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.
Chapter 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.
'Well, it's to be The Birds,' said Congrio. I heard this impassively, unable to remember if it was a play, whether I had ever read it, and what I thought if I had done so.
'Aristophanes?'
'If you say so. I just write up the playbills. I like the ones with short names; takes less chalk. If that's the scribe's name who wrote it, I'll leave him off.'
'This is a Greek play.'
'That's right. Full of birds. Chremes says it will cheer everyone up. They all get a chance to dress in feathers, then hop about squawking.'
'Will anyone notice the difference from normal?' Helena quipped. I found this incredibly funny. I heard Musa chuckle, though sensibly he was keeping out of the rest of it.
Congrio accepted her wit as a straight comment. 'Doubt it. Could I draw birds on the posters? Vultures, that's what I'd like to have a go at.'
Avoiding comment, Helena asked, 'What does Chremes want from us? Not a full translation into Latin, I hope?'
'Got you worried!' Congrio chortled, though in fact Helena was perfectly calm (apart from a slight quiver as she heard his plans for artwork). 'Chremes says we'll do it in Greek. You've got a set of scrolls in the box, he says. He wants it gone through and brought up to date if the jokes are too Athenian.'
'Yes, I've seen the play in the box. That will be all right.'
'So you reckon your man in there is up to it?'
'My man in there is up to anything.' Like most girls with a strongly ethical upbringing, Helena lied well. Her loyalty was impressive too, though perhaps rather dry in tone. 'What will happen about these elaborate beak-and-feather costumes, Congrio?'
'Same as usual. People have to hire them off Chremes.'
'Does he already possess a set of bird costumes?'
'Oh yes. We did this one a few years ago. People who can sew,' he menaced cheerfully, 'had better get used to the idea of stitching feathers on!'
'Thanks for warning me! Unfortunately, I've just developed a terrible whitlow on my needle finger,' said Helena, making up the excuse smoothly. 'I shall have to back out.'
'You're a character!'
'Thanks again.'
I could tell from her voice Helena had now decided that she had sufficient details of my writing commission. The signs were slight, but I knew the way she bent to toss a piece of kindling on the fire, then sat back tidying her hair under one of its combs. For her, the actions marked a pause. She was probably unaware of it.
Musa understood the change of atmosphere. I noticed him silently shrink deeper into his headcloth, leaving Helena to interrogate the suspect.
'How long have you been with Chremes and the company, Congrio?'
'I dunno… a few seasons. Since they were in Italy.'
'Have you always done the same job?'
Congrio, who could sometimes appear taciturn, now seemed blissfully keen to talk: 'I always do the posters.'
'That requires some skill?'
'Right! It's important too. If I don't do it, nobody comes to see the stuff, and none of us earns. The whole lot depends on me.'
'That's wonderful! What do you have to do?'
'Fool the opposition. I know how to get through the streets without anybody spotting me. You have to get around and write the notices real quick – before the locals see you and start complaining about you ruining their white walls. All they want is space to advertise their pet gladiators and draw rude signs for brothels. You have to dodge in secretly. I know the methods.' He knew how to boast like an expert too. Carried away by Helena's interest, he then confided, 'I have done acting once. I was in this play The Birds, as it happens.'
'That's how you remember it?'
'I'll say! That was an experience. I was an owl.'
'Goodness! What did that entail?'
'In this play, The Birds,' Congrio expounded gravely, 'there are some scenes – probably the most important ones – where all the birds from the heavens come on the stage. So I was the owl.' In case Helena had missed the full picture, he added, 'I hooted.'
I buried my face in my pillow. Helena managed to stifle the laughter that must be threatening to bubble up. 'The bird of wisdom! That was quite a part!'
'I was going to be one of the other birds, but Chremes took me off it because of the whistling.'
'Why was that?'
'Can't do it. Never could. Wrong teeth or something.'
He could have been lying, to give himself an alibi, but we had told nobody Musa had heard the playwright's killer whistling near the High Place at Petra.
'How did you get on with hooting?' Helena asked politely.
'I could hoot really well. It sounds like nothing difficult, but you have to have timing, and put feeling into it.' Congrio sounded full of himself. This had to be the truth. He had ruled himself right out of killing Heliodorus.
'Did you enjoy your part?'
'I'll say!'
In that short speech Congrio had revealed his heart. 'Would you like to become one of the actors, some day?' Helena asked him with gentle sympathy.
He was bursting to tell her: 'I could do it!'
'I'm sure you could.' Helena declared. 'When people really want something, they can usually manage it.'
Congrio sat up straighter, hopefully. It was the kind of remark that seemed to be addressed to all of us.
