Lindsey Davis - Last Act In Palmyra

'No?' I was on his side, partly. 'I just happen to know what it feels like to realise abruptly that the girl you are mentally undressing is staring back at you with eyes that can see your soul naked.' Hers were the eyes I meant. Rather than look into them at that moment I changed the subject flippantly: 'That's certainly not a scroll of Plato in your lap.'

'No. It's the collection of ribald stories I found among your box of plays.'

'What is this thing – some notes by Heliodorus?'

'I shouldn't think so, Marcus. There seem to be several handwritings, but none look like his awful scrawl.' I had been complaining about the dead man's revisions on the play scrolls, most of which were illegible. Helena went on, 'In places the ink has faded; it looks quite old. Besides, everyone says Heliodorus had no feeling for jokes, and these are very funny. If you like,' she suggested seductively, 'I'll read some of the rude ones out to you…'

The actor was right. Serious girls who look like vestal virgins can be a lot of fun – provided you can persuade them it's you they want to have fun with.

The rope went well. We put it on for a second night, and nobody came. We left town.

Our next destination was Gerasa. It lay forty miles to the north – two days with decent transport, but probably twice that with our group of cheap camels and heavily laden waggons. Cursing Philadelphia for an uncultured dump and damning Plautus as an unfunny hack, we turned our backs on the town, flung the play to the bottom of the heap, and creaked on our way. At least Gerasa had a prosperous reputation; people with money might be looking for something to spend it on. (More likely, news that our production of The Rope was as stiff as cheese would run ahead of us.)

One way and another the pointers were strong for an urgent interview with Byrria. The dead playwright had been nursing his lust for her, and most of our male suspects seemed to be tangled in the same set. Besides, if Helena could flirt with the masculine star, I could allow myself a chat with his delicious female counterpart.

It was easy to arrange. A few nosy passers-by had spotted my darling's dalliance with Philocrates; already everyone knew about it. Pretending to quarrel with her about her diminutive admirer, I hopped off our cart and sat on a rock with my chin in my hands, looking glum. I had left Helena with Musa; protection for both of them. I was unwilling to leave either for long without cover.

Slowly the tired parade of our company went past me, all bare legs on backboards, bursting baskets and bad jokes. Those who had camels mostly led them on foot; if you've ever been up on a camel you'll know why. Those in the waggons were scarcely more comfortable. Some of the stagehands had given up having their ribs jolted and had chosen to walk. People carried cudgels or long knives in their belts in case we were attacked by desert raiders; some of the orchestra piped or banged on their instruments – an even more successful deterrent to nomadic thieves.

Byrria drove her own cart. That summed her up. She shared herself with no one, and relied on no one. As she drew level I stood up and hailed her. She didn't want to give me a lