Last Act In Palmyra

Chapter IX

I stood up.

Like most Nabataeans the Petran Chief Minister was shorter than me, and slighter. He wore the usual full-length, long-sleeved tunic with other robes in fine material folded back over his upper arms. That was how I could see the glittering belt. There was a dagger thrust through it, with a ruby set in the hilt that barely left room for the handle's ornate metalwork. He had a high forehead, his hair well receded under the head-dress, and his manner was energetic. The wide mouth gave an impression of smiling pleasantly, though I did not fall into the trap of believing it. He looked like a friendly banker – one with his heart set on diddling you on your interest rate.

'Welcome to Petra!' He had a deep, resonant voice. He had spoken in Greek.

'Thank you.' I tried to make my accent as Athenian as possible – not easy when you've been taught your Greek under a ripped awning on a dusty street corner near the neighbourhood middenheap.

'Shall we see what you have found for us?' It was like an invitation to open a basket of presents from an uncle in the country.

His eyes gave the game away. The lids were so deeply pouched and crinkled that no expression was visible in those dark, faraway glints. I hate men who hide what they think. This one had the difficult manner I normally associate with a vicious fornicating fraud who has kicked his mother to death.

We walked to the camel, which thrust its head towards us unnervingly. Someone grabbed the bridle, hissing at its disrespect for my companion. Two men lifted down the body, fairly gently. The Brother inspected the corpse just as I had done previously. It appeared an intelligent scrutiny. People stood back, watching him earnestly. Among the crowd I recognised the elder priest from the temple with the garden, though he made no move to contact his young colleague, who was now standing behind me. I tried to believe the youngster was there in case I needed support, but help seemed unlikely. I was on my own with this.

'What do we know of this person?' The Brother asked, addressing me. I gathered that I was expected to take responsibility for explaining the stranger.

I indicated the writing block at the dead man's waist. 'A scholar or clerk maybe.' Then I pointed to the grazes on the broad, slightly puffy face. 'He had clearly suffered violence, though not an extreme beating. I found empty drinking vessels at the scene.'

'This occurred at the High Place?' The Brother's tone was not particularly angry, but the careful posing of the question spoke volumes.

'Apparently. Seems to be some drunk who fell out with his friend.'

'You saw them?'

'No. I had heard voices, though. They sounded amiable. I had no reason to rush up after them and investigate.'

'What was your own purpose in visiting the Place of Sacrifice?'

'Reverent curiosity,' I stated. It sounded unconvincing and crass, of course. 'I had been told it is not forbidden?' it is not forbidden,' agreed The Brother, as if he thought that in a just world it should have been. Legislation seemed likely to emanate from his office later that afternoon.

I took a stand. 'I believe that is all the help I can give you.' My remark was ignored. If a foreign visitor foolishly came across a drowned man in the Basin of Fundanus in Rome, he would be thanked for his sense of civic duty, given a public reward of modest proportions, and led quietly out of town-or so I told myself. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he would be flung into the worst jail available, to teach him not to malign the Golden Citadel with sordid discoveries.

The Brother stood back from crouching over the corpse. 'And what is your name?' he enquired, fixing me with those pleasant dark eyes. From deep in their wrinkled pouches of weariness those eyes had already noted the cut of my tunic and style of my sandals. I knew he knew that I was Roman.

'Didius Falco,' I answered, with a more or less clear conscience. 'A traveller from Italy – '

'Ah yes!' he said.

My heart sank. My name was already known here. Somebody had warned the King's Chief Minister to expect me. I could guess who it was. I had told everyone at home that I was going to the Decapolis on a seek-and-retrieve for Thalia's water organist. Apart from Helena Justina, only one person knew I was coming here: Anacrites.

And if Anacrites had written ahead to the Nabataeans, then as sure as honey makes your teeth rot, he wasn't asking The Brother to extend me any diplomatic courtesies.