Last Act In Palmyra mdf-6

by Lindsey Davis

  But their pleas had been sensible. We soon groaned at the slowness of our journey as the waggons toiled along that remote highway in the grinding heat. Some of us had been saved from the painful choice between four days of agony in a camel saddle or four days of increasing blisters leading a camel on foot. But as the journey dragged on, and we watched our draught animals suffering, the swifter choice looked more and more like the one we should have made. Camels conserved moisture by ceasing to sweat – surely their only act of restraint in regard to bodily functions. Oxen, mules and donkeys were as drained of energy as we were. They could manage the trip, but they hated it, and so did we. With care, it was possible to obtain sufficient water to exist. It was salty and brackish, but kept us alive. To a Roman this was the kind of living you do only to remind yourself how superior existence in your own civilised city is.

  The desert was as boring as it was uncomfortable. The emptiness of the endless dun-coloured uplands was broken only by a dun-coloured jackal slinking off on private business, or the slow, circling flight of a buzzard. If we spotted a distant flock of goats, tended by a solitary figure, the glimpse of humanity seemed surprising among the barrenness. When we met other caravans the escorting cameleers called out to each other and chattered excitedly but we travellers hunched in our robes with the furtive behaviour of strangers whose only common interest would be complaints about our escorts -, a subject we had to avoid. There were glorious sunsets followed by nights ablaze with stars. That did not compensate for the days spent winding headgear ever more tightly against the stinging dust that was blown in our faces by an evil wind, or the hours wasted beating our boots against rocks or shaking out our bedding in the morning and evening ritual of the scorpion hunt.

  It was when we reckoned we were about halfway that disaster struck. The desert rituals had become routine, but we were still not safe. We went through the motions of following advice given to us by local people, but we lacked the instinct or experience that give real protection.

  We had drawn up, exhausted, and were making camp. The place was merely a stopping-point beside the road to which nomads came to sell skinfuls of water from some distant salt marsh. The water was unpalatable, though the nomads sold it pleasantly. I remember a few patches of thorny scrub, from which fluttered a startingly coloured small bird, some sort of desert finch, maybe. Tethered at odd points were the usual unattended solo camels with no obvious owner. Small boys offered dates. An old man with extremely gracious manners sold piping-hot herbal drinks from a tray hung on a cord around his neck.

  Musa was lighting a fire, while I settled our tired ox. Helena was outside our newly erected tent, flapping rugs as Musa had taught her to do, unrolling them one at a time from our baggage, ready to furnish the tent. When the disaster happened she spoke out not particularly loudly, though the stillness and horror in her voice reached me at the waggon and several people beyond us.

  'Marcus, help! A scorpion is on my arm!'

  Chapter LVI

  'Flick it off!' Musa's voice was urgent. He had told us how to smite them away safely. Helena either could not remember or was too shocked.

  Musa leapt up. Helena was rigid. In one hand she still clutched the blanket it must have skuttled from, terrified even to relax her fingers. On her outstretched forearm danced the ominous black creature, half a finger's length of it, crab-like, its long tail reared in an evil curl. It was viciously aggressive after being disturbed.

  I covered the ground between us on legs of lead. 'My darling -'

  Too late.

  It knew I was coming. It knew its own power. Even if I had been standing at Helena's elbow when it rushed out of hiding I could never have saved her.

  The tail came forwards over its head. Helena gasped in horror. The sting struck down. The scorpion immediately dropped off.

  Hardly a beat of time had passed.

  I saw the scorpion run across the ground, darting rapidly like a spider. Then Musa was on it, screaming with frustration as he beat at it with a rock. Over and over came his furious blows, while I caught Helena in my arms. 'I'm here -' Not much use if she was being paralysed by a fatal poison. 'Musa! Musa! What must I do?'

  He looked up. His face was white and appeared tear-stained. 'A knife!' he cried wildly. 'Cut where it stung. Cut deep and squeeze hard – '

  Impossible. Not Helena. Not me.

  Instead I pulled the blanket from her fingers, supported her arm, cradled her against me, tried to make time jump back the few seconds that would save her from this.

  My thoughts cleared. Finding extra strength, I wrenched off one of my bootstraps, then fastened it tightly as a tourniquet around Helena's upper arm.

  'I love you,' she muttered urgently, as if she thought it was the last time she would ever be able to tell me. Helena had her own idea of what was important. Then she thrust her arm against my chest. 'Do what Musa says, Marcus.'

  Musa had stumbled to his feet again. He produced a knife. It had a short, slim blade and a dark polished hilt bound with bronze wire. It looked wickedly sharp. I refused to think what a priest of Dushara would use it for. He was trying to make me take it. As I shrank from the task, Helena now offered her arm to Musa; he backed away in horror. Like me he was incapable of harming her.

  Helena turned quickly to me again. Both of them were staring at me. As the hard man, this was down to me. They were right, too. I would do anything to save her, since more than anything I was incapable of losing her.

  Musa was holding the knife the wrong way, point towards me. Not a military man, our guest. I reached over the blade and grasped the worn hilt, bending my wrist downwards to stop him slicing through my hand. Musa let go abruptly, with relief.

