Last Act In Palmyra

Chapter L

Halfway to Canatha, on a high, flat, volcanic plain with distant views to the snow-capped peak of Mount Hermon, Helena and I tried our hands as matchmakers. For reasons we only found out later, we were wasting our time.

Entertaining two people who like to ignore each other's existence is quite a strain. As hosts we had supplied tasty wines, delectable fish, stuffed dates (stuffed by me, in my masquerade as an efficient cook), elegantly spiced side-dishes, olives, nuts, and sticky sweets. We had tried to place the romantic pair together, but they gave us the slip and took up stations at opposite ends of the fire. We sat side by side between them. Helena found herself talking to Byrria, while I just glared at Musa. Musa himself found a ferocious appetite for eating, buried his head in a bowl, and made no attempt to show off. As a wooer he had a slack technique. Byrria paid no attention to him. As a victim of his wiles, she was a tough proposition. Anyone who managed to tear this daisy from the pasture would need to tug hard.

The quality of the dinner did compensate for the lack of action. I helped myself to much of the wine while passing among the company, pointlessly trying to animate them with a generous jug. In the end I simply lay back with my head pillowed in Helena's lap, relaxed completely (not hard, in the state I had reached), and exclaimed, 'I give up! A man should know his limitations. Playing Eros is not my style. I must have the wrong kind of arrows in my bow.'

'I'm sorry,' murmured Byrria. 'I didn't realise the invitation was conditional.' Her reproach was light-hearted. The refills I had been plying her with had mellowed her somewhat. Either that or she was too practical to try flouncing off in a huff while she was tipsy.

'The only condition,' Helena smiled, 'is that all present quietly tolerate the romantic nature of their host.' Byrria tipped her winecup at me obligingly. There was no problem. We were all in a sleepy, well-filled, amenable mood.

'Maybe,' I suggested to Helena, 'Musa has perched so far from our lovely guest so he can gaze at her through the firelight.' While we talked about her, Byrria merely sat looking beautiful. She did it well. I had no complaints.

Helena Justina tickled my chin as she chimed in with my dreamy speculations. 'Admiring her in secret through the leaping sparks?'

'Unless he's just avoiding her because he hasn't washed.'

'Unfair!'

Helena was right. He was always clean. Given the fact that he had joined us in Petra so unexpectedly, and with so little luggage, it was a puzzle how Musa remained presentable. Sharing a tent, Helena and I would soon have known if his habits were unpleasant. His worst feature at the moment was a sheepish expression as I tried to set him up as a sophisticated lover.

Tonight he was turned out the same as always in his long white robe. He only had one, and yet he seemed to keep it laundered. He looked washed and tidy; he had definitely shaved (something none of us bothered with much on the road). On close examination there were one or two gestures to smart presentation: a soapstone scarab amulet on his chest, which I remembered him buying when he was out with me at Gerasa, a rope girdle that looked so new he must have picked it up in Bostra, and he was bare-headed in the Roman way. That made him look too boyish; I would have warned against it, but he had not asked for my sartorial advice.

Byrria, too, had probably dressed up slightly in response to our formal invitation. She was in green, rather plain if anything, with a very long skirt and long-sleeves against the flies which tended to descend on us at twilight. It marked a change from her spangled and revealing stage costumes, and signified that tonight she was being herself. Being herself also involved long bronze earrings that rattled all the time. Had I been in a less forgiving mood, they would have severely annoyed me.

Helena was looking sophisticated in a brown dress I had not known she owned. I had favoured a casual approach, trying out a long striped Eastern robe I had brought to fend off the heat. I felt like a goat farmer and was in need of a scratch; I hoped it was just due to the newness of the material.

While we teased him, Musa put on a patient face but stood up, breathing the cool night air and gazing somewhere away to the south.

'Be kind to him,' Helena said to Byrria. 'We think Musa is homesick.' He turned back to her, as if she had accused him of being impolite, but stayed on his feet. At least it gave Byrria a better view of him. He was passable, though not much more.

'It's just a ploy,' I informed the girl confidentially. 'Somebody once told him women like men who have an air of mysterious sadness.'

'I am not sad, Falco.' Musa gave me the controlled look of a man who was just trying to ease his indigestion after eating too much.

'Maybe not. But ignoring the most beautiful woman in Syria is pretty mysterious.'

'Oh, I am not ignoring her!'

Well that was better. His sombre, deliberate manner of speech did make it sound vaguely admiring. Helena and I knew Musa always talked that way, but Byrria might read it as restrained ardour.

'There you are.' I grinned at her, encouraging this. 'You are quite right to be wary. Under the glacially aloof pose smoulders a hot-blooded philanderer. Compared to this man, Adonis was a ruffianly buck with bad breath and dandruff. In a moment he'll be tossing you roses and reciting poetry.'

Musa smiled politely. 'Poetry I can do, Falco.'

