Last Act In Palmyra Read online

  ‘This is the crux then, Davos. Did Chremes believe that he could be rescued?’

  Davos considered his answer carefully. He understood what I was asking: whether Chremes felt so hopeless he might have killed as his only escape. ‘Falco, he must have known that telling Phrygia would cause some harrowing rows, but after all these years, that’s how they live. She wasn’t in for any surprises. She knows the man. To save the company she -and I - would rally round. So, I suppose you are asking, ought he to have felt privately optimistic? In his heart, he must have.’

  This was the only time Davos actively sought to clear another person. All I had to decide now was whether he was lying (perhaps to protect his old friend Phrygia), or whether he was telling the truth.

  Chapter XLV

  We never did put on a show at Abila. Chremes learned that even when the local amateurs had finished impressing their cousins we would still be waiting in a queue behind some acrobats from Pamphilia.

  ‘This is no good! We’re not dawdling in line for a week only to have some damned handstand boys wobble on ahead of us-‘

  ‘They were already ahead,’ Phrygia put him straight, tight-lipped. ‘We happened to arrive in the middle of a civic festival, which has been planned for six months. Unfortunately, no one informed the town councillors that they needed to consult you! The good citizens of Abila are celebrating the formal entry into the Empire of Commagene - ‘

  ‘Stuff Commagene!’

  With this acid political commentary (a view most of us shared, since only Helena Justina had any idea where Commagene was, or whether well-informed men should afford it significance), Chremes led us all off to Capitolias.

  Capitolias had all the usual attributes of a Decapolis town. I’m not some damned itinerary writer — you can fill in the details for yourselves.

  You can also guess the results of my search for Sophrona. As at Abila, and all the other towns before, there was no trace of Thalia’s musical prodigy.

  I admit, I was starting to feel bad-tempered about all this. I was sick of looking for the girl. I was tired of one damned acropolis after another. I didn’t care if I never saw another set of neat little city walls with a tasteful temple, shrouded in expensive scaffolding, peeping Ionically over them. Stuff Commagene? Never mind it. Commagene (a small, previously autonomous kingdom miles to the north of here) had one wonderful attribute: nobody had ever suggested M.

  Didius Falco ought to pack his bags and traipse around it. No, forget harmless pockets of quaintness that wanted to be Roman, and instead just stuff the whole pretentious, grasping, Hellenic Decapolis.

  I had had enough. I was sick of stones in my shoes and the raw smell of camels’ breath. I wanted glorious monuments and towering, teeming tenements. I wanted to be sold some dubious fish that tasted of Tiber grit, and to cat it gazing over the river from my own grubby nook on the Aventine while waiting for an old friend to knock on the door. I wanted to breathe garlic at an aedile. I wanted to stamp on a banker. I wanted to hear that solid roar that slams across the racecourse at the Circus Maximus. I wanted spectacular scandals and gigantic criminality. I wanted to be amazed by size and sordidness. I wanted to go home.

  ‘Have you a toothache or something?’ asked Helena. I proved that my teeth were all in working order by gnashing them.

  For the company, things looked brighter. At Capitolias we acquired a two-night booking. We first put on the Hercules play, since that was newly rehearsed; then, as Davos had prophesied, Chremes became keen on this horrible species and handed us a further ‘Frolicking Gods’ effort, so we did see Davos do his famous Zeus. Whether people liked it depended on whether they enjoyed farces full of ladders at women’s windows, betrayed husbands helplessly banging on locked doors, divinity mocked relentlessly, and Byrria in a nightgown that revealed pretty well everything.

  Musa, we gathered, either liked this very much indeed, or not at all. He went silent. In essence it was hard to tell any difference from normal, but the quality of his silence assumed a new mood. It was brooding; perhaps downright sinister. In a man whose professional life had been spent cutting throats for Dushara, I found this alarming.

  Helena and I were uncertain whether Musa’s new silence meant he was now in mental and physical agony over the strength of his attraction to the beauty, or whether her bawdy part in the Zeus play had completely disgusted him. Either way, Musa was finding it hard to handle his feelings. We were ready to offer sympathy, but he plainly wanted to work out his solutions for himself.

  To give him something else to think about I drew him more closely into my investigations. I had wanted to proceed alone, but I hate to abandon a man to love. My verdict on Musa was twofold: he was mature, but inexperienced. This was the worst possible combination for tackling a hostile quarry like Byrria. The maturity would remove any chance of her feeling sorry for him; the lack of experience could lead to embarrassment and bungling if he ever made a move. A woman who had so ferociously set herself apart from men would need a practised hand to win her over.

  ‘I’ll give you advice if you want it.’ I grinned. ‘But advice rarely works. The mistakes are waiting to be made - and you’ll have to walk straight into them.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he replied rather vacantly. As usual, his apparent affirmative sounded ambiguous. I never met a man who could discuss women so elusively. ‘What about our task, Falco?’ If he wanted to lose himself in work, frankly that seemed the best idea. As a lad about town Musa was hard work to organise.

  I explained to him that asking people questions about money would be as difficult as advising a friend on a love affair. He screwed out a smile, then we buckled down to checking on the story Davos had told me.

  I wanted to avoid questioning Chremes about his debt directly. Tackling him would be useless while we had no evidence against him for actually causing either death. I had strong doubts whether we would find that evidence. As I told Musa, he remained a low priority on my suspects list: ‘He’s strong enough to have held Heliodorus down but he was not on the embankment at Bostra when you were pushed in the water, and unless someone is lying, he was also out of the picture when Ione died. This is depressing-and typical of my work, Musa. Davos has just given me the best possible motive for killing Heliodorus, but in the long run it’s likely to prove irrelevant.’

  ‘We have to check it, though?’

  ‘Oh yes!’

  I sent Musa to confirm with Phrygia that Chremes really had been packing his belongings when Heliodorus was killed. She vouched for it. If she still didn’t entertain any notion that Chremes had been in debt to the playwright, then she had no reason to think we might be closing in on a suspect, and so no reason to lie.

  ‘So, Falco, is this story of the debt one we can forget?’ Musa pondered. He answered himself: ‘No, we cannot. We must now check up on Davos.’

  ‘Right. And the reason?’

  ‘He is friendly with Chremes, and especially loyal to Phrygia. Maybe when he found out about the debt he himself killed Heliodorus - to protect his friends from the blackmailing creditor.’

  ‘Not only his friends, Musa. He would have been safeguarding the future of the theatre group, and also his own job, which he had been saying he would leave. So yes, we’ll check on him - but he looks in the clear. If he went up the mountain, then who packed the stage props at Petra? We know somebody did it. Philocrates would think himself above hard labour, and anyway, half the time he was off screwing a conquest. Let’s ask the Twins and Congrio where they all were. We need to know that too.’

  I myself tackled Congrio.

  ‘Yes, Falco. I helped Davos load the heavy stuff. It took all afternoon. Philocrates was watching us some of the time, then he went off somewhere…’

  The twins told Musa they had been together in the room they shared: packing their belongings; having a last drink, rather larger than they had anticipated, to save carrying an amphora to their camel; then sleeping it off. It fitted what we knew of their disorganised, slightly disre
putable lifestyle. Other people agreed that when the company assembled to leave Petra the Twins had turned up last, looking dozy and crumpled and complaining of bad heads.

  Wonderful. Every male suspect had somebody who could clear him. Everyone, except possibly Philocrates during the time he was philandering. ‘I’ll have to put pressure on the rutting little bastard. I’ll enjoy that!’

  ‘Mind you, Falco, a big-brimmed hat would swamp him!’ Musa qualified, equally vindictively.

  This clarified one thing anyway: Philocrates spent several scenes in the Zeus play cuddling up to the lovely Byrria. Musa’s anger appeared to clinch the question of his feelings for the girl.

  Chapter XLVI

  A restless mood hit the company once we performed at Capitolias. One reason for it was that decisions now had to be taken. This was the last in the central group of Decapolis cities. Damascus lay a good sixty miles to the north - further than we had been accustomed to travelling between towns. The remaining place, Canatha, was awkwardly isolated from the group, far out to the east on the basalt plain north of Bostra. In fact, because of its remote position, the best way to get there was going back via Bostra, which added half as much again to the thirty-or forty-mile distance it would have been direct.