  Now I had the knife but had to find my courage. I remember thinking we should have brought a doctor with us. Forget travelling light. Forget the cost. We were in the middle of nowhere and I was going to lose Helena for want of proper expertise. I would never take her anywhere again, at least not without someone who could surgically operate, together with a massive trunk of apothecary's drugs and a full Greek pharmacopoeia…

  While I hesitated, Helena even tried snatching at the knife herself. 'Help me, Marcus!'

  'It's all right.' I sounded terse. I sounded angry. By then I was walking her to a roll of baggage where I made her sit. Kneeling alongside I held her close for a moment, then kissed her neck. I spoke quietly, almost through my teeth. 'Listen, lady. You're the best thing in my life, and I'll do whatever I have to do to keep you.'

  Helena was shaking. Her earlier strength of will was now fading almost visibly, as I took control. 'Marcus, I was being careful. I must have done the wrong thing – '

  'I should never have brought you here.'

  'I wanted to come.'

  'I wanted you with me,' I confessed. Then I smiled at her, so her eyes met mine, full of love, and she forgot to watch what I was doing. I cut twice across the mark on her arm, making the two cuts cross at right angles. She let out a small sound, more surprise than anything. I bit my lip so hard I broke the skin.

  Helena's blood seemed to dash everywhere. I was horrified. I still had work to do, extracting what I could of the poison, but at the sight of those bright red gouts welling up so fast I felt uneasy. Musa, who had no part in the action, fainted clean away.

  Chapter LVII

  Squeezing the wound had been hard enough; staunching the blood proved frighteningly difficult. I used my hands, always the best way. By then people had come running. A girl -Afrania, I think – was handing me ripped cloths. Byrria was holding Helena's head. Sponges appeared. Someone was making Helena sip water. Someone else gripped my shoulder in encouragement. Urgent voices muttered together in the background.

  One of the Palmyrenes came hurrying up. I demanded if he carried an antidote; he either failed to understand, or had nothing. Not even a spider's web to salve the wound. Useless.

  Cursing myself again for lack of forethought, I used some general ointment that I always carry before bind
ing up Helena's arm. I told myself the scorpions in this area might not be fatal. The Palmyrene seemed to be jabbering that I had done well with my treatment. That made me think he must reckon it was worth trying. He was nodding madly, as if to reassure me. Swallowing my panic, I tried to believe him.

  I heard the swish of a broom as someone angrily swept the dead scorpion out of sight. I saw Helena, so pale that I nearly cried out in despair, struggling to smile and reassure me. The tent cleared suddenly. Unseen hands had rolled down the sides. I stood back as Byrria started helping Helena out of her blood-soaked clothing. I went out for warm water and a clean sponge.

  A small group were quietly waiting by the fire. Musa stood in silence, slightly apart from them. Someone else prepared the bowl of water for me. Once again I was patted on the back and told not to worry. Without speaking to anyone I went back to Helena.

  Byrria saw that I wanted to look after Helena alone; she discreedy withdrew. I heard her voice, chivvying Musa. Something in my head warned me that he might be needing attention.

  While I was washing her, Helena suddenly started to collapse from the loss of blood. I laid her down and talked her back to consciousness. After a while I managed to get a clean gown over her head, then made her comfortable with cushions and rugs. We hardly spoke, conveying everything we felt by touch.

  Still white-faced and perspiring, she watched me cleaning up. When I knelt down beside her she was smiling again. Then she took my hand and held it against the thick pad of bandages, as if my warmth were healing.

  'Does it hurt you?'

  'Not badly.'

  'I'm afraid that it will.' For some time we stayed there in complete silence, gazing at one another, both now in shock. We were as close as we had ever been. 'There will be scars. I couldn't help it. Oh my darling! Your beautiful arm…' She would never be able to go bare-armed again.

  'Lots of bangles!' murmured Helena practically. 'Just think what fun you're going to have choosing them for me.' She was teasing, threatening me with the expense.

  'Lucky stroke!' I managed a grin. 'I'll never be in a quandary what to bring you for your gift at Saturnalia…' Half an hour beforehand I had never expected us to share another winter festival. Now she was somehow convincing me that her tenacity would bring her through. The fast, painful throb of my heart settled back to nearly normal as we talked.

  After a moment she whispered, 'Don't worry.'

  I would have a lot more worrying to do yet.

  She stroked my hair with her good hand. Occasionally I felt her tugging gently at the worst tangles amongst the uncombed curls that she had always said she loved. Not for the first time I vowed that in future I would keep myself barbered, a man she could be proud to be seen talking to. Not for the first time I dropped the idea. Helena had not fallen in love with a primped and pungent man of fashion. She had chosen me: a decent body; just enough brains; jokes; good intentions; and half a lifetime of successfully concealing my bad habits from the women in my life. Nothing fancy; but nothing too dire either.

  I let myself relax under her fingers' familiar touch. Soon, through calming me, she put herself to sleep.

  Helena still slept. I was crouching beside her with my face in my hands when a noise at the tent's entrance roused me. It was Musa.

