Last Act In Palmyra mdf-6 Page 13

  'Goodness, I thought you were about to ask for the address of my cloak-maker or my recipe for tarragon marinade! I know nothing about any slander.'

  'You're making out to everyone that Heliodorus died because of me.'

  'I never said that.' It was only one possibility. So far it seemed the most likely explanation for the playwright's drowning, but until I had proof I kept an open mind.

  'I had nothing to do with it, Falco.'

  'I do know you didn't push him into the cistern and hold his head under. A man did that.'

  'Then why keep hinting I was involved?'

  'I wasn't aware that I had. But face facts: like it or not, you're a popular girl. Everyone keeps telling me Heliodorus was after you but you weren't having it. Maybe one of your friends tackled him. Maybe it was a secret admirer. It's always possible someone knew you would be pleased if the bastard was out of the way, and tried to help.'

  'That's a horrible suggestion!' She was frowning bitterly. On Byrria a frown looked good.

  I was starting to feel protective. I wanted to prove the murder was nothing to do with her. I wanted to find a different motive. Those wonderful eyes were working impossible magic. I told myself I was too professional to let a dainty little actress with a pretty set of wide-spaced peepers overcome me – then I told myself not to be such a fool. I was stuck, just as anyone would be. We all hate murderers to be beautiful. Before long if I did unearth evidence implicating Byrria as an accomplice I would find myself considering whether to bury it in an old hay sack at the bottom of a drainage ditch…

  'All right, just tell me about Heliodorus.' My voice was rasping; I cleared my throat. 'I know he was obsessed with you.'

  'Wrong.' She spoke very quietly. 'He was just obsessed with getting what he wanted.'

  'Ah! Too pushy?'

  'That's a man's way of putting it!' Now she sounded bitter, her voice rising.' "A bit too pushy" almost makes it sound as though it was my fault he went away disappointed.'

  She was staring ahead, even though the road was easier to travel at this point. Away to our right a teenaged girl watched over a small flock of lean brown goats. In another direction vultures wheeled gracefully. We had started out early on purpose; now the heat was beginning to reflect off the stony track with dazzling force.

  Byrria was not intending to help me. I pressed for more details: 'Heliodorus tried it on, and you rebuffed him?'

  'Correct.'

  'Then what?'

  'What do you think?' Her voice remained dangerously level. 'He assumed that saying "No" meant "Yes, please -with force".'

  'He raped you?'

  She was a person who showed anger by very carefully keeping her temper. For a moment, while I reeled at this new angle, she also stayed silent. Then she attacked me contemptuously: 'I suppose you're going to tell me that there is always provocation, that women always want it, that rape never happens.'

  'It happens.'

  We were raging at one another. I suppose I knew why. Understanding it did not help.

  'It happens,' I repeated. 'And I don't just mean men attacking women, be it strangers or acquaintances. I mean husbands misusing their wives. Fathers having "special secrets" with their children. Masters treating their slaves like so much bought meat. Guards torturing their prisoners. Soldiers bullying new recruits. High officials blackmailing – '

  'Oh be quiet!' There was no mollifying her. Her green eyes flashed and she tossed her head so the ringlets danced, but there was nothing charming in the gesture. Undoubtedly enjoying the fact that she had misled me, she exclaimed, 'It did not happen to me, in fact. He had me on the ground, he had my wrists pinioned above my head and my skirts up, and the bruises he made forcing his knee between my thighs were still showing a month later, but somebody came looking for him and rescued me.'

  'I'm glad.' I meant it, even though something in the way she had forced me to hear the details was subtly disturbing. 'Who was the useful friend?'

  'Mind your own business.'

  'Maybe it matters.' I wanted to force her to say it. Instinct told me I ought to identify her rescuer. She knew something I wanted to hear, and I could easily have become as much of a bully as Heliodorus.

  'What matters to me,' Byrria flared angrily, 'is that I thought Heliodorus was going to rape me. Afterwards I was living with the knowledge that if he ever caught me on my own he was bound to try again – but all you need to know is that I never, ever went near him. I tried to know where he was always, because I made certain that I kept as far away from him as possible.'