Once again I saw Helena push up the side comb above her right ear. The soft hair that grew back from her temples had a habit of slithering out of control and drooping, so it bothered her. But this time it was Musa who punctuated the scene by finding sticks to twiddle in the embers. A rogue spark flew out and he stamped on it with his bony sandalled foot.
Even though he was not talking, Musa had a way of staying silent that still kept him in the conversation. He pretended being foreign made him unable to take part, but I noticed how he listened. At such times my old doubts about him working for The Brother tended to sneak up again. There still could be more to Musa than we thought.
> 'All this trouble in the company is very sad,' Helena mused. 'Heliodorus, and now Ione…' I heard Congrio groan in agreement. Helena continued innocently, 'Heliodorus does seem to have asked for what happened to him. Everyone tells us he was a very unpleasant character. How did you get on with him, Congrio?'
The answer came out freely: 'I hated him. He knocked me about. And when he knew I wanted to be an actor he plagued me with it. I didn't kill him though!' Congrio inserted quickly.
'Of course not,' said Helena, her voice matter-of-fact. 'We know something about the person who killed him that eliminates you, Congrio.'
'What's that then?' came the sharp question, but Helena avoided telling him about the whistling fugitive. This brazen habit was still the only thing definite we knew about the killer.
'How did Heliodorus plague you about acting, Congrio?'
'Oh, he was always trumpeting on about me not being able to read. That's nothing; half the actors do their parts by guesswork anyway.'
'Have you ever tried to learn reading?' I saw Congrio shake his head: a big mistake. If I knew Helena Justina she was now planning to teach him, whether or not he wanted it. 'Someone might give you lessons one day…'
To my surprise, Musa suddenly leaned forward. 'Do you remember the night at Bostra when I fell into the reservoir?'
'Lost your footing?' chuckled Congrio.
Musa stayed cool. 'Someone helped me dive in.'
'Not me!' Congrio shouted hotly.
'We had been talking together,' Musa reminded him.
'You can't accuse me of anything. I was miles away from you when Davos heard you splashing and called out!'
'Did you see anyone else near me just before I fell?'
'I wasn't looking.'
As Musa fell silent, Helena took up the same incident. 'Congrio, do you remember hearing Marcus and me teasing Musa that we would tell people he had seen the murderer at Petra? I wonder if you told anyone about that?'
Once again Congrio appeared to answer frankly – and once again he was useless: 'Oh I reckon I told everyone!'
Evidently the kind of feeble weevil who liked to make himself big in the community by passing on scandal.
Helena betrayed none of the irritation she probably felt. 'Just to complete the picture,' she went on, 'on the night when Ione was killed in Gerasa, do you happen to have anyone who can vouch for where you were?'
Congrio thought about it. Then he chuckled. 'I should say so! Everyone who came to the theatre the next day.'
'How's that?'
'Easy. When you girls went off to the sacred pools for a splash, I was putting up the playbills for The Arbitration. Gerasa was a big place; it took all night. If I hadn't done my job like that, nobody would have come.'
'Ah but you could have done the bills the next morning,' Helena challenged.
Congrio laughed again. 'Oh I did that, lady! Ask Chremes. He can vouch for it. I wrote up bills everywhere in Gerasa the night Ione died. Chremes saw them first thing next morning and I had to go round to every one of them again. He knows how many I did and how long it must have taken. He came round with me the second time and stood over the job. Ask me why? Don't bother. The first time I did it, I spelt the word wrong.'
'The title? Arbitration?
'Right. So Chremes insisted that I had to sponge off every single one next day and do it again.'
Not long after that Helena stopped asking questions so, bored with no longer being the centre of attention, Congrio stood up and left.
For a while Musa and Helena sat in silence. Eventually Musa asked, 'Will Falco do the new play?'
'Is that a tactful way of asking what is up with him?' queried Helena. Musa shrugged. Helena answered the literal question first. 'I think Falco had better do it, Musa. We need to insist The Birds is performed, so you and I – and Falco if he ever returns to the conscious world – can sit beside the stage and listen out for who an whistle! Congrio seems to be ruled out as a suspect, but it leaves plenty of others. This slim clue is all we have.'
'I have sent word of our problem to Shullay,' Musa said abruptly. This meant nothing to Helena, though I recognised the name. Musa explained to her, 'Shullay is a priest at my temple.'
'So?'
'When the killer ran down the mountain ahead of Falco, I had been within the temple and only caught a fleeting sight of him. I cannot describe this man. But Shullay,' Musa revealed quietly, 'had been tending the garden outside.'
Helena's excitement overcame any anger that this was the first Musa had told us of it. 'You mean, Shullay had a proper view of him?'