We were lacking the floristry, but he came to the fire, sitting opposite Helena and me, which at last brought him nearer to the girl he was supposed to be entrancing, though in fact he forgot to gaze at her. He dropped to a cushion (conveniently placed by Helena before the meal just where it would allow things to develop if our guests had wanted that). Then Musa started to recite. It was obviously going to be a very long poem, and it was in Nabataean Arabic.

Byrria listened with the faintest of smiles and her slanting green eyes well cast down. There was not much else the poor girl could do.

Helena sat still. Musa's posture for recitation was to stare straight ahead, which meant Helena was catching most of the performance. The soft pressure of her thumb on my windpipe warned me not to interrupt. Still lying in her lap I closed my eyes and forced myself to leave our idiotic tent guest to his fate.

Sooner than I had dared to hope, Musa stopped – or at least paused long enough for me to break in without upsetting him. Rolling over and smiling at Byrria, I said quietly, 'I think a certain young lady has just been favourably compared to a soft-eyed gazelle, running free on the mountains – '

'Falco!' Musa was tutting, fortunately with a laugh in his tone. 'Are you speaking more of my language than you pretend?'

'I'm a spare-time poet and I know how to guess.'

'You're an acting playwright; you should be able to interpret well-spoken verse.' There was a hard note in Byrria's voice. 'And how are your other guesses, Falco?' Without appearing graceless, Byrria had turned the conversation. Her long earrings tinkled slightly, though whether with amusement or embarrassment I could not tell. She was a girl who hid her thoughts. 'Are you any nearer identifying the person who killed Ione?'

Giving up on the priest now that I had seen his technique for seduction, I too welcomed the new subject. 'I'm still looking for Ione's unknown lover, and I'd be grateful for suggestions. With regard to the playwright, motives have suddenly started turning up as thick as barnacles on a boat bottom. The newest concerns Tranio, Grumio, and the possibility of bad gambling debts. Know anything about this?'

Byrria shook her head. She seemed very relieved that the talk had changed pace. 'No I don't, except that Heliodorus gambled in the same way he drank – hard, yet always staying in control.' Recalling it, she shivered slightly. Her earrings trembled, soundlessly this time, reflecting the fire in tiny fl ripples of light. If she had been a girlfriend of mine, I would have reached to caress her earlobes – and deftly removed the jewellery. 'No one bettered him.'

'Custom-made dice!' I explained. She hissed angrily at the news. 'So how do you see Heliodorus relating to the Twins, Byrria?'

'I would have thought they were a match for him.'

I could tell that she liked them. On an impulse I asked, 'Are you going to tell me which of them pulled Heliodorus off, that time he jumped on you?'

'It was Grumio.' She said it without drama.

At her side I thought Musa tensed. Byrria herself sat extremely quietly, no longer showing her anger over the bad experience. All evening, in fact, she had behaved with reserve. She seemed to be watching us, or some of us. I almost felt that she, not Musa, was the foreigner at our fireside, subjecting our strange manners to curious scrutiny.

'You refused to tell me that before,' I reminded her. 'Why now?'

'I refused to be interrogated like a criminal. But here I am with friends.' From her, that was quite a compliment.

'So what happened?'

'Just at the right moment – for me – Grumio burst in. He had come to ask Heliodorus for something. I don't know what it was about really, but Grumio pulled the brute off me and started asking him about a scroll – a play I suppose. I managed to flee. Obviously,' she said to me in a reasonable tone, 'I am hoping you are not going to tell me Grumio is your main suspect.'

'The Twins have alibis, at least for Ione's death. Grumio in particular. I saw him otherwise occupied myself. For what happened at Petra, they're vouching for each other. Of course they may be conspiring – '

Byrria looked surprised. 'Oh, I don't think they like each other that much.'

'What do you mean?' Helena picked it up at once. 'They spend a lot of time together. Is there some rivalry?'

'Plenty!' Byrria replied quickly, as though it ought to be well known. Uneasily, she added, 'Tranio really does have more flair as a comedian. But I know Grumio feels that's merely a reflection of Tranio having more showy parts in plays. Grumio is much better at standing up to improvise, entertaining a crowd, though he hasn't done it so much recently.'

'Do they fight?' Musa put in. It was the kind of blunt question I like to ask myself.

'They have occasional squabbles.' She smiled at him. Must have been an aberration. Musa found enough spirit to mock himself by basking in the favour; then Byrria seemed to blush, though she could have been overheated by the nearness of the fire. I must have been looking thoughtful. 'Does that help, Falco?'

'Not sure. It may give me a way to approach them. Thanks, Byrria.'

It was late. Tomorrow there would be more travelling as we pressed on to Canatha. Around us the rest of the camp had quietened. Many people were already asleep. Our group seemed the only active party. It was time to break up. Glancing at Helena, I abandoned the attempt to bring the reluctant pair together.

