Lindsey Davis - Last Act In Palmyra

'It's horrible!' Phrygia cried.

'It's murder,' I said.

'We have to find him!' It sounded as if she would help if she could. (In my long experience that meant I should be prepared for the woman to try to jeopardise my search at every turn.)

'So who hated him, Phrygia? I'm looking for a motive. Just knowing who he had dealings with would be a start.'

'Dealings? He used to try out his luck with Byrria, but she kept away from him. He hung around the musicians sometimes – though most of them would tell him where to put his little implement – but he was too wound up in his own black personality to have been involved in any special affairs.'

'A man who bore grudges?'

'Yes. He was bitter against Byrria. But you know she didn't go up the mountain. Chremes told me you heard the killer talking, and it was a man.'

'Could have been a man defending Byrria.' When I see an attractive woman, I'm seeing motives for all kinds of stupid behaviour. 'Who else hankers after her?'

'All of them!' said Phrygia, at her most dry. She pursed her lips thoughtfully. 'Byrria has no followers, I'll say that for her.'

'There were plenty of oglers waiting here for her tonight.'

'And was she visible?'

'No,' I conceded.

'That surprised you! You thought Byrria was young enough to listen to them and only I was old enough to see through their flattery!'

'I think you have plenty of admirers – but you're right about the girl. So what's with Byrria if she turned down Heliodorus and she can live without cheap popularity?'

'She's ambitious. She doesn't want one short night of passion in return for the long disillusionment; she wants to work.' I was reaching the conclusion that Phrygia hated the beauty less than we had supposed. Clearly she approved of intense dramatic ambition; perhaps she wished the younger woman well. It could be for that classic reason: Byrria reminded Phrygia of her younger self.

'So she studies her art, and keeps to herself.' That could easily drive men mad. 'Is anyone particularly soft on her? Who loves the dedicated Byrria from afar?'

'I told you: all of the bastards!' Phrygia said.

I sighed gently. 'Well, tell me if you decide there was somebody who might have been prepared to kick Heliodorus out of her path.'

'I'll tell you,' she agreed calmly. 'On the whole, Falco, taking action – especially for a woman – is alien to men.'

Since she still seemed prepared to talk to me, although I was one of those feeble specimens, I went through the list of suspects in a businesslike way: 'It has to be someone who came with you to Petra. Apart from your husband-' No flicker of emotion crossed her face. 'That leaves the two clowns, the wonderfully handsome Philocrates, Congrio the bill-poster, and Davos. Davos looks an interesting case – '

'Not him!' Phrygia was crisp. 'Davos wouldn't do anything stupid. He's an old friend. I won't have you insulting Davos. He's too sensible – and he's much too quiet.' People always believe their personal cronies should be above suspicion; in fact the chances are high that anyone in the Empire who dies unnaturally has been set on by their oldest friend.

'Did he get on with the playwright?'

'He thought he was mule dung. But he thinks that about most playwrights,' she informed me conversationally.

'I'll bear it in mind when I talk to him.'

'Don't strain yourself. Davos will tell you quite freely himself.'

'I can't wait.'

By now I had heard one put-down too many about the creative craft. It was late, I had had a miserable day, Helena would be fretting and the thought of soothing her anxieties grew more appealing every minute.

I said I thought the rain had stopped. Then I bade the Mother of the Company a gruffly filial goodnight.

Hardly had I entered my tent when I knew that I should have been somewhere else tonight.

Something had happened to our Nabataean priest.

Davos was holding Musa up as if he was going to collapse. They were in our section of the tent, with Helena in attendance. Musa was soaking wet and shuddering, either with cold or terror. He was deathly pale and looked in shock.

I glanced at Helena and could tell she had only just started extracting the story. She turned aside discreetly, attending to the fire while Davos and I stripped the priest of his wet clothes and wrapped him in a blanket. He was less sturdily built than either of us, but his physique was strong enough; years of climbing the high mountains of his native city had toughened him. He kept his eyes downcast.

'Not much to say for himself!' muttered Davos. With Musa, that was hardly unusual.

'What happened?' I demanded. 'It's peeing down outside like customers in a cold bathhouse privy, but he shouldn't be this wet.'

'Fell in a reservoir.'

'Do me a favour, Davos!'

'No, it's right!' he explained, with an endearingly sheepish air. 'After the play a group of us went looking for some wineshop that the clowns thought they knew about – '

'I don't believe it! In a storm like this?'

'Performers need to unwind. They persuaded your man to come along.'

'I don't believe that either. I've never seen him drink.'

'He seemed interested,' Davos insisted stolidly. Musa himself remained clammed up, shivering in his blanket and looking even more strained than usual. I knew I couldn't trust Musa, since he was representing The Brother; I scrutinised the actor, wondering whether I trusted him.

Davos had a square face with quiet, regretful eyes. Short, no-nonsense black hair topped his head. He was built like a cairn of Celtic rocks, basic, long-lasting, dependable, broadly based; not much would topple him. His view of life was dry. He looked as if he had seen the whole spectacle – and wouldn't waste his money on a second entrance fee. For my purposes, he seemed too bitter to waste effort on pretence. Though if he did want to delude me, I knew he was a good enough actor to do it.

Yet I could not see Davos as a killer.

'So what exactly happened?' I asked.

Davos continued his story. In his voice, which was a magnificent baritone, it seemed like a public performance. That's the trouble with actors; everything they say sounds completely believable. 'The Twins' fabulous entertainment spot was supposed to be outside the rampart wall, on the eastern side of the city -'

'Spare me the tourists' itinerary.' I was kicking myself for not having stayed close. If I had gone on this crazy tour myself I might at least have seen what had happened – maybe have prevented it. And I might even have got a drink out of the trip. 'Where does a reservoir come into this?'

'There are a couple of great water cisterns to conserve rain.' They must be full enough this evening. Fortune was now dumping a whole year's rainfall on Bostra. 'We had to go around one. It's built within a huge embankment. There was a narrow elevated path, people were larking about a bit, and somehow Musa slipped into the water.'

It would have been beneath him to trail off; Davos paused portentously. I gave him a long stare. Its meaning would have been obvious, on stage or off. 'Who exactly was larking? And how did Musa come to "slip"?'

The priest lifted his head for the first time. He still said nothing, but he watched Davos answer me. 'Who do you think was larking? The Twins for two, and several of the stagehands. They were pretending to push one another about on the edge of the walkway. But I don't know how he slipped.' Musa made no attempt to inform us. For the moment I left him alone.

Helena brought a warm drink for Musa. She fussed over him protectively, giving me a chance to talk to the actor apart. 'You are sure you didn't see who pushed our friend?'

Like me, Davos had lowered his voice. 'I wasn't aware I needed to look. I was watching my step. It was pitch-dark and slippery enough without fools playing up.'