

  ‘Falco, what’s going on?’ Davos exclaimed. While squashed in the oven he had had more reason than most to notice the long pause before we began.

  ‘Crisis!’ I said tersely. Davos looked startled, but evidently realised what sort of crisis it must be.

  Onstage, Phrygia and Byrria had appeared from the far gate entrance. They were shooing away the two ‘slaves’ in order to have a sly chat in the kitchen about young Moschion. Tranio and Grumio ran off, according to my stage directions, in opposite directions; fortuitously, that put them one in each side niche, unable to confer.

  Moschion was hiding behind the oven so he could overhear his mother and girlfriend discussing him. It was meant to be a very funny scene. While the women tossed wit around, I breathed slowly to calm down.

  Soon, however, the clowns were back onstage again. Suddenly I began to worry that I had misjudged Tranio. I had made a mistake.

  I muttered to Musa, ‘This isn’t going to work…’

  I had to choose: whether to stop the performance in mid-scene, or wait. We had a large group of unruly soldiers who had paid for a spectacle. If they were disappointed, we could expect a riot.

  My fears were well founded. ‘You’re going to catch it!’ the Clever Cook warned the Country Clown as they bantered onstage. This was not in the script. ‘If I were you I would leg it while you can!’

  Davos, quicker-witted than most people, grasped the point and muttered ‘Shit!’

  Tranio’s exit was back into the side niche, but Grumio came our way. Maybe he thought Tranio had just been improvising lines. At any rate, he was still in character.

  Musa glanced at me. I decided to do nothing. In the play, Philocrates was discovered hiding by his mother, had a quarrel with his girlfriend, and was exiled to the country for the usual complicated plot reasons. My drama moved fast.

  Philocrates left the stage and arrived among us looking uneasy. I gave him a discreet nod; the play would continue. I noticed Thalia grab Davos by the arm. I saw her mouth in his ear, ‘Next time you’re onstage, give that Tranio a thump!’

  Musa went forward to hand Grumio the reins of Philocrates’ mule, ready for the next scene. Both Philocrates and Grumio had flung on travelling cloaks; it was a very quick costume change. Philocrates as the young master swung on to his mule. Grumio for one was paying little attention to those of us standing around.

  Just as they set off back onstage for a short scene journeying to a farm, Musa stepped forward again to Grumio. Grumio, leading the mule, was on the verge of passing into view of the audience. Quite unexpectedly, Musa rammed a hat upon his head. It was a wide Greek hat with a string beneath the chin. I saw Grumio go pale.

  The hat was bad enough. But my faithful accomplice had devised a further trick: ‘Don’t forget to whistle!’ Musa commanded cheerfully. It sounded like a stage direction, but some of us knew otherwise.

  Before I could stop him, he clapped the mule on its rump, so it skidded out into the arena, dragging Grumio.

  ‘Musa! You idiot. Now he knows we know!’

  ‘Justice must be done,’ said Musa calmly. ‘I want him to know.’

  ‘Justice won’t be done,’ I retorted, ‘if Grumio escapes!’

  On the far side of the arena, the other gate gaped wide. Beyond it a clear vista of the desert was stretching endlessly.

  Chapter LXXI

  I saw Grumio glance back at us. Unluckily for him, the sturdy figure of Philocrates was holding forth on the mule so there was no chance of bringing the scene to a premature end. Moschion had a lengthy speech a
bout women, which Philocrates enjoyed giving. No wonder. The character was an ignorant bastard; the speech based on himself.

  Spinning around, I gripped Davos by his arm. ‘I’ll need your help. First, Musa! Get around to the end of the amphitheatre, and if it’s not too late, slam those gates shut!’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ said Thalia quietly. ‘He’s caused enough trouble!’ She was a girl for action. She ran for a camel left outside by one of the audience, and within seconds was haring off in a cloud of dust.

  ‘Right, Davos. Go up the back of the arena, and down the steps to the tribunal. Whisper to the commander we’ve got at least one killer out there, and possibly an accomplice.’ I was not forgetting Tranio, currently holed up in a side niche. I had no idea what he might be planning. ‘Helena’s there. She’ll back you up. Tell the man we’re going to need some arrests.’

  Davos understood. ‘Someone will have to fetch that bastard off-stage…’ Without hesitation, he threw his stage mask at a bystander, stripped off his white ghost’s costume, and dropped it over my head. Wearing only a loincloth, he ran off towards the commander. I was given the mask.

  I found myself shrouded in long folds of material that flapped strangely on my arms - and in darkness. The ghost was the only character we were playing in a mask. We rarely used them. I knew why the minute I had this one rammed over my face. Suddenly excluded from half of the world, I tried to learn how to look through the hollow eyes, while scarcely able to breathe.

  A bothersome presence was grabbing my elbow.

  ‘He’s guilty then?’ It was Congrio. ‘That Grumio?’

  ‘Get out of my way, Congrio. I’ve got to confront the clown.’

  ‘Oh I’ll do that!’ he exclaimed. The certainty in his tone carried a familiar echo of Helena’s brisk style. He was her pupil, one she had clearly led astray. ‘Helena and I have thought up a plan!’

  I had no time to stop him. I was still trying to master my costume. Adopting a curious sprint (his idea of great acting, apparently), Congrio raced into the arena ahead of me. Even then I still expected to hear the one line I had written for him: ‘Madam! The young lady has just given birth to twins!’

  Only he did not say the line.

  He was not playing the part I had written him, but the traditional Running Slave: ‘Gods above, here’s a pickle -‘ He ran so fast he caught up the travellers on their mule. ‘I’m wearing myself out. Moschion turned out of doors, his mother in tears, the roast on fire and the bridegroom furious, and now this girl - hold on, I’ll tell you all about the girl when I get round to it. Here’s a pair of travellers! I’ll stop for a chat with them.’

  Then, as my heart sank further than I had ever thought it could, Congrio began to tell a joke.

  Chapter LXXII

  Congrio had climbed up on a model of a rock for a better view. ‘Hello down there! You look glum. Would you like cheering up? Here’s one I bet you haven’t heard.’ Philocrates, still on the mule, looked furious. He liked to know where he was with a script, and hated minions anyway. Congrio was unstoppable.

  ‘A Roman tourist comes to a village and sees a farmer with a beautiful sister.’

  I noticed that Grumio, who had been about to tug the mule’s reins, abruptly stopped, as if he recognised the joke. Congrio was revelling in his new power to hold an audience.

  ‘ “Ho there, peasant! How much for a night with your sister?”

  ‘ “Fifty drachmas.”

  ‘“That’s ridiculous! Tell you what, you let me spend a night with the girl and I’ll show you something that will amaze you. I bet I can make your animals talk… If not, I’ll pay you the fifty drachmas.”

  ‘Well the farmer thinks, “This man is crazy. I’ll string him along and agree to it.”

  ‘What he doesn’t know is that the Roman has been trained as a ventriloquist.’

  ‘The Roman reckons at least he can have a bit of fun here. “Let me talk to your horse, peasant. Hello, horse. Tell me, how does your master treat you then?” ‘

  ‘ “Pretty well,” answers the horse, “though his hands are rather cold when he strokes my flanks…” ‘

  As Congrio rambled on, I could just make out through the mask that Philocrates looked stunned, while Grumio was seething furiously.

  ‘ “That’s wonderful,” agrees the farmer, though he isn’t convinced entirely. “I could have sworn I actually heard my horse speak. Show me again.” ‘

  ‘The Roman chuckles quietly to himself. “Let’s try your nice sheep then. Hello, sheep! How’s your master?” ‘

  ‘ “Not too bad,” says the sheep, “though I do find his hands rather cold on the udder when he milks me…” ‘

  Philocrates had assumed a fixed grin, wondering when this unplanned torture was going to end. Grumio still stood like bedrock, listening as if he could not believe it. Congrio had never been so happy in his life.

  ‘ “You’re convincing me,” ‘ says the farmer.

  ‘The Roman is really enjoying himself now. “I knew I would. I’ll do one more, then your sister’s mine for the evening. Hello, camel. You’re a lovely-looking creature. Tell me - ” ‘

  ‘Before he can go any further, the farmer jumps up furiously. “Don’t listen to him! The camel’s a liar!” he shrieks.’

  Someone else was jumping up.

  With a cry of rage, Grumio flung himself at Congrio. ‘Who gave it to you?’ He meant his scroll of jokes. Helena must have lent it to Congrio.