Helena yawned, making the hint refined. She began collecting dishes, Byrria helping her. Musa and I confined our efforts to manly procedures such as poking the fire and finishing the olives. When Byrria thanked us for the evening, Helena apologised. 'I hope we didn't tease you too unbearably.'

'In what way?' Byrria responded drily. Then she smiled again. She was an extraordinarily beautiful young woman; the fact that she was barely twenty suddenly became more evident. She had enjoyed herself tonight; we could satisfy ourselves with that. Tonight she was as near to contentment as she might ever be. It made her look vulnerable for once. Even Musa seemed more mature, and more her equal.

'Don't mind us.' Helena spoke informally, licking sauce off her hand where she had picked up a sticky plate. 'You have to make your life as you wish. The important thing is to find and to keep real friends.' Reluctant to make too much of it, she went into the tent with the pile of dishes.

I was not prepared to let this go so easily. 'Even so, that doesn't mean she ought to be afraid of men!'

'I fear no one!' Byrria shot back, with a burst of her hot temper. It was a passing moment; her voice dropped again. Staring at a tray she had picked up, she added, 'Maybe I just fear the consequences.'

'Very wise!' quipped Helena, reappearing in an instant. 'Think of Phrygia whose whole life has been embittered and ruined by having a baby and marrying wrongly. She lost the child, she lost her chance to develop fully as an actress, and I think maybe she also gave up the man she should really have been with all these years – '

'You give a bad example,' Musa broke in. He was terse. 'I could say, look at Falco and you!'

'Us?' I grinned. Somebody had to play the fool and lighten the conversation. 'We're just two completely unsuitable people who knew we could have no future together but liked each other enough to go to bed for a night.'

'How long ago was that?' demanded Byrria hotly. Not a girl who could take irony.

'Two years,' I confessed.

'That's your one night?' laughed Byrria. 'How carefree and cosmopolitan! And how long, Didius Falco, do you suppose this unsuitable relationship may last?'

'About a lifetime,' I said cheerfully. 'We're not unreasonable in our hopes.'

'So what are you trying to prove to me? It seems contradictory.'

'Life is contradictory sometimes, though most times it just stinks.' I sighed. Never give advice. People catch you out and start fighting back. 'On the whole, I agree with you. So, life stinks; ambitions disappoint; friends die; men destroy and women disintegrate. But if, my dear Byrria and Musa, you will listen to one kind word from a friend, I should say, if you do find true affection, never turn your back on it.'

Helena, who was standing behind me, laughed lovingly. She ruffled my hair, then bent over me and kissed my forehead. 'This poor soul needs his bed. Musa, will you see Byrria safely to her tent?'

We all said our goodnights, then Helena and I watched the others go.

They walked uneasily together, space showing between them. They did stroll slowly, as if there might be things to be said, but we could not hear them talking as they left. They appeared to be strangers, and yet if I had given a professional judgement I would have said they knew more about each other than Helena and I supposed.

'Have we made a mistake?'

'I don't see what it can be, Marcus.'

We had done, though it was to be some time before I understood the obvious.

Helena and I cleared the debris and did what packing we needed, ready to drive on before dawn. Helena was in bed when I heard Musa returning. I went out and found him crouched beside the remnants of the fire. He must have heard me, but he made no move to evade me, so I squatted alongside. His face was buried in his hands.

After a moment I thumped his shoulder consolingly. 'Did something happen?'

He shook his head. 'Nothing that matters.'

'No. I thought you had the miserable air of a man with a clean conscience. The girl's a fool!'

'No, she was kind.' He spoke offhandedly, as if they were friends.

'Talk about it if you want, Musa. I know it's serious.'

'I never felt like this, Falco.'

'I know.' I let a moment pass before I spoke again. 'Sometimes the feeling goes away.'

He looked up. His face was drawn. Intense emotion racked him. I liked the poor idiot; his unhappiness was hard to contemplate. 'And if not?' he squeezed out.

I smiled sadly. 'If not, there are two alternatives. Most frequently – and you can guess this one – everything sorts itself out because the girl leaves the scene.'

'Or?'

I knew how low the chances were. But with Helena Justina asleep a few feet away, I had to acknowledge the fatal possibility: 'Or sometimes your feeling stays – and so does she.'

'Ah!' Musa exclaimed softly, as if to himself. 'In that case what am I to do?' I assumed he meant, If I do win Byrria, what am I to do with her?

'You'll get over this, Musa. Trust me. Tomorrow you could wake up and find yourself adoring some languid blonde who always wanted a flurry with a Nabataean priest.'

I doubted it. But on the off chance that he might be needing his strength, I hauled Musa to his feet and made him go to bed.

Tomorrow, if a cold blast of sanity seemed less likely to damage him, I would explain my theory that it is better to show off your multifaceted personality in their own language than to bore them stiff reciting poetry they cannot understand. If that failed, I would just have to get him interested in drinking, rude songs, and fast chariots.