Last Act In Palmyra Read online

  I was expecting to be hailed as a hero after the play. I had taken a great deal of trouble with my adaptation and had spent all morning perfecting new lines, or tinkering with tired old ones as much as time allowed. I had proudly presented the revisions to Chremes at lunch, though he brushed aside my eager offer to attend the afternoon rehearsal and point out significant changes. They called it a rehearsal, but when I stationed myself on a back row at the theatre, trying to overhear how things were going, I was dismayed. Everyone spent most of their time discussing a flute girl’s pregnancy and whether Chremes’ costume would last in one piece another night.

  The actual performance bore out my disquiet. My laborious redraft had been tossed aside. All the actors ignored it. As the action evolved they repeatedly referred to the missing moneylender, even though he would never appear, then in the last act they improvised a few haphazard speeches to get around the problem. The plot, which I had so wittily resurrected, dwindled into ludicrous tosh. For me, the most bitter insult was that the audience swallowed the gibberish. The sombre Nabataeans actually applauded. They stood up politely, clapping their hands above their heads. Somebody even threw what looked like a flower, though it may have been an unpaid laundry bill.

  ‘You’re upset!’ Helena observed, as we fought our way to the exit. We barged past Philocrates, who was hanging around the gateway, showing off his profile to admiring women. I steered Helena through a smaller group of men with entranced expressions who were waiting for the beauteous Byrria; she had taken herself off promptly, however, so they were looking over anything else in a long skirt. Having my nobly reared girlfriend mistaken for a flute girl was now my worst nightmare. ‘Oh, don’t let it worry you, Marcus my love…” She was still talking about the play.

  I explained to Helena succinctly that I didn’t give a damn what a group of illogical, illiterate, impossible thespians did on stage or off it, and that I would see her in a while. Then I strode off to find somewhere I could kick rocks in decent solitude.

  Chapter XIX

  It came on to rain more heavily. When you’re down, Fortune loves stamping on your head.

  Tearing off ahead of everyone else, I reached the centre of our encampment. That was where the heavier waggons were drawn up in the hope that our encircling tents would deter sneak-thieves. Hopping over the nearest tailboard I took shelter under the ragged leather roof that protected our stage properties from the weather. It was my first chance to inspect this battered treasure trove. After I had finished swearing about the performance, I devised a ferocious speech of resignation that ought to leave Chremes whimpering. Then I fetched out my tinderbox, wasted half an hour with it, but eventually lit the large lantern that was carried on stage in scenes of night-time conspiracy.

  As the pale flame wandered around dangerously in its ironwork container, I found myself crouching up against a small shrine (large enough to hide behind for overhearing secrets). Stacked opposite were several painted doorways, meant to distinguish the neighbouring houses that featured in so much of the New Comedy. These had not been used in tonight’s Pirate Brothers in order to save them from the wet. Instead the scene, which was originally ‘A Street in Samothrace’, had been redesignated ‘A Rocky Coast’ and ‘The Road to Miletus’; Chremes had simply played Chorus and announced these arbitrary locations to his hapless audience.

  I struggled to settle more comfortably. Under my elbow was an old wooden log with a greying shawl nailed to it (the ‘baby’). Sticking out above my head was a gigantic sword of curved design. I assumed it was blunt - then cut my finger on the edge while testing out my assumption. So much for scientific experiment. Wicker baskets mostly overflowed with costumes, shoes and masks. One basket had toppled over, showing itself nearly empty apart from a long set of rattly chains, a large ring with a big red glass stone (for recognition of long-lost offspring), some parcels of shopping, and a brown jar containing a few pistachio shells (the ever-present Pot of Gold). Behind it were a stuffed sheep (for sacrifice) and a wooden pig on wheels that could be towed across the stage by Tranio in his role as a merrily wittering Clever Cook who cracked thousand-year-old jokes about preparations for the Wedding Feast.