  ‘It’s mine!’ The billposter was taunting Grumio. He sprang down from the rock and leapt about the stage, just out of reach. ‘I’ve got it and I’m keeping it!’

  I had to act fast. Still wearing the ghost’s costume, I entered the ring. In the vain hope of making the audience believe my appearance was intentional, I waved my arms above my head and ran with a weird loping gait, pretending to be Moschion’s paternal phantom.

  Grumio knew the game was up. He abandoned Congrio. Spinning around, he suddenly grabbed Philocrates by one smart boot, gave a wrench of his leg and pulled him off the mule. Not expecting the assault, Philocrates crashed to the ground horribly.

  The crows roared with appreciation. It was not funny. Philocrates had fallen on his face. His handsome visage would be ruined. If only his nose was broken, he would be fortunate. Congrio stopped cavorting and ran to him, then pulled him towards the side niche, from which Tranio now emerged, also looking shocked. Together they carried the unconscious actor from the ring. The crowd were thrilled. The fewer cast members left still upright, the more delighted they would be.

  Ignoring the rescue of Philocrates, Grumio was trying to mount the mule. I was still stumbling over the long hem of my costume, half blind in the mask. I struggled on, hearing the crowd’s bursts of laughter, not only at my antics. Grumio had not reckoned with the mule. As he swung one leg to mount, the animal skittered sideways. The more he tried to reach the saddle, the more it veered away from him.

  Amusement soared. It looked like a deliberate trick. Even I slowed up to watch. Hopping in frustration, Grumio followed the mule until they actually came face to face. Grumio turned to approach the saddle again, then the mule twisted, shoved him in the back with its long nose, and knocked him flat. Whinnying with delight at this feat, the mule then galloped from the scene.

  Grumio was an acrobat. He had landed better than Philocrates and was on his feet straight away. He turned to follow the mule and escape on foot - just as Thalia had the far gate swung closed against him. Designed for keeping in wild beasts, it was far too tall to climb. He spun back - and met me. Still dressed as the ghost, I tried to fill enough space to block his exit the other way. The gateway behind me gaped open at least twelve feet wide, but members of the company were pressing into it, eager to see the action. They would not let him through.

  It was him and me now.

  Or rather, it was more than that, for two other figures had emerged. For that last scene in the arena it would be him and me - plus Musa and the sacrificial kid.r />
  Ensemble playing of the finest quality.

  Chapter LXXIII

  I wrenched off the mask. Its flowing grey locks, made from rough horsehair, caught in my fingers. Shaking it free with some violence, I hurled it away.

  Blinking in the torchlight, I saw Helena standing up in the tribunal, talking urgently to the commander. Davos was leaping down the steps towards the front, taking the treads three at a time. The Palmyra garrison must have some troops who were not quite the dregs; soon there was a flurry of controlled activity at one end of a row.

  A long way behind me, Musa stood with the kid in his arms. He was crazy; a Nabataean; from another world. I could not understand the idiot. ‘Back off. Get help!’ He ignored my shout.

  I gathered the ludicrous folds of the costume and stuffed them in my belt. The crowd suddenly fell so completely silent that I could now hear the flames on the bitumen torches that stood around to light the stage. The soldiers had no idea what was happening, but they knew it was not in the programme. I had a bad feeling that The Spook who Spoke was turning into something they would talk about for years.

  Grumio and I were standing about fourteen feet apart. Scattered around were various props, mostly items left as hiding places for the ghost: the craggy rock; the beehive oven; a wicker laundry trunk; a couch; a huge ceramic pot.

  Grumio was enjoying it. He knew I would have to take him. His eyes were flashing. His cheeks were flushed hectically. He looked drugged with excitement. I should have known all along he was one of those tense, arrogant killers who destroy life coldly and never recant.

  ‘This is the killer from the High Place,’ stated Musa, publicly inditing him. The bastard coolly started whistling.

  ‘Give up.’ My voice was quiet, addressing Grumio. ‘We have evidence and witnesses. I know you killed the playwright because he would not return your missing scroll - and I know you strangled Ione.’

  ‘ “Now she’s dead, which takes away some of the problem…”’ He was quoting The Girl from Andros. The sheer flippancy enraged me. ‘Don’t come any closer, Falco.’