  'You can help me then,' I said, ignoring her hysterical edge. 'Did you know he was going up the mountain that last day at Petra? Did you see who went with him?'

  'You mean, do I know who killed him?' The girl was effortlessly bright – and deliberately made me feel like an idiot. 'No. I just noticed the playwright was missing when the rest of us gathered at the theatre ready to leave.'

  'All right.' Refusing to be put off, I tackled it another way. 'Who was there – and when did they arrive at the meeting point?'

  'It won't help you,' Byrria assured me. 'When we noticed your girlfriend telling an official a body had been found, we had already missed Heliodorus and were complaining about him. Allowing time for you to have found the body and Helena to have come back down the hill – ' I hate witnesses who have done my thinking for me' – then he must have been dead before any of us gathered at the theatre. Actually I was one of the last to get there. I turned up at the same time as Tranio and Grumio, who were looking the worse for wear, as usual.'

  'Why were you late?' I grinned cheekily, in the vain hope of reasserting myself. 'Saying a fond farewell to a manly paramour?'

  Up ahead people were stopping so we could rest during the simmering heat of midday. Byrria reined in, then literally pushed me out of her cart.

  I sauntered back to my own waggon.

  'Falco!' Musa had his head-dress wrapped across his lower face in the Eastern manner; he looked lean, cool, and much wiser than I felt in my short Roman tunic, with my bare arms and legs burning and sweat rivuleting down my back beneath the hot cloth. Byrria must have worked her spell on him too; for once he seemed actively curious. 'Did you learn anything from the beautiful one?'

  I burrowed in our lunch basket. 'Not much.'

  'So how did you get on?' asked Helena innocently.

  'The woman's incorrigible. I had to fend off her advances in case the donkey bolted.'

  'That's the problem with being so witty and good-looking,' retorted Helena. Musa burst into a rare fit of giggling. Helena, having denounced me in her normal offhand manner, merely carried on with the more important work of cleaning dust from her right sandal.

  Ignoring them both, I sat spitting out date stones like a man who had something extremely intriguing to think about.

  Chapter XXV

  Gerasa: otherwise known as 'Antioch on the Chrysorhoas'.

  Antiochia itself had a reputation for soft living. My brother Festus, who could be relied on as a scandalmonger, had told me that as a legionary posting it was notorious for the routine debauchery of its happy garrison. Life there was continual festivity; the city resounded to minstrels playing harps and drums… I was hoping to visit Antiochia. But it lay a long way north, so for now I had to be content with its namesake. Chrysorhoan Antiochia had plenty to offer, though I personally was never offered much debauchery, with or without minstrels.

  Gerasa had grown from a small walled town on a knoll into a larger suburban centre through which ran the River Chrysorhoas, the Golden River, a bit of a stream that, compared to the noble Tiber, could barely support three minnow-fishers and a few women slapping dirty shirts on stones. Pillaged by Jews in the Rebellion, and then plundered again by Romans because one of the main leaders of the Jewish Revolt was a Gerasene, the town had been fitted up recently with new city walls that sprouted a coronet of watchtowers Two of these defended the Watergate through which the Golden River rushed out via a sluice that direct
ed its water under some pressure over a ten-foot waterfall. As we waited to enter the city we could see and hear the cascade to our right.

  'This looks like a fine place for accidents!' I warned anyone who would listen. Only Musa took notice; he nodded, with his usual seriousness. He had the air of a fanatic who for the sake of Truth might volunteer to stand beside the sluice waiting for our murderer to tip him into the racing stream.

  We were held up at the Southern Gate, waiting for customs clearance. Gerasa lay conveniently at the junction of two major trade routes. Its income from caravan tributes was such that twice it had smoothly survived being plundered. There must have been plenty of raiders to pillage, then afterwards, in the Pax Romana, there remained ample cash for restoration work. According to a site plan we later saw pegged up in the cleared area that was to become the main piazza, Gerasa was in the grip of a spectacular building programme that had started twenty years earlier and was projected to continue for several decades. Children were growing up here who had only ever seen a street that was half roped off by stonemasons. A bunch of shrines on the acropolis were being given cosmetic attention; waiting at the town gate we could hear hammers clanging frenziedly in the sanctuary of Zeus; suburban villas were being knocked out by smiling contractors like beans from a pod; and surveyors' poles impeded progress everywhere, marking out a new street grid and an ambitious elliptical forum.

