Last Act in Palmyra (34 page)

Philocrates responded with a short phrase that referred to a part of his anatomy he overused. I pondered how easy it is to make a confident man flustered merely by saying something grossly unfair.

‘Clear myself of what?' he demanded. He was definitely hot, and it had nothing to do with the climate or our recent labouring. Philocrates' life veered between two themes: acting and philandering. He was highly competent at both, but in other fields he was starting to look stupid. ‘Clear myself of nothing, Falco! I've done nothing, and nobody can suggest I have!'

‘Oh, come on! This is pathetic. You must have had plenty of angry husbands and fathers accusing you. With all that practice behind you, I expected a better-rehearsed plea. Where's your famous stage sparkle? Especially,' I mused thoughtfully, ‘when these charges are so serious. A few adulteries and the occasional bastard may litter your off-colour past, but this is hard crime, Philocrates. Murder is called to account in the public arena –'

‘You'll not send me to the bloody lions for something I had nothing to do with! There is some justice.'

‘In Nabataea? Are you sure of that?'

‘I'll not answer the case in Nabataea!' I had threatened him with the barbarians; instant panic had set in.

‘You will if I make the charges here. We're in Nabataea already. Bostra's just up the road. One murder took place in its sister city, and I have with me a Petran representative. Musa has come all this way, on command of the Nabataean Chief Minister, specifically to condemn the killer who committed the sacrilege at their High Place!' I loved this sort of high-flown oratory. Incantations may be complete rubbish, but they have a gorgeous effect.

‘Musa?' Philocrates was suddenly more suspicious.

‘Musa. He may look like a lovelorn adolescent, but he's The Brother's personal envoy, charged with arresting the killer – who looks like you.'

‘He's a junior priest, without authority.' Maybe I should have known better than to trust oratory with an actor; he knew all about the power of words, especially empty ones.

‘Ask Helena,' I said. ‘She can give you the straight story. Musa has been singled out for high position. This embassy abroad is a training job. He urgently needs to take a criminal back to preserve his reputation. I'm sorry, but you're the best candidate.'

Philocrates' mule had become disappointed by the lack of action. It strolled up and nudged its master on the shoulder, telling him to get on with the chase.

‘How?' Philocrates spat at me; no use to a mule who was looking for entertainment. One ear up and one ear down, the fun-loving beast gazed across at me sadly, deploring its lot.

‘Philocrates,' I advised him like a brother, ‘you are the only suspect who has no alibi.'

‘What?
Why?
' He was well equipped with interrogatives.

‘Facts, man. When Heliodorus was murdered you say you were bunked up in a rock tomb. When Ione died in the pools of Maiuma, you came up with exactly the same shabby story – bumping a so-called “cheeseseller”. Sounds fine. Sounds in keeping. But do we ever have a name? An address? Anyone who ever saw you with either of these bits of flotsam? A furious father or fiancé trying to cut your throat for the insult? No. Face it, Philocrates. Everyone else provides proper witnesses. You only hand me feeble lies.'

The fact that the ‘lies' were completely in character should offer him a good defence. The fact that I also knew he had not been on the embankment at Bostra when Musa was attacked clinched his innocence for me. But he was too dumb to argue.

‘As a matter of fact,' I continued the pressure, as he kicked his natty boot against a stone in helpless outrage, ‘I do think you were with a girl the night Ione died – I think it was Ione herself.'

‘Oh come on, Falco!'

‘I think you were the lover Ione met at the Maiuma pools.' I noticed that every time I said Ione's name he jumped guiltily. Real criminals are not so nervous.

‘Falco, I'd had a fling with her – who hadn't? – but that was long past. I like to keep moving. So did she, for that matter. Anyway, life is much less complicated if you confine your attentions outside the company.'

‘Ione herself was never that scrupulous.'

‘No,' he agreed.

‘So do you know who her special lover in the company was?'

‘I don't. One of the clowns could probably enlighten you.'

‘You mean either Tranio or Grumio was Ione's special friend?'