  The thought of revisiting Bostra gave everyone a feeling that we were about to complete a circle, after which it might seem natural for ways to part.

  It was now deep summer. The weather had grown almost unbearably hot. Working in such temperatures was difficult, though at the same time audiences seemed to welcome performances once their cities cooled slightly at night. By day people huddled in whatever shade they could find; shops and businesses were shuttered for long periods; and no one travelled unless they had a death in the family, or they were idiotic foreigners like us. At night, the locals all came out to meet one another and be entertained. For a group like ours, it posed a problem. We needed the money. We could not afford to stop working, however great a toll of our energy the heat took.

  Chremes called everyone to a meeting. His vagabond collection squashed together on the ground in a ragged circle, all jeering and jostling. He stood up on a cart to give a public address. He looked assured, but we knew better than to hope for it.

  ‘Well, we’ve completed a natural circuit. Now we have to decide where to go next.’ I believe somebody suggested

  Chremes might try Hades, though it was in a furtive undertone. ‘Wherever is chosen, none of you are bound to continue. If needs be, the group can break up and reform.’ That was bad news for those of us who wanted to keep it together in order to identify the murderer. That blowfly would be early in the queue for terminating contracts and flitting away.

  ‘What about our money?’ called one of the stagehands. I wondered if they had sniffed out a rumour that Chremes might have spent their season’s earnings. They had said nothing to me when we discussed their grievances, but it would explain some of their anger. I knew they had been suspicious that I might be reporting back to the management, so they might well have kept their fears on this subject to themselves.

  I noticed Davos fold his arms and gaze at Chremes sardonically. Without a blush Chremes announced, ‘I’m going to settle up now for what you’ve earned.’ He was absurdly confident. Like Davos, I could smile over it. Chremes had diced with disaster, and been rescued in the nick of time by the maniac who killed his creditor. How many of us can hope for such luck? Now Chremes had the satisfied air of those who are constantly saved from peril by the Fates. It was a trait I had never been favoured with. But I knew these men existed. I knew they never learned from their mistakes because they never had to suffer for them. A few moments of panic were the worst effects Chremes would ever know. He would float through life, behaving as badly as possible and risking everyone else’s happiness, yet never having to face responsibility.

  Of course he could produce the money his workforce was owed; Heliodorus had bailed him out. And although Chremes ought to have paid the playwright back, he blatantly had no intention of remembering the debt now. He would have diddled the man himself, if he could have got away with it, so he would certainly rob the dead. My question about heirs, and Phrygia’s easy answer that Heliodorus was assumed to have had none, took on a dry significance. Not knowing about her husband’s debt, even Phrygia could not understand the full irony.

  This was the moment when I looked at the manager hardest. However, Chremes had been cleared as a suspect pretty convincingly. He had alibis for both murders, and had been somewhere else the night Musa was attacked. Chremes had a serious motive for killing Heliodorus, but for all I knew so did half the group. It had taken a long time for me to unearth this debt of Chremes’; maybe there were other lurking maggots if I turned over the right cowpat.

  As if by chance, I had seated myself at our manager’s feet, on the tail of the same cart. This put me staring out at the assembly. I could see most of their faces - among which had to be the one I was looking for. I wondered whether the killer was gazing back, aware of my complete bafflement. I tried to look at each one as if I was thinking about some vital fact he was unaware I knew: Davos, almost too reliable by half (could anyone be quite so straight as Davos always seemed?); Philocrates, chin up so his profile showed best (could anyone be so totally self-obsessed?); Congrio, undernourished and unappealing (what twisted ideas might that thin, pale wraith be harbouring?); Tranio and Grumio, so clever, so sharp, each so secure in his mastery of their craft - a craft that relied on a devious mind, an attacking wit, and visual deceit.

  The faces returning my gaze all looked more cheerful than I liked. If anyone had worries, they had not been posed by me.

