We all had an evening to ourselves. Revived by the prospect of work tomorrow we pooled our food and ate as a group, then went our separate ways. Those with cash could spend it on seeing a classic Greek tragedy performed by an extremely sombre group from Cilicia. Helena and I were not in the mood. She sauntered off to talk to the girls from the orchestra while I had a few swift stabs at improving the scenes in The Arbitration that I decided the great Menander had left slightly rough.
There were things to be done during our visit and this seemed the night for it. I wanted an urgent talk with the tambourinist lone, but I could see her amongst the group Helena had just joined. I then realised Helena was probably trying to arrange a discreet meeting. I approved. If Helena persuaded the girl to talk, it could work out cheaper than if Ione spilled the tale to me. Girls don’t bribe one another for gossip, I assured myself cheerfully.
Instead I turned my attention to Thalia’s missing artiste. Chremes had already told me he had managed to ascertain that the theatre manager knew nothing of any water organist. That reasonably put an end to my search in this city. A water organ is not something you miss if one ever comes to town; apart from the fact they are as big as a small room, you cannot possibly avoid the noise. I felt clear to forget Sophrona, though I was prepared to make a show of double-checking by taking a turn around the forum and asking whether anybody knew a businessman called Habib who had been to Rome.
Musa said he would come with me. There was a Nabataean temple he wanted to visit. After his enforced swim at Bostra I was not prepared to let him out on his own, so we joined forces.
As we were setting off we noticed Grumio standing on a barrel at a street corner.
‘What’s this, Grumio - found some old jokes to sell?’
He had just started his patter but a crowd had already gathered, looking quite respectful too. He grinned. ‘Thought I’d try and earn back the bribe Chremes had to pay to get the theatre!’
He was good. Musa and I watched for a while, laughing along with his audience. He was juggling quoits and handballs, then performing wonderful sleight-of-hand tricks. Even in a city full of tumblers and magicians his talent was outstanding. We wished him good luck eventually, but were sorry to leave. By then even other performers had left their pitches to join his fascinated audience.
It was a superb night. Gerasa’s mild climate is its chief luxury. Musa and I were happy to stroll about seeing the sights before we tackled our real business. We were men on the loose, not looking for lechery, nor even for trouble, but enjoying a sense of release. We had a quiet drink. I bought a few presents to take home. We stared at the markets, the women, and the foodstalls. We slapped donkeys, tested fountains, saved children from being crushed under cartwheels, were polite to old ladies, invented directions for lost people who thought we must be locals, and generally made ourselves at home.
North of the old town, in what was planned as the centre of the expanding new metropolis, we found a group of temples dominated by a dramatic shrine to Artemis, the ancestral goddess of this place. There was scaffolding around some of the twelve dramatic Corinthian columns - nothing new for Gerasa. Alongside lay a temple to Dionysus. Within that, since a synthesis could apparently be forced between Dionysus and Dushara, Nabataean priests had an enclave. We made their acquaintance, then I buzzed off to make extra enquiries about Thalia’s girl, telling Musa not to leave the sanctuary without me.
The enquiries were unfruitful. Nobody had heard of Sophrona or Habib; most people claimed to be strangers there themselves. When my feet had had enough I went back to the temple. Musa was still chattering, so I waved at him and sank down for a rest in the pleasant Ionic portico. Given the abruptness of his departure with us from Petra, there could be fairly urgent messages Musa wanted to send home: to his family, his fellow priests at the Garden Temple on the mountainside, and perhaps to The Brother too. I myself felt a nagging guilt that it was time to let my mother know I was alive; Musa might be in the same trouble. He may have looked for a messenger while we were at Bostra, but if so I never saw him doing it. This was probably his first chance. So I let him talk.
When acolytes came to light the temple lamps, we both realised we had lost all sense of time. Musa dragged himself away from his fellow Nabataeans. He came and squatted beside me. I reckoned there was something on his mind.
‘Everything all right?’ I kept my voice neutral.
‘Oh yes.’ He liked his touch of mystery.