  In any other city in any corner of the Empire, I would have said the grandiose plan would never happen. But Gerasa undoubtedly possessed the wherewithal to drape itself in colonnades. Our own interrogation gave an indication of what kind of tribute (a polite word for bribe) the citizens expected to extract from the thousand or so caravans that plodded up each year from Nabataea.

  'Total camels?' barked the tariff master, a man in a hurry.

  Twelve.'

  His lip curled. He was used to dealing in scores and hundreds. Even so, his scroll was at the ready. 'Donkeys?'

  'None with saleable merchandise. Only private goods.'

  'Detail the camels. Number of loads of myrrh in alabaster vessels?'

  'None.'

  'Frankincense? Other aromatics? Balsam, bdellium, ladanum gum, galbanum, any of the four types of cardamom?'

  'No.'

  'Number of loads of olive oil? A load equals four goatskins,' he qualified helpfully.

  'None.'

  'Gemstones, ivory, tortoiseshell or pearls? Select woods?' To save time we simply shook our heads. He was getting the picture. He ran through the straightforward spices almost without looking up from his list: 'Peppers, ginger, allspice, turmeric, sweet flag, mace, cinnamon, saffron? No… Dried goods?' he tried hopefully.

  'None.'

  'Individual number of slaves? Other than for personal use,' he added, with a sneer that said he could see none of us had been manicured or massaged by a sloe-eyed, sleek-skinned bondsman in the recent past.

  'None.'

  'What exactly,' he asked us, with an expression that veered between suspicion and horror, 'are you dealing in?'

  'Entertainment.'

  Unable to decide whether we were daft or dangerous, he waved us angrily to a holding post while he consulted with a colleague.

  'Is this delay serious?' whispered Helena.

  'Probably.'

  One of the girls from our scratch orchestra laughed. 'Don't worry. If he wants to cause trouble we'll set Afrania on to him!'

  Afrania, who was a creature of wondrous and self-assured beauty, played the flute for us and danced a bit. Those who were not accompanied by fastidious girlfriends found other uses for her. As we waited she was flirting lazily with Philocrates but heard her name and glanced over. She made a gesture whose grossness belied her superbly placid features. 'He's all yours, Ione! Salting officials calls for an expert. I couldn't compete!'

  Her friend Ione turned away dismissively. Attaching herself to us, she gave us a grin (minus two front teeth), then hoicked half a loaf from somewhere amongst her crumpled skirts, ripped it into portions and handed them round.

  Ione was a tambourinist, and a startling character. Helena and I tried not to stare, though Musa gazed at her openly. Ione's compact form was swathed in at least two stoles, wound crossways over her bosom. She wore a snake bracelet covering half her left arm and various glass-stoned finger-rings. Triangular earrings, so long they brushed her shoulders, clattered with red and green beads, loops of wire and metallic spacers. She went in for whippy belts, thongy sandals, swoony scarves and clownish face make-up. Her wild crinkly hair flared back from her head in all directions like a radiate diadem; odd sections of the mass of untamed locks were braided into long thin plaits, tied up with wisps of wool. In colour the hair was mainly a tarnished bronze, with matted reddish streaks that were almost like dried blood after a messy fight. There was a positive air to her; I reckoned Ione would win all her fights.

  Somewhere beneath these flash trappings lay a small-featured young woman with a sharp wit and a big heart. She was brighter than she pretended. I can handle it, but for most men that's a dangerous girl.

  She had noticed Musa gaping. Her grin widened in a way that did finally make him look uncomfortable. 'Hey you!' Her shout was raucous and brisk. 'Better not stand too close to the Golden River – and don't go near the double pool! You don't want to end up as a soggy sacrifice in the Festival of Maiuma!'

  Whether or not the Petran mountain-god Dushara demands that his priests be chaste, Ione's boldness was too much for ours. Musa rose to his feet (he had been squatting on his heels like a nomad while we were held up by the customs officer). He turned away, looking haughty. I could have told him; it never works.