  Once I had finished gloomily surveying the torn and faded panoply with which I was sharing this waggon, my thoughts naturally turned again to issues like Life, Fate, and however did I come to end up in this tip being paid zero for an unappealing job? Like most philosophy it was a waste of time. I noticed a woodlouse and began timing his progress, taking bets with myself about which direction he would wander in. I had grown cold enough to think I would now return to my own bivouac and allow Helena Justina to bolster my esteem, when I heard footsteps outside. Somebody stamped up to the waggon, the end flap was beaten aside, there came a flurry of irritated movement, and then Phrygia hauled herself inside. Presumably she too was seeking privacy, though she did not appear bothered by finding me.

  Phrygia was as long as a leek; she could overtop most men. She increased her advantage of height by wearing her hair in a coronet of frizzled curls, and by teetering about on frightful platformed shoes. Like a statue that had been purposely designed to stand in a niche, her front view was perfectly finished, but her back had been left in the rough. She was a model of immaculate face paint, with a whole breastplate of gilt jewellery that crackled in layers upon the meticulous pleats of the stole across her bosom. Seen from behind, however, every bone pin pegging down her hairstyle was visible, the frontispiece jewellery all hung from a single tarnished chain that had worn a red furrow in her scrawny neck, the stole was rumpled, the shoes were backless, and her gown was hoicked together and pinned in clumps in order to provide the more elegant drape on her frontal plane. I had seen her walk down a street with a sideways glide that preserved her public image almost intact. Since her stage presence was strong enough to entrance an audience, she did not care if the louts behind the back wall sneered.

  ‘I thought it might be you skulking here.’ She threw herself against one of the costume baskets, flapping her sleeves to shake off drops of rain. Some fell on me. It was like being joined on a small couch by a thin but energetic dog.

  ‘I’d better be off,’ I muttered. ‘I was just sheltering - ‘

  ‘I see! Don’t want that girl of yours to hear you’ve been closeted in a waggon with the manager’s wife?’ I settled back weakly. I like to be polite. She looked fifteen years older than me, and might be more. Phrygia favoured me with her bitter laugh. ‘Consoling the ranks is my privilege, Falco. I’m the Mother of the Company!’

  I joined in the laughter, as one does. I felt threatened, wondering briefly if accepting consolation from Phrygia was an obligation for men in the troupe. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m a big boy - ‘

  ‘Really?’ At her tone, I shrank mentally. ‘So how was your first night?’ she challenged.

  ‘Let’s say I can now see how Heliodorus might have turned his back on society!’

  ‘You’ll learn,’ she consoled me. ‘Don’t make it so literary. And don’t waste time sticking in political allusions. You’re not bloody Aristophanes, and the people who are paying for tickets are not educated Athenians. We’re acting for turnips who only come to talk to their cousins and fart. We have to give them a lot of action and low-level jokes, but you can leave all that to us on stage. We know what’s required. Your job is to hone the basic framework and remember the simple motto: short speeches, short lines, short words.’

  ‘Oh, and I foolishly thought I would be handling major themes of social disillusionment, humanity and justice!’

  ‘Skip the themes. You’re handling old envy and young love.’ Like most of my career as an informer, in fact.

  ‘Silly me!’

  ‘As for Heliodorus,’ Phrygia went on, with a change of tone, ‘he was just nasty to begin with.’

  ‘So what was his problem?’

  ‘Juno only knows.’

  ‘Did he make enemies with anyone in particular?’

  ‘No. He was
fair; he hated everyone.’

  ‘And everyone was even-handed with their loathing in return? What about you, Phrygia? How did you get on with him? Surely an actress of your status was beyond reach of his spite?’

  ‘My status!’ she murmured drily. I sat quiet. ‘I’ve had my turn. I was offered the chance to play Medea at Epidaurus once…’ It must have been years ago, but I did not disbelieve it. Tonight she had given a crisp cameo performance as a priestess that had let us glimpse what might have been.

  ‘I’d like to have seen that. I can visualise you raving at Jason and bashing the children… What happened?’

  ‘Married Chremes.’ And never forgave him. Still, it was premature for me to feel sorry for him when I had no idea what other crises had distorted their relationship. My work had long ago taught me never to judge marriages.

  ‘Heliodorus knew about you missing this Medea?’

  ‘Of course.’ She spoke quietly. I had no need to probe for details. I could imagine the use he must have made of the knowledge; a world of torment lay in her very restraint.