  ‘The options,’ stated Chremes importantly, ‘are, firstly, to go around the same circuit again, trading on our previous success.’ There were a few jeers. ‘I reject this,’ the manager agreed, ‘on the grounds that it poses no dramatic challenge -‘ This time some of us laughed outright. ‘Besides, one or two towns hold bad memories…’ He subsided. Public reference to death was not in his style of speech-making. ‘The next alternative is to move further afield in Syria -‘

  ‘Are there good pickings?’ I prompted in a not very quiet mutter.

  ‘Thanks, Falco! Yes, I think Syria still holds out a welcome for a reputable theatre group like ours. We still have a large repertoire which we have not properly explored — ‘

  ‘Falco’s ghost play!’ suggested a satirist. I had not been aware that my idea for writing a play of my own was so widely known about.

  ‘Jupiter forfend!’ cried Chremes as raucous merriment erupted and I grinned gamely. My ghost play would be better than these bastards knew, but I was a professional writer now; I had learned to keep my smouldering genius quiet. ‘So where shall we take ourselves? The choices are various.’

  His options had turned into choices, but the dilemma remained.

  ‘Do we want to complete the Decapolis towns? Or shall we travel north more quickly and tackle the sophisticated cities there? We won’t want to go into the desert, but beyond Damascus there is a good route in a fairly civilised area, through Emesa, Epiphania, Beroia, and across to Antiochia. On the way we can certainly cover Damascus.’

  ‘Any drawbacks?’ I queried.

  ‘Long distances, mainly.’

  ‘Longer than going to Canatha?’ I pressed.

  ‘Very much so. Canatha would mean a detour back through Bostra -‘

  ‘Though there would be a good road up to Damascus afterwards?’ I had already been looking at itineraries myself. I never rely on anyone else to research a route.

  ‘Er, yes.’ Chremes was feeling hard-pressed, a position he hated. ‘Do you particularly want us to go to Canatha, Falco?’

  ‘Taking the company or not is up to you. Myself, I’ve no option. I’d be happy to stay with you as your playwright but I have my own business in the Decapolis, a commission I want to clear up - ‘

  I was trying to give the impression my private search for Sophrona was taking precede
nce over finding the murderer. I wanted the villain to think I was losing interest. I hoped to make him relax.

  ‘I dare say we can accommodate your wish to visit Canatha,’ Chremes offered graciously. ‘A city which is off the beaten track may be ripe for some of our high-class performances -‘

  ‘Oh, I reckon they are starved of culture!’ I encouraged, not specifying whether I thought ‘culture’ would be a product handed out by us.

  ‘We’ll go where Falco says,’ called one of the stagehands. ‘He’s our lucky talisman.’ Some of the others gave me nods and winks that proclaimed in a far from subtle manner that they wanted to keep me close enough to protect them. Not that I had done much on their behalf so far.

  ‘Show of hands then,’ answered Chremes, as usual letting anybody other than himself decide. He loved the fine idea of democracy, like most men who couldn’t organise an orgy with twenty bored gladiators in a women’s bathhouse on a hot Tuesday night.

  As the stagehands shuffled and glanced around them it seemed to me the killer must have detected the widespread conspiracy building up against him. But if he did, he uttered no protest. A further quick scan of our male suspects revealed nobody visibly cursing. No one seemed resentful that the chance to shed me, or to break up the troupe altogether, had just been deferred.

  So to Canatha it was. The group would be staying together for two more Decapolis cities, Canatha, then Damascus. However, after Damascus - a major administrative centre, with plenty of other work on offer - group members might start drifting off.

  Which meant that if I was to expose the killer, time was now running out.

  Chapter XLVII

  The temperature was definitely bothering all of us now. Travel by day, previously inadvisable, had become quite impossible. Travel in the dark was twice as tiring since we had to go more slowly while drivers constantly peered at the road, needing to concentrate. Our animals were restless. Fear of ambush was increasing as we re-entered Nabataea and ahead of us lay expanses of desert where the nomads were by our standards lawless and their livelihood openly depended on a centuries-old tradition of robbing passers-by. Only the fact that we were obviously not a caravan of rich merchants gave us any protection; it seemed to suffice, but we could never be off guard.