Last Act in Palmyra (24 page)

‘Strong stuff, but a night at a play seems a respectable way to celebrate a victory,' said Helena.

‘What,' Tranio demanded bitterly, ‘with the severed head of Crassus kicked around the stage?'

‘Juno!' Helena blanched.

‘The only thing we could do to please people better,' Tranio continued, ‘would be
Laureolus
with a robber king actually crucified live in the last act.'

‘Been done,' I told him. Presumably he knew that. Like Grumio, he was putting himself forward as a student of drama history. I was about to enter into a discussion, but he was keeping himself aloof from me now and swiftly made off.

Helena and I exchanged a thoughtful look. Was Tranio's delight in these lurid theatrical details a reflection of his own involvement in violence? Or was he an innocent party, merely depressed by the deaths in the company?

*   *   *

Unable to fathom his attitude, I filled in time before the play by asking in the town about Thalia's musician, without luck, as usual.

However, this did provide me with an unexpected chance to do some checking up on the wilfully elusive Tranio. As I sauntered back to camp, I happened to come across his girlfriend Afrania, the tibia-player. She was having trouble shaking off a group of Pellan youths who were following her. I didn't blame them, for she was a luscious armful with the dangerous habit of looking at anything masculine as if she wanted to be followed home. They had never seen anything like her; I had not seen
much
like it myself.

I told the lads to get lost, in a friendly fashion, then when this had no effect I resorted to old-fashioned diplomacy: hurling rocks at them while Afrania screamed insults. They took the hint; we congratulated ourselves on our style; then we walked together, just in case the hooligans found reinforcements and came after us again.

Once she regained her breath, Afrania suddenly stared at me. ‘It was true, you know.'

I guessed what she meant, but played the innocent. ‘What's that?'

‘Me and Tranio. He really was with me that night.'

‘If you say so,' I said.

Having chosen to talk to me, she seemed annoyed that I didn't believe her. ‘Oh, don't be po-faced, Falco!'

‘All right. When I asked you, I just gained the impression,' I told her frankly, ‘there was something funny going on.' With girls like Afrania I always liked to play the man of the world. I wanted her to understand I had sensed the touchy atmosphere when I questioned the pair of them.

‘It's not me,' she assured me self-righteously, tossing back her rampant black curls with a gesture that had a bouncing effect on her thinly clad bosom as well.

‘If you say so.'

‘No, really. It's that idiot Tranio.' I made no comment. We were nearing our camp. I knew there was unlikely to be another opportunity to persuade Afrania to confide in me; there was unlikely to be another occasion when she needed rescuing from men. Normally Afrania accepted all comers.

‘Whatever you say,' I repeated in a sceptical tone. ‘If he was with you, then he's cleared of murdering Ione. I assume you wouldn't lie about that. After all, she was supposed to be your friend.'

Afrania made no comment on that. I knew there had been a degree of rivalry between them, in fact. What she did say amazed me. ‘Tranio was with me all right. He asked me to deny it though.'

‘Jupiter! Whatever for?'

She had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘He said it was one of his practical jokes, to get you confused.'

I laughed bitterly. ‘It takes less than that to get me confused,' I confessed. ‘I don't get it. Why should Tranio put himself on the spot for a killing? And why should you be a party to it?'

‘Tranio never killed Ione,' Afrania said self-righteously. ‘But don't ask me what the silly bastard thought he was up to. I never knew.'

The practical joke idea seemed so far-fetched I reckoned it was just a line Tranio had come up with for Afrania. But I was hard-pressed to think of another reason why he would want her to lie. The only slim possibility might be drawing the heat away from someone else. But Tranio would need to owe someone a truly enormous debt if he would risk being accused of a murder he had not committed.

‘Has anyone done Tranio any big favours recently?'

‘Only me!' quipped the girl. ‘Going to bed with him, I mean.'

I grinned appreciatively, then quickly changed tack: ‘Do you know who Ione might have been meeting at the pools?'

Afrania shook her head. ‘No. That's the reason she and I had a few words sometimes. The person I used to reckon she had her eye on was Tranio.'