  She was a great actress. And maybe she was acting now. Maybe she and Heliodorus had really been passionate lovers - or maybe she had wanted him, but he rebuffed her, so she arranged his swimming accident… Luckily Helena was not present to pour scorn on these wild theories.

  ‘Why did Chremes keep him on?’ Even though she and her husband were not speaking to each other generally, I had a feeling they could always discuss the company. Probably it was the sole factor that kept them together.

  ‘Chremes is too soft-hearted to boot anyone out.’ She grinned at me. ‘Plenty of people rely on that to keep their position with us!’

  I felt my jaw set. ‘If that’s a jibe at me, I don’t need charity. I had a job of my own before I met up with you people.’

  ‘He tells me you’re an investigator?’

  I let her probe. ‘I’m trying to find a young musician called Sophrona.’

  ‘Oh! We thought you must be political.’

  I pretended to be amazed by that idea. Sticking with Sophrona, I went on, ‘It’s worth a parcel if I track her down. All I know is she can play the water organ as if she had lessons direct from Apollo, and she’ll be with a man from the Decapolis, probably called Habib.’

  ‘The name should help.’

  ‘Yes, I’m relying on it. The Decapolis region sounds ill-defined, too large for wandering about clueless like a prophet in the wilderness.’

  ‘Who wants you to find the girl?’

  ‘Who do you think? The manager who paid the fee for training her.’

  Phrygia nodded; she knew that a trained musician was a valuable commodity. ‘What happens if you don’t?’

  ‘I go home poor.’

  ‘We can help you look.’

  ‘That seems a fair bargain. It’s why I took this job. You help me when we get to the Decapolis, and even if my scribing is crude, in return I’ll do my best to identify your murderer.’

  The actress shivered. It was probably real. ‘Someone here… Someone we know…’

  ‘Yes, Phrygia. Someone you eat with; a man somebody probably sleeps with. Someone who may be late for rehearsals yet turns in a good performance. Someone who has done you kindnesses, made you laugh, sometimes irritated you to Hades for no reason in particular. Someone, in short, just like all the rest in the company.’

  ‘It’s horrible!’ Phrygia cried.

  ‘It’s murder,’ I said.

  ‘We have to find him!’ It sounded as if she would help if she could. (In my long experience that meant I should be prepared for the woman to try to jeopardise my search at every turn.)

  ‘So who hated him, Phrygia? I’m looking for a motive. Just knowing who he had dealings with would be a start.’

  ‘Dealings? He used to try out his luck with Byrria, but she kept away from him. He hung around the musicians sometimes - though most of them would tell him where to put his little implement - but he was too wound up in his own black personality to have been involved in any special affairs.’

  ‘A man who bore grudges?’

  ‘Yes. He was bitter against Byrria. But you know she didn’t go up the mountain. Chremes told me you heard the killer talking, and it was a man.’

  ‘Could have been a man defending Byrria.’ When I see an attractive woman, I’m seeing motives for all kinds of stupid behaviour. ‘Who else hankers after her?’

  ‘All of them!’ said Phrygia, at her most dry. She pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘Byrria has no followers, I’ll say that for her.’

  ‘There were plenty of oglers waiting here for her tonight.’

  ‘And was she visible?’

  ‘No,’ I conceded.

  ‘That surprised you! You thought Byrria was young enough to listen to them and only I was old enough to see through their flattery!’

  ‘I think you have plenty of admirers - but you’re right about the girl. So what’s with Byrria if she turned down Heliodorus and she can live without cheap popularity?’

  ‘She’s ambitious. She doesn’t want one short night of passion in return for the long disillusionment; she wants to work.’ I was reaching the conclusion that Phrygia hated the beauty less than we had supposed. Clearly she approved of intense dramatic ambition; perhaps she wished the younger woman well. It could be for that classic reason: Byrria reminded Phrygia of her younger self.

  ‘So she studies her art, and keeps to herself.’ That could easily drive men mad. ‘Is anyone particularly soft on her? Who loves the dedicated Byrria from afar?’

  ‘I told you: all of the bastards!’ Phrygia said.