Musa drew his headcloth across his face and folded his hands together. We both stared out at the temple precincts. Like any other sanctuary, this temenos was full of devout old women who ought to be at home with a stiff toddy, swindlers selling religious statuettes, and men looking out for tourists who might pay for a night with their sisters. A peaceful scene.
I had been sitting on the temple steps. I adjusted my position so I could look at Musa more directly. With him formally wrapped, all I could see were his eyes, but they seemed honest and intelligent. A woman might find their dark, inscrutable gaze romantic. I judged him on his behaviour. I saw someone lean and tough, straightforward in his way, though when Musa started looking abstracted, I remembered that he had come with us because he thought it was what had been ordered by The Brother.
‘Are you married?’ Because of the way he had joined us, as The Brother’s parole officer, we had never asked the normal questions. Now, although we had travelled together, I knew nothing of him socially.
‘No,’ he answered.
‘Any plans?’
‘One day perhaps. It is allowed!’ A smile had anticipated my curiosity about sexual stipulations for Dushara’s priests.
‘Glad to hear it!’ I grinned back. ‘Family?’
‘My sister. When I am not at the High Palace of Sacrifice, I live in her house. I sent her news of my travels.’ He sounded almost apologetic. Maybe he thought I found his behaviour suspicious.
‘Good!’
‘And I sent a message to Shullay.’
Again, an odd note in his voice caught my attention, though I could not decide why. ‘Who’s Shullay?’
‘The elder at my temple.’
‘The old priest I saw with you when I was chasing after the killer?’
He nodded. I must have been mistaken about the nuance in his voice. This was just a subordinate worried about explaining to a sceptical superior why he had dodged off from his duties.
‘Also there was a message for me here,’ he brought out.
‘Want to tell me?’
‘It is from The Brother.’ My heart took a lurch. The Decapolis had come under Roman authority, but the cities preserved their independent status. I was unsure what would happen if Nabataea tried to extradite Helena and me. You had to be realistic: Gerasa relied on Petra for its prosperity. If Petra wanted us, Gerasa would comply.
‘The Brother knows you are here, Musa?’
‘He sent the message in case I should come. The message is,’ Musa revealed with some difficulty, ‘I do not have to remain with you.’
‘Ah!’ I said.
So he was leaving. I felt quite upset. I had grown used to him as a travelling companion. Helena and I were outsiders among the theatre group; Musa was another, which had made him one of us. He pulled his weight and had an endearing personality. To lose him halfway through our trip seemed too great a loss.
He was watching me, without wanting me to see it. ‘Is it possible I may ask you something, Falco?’ I noticed his Greek was wandering more than normal.
‘Ask away. We are friends!’ I reminded him.
‘Ah yes! If it were convenient, I would like to help you find this murderer.’
I was delighted. ‘You want to stay with us?’ I noticed he still looked uncertain. ‘I see no problem.’
I had never known Musa so diffident. ‘But before, I was under orders from The Brother. You did not have to take me in your tent, though you did so —’
I burst out laughing. ‘Come along, Helena will be worrying
about us both!’ I leapt up, holding out my hand to him. ‘You are our guest, Musa. So long as you help me drive the bloody ox-cart and pitch the tent, you’re welcome. Just don’t let anybody drown you while the rules of hospitality make me responsible for you!’
Back at the camp it turned out we need not have hurried home. There were three or four people talking quietly in a close-knit group outside Chremes’ tent, looking as if they had spent the evening together. All the girls had gone off somewhere; that included Helena. I expected a consoling message, but no such luck.
Musa and I strolled out, intending to look for her. We assured ourselves we were not anxious, since she was in company, but I wanted to know what was going on. It might be something we would like to join in. (Wild hopes that the party Helena had disappeared to might involve an exotic dancer in some smoky den where they served toasted almonds in dainty bowls and the wine was free - or at least extremely cheap…) Anyway, we ourselves had been out in the city for several hours. I was a good boy sometimes; I was probably missing her.
At the same street corner as before, standing on the same barrel, we found Grumio. What looked like the same enthusiastic crowd was still clustering around. We joined them again.