'He may have done. I never had a chance to ask. Now it is difficult to receive a message from him, since he cannot know where I am,' Musa said. 'But every time we reach a new city I ask at their temple in case there is news. If I learn anything, I will tell Falco.'
'Yes, Musa. Do that!' Helena commented, still restraining herself commendably.
They fell silent for a while. After some time, Musa reminded Helena, 'You did not say what is troubling our scribe? Am I permitted to know this?'
'Ah well!' I heard Helena sigh gently. 'Since you are our friend I dare say I can answer.'
Then she told Musa in a few sentences about brotherly affection and rivalry, just why she supposed I had got drunk in Scythopolis. I reckon she got it more or less right.
Not long after that, Musa rose and went to his own part of the tent.
Helena Justina sat on alone in the dying firelight. I thought of calling out to her. The intention was still at the thought stage when she came inside anyway. She curled up, tucking herself into the curve of my body. Somehow I dragged one sluggish arm over her men stroked her hair, properly this time. We were good enough friends to be perfectly peaceful together even on a night like this.
I felt Helena's head growing heavier against my chest; then almost immediately she fell asleep. When I was sure she had stopped worrying about the world in general and me in particular, I did some more worrying for her, then fell asleep myself.
Chapter XXXVI
When I awoke the next day, I could hear the furious scratching of a stylus. I had a good idea why: Helena was reworking the play Chremes wanted from me.
I rolled off the bed. Stifling a groan, I scooped a beaker of water from a pail, put my boots on, drank the water, felt sick, managed to keep everything in place, and emerged from the tent. Light exploded in my head. After a pause for readjustment, I opened my eyes again. My oil flask and strigil had been placed on a towel, together with a laundered tunic – a succinct hint.
Helena Justina sat crossed-legged on a cushion in the shade, looking neat and efficient. She was wearing a red dress that I liked, with bare feet and no jewellery. Always a fast worker, she had already amended two scrolls, and was whipping through the third. She had a double inkstand, one belonging to Heliodorus that we had found in the play box. It had one black and one red compartment; she was using the red ink to mark up her corrections to the text. Her handwriting was clear and fluent. Her face looked flushed with enjoyment. I knew she was loving the work.
She glanced up. Her expression was friendly. I gave her a nod, then without speaking went to the baths.
When I returned, still moving slowly but now refreshed, shaved and cleanly clad, the play must have been finished. Helena had dressed up more with agate earrings and two arm bracelets, in order to greet the master of her household with the formal respect that was appropriate in a well-run Roman home (unusual meekness, which proved she was aware she had better look out after pinching my job). She kissed my cheek, with the formality I mentioned, then went back to melting honey in a pan to make us a hot drink. There were fresh bread rolls, olives, and chickpea paste on a platter.
For a moment I stood watching her. She pretended not to notice. I loved to make her shy. 'One day, lady, you shall have a villa crammed with Egyptian carpets and fine Athenian vases, where marble fountains soothe your precious ears, and a hundred slaves are hanging about just waiting to do the d
irty work when your disreputable lover staggers home.'
'I'll be bored. Eat something, Falco.'
'Done The Birds?
Helena shrieked like a herring-gull, confirming it.
Exercising caution I sat, ate a small quantity, and with the experience of an ex-soldier and hardened man about town, waited to see what would happen. 'Where's Musa?' I asked, to fill in time while my disturbed guts wondered what unpleasant tricks to throw at me.
'Gone to visit a temple.'
'Oh why's that?' I queried innocently.
'He's a priest,' said Helena.
I hid a smile, allowing them their secret over Shullay. 'Oh, it's religion? I thought he might be pursuing Byrria.'
After their night of whatever it was (or wasn't), Helena and I had surreptitiously watched for signs of romantic involvement. When the pair next met in public all they exchanged were sombre nods. Either the girl was an ungrateful hag, or our Musa was exceedingly slow.
Helena recognised what I was thinking, and smiled. Compared with this, our own relationship was as old and solid as Mount Olympus. Behind the two of us were a couple of years of furious squabbling, taking care of each other in crazy situations, and falling into bed whenever possible. She could recognise my step from three streets away; I could tell from a room's atmosphere if Helena had entered it for only half a minute several hours before. We knew each other so closely we hardly needed to communicate.
Musa and Byrria were a long way from this. They needed some fast action. They would never be more than polite strangers unless they got stuck in to some serious insults, a few complaints about table manners and a bit of light flirting. Musa had come back to sleeping in our tent; that would never achieve much for him.
Actually neither he nor Byrria seemed the type to want the kind of mutual dependency Helena and I had. That did not stop us from speculating avidly.
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