‘That's not what I said!' Philocrates grew snappy. ‘I mean they were friendly enough with the silly girl to have heard from her what she was up to. She didn't take either of those two idiots seriously.'

‘So who did she take seriously, Philocrates? Was it you?'

‘Should have been. Somebody worth it.' Automatically, he swept one hand back across his sleek hair. His arrogance was intolerable.

‘You reckon so?' I lost my temper. ‘One thing about you, Philocrates: your intellect is nowhere near as lively as your prick.' I fear he took it as a compliment.

Even the mule had registered its master's uselessness. It came up behind Philocrates, gave a sudden shove with its long-nosed head, and knocked the furious actor face down.

A cheer went up from the rest of our group. I grinned and walked back to my own slow, solid-wheeled ox-cart.

‘What was going on there?' Helena demanded.

‘I just told Philocrates he's lost his alibi. He'd already lost his cartwheel, his mule, his temper and his dignity –'

‘The poor man,' murmured Musa, with little sign of sympathy. ‘A bad day!'

The actor had told me virtually nothing. But he had cheered me up completely. That can be as much use as any piece of evidence. I had met informers who implied that to succeed they needed not just sore feet, a hangover, a sorry love life and some progressive disease, but a dour, depressing outlook too. I disagree. The work provides enough misery. Being happy gives a man a boost that can help solve cases. Confidence counts.

I rode into Bostra hot, tired, dusty and dry. But all the same, every time I thought of Philocrates' mule flooring him, I felt ready to tackle anything.

XLVIII

Bostra again.

It seemed an age since we had arrived here the last time and performed
The Pirate Brothers
in the rain. An age since my first effort as a playwright was ignored by everyone. Since then I had grown quite used to critical hammerings, though when I remembered my early disappointment I still did not like the place.

We were all glad to stop. Chremes staggered off to see about a booking. He was plainly exhausted; he had no sense of priorities and was bound to bungle it. He would come back with nothing for us; that was obvious.

Nabataean or not, Bostra was a capital city and boasted good amenities. Those of us who were willing to spend money on comfort had been looking forward to leaving our tents on the waggons and finding real rooms to stay in. Walls; ceilings; floors with spiders in the corners; doors with cold draughts flooding under them. Chremes' no-hope aura cast a blight. I clung to my optimism and still meant to find lodgings for Helena, Musa and myself, a basic roost that would not be too far from a bathhouse and not noticeably a brothel, where the landlord scratched his lice discreetly and the rent was small. Being unwilling to waste even a small deposit on rooms we might not enjoy for long, I waited for the manager's return before I booked a place.

Some of the group were camping as usual. Pretending it was just my day for helping out, I presented myself as if by chance at the waggon that was driven by Congrio. Our weedy bill-poster had little equipment of his own. On the road he took charge of one of the props carts; then, instead of putting up a tent, he just hung an awning off the side of it and huddled under that. I made a show of lending a hand to unload his few bits and bobs.

He was not stupid. ‘What's this for, Falco?' He knew nobody helps the bill-poster unless they want a favour.

I came clean. ‘Somebody told me you came in for the stuff Heliodorus left behind. I wondered if you'd be prepared to show me what his effects consisted of.'

‘If that's what you want. Just speak up another time!' he instructed grumpily. Almost at once he started pulling apart his baggage roll, tossing some things aside, but laying certain items in a neat line at my feet. The discards were plainly his own originals; the kit offered up for inspection was his heirloom from the drowned man.

What Phrygia had passed on to him would not have raised much excitement at an auctioneer's house clearance. My father, who was in that business, would have dumped the dead playwright's clothes with his glassware porter for use as packing rags. Among the awful duds were a couple of tunics, now pleated on the shoulders with large stitches where Congrio had taken them in to fit his skinnier frame; a pair of disgusting old sandals; a twisted belt; and a toga not even I would have plucked off a second-hand stall, since the wine-stains on it looked twenty years old and indelible. Also a battered satchel (empty); a bundle of quills, some of them partly whittled into pens; a rather nice tinderbox; three drawstring purses (two empty, one with five dice and a bronze coin with one blank face, evidently a forgery); a broken lantern; and a wax tablet with one corner snapped off.