By now Grumio had developed a close relationship with his audience. From time to time he pulled somebody out to assist with his conjuring; in between he tossed insults at individuals, all part of running jokes he must have set up before we arrived. This teasing had enough bite to tingle the atmosphere, but nobody was complaining. He was developing a theme; insulting the other towns of the Decapolis.
‘Anyone here from Scythopolis? No? That’s lucky! I won’t say Scythopolitans are stupid…’ We sensed an expectant ripple. ‘But if you ever see two Scythopolitans digging a huge hole in the road outside a house, just ask them - go on, ask them what they’re doing. I bet they tell you they’ve forgotten the doorkey again! Pella! Anybody from Pella? Listen, Pella and Scythopolis have this ancient feud - oh forget it! What’s the point of insulting the Pellans if they’re not here? Probably couldn’t find their way! Couldn’t ask. No one can understand ‘t their accent… Anyone from Abila?’ Amazingly a hand was raised. ‘That’s your misfortune, sir! I won’t say Abilans are daft, but who else would own up? Your moment of fame… Excuse me, is that your camel looking over your shoulder, or is your wife extremely ugly?’ This was low stuff, but he was pitching it right for the street trade.
It was time for a mood change; he switched the monologue into a more reflective tone. ‘A man from Gadara had a smallholding, nothing immodest, built it up slowly. First a pig…’ Grumio did a farmyard impression, each animal in turn, slowly to begin with, then he changed to little dialogues between them, and finally a furious intercutting that sounded just like the whole group honking and mooing at once. He topped it off by introducing the farmer - represented by an elaborately disgusting human fart.
‘What a swine… Hey, Marcus!’ Musa grabbed my arm, but it was too late. Grumio must have spotted us earlier but he was ready now to turn me into embarrassing material. ‘This is my friend Marcus. Come up here, Marcus! Give him a hand here.’ A routine had been set for nervous volunteers; people reached for me as soon as I was identified and I was manhandled into the performance area without a chance. ‘Hello, Marcus.‘Jumping off his barrel to greet me, his voice dropped but his eyes twinkled wickedly. I felt like a herring about to be filleted. ‘Marcus is going to help me with my next trick. Just stand there. Try not to look as if you’ve wet yourself.’ He squared me up to the audience. Obediently I looked as dumb as possible. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, pay attention to this boy. He looks nothing, but his girlfriend’s a senator’s daughter. So stiff that when they want to you-know-what, he just kicks her ankles and she falls straight on her back -‘
Such disrespect for Helena from anyone else and I would have broken his neck. But I was trapped. I stood there enduring it while the crowd could feel the tension. They must have seen me colour up, and my teeth had set gratingly. Next time Grumio wanted a discussion of humorous history, I would be teaching him some very serious new words.
I had to get out of this first.
We started with illusions. I was the stooge, of course. I held scarves from which wooden eggs vanished, then had eggs discovered tucked into parts of my person that caused fits of giggles in the audience: an unsophisticated lot. I had feathers produced from behind one ear and coloured knucklebones from up my sleeve. Finally a set of balls appeared in a manner I still blush to remember, and we were ready for some juggling.
It was very good. I was given an improvised lesson, then every now and then Grumio made me take part. If I dropped the ball it raised a laugh because I looked ridiculous. If I caught it, people roared at my surprise. Actually I caught quite a few. I was meant to; that was Grumio’s throwing skill.
Finally the handballs were exchanged one by one for an assortment: a knucklebone, a quoit, one ball, a flywhisk and a cup. This was much more difficult, and I supposed I was now out of it. But suddenly Grumio bent low; in a flash he had extracted my own dagger, which I kept hidden down my boot. Jove only knows how he had spotted it there. He must be damned observant.
A gasp ran through the crowd. By some terrible luck the knife had come into his hand unsheathed.
‘Grumio!’ He would not stop. Everyone could see the danger; they thought it was intentional. It was bad enough to sec the blade flash as he spun it in the air. Then he started whizzing items at me again. The crowd, which had chuckled at my astonishment when the knife was produced, now leant forwards in silence. I was gripped by terror that Grumio would cut off his hand; the crowd all hoped he would hurl the naked blade at me.
