Last Act In Palmyra

by Lindsey Davis

  In other circumstances we might have stayed longer at Pella, but Ione’s death had made the whole company restless. Luckily the next town lay very close, just across the Jordan Valley. So we moved on immediately, making the short journey to Scythopolis.

  Chapter XXXIII

  Scythopolis, previously known as Nysa after its founder, been renamed to cause confusion and pronunciation difficulties, but otherwise lacked eccentricity. It held a commanding position on the main road up the west bank of the Jordan, drawing income from that. Its features were those we had come to expect: a high citadel where the Greeks had originally planted their temples, with more modern buildings spreading fast down the slopes. Surrounded by hills, it was set back from the River Jordan, facing Pella across the valley, Once again, signs of the famous feud between the two towns were disappointingly absent.

  By now the places we visited were starting to lose their individuality. This one called itself the chief city of the Decapolis, hardly a distinguishing feature since half of them assumed that title; like most Greek towns, they were a shameless lot. Scythopolis was as large as any of them, which meant not particularly large to anybody who had seen Rome.

  For me, however, Scythopolis was different. There was one aspect of this particular city that made me both anxious to come here, and yet full of dread. During the Judaean Revolt, it had been the winter quarters of Vespasian’s Fifteenth Legion. That legion had now left the province, reassigned to Pannonia once its commander had made himself Emperor and hiked back to Rome to fulfil a more famous destiny. Even now, however, Scythopolis seemed to have a more Roman atmosphere than the rest of the Decapolis. Its roads were superb. There was a cracking good bathhouse built for the troops. As well as their own minted coins, shops and stalls readily accepted denaru. We heard more Latin than anywhere else in the East. Children with a suspiciously familiar cast of feature tumbled in the dust.

  This atmosphere upset me more than I admitted. There was a reason. I had a close interest in the town’s military past.

  My brother Festus had served in the Fifteenth Apollinans, his final posting before he became one of the fatalities of Judaea. That last season before he died, Festus must have been here.

  So Scythopolis does stay in my memory. I spent a lot of time there walking about on my own, thinking private thoughts.

  Chapter XXXIV

  I was drunk.

  I was so drunk even I could hardly pretend I had not noticed. Helena, Musa and their visitor, all sitting demure around the fire outside our tent waiting for me to come home, must have summed up the situation at once. As I carefully placed my feet in order to approach my welcome bivouac, I realised there was no chance of reaching it unobserved. They had seen me coming; best to brazen it out. They were watching every step. I had to stop thinking about them so I could concentrate on remaining upright. The flickering blur that must be the fire warned me that on arrival I would probably pitch face first into the burning sticks.

  Thanks to a ten-year career of debauched living, I made it to the tent at what I convinced myself was a nonchalant stroll. Probably about as nonchalant as a fledgling falling off a roof finial. No one commented.

  I heard, rather than saw, Helena rising to her feet, then ray arm found its way around her shoulders. She helped me tiptoe in past our guests and tumble on to the bed. Naturally I expected a lecture. Without a word she made me sit up enough to take a long quaff of water.

  Three years had taught Helena Justina a thing or two. Three years ago she was a primly scowling fury who would have spurned a man in my condition; now she made him take precautions against a hangover. Three years ago, she wasn’t mine and I was lost…

  ‘I love you!’

  ‘I know you do.’ She had spoken quietly. She was pulling off my boots for me. I had been lying on my back; she rolled me partly on my side. It made no difference to me as I could not tell which way up I was, but she was happy to have given me protection in case I choked. She was wonderful. What a perfect companion.

  ‘Who’s that outside?’

  ‘Congrio.’ I lost interest. ‘He brought a message for you from Chremes about the play we are to put on here.’ I had lost interest in plays too. Helena continued talking calmly, as if I were still rational.‘I remembered we had never asked him about the night Ione died, so I invited him to sit with Musa and me until you came home.’

  ‘Congrio…’ In the way of the drunk I was several sentences behind. ‘I forgot Congrio.’

  ‘That seems to be Congrio’s destiny,’ murmured Helena. She was unbuckling my belt, always an erotic moment; blearily I enjoyed the situation, though I was helpless to react with my usual eagerness. She tugged the belt; I arched my back, allowing it to slither under me. Pleasantly I recalled other occasions of such unbuckling when I had not been so incapable.

  In a crisis Helena made no comment about the emergency. Her eyes met mine. I gave her the smile of a helpless man in the hands of a very beautiful nurse.

  Suddenly she bent and kissed me, though it cannot have been congenial. ‘Go to sleep. I’ll take care of everything,’ she whispered against my cheek.

  As she moved away I gripped her fast. ‘Sorry, fruit. Something I had to do…’

  ‘I know.’ Understanding about my brother, there were tears in her eyes. I made to stroke her soft hair; my arm seemed impossibly heavy and nearly caught her a clout on the side of the brow. Seeing it coming, Helena held my wrist. Once I stopped flailing she laid my arm back tidily alongside me. ‘Go to sleep.’ She was right; that was safest. Sensing my silent appeal, she came back at the last minute, then kissed me again, briskly on the head. ‘I love you too.’ Thanks, sweetheart.

  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 billposter 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 aga
in 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.’