  I sighed gently. ‘Well, tell me if you decide there was somebody who might have been prepared to kick Heliodorus out of her path.’

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ she agreed calmly. ‘On the whole, Falco, taking action - especially for a woman - is alien to men.’

  Since she still seemed prepared to talk to me, although I was one of those feeble specimens, I went through the list of suspects in a businesslike way: ‘It has to be someone who came with you to Petra. Apart from your husband—’ No flicker of emotion crossed her face. ‘That leaves the two clowns, the wonderfully handsome Philocrates, Congrio the billposter, and Davos. Davos looks an interesting case - ‘

  ‘Not him!’ Phrygia was crisp. ‘Davos wouldn’t do anything stupid. He’s an old friend. I won’t have you insulting Davos. He’s too sensible - and he’s much too quiet.’ People always believe their personal cronies should be above suspicion; in fact the chances are high that anyone in the Empire who dies unnaturally has been set on by their oldest friend.

  ‘Did he get on with the playwright?’

  ‘He thought he was mule dung. But he thinks that about most playwrights,’ she informed me conversationally.

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind when I talk to him.’

  ‘Don’t strain yourself. Davos will tell you quite freely himself.’

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  By now I had heard one put-down too many about the creative craft. It was late, I had had a miserable day, Helena would be fretting and the thought of soothing her anxieties grew more appealing every minute.

  I said I thought the rain had stopped. Then I bade the Mother of the Company a gruffly filial goodnight.

  Hardly had I entered my tent when I knew that I should have been somewhere else tonight.

  Chapter XX

  Something had happened to our Nabataean priest.

  Davos was holding Musa up as if he was going to collapse. They were in our section of the tent, with Helena in attendance. Musa was soaking wet and shuddering, either with cold or terror. He was deathly pale and looked in shock.

  I glanced at Helena and could tell she had only just started extracting the story. She turned aside discreetly, attending to the fire while Davos and I stripped the priest of his wet clothes and wrapped him in a blanket. He was less sturdily built than either of us, but his physique was strong enough; years of climbing the high mounta
ins of his native city had toughened him. He kept his eyes downcast.

  ‘Not much to say for himself!’ muttered Davos. With Musa, that was hardly unusual.

  ‘What happened?’ I demanded. ‘It’s peeing down outside like customers in a cold bathhouse privy, but he shouldn’t be this wet.’

  ‘Fell in a reservoir.’

  ‘Do me a favour, Davos!’

  ‘No, it’s right!’ he explained, with an endearingly sheepish air. ‘After the play a group of us went looking for some wineshop that the clowns thought they knew about - ‘

  ‘I don’t believe it! In a storm like this?’

  ‘Performers need to unwind. They persuaded your man to come along.’

  ‘I don’t believe that either. I’ve never seen him drink.’

  ‘He seemed interested,’ Davos insisted stolidly. Musa himself remained clammed up, shivering in his blanket and looking even more strained than usual. I knew I couldn’t trust Musa, since he was representing The Brother; I scrutinised the actor, wondering whether I trusted him.

  Davos had a square face with quiet, regretful eyes. Short, no-nonsense black hair topped his head. He was built like a cairn of Celtic rocks, basic, long-lasting, dependable, broadly based; not much would topple him. His view of life was dry. He looked as if he had seen the whole spectacle - and wouldn’t waste his money on a second entrance fee. For my purposes, he seemed too bitter to waste effort on pretence. Though if he did want to delude me, I knew he was a good enough actor to do it.

  Yet I could not see Davos as a killer.

  ‘So what exactly happened?’ I asked.

  Davos continued his story. In his voice, which was a magnificent baritone, it seemed like a public performance. That’s the trouble with actors; everything they say sounds completely believable. ‘The Twins’ fabulous entertainment spot was supposed to be outside the rampart wall, on the eastern side of the city -‘

  ‘Spare me the tourists’ itinerary.’ I was kicking myself for not having stayed close. If I had gone on this crazy tour myself I might at least have seen what had happened - maybe have prevented it. And I might even have got a drink out of the trip. ‘Where does a reservoir come into this?’