I managed to catch and return the quoit and the cup. I was expecting the knucklebone or the flywhisk, then thought Grumio would finish the whole scene gracefully. The bastard was drawing out the final moment. Sweat poured off me as I tried to concentrate.
Something beyond the audience caught my eye.
Not a movement: she was absolutely still on the edge of the crowd. A tall, straight-backed girl in blue with softly looped dark hair: Helena. She looked angry and terrified.
When I saw her my nerve went. I did not want her to watch me near danger. I tried to warn Grumio. His eyes met mine. Their expression was totally mischievous, completely amoral The whisk flickered; the ball spooled up.
Then Grumio threw the knife.
Chapter XXVIII
I caught it. By the handle, of course.
Chapter XXIX
Why the surprise?
Anyone who had spent five years in the legions, banged up in a freezing estuary fortress in western Britain, had tried knife-throwing. There was not much else to do. There were no women, or if there were they just wanted to marry centurions. Draughts palled after a hundred nights of the same strategy. We would bathe, eat, drink, some would fornicate, we would shout insults into the mist in case any British homunculi were listening, then, naturally, being young lads a thousand miles from our mothers, we tried to kill ourselves playing Dare.
I can catch knives. In Britain, catching a knife thrown after I had turned away was my speciality. When I was twenty I could do it blind drunk. Better drunk than sober, in fact, or if not drunk, then thinking about a girl.
My thoughts were on a girl now.
I put my knife back down my boot - in its sheath. The crowd was whistling ecstatically. I could still see Helena, still not stirring. Nearby, Musa was making frantic efforts to break through the crush to her.
Grumio was flapping: ‘Sorry, Falco. I meant to throw the knucklebone. You caught me off guard when you moved…’ My fault, eh! He was an idiot. I forced my attention back to him. Grumio had been bowing low in response to the crowd’s applause. When he looked up, his eyes were veiled. He was breathless, like a man who had had a nasty shock. ‘Dear gods, you know I wasn’t trying to kill you!’
‘No harm done.’ I sounded calm. Possibly I was.
‘Are you going to take the hat ro
und for me?’ He was holding out his collection cap, one of those woollen Phrygian efforts that flop over on top like wearing a long sock on your head.
‘Something else to do - ‘ I hopped into the crowd leaving the clown to make the best of it.
As I barged through the press he was continuing the patter: ‘Well, that was exciting. Thanks Marcus! What a character… Now then, anyone here from Capitolias?’
Musa and I reached Helena simultaneously. ‘Olympus! What’s wrong?’ I stopped in my tracks.
Musa heard my urgency and drew back slightly.
There was a deep stillness about her. Knowing her best I interpreted it first, but our friend soon saw her agitation too. It had nothing to do with Grumio’s act. Helena had come here to find me. For a moment she could not tell me why. The worst conclusions flashed into my mind.
Musa and I were both assuming she had been attacked. Gently but quickly I drew her to a quiet corner. My heart was pounding. She knew that. Before we moved far she stopped me. ‘I’m all right.’
‘My darling!’ I clutched her, for once grateful to the Fates. I must have looked ghastly. She bowed her head on my shoulder briefly. Musa stumbled, thinking he ought to leave us alone. I shook my head. There was still some problem. I might yet need help.
Helena looked up. Her face was set, though she was in control again. ‘Marcus, you must come with me.’
‘What’s happened?’
She was full of grief. But she managed to say, ‘I was supposed to meet Ione at the pools of Maiuma. When I got there I found her in the water. She seems to have drowned.’
Chapter XXX
I remember the frogs.
We had come to a place whose calm beauty should bemuse the soul. In daytime the sacred site must be flooded with sunlight and birdsong. As darkness descended the birds fell silent, whilst all around those still-warm, sensuous waters, scores of frogs started a chorus mad enough to delight Aristophanes. They were croaking their heads off frenziedly, insensitive to human crisis.
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