  'Oh bull's balls, I've offended him!' laughed the tambourinist easily.

  'He's a shy lad.' It was safe for me to smile at her; I had protection. Helena was lolling against me, probably to annoy Philocrates. I tickled her neck, hoping he would spot the propietary gesture. 'What's Maiuma, Ione?'

  'Gods, don't you know? I thought it was famous.'

  'It's an antique nautical festival,' Helena recited. She always did the heavy reading-up when we were planning foreign trips. 'Of resonant notoriety,' she added, as if she knew that would catch my interest. 'Believed to derive from Phoenicia, it involves, amongst other shameless public practices, the ritual immersion of naked women in sacred pools.'

  'Good idea! While we're here, let's try to take in an evening of sacred pond-watching. I like to collect a salacious rite or two to liven up my memoirs – '

  'Shut up, Falco!' I deduced that my senator's daughter was not planning a plunge at the pleasure ground. She enjoyed herself being superior. 'I imagine there is a great deal of shrieking, plenty of overpriced sour red wine on sale, and everyone goes home afterwards with sand down their tunics and foot fungus.'

  'Falco?' Whether it was Helena's use of my name that roused her, Ione suddenly bolted down the last of her bread. She squinted at me sideways, still with crumbs on her face. 'You're the new boy, aren't you? Hah!' she exclaimed derisively. 'Written any good plays lately?'

  'Enough to learn that my job is to provide creative ideas, neat plots, good jokes, provocative thoughts and subtle dialogue, all so that cliche-ridden producers can convert them into trash. Played any good tunes lately?'

  'All I have to do is bash in time for the boys!' I might have known she was a girl who liked innuendo. 'What sort of plays do you like then, Falco?' It sounded a straight question. She was one of those girls who seem to threaten abuse, then disarm you by taking a sensible interest in your hobbies.

  Helena joked: 'Falco's idea of a good day at the theatre is watching all three Oedipus tragedies, without a break for lunch.'

  'Oh very Greek!' Ione must have been born under the Pons Sublicius; she had the authentic twang of the Tiber. She was a Roman; 'Greek' was the worst insult she could hand out.

  'Ignore the silly patter from the tall piece in the blue skirt,' I said. 'Her family all sell lupins on the Esquiline; she only knows how to tell lies
.'

  'That so?' Ione gazed at Helena admiringly.

  I heard myself admitting, 'I had a good idea for a play I want to write myself.' We 'were obviously going to be stuck in customs for a long time. Bored and weary after the forty miles from Philadelphia, I fell into the trap of betraying my dreams: it starts off with a young wastrel meeting the ghost of his father-'

  Helena and Ione looked at each other, then chorused frankly: 'Give up, Falco! It will never sell tickets.'

  'That's not all you do, is it?' young Ione demanded narrowly. After my long career as an informer, I recognised the subtle air of self-importance before she spoke. Some evidence was about to emerge. 'They say you're sniffing out what happened up on the magic mountain in Petra. I could tell you a few things!'

  'About Heliodorus? I found him dead, you know.' She presumably did know, but openness is inoffensive and fills in time while you gather your wits. 'I'd like to know who held him under,' I said.

  'Maybe you should ask why they did it?' Ione was like a young girl teasing me on a treasure hunt, openly excited. Not a good idea if she really did know something. Not when most of my suspects were all close by and probably listening.

  'So are you able to tell me that?' I pretended to grin in return, keeping it light.

  'You're not so dumb; you'll get there in the end. I bet I could give you some clues, though.'

  I wanted to press for details, but the customs post was far too public. I had to shut her up, for her own sake as much as for my own chances of finding the killer.

  'Are you willing to talk to me sometime, but maybe not here?'

  In response to my question she glanced downwards, until her eyes were virtually closed. Painted spikes lengthened the appearance of her eyelashes; her lids were brushed with something that looked like gold dust. Some of the expensive prostitutes who serviced senators at Roman dinner parties would pay thousands for an introduction to Ione's cosmetics mixer. Long practised in buying information, I wondered how many amethystine marbled boxes and little pink glass scent vials I would have to offer to acquire whatever she was touting.