  'Can I help, Falco?'

  I shook my head angrily, afraid he would waken her. I was aware that he picked up his knife, hesitantly taking it from where I had dropped it. There was one thing he could do, though it would have sounded harsh and I managed not to say so. A man should always clean his own knife.

  He disappeared.

  A long while later it was Plancina, the panpipe-player, who came to look in on us. Helena was still drowsing, so I was called outside and fed a huge bowl of the stagehands' broth. Even in the most isolated places, their cauldron was always put on the boil as soon as we stopped. The girl stayed to watch me eat, satisfied with her good deed.

  'Thanks. That was good.'

  'How is she?'

  'Between the poison and the knife cut, only the gods can help her now.'

  'Better sprinkle a few pints of incense! Don't worry. There's plenty of us ready to help pray for her.'

  Suddenly I found myself in the role of the man with a sick wife. While I was nursing Helena Justina, all the other women in our party would be wanting to act like my mother. Little did they know that my real mother would have knocked them aside and briskly taken charge while I was left with only drink and debauchery to keep me occupied. Still, Ma had had a hard lesson in men, being married to my pa. I didn't have to wonder what my mother would have done with Plancina; I had seen Ma put to flight plenty of floozies whose only social error was being too sympathetic towards me.

  'We've been talking to the escorts,' Plancina told me confidentially. 'These things are not fatal in this country. But you'll have to be careful about infection in the wound.'

  'Easier said than done.'

  Many a fit adult had been terminally stricken after what seemed a minor accident. Not even imperial generals, with the full panoply of Greek and Roman medicine at their disposal, were immune to an awkward graze or septic scratch. Here we were surrounded by sand and dust, with grit working its way everywhere. There was no running water. Indeed there was barely water enough to drink, let alone to clean wounds. The nearest apothecaries must be in Damascus or Palmyra. They were famously good – but days away.

  We were talking in low voices, partly to avoid disturbing my lass as she slept, partly from shock. By now I was desperately tired and glad of somebody to talk to.

  'I'm hating myself.

  'Don't, Falco. It was an accident.'

  'It should have been avoidable.'

  'Those little bastards are everywhere. Helena just had terrible luck.' Since I was still looking glum, Plancina added with unexpected sympathy, 'She was more careful than anybody else. Helena did not deserve this.'

  I had always taken the panpipe-player for a sassy piece. She had a loud mouth, a ferocious turn of phrase, and liked to wear skirts that were slashed from hem to armpit. On a Spartan maiden dancing her way around a redware vase this daring fashion looks the height of elegance; in real life, on a plump little wind-instrument-player, the effect was simply common. I had had her down as one of those girls who have an immaculately presented face, with nothing behind the eyes. But like most girls, dashing men's misconceptions was what she did best. Despite my prejudice, Plancina was extremely bright. 'You notice people,' I commented.

  'Not as dumb as you thought, eh?' She giggled good-humouredly.

  'I always took you for the clever one,' I lied. It came out automatically; I had been a carefree womaniser once. You never lose the knack.

  'Clever enough to know a few things!'

  My heart sank.

  For an informer, talking privately like this in the lee of quite a different situation can sometimes produce evidence that turns over the whole case. Plancina seemed all too eager for an intimate chat. On a better day I would have seized the chance.

  Today I had totally lost the will to proceed. Solving mysteries was the last thing I wanted to bother with. And so, since Destiny is an awkward slut, today she had brought the evidence to me.

  I managed to avoid groaning. I knew that Plancina was going to talk to me about Heliodorus or Ione. All I wanted was to wish them, and their killer, at the bottom of the Middle Sea.

  If Helena had been sitting out here she would have kicked me for my lack of interest. I spent a few moments reflecting dreamily on the wonderfully curved ankle with which she would lash out – and her power to inflict a memorable bruise.

  'Don't look so miserable!' Plancina commanded.

  'Give it a rest! I'm heartbroken. I'm off duty tonight.'

  'Might be your only chance.' She was bright all right. She knew how fickle witnesses can be.

  This reminded me of a game I used to play in the army with my old friend Petronius: speculating which we liked better, bright girls who just looked stupid,
or stupid ones who looked passable. On the whole neither kind had looked at either of us when we were twenty, though I used to pretend that I did all right and I reckon he had conquests I never knew about. He certainly turned into a sly reprobate later.

  Shock must have plunged me into homesickness. I was off again into a reverie, now wondering what Petronius would have to say about me letting Helena get hurt like this. Petro, my loyal friend, had always agreed with the general view that Helena was far too good for me. As a matter of course he took her part against me.

  I knew his views. He thought I was completely irresponsible taking a woman abroad, unless the woman was dismally ugly and I stood in line for a huge legacy if she was struck down by pirates or plague. According to what he called good old-fashioned Roman rectitude and I called blind hypocrisy, Helena should have been locked up at home with a twenty-stone eunuch as bodyguard, and only permitted to venture outside if she was going to see her mother and was accompanied by a trustworthy friend of the family (Petro himself, for example).