‘Anything else?'

‘This is the lot.'

Something in his manner attracted my attention. ‘You've laid it out nice and correct.'

‘Practice!' sniffed Congrio. ‘What makes you think you're the first busybody wanting to do an inventory?' He was enjoying being difficult.

I lazily lifted one eyebrow. ‘Somehow I can't see a finance tribune trying to screw you for inheritance tax on this lot! So who was so intrigued? Is somebody jealous because you came in for the hand-out?'

‘I just took the stuff when I was offered. If anybody wants to look at it, I lets them see. You finished?' He started packing it all up again. Even though the items were horrible his packing was systematic and his folding neat. My question remained tantalisingly unanswered.

If Congrio was hedging, my interest grew. The clothes had a nasty, musky smell. It was impossible to tell whether this had derived from their previous owner or been imposed since they were taken over, but nobody with any taste or discretion would want them now. The other objects mostly made a sad collection too. It was hard to see in anything here either a motive or any other clue.

I shook two of the dice around in my hand then let them fall casually on a spread tunic. Both turned up six. ‘Hello! Looks like he left you a lucky set.'

‘You found the right two to test,' said Congrio. I lifted the dice, weighing them in my hand. As I expected they were weighted. Congrio grinned. ‘The rest are normal. I don't think I've got the nerve to use those two, but don't tell anyone, in case I change my mind. Anyway, now we know why he was always winning.'

‘Was he?'

‘Famous for it.'

I whistled quietly. ‘I'd not heard. Was he a big player?'

‘All the time. That was how he gathered his pile.'

‘A pile? That wasn't part of your hand-out. I take it?'

‘Hah! No. Chremes said he would take care of any cash.'

‘A nice gesture!' We grinned wryly together. ‘Did Heliodorus play dice against the other members of the company?'

‘Not normally. Chremes had told him it caused trouble. He liked to go off and fleece the locals the night we left a place. Chremes was always nagging him about that as well, afraid one day we'd be followed by an angry mob and set upon.'

‘Did Chremes know why Heliodorus had such permanent good luck?' I asked, shaking the dice tellingly.

‘Oh no! He never looked like a bent player.' He must have been a subtle one. From what I had already heard about his ability to judge people, cleverly finding their weak points, it made sense that he could also pull the old weighted-dice trick without being detected. A clever, highly unlikeable man.

‘So Heliodorus knew better than to upset the party by cheating his own? Yet if Chremes issued a warning, does that mean it happened once?'

‘There were a few rows,' offered Congrio, his pale face crinkling up slyly.

‘Going to tell me who else was involved?'

‘Gambling debts are private,' he replied. He had a cheek. I was not prepared to give him a bribe.

‘Fair enough.' Now I had a clue to work with, I would simply ask someone else. ‘Davos told me Heliodorus went through a phase of being friendly with the Twins.'

‘Oh you know then?' It had been a lucky connection on my part; the bill-poster looked irritated by my guessing correctly.

‘About them all drinking together at one time? Yes. Did they dice too? May as well tell it, Congrio. I can always ask Davos. So was there gambling going on among those three?'

‘I reckon so,' Congrio agreed. ‘Nobody tells me things, but I got the idea Heliodorus won too much off them, and that was when they stopped drinking with him.'

‘Was this once? Was it a long time ago?'

‘Oh no,' sneered Congrio. ‘It was always happening. They'd pal up for a few weeks, then next thing they weren't speaking. After a bit they'd forget they had quarrelled, and start over again. I used to notice because the times they were friendly with Heliodorus was when the Twins caught his nasty habits. He always shoved me around, and while they were in league with him, I copped for it from them too.'

‘What phase of this happy cycle were they all in when you went to Petra?'

‘Ignoring each other. Had been for months, I was happy to know.'

I applied my innocent face. ‘So who apart from me,' I enquired suddenly, ‘has been wanting a perusal of your wonderful inheritance?'

‘Oh just those clowns again,' scoffed Congrio.

*   *   *

‘You don't like them?' I commented quietly.