Very convenient. Here was Tranio being fingered as a possible associate of the dead girl just when he was also being given a firm alibi. ‘Yet it couldn't be him,' I concluded, with a certain dryness, ‘because wonderful Tranio was doing acrobatic tricks with you all night.'

‘He was!' retorted Afrania. ‘So where does that leave you, Falco? Ione must have been up to it with the whole company!'

Not much help to the sleuth trying to fix who had murdered her.

As our waggons came in sight, Afrania rapidly lost interest in talking to me. I let her go, wondering whether to have another talk with Tranio, or whether to pretend to forget him. I decided to leave him unchallenged, but to observe him secretly.

Helena always reckoned that was the informer's lazy way out. However, she would not be hearing about this. Unless it was essential, I never told Helena when I had gathered information from a very pretty girl.

*   *   *

If the Pellans were baying for blood they held their vile tastes well in check. In fact they behaved with quiet manners during our performance of
The Pirate Brothers,
sat in neat rows eating honeyed dates, and applauded us gravely afterwards. Pellan women mobbed Philocrates in sufficient numbers to keep him insufferable; Pellan men mooned after Byrria but were satisfied with the orchestra girls; Chremes and Phrygia were invited to a decent dinner by a local magistrate. And the rest of us were paid for once.

In other circumstances we might have stayed longer at Pella, but Ione's death had made the whole company restless. Luckily the next town lay very close, just across the Jordan Valley. So we moved on immediately, making the short journey to Scythopolis.

XXXIII

Scythopolis, previously known as Nysa after its founder, had been renamed to cause confusion and pronunciation difficulties, but otherwise lacked eccentricity. It held a commanding position on the main road up the west bank of the Jordan, drawing income from that. Its features were those we had come to expect: a high citadel where the Greeks had originally planted their temples, with more modern buildings spreading fast down the slopes. Surrounded by hills, it was set back from the River Jordan, facing Pella across the valley. Once again, signs of the famous feud between the two towns were disappointingly absent.

By now the places we visited were starting to lose their individuality. This one called itself the chief city of the Decapolis, hardly a distinguishing feature since half of them assumed that title; like most Greek towns, they were a shameless lot. Scythopolis was as large as any of them, which meant not particularly large to anybody who had seen Rome.

For me, however, Scythopolis was different. There was one aspect of this particular city that made me both anxious to come here, and yet full of dread. During the Judaean Revolt, it had been the winter quarters of Vespasian's Fifteenth Legion. That legion had now left the province, reassigned to Pannonia once its commander had made himself Emperor and hiked back to Rome to fulfil a more famous destiny. Even now, however, Scythopolis seemed to have a more Roman atmosphere than the rest of the Decapolis. Its roads were superb. There was a cracking good bathhouse built for the troops. As well as their own minted coins, shops and stalls readily accepted denarii. We heard more Latin than anywhere else in the East. Children with a suspiciously familiar cast of feature tumbled in the dust.

This atmosphere upset me more than I admitted. There was a reason. I had a close interest in the town's military past. My brother Festus had served in the Fifteenth Apollinaris, his final posting before he became one of the fatalities of Judaea. That last season before he died, Festus must have been here.

So Scythopolis does stay in my memory. I spent a lot of time there walking about on my own, thinking private thoughts.

XXXIV

I was drunk.

I was so drunk even I could hardly pretend I had not noticed. Helena, Musa and their visitor, all sitting demurely around the fire outside our tent waiting for me to come home, must have summed up the situation at once. As I carefully placed my feet in order to approach my welcome bivouac, I realised there was no chance of reaching it unobserved. They had seen me coming; best to brazen it out. They were watching every step. I had to stop thinking about them so I could concentrate on remaining upright. The flickering blur that must be the fire warned me that on arrival I would probably pitch face first into the burning sticks.

Thanks to a ten-year career of debauched living, I made it to the tent at what I convinced myself was a nonchalant stroll. Probably about as nonchalant as a fledgling falling off a roof finial. No one commented.

I heard, rather than saw, Helena rising to her feet, then my arm found its way around her shoulders. She helped me tiptoe in past our guests and tumble on to the bed. Naturally I expected a lecture. Without a word she made me sit up enough to take a long quaff of water.

Three years had taught Helena Justina a thing or two. Three years ago she was a primly scowling fury who would have spurned a man in my condition; now she made him take precautions against a hangover. Three years ago, she wasn't mine and I was lost …

‘I love you!'

‘I know you do.' She had spoken quietly. She was pulling off my boots for me. I had been lying on my back; she rolled me partly on my side. It made no difference to me as I could not tell which way up I was, but she was happy to have given me protection in case I choked. She was wonderful. What a perfect companion.

‘Who's that outside?'

‘Congrio.' I lost interest. ‘He brought a message for you from Chremes about the play we are to put on here.' I had lost interest in plays too. Helena continued talking calmly, as if I were still rational. ‘I remembered we had never asked him about the night Ione died, so I invited him to sit with Musa and me until you came home.'

‘Congrio…' In the way of the drunk I was several sentences behind. ‘I forgot Congrio.'

‘That seems to be Congrio's destiny,' murmured Helena. She was unbuckling my belt, always an erotic moment; blearily I enjoyed the situation, though I was helpless to react with my usual eagerness. She tugged the belt; I arched my back, allowing it to slither under me. Pleasantly I recalled other occasions of such unbuckling when I had not been so incapable.

In a crisis Helena made no comment about the emergency. Her eyes met mine. I gave her the smile of a helpless man in the hands of a very beautiful nurse.

Suddenly she bent and kissed me, though it cannot have been congenial. ‘Go to sleep. I'll take care of everything,' she whispered against my cheek.

As she moved away I gripped her fast. ‘Sorry, fruit. Something I had to do…'

‘I know.' Understanding about my brother, there were tears in her eyes. I made to stroke her soft hair; my arm seemed impossibly heavy and nearly caught her a clout on the side of the brow. Seeing it coming, Helena held my wrist. Once I stopped flailing she laid my arm back tidily alongside me. ‘Go to sleep.' She was right; that was safest. Sensing my silent appeal, she came back at the last minute, then kissed me again, briskly on the head. ‘I love you too.' Thanks, sweetheart.

What a mess. Why does solitary, deeply significant thought lead so inevitably to an amphora?

I lay still, while the darkened tent zoomed to and fro around me and my ears sang. Now that I had collapsed, the sleep I had been heavily craving refused to come. So I lay in my woozy cocoon of misery, listening to the events at my own fireside that I could not join.

XXXV

‘Marcus Didius has things on his mind.'

It was the briefest excuse, as Helena sank back in her place gracefully. Neither Musa nor the bill-poster answered; they knew when to keep their heads down.

From my position the three figures looked dark against the flames. Musa was leaning forwards, rebuilding the fire. As sparks suddenly crackled up, I caught a glimpse of his young, earnest face and the scent of smoke, slightly resinous. I wondered how many nights my brother Festus had spent like this, watching the same brushwood smoke lose itself in the darkness of the desert sky.

I had things on my mind all right. Death, mostly. It was making me intolerant.

Loss of life has incalculable repercussions. Politicians and generals, like murderers, must ignore that. To lose one soldier in battle – or to drown an unlovable playwright and strangle an unwanted witness – inevitably affects others. Heliodorus and Ione both had homes somewhere. Slowly the messages would be winding back, taking their domestic devastation: the endless search for a rational explanation; the permanent damage to unknown numbers of other lives.

At the same time as I was pledging a violent vow to right these wrongs, Helena Justina said lightly to Congrio, ‘If you give me the message from Chremes to Falco, I will pass it on tomorrow.'

‘Will he be able to do the work?' Congrio must be the kind of messenger who liked returning to source with a pessimistic announcement of ‘It can't be done'. He would have made a good cartwheel-mender in a backstreet lock-up workshop.

‘The work will be completed,' replied Helena, a firm girl. Optimistic too. I would probably not be able to see a scroll tomorrow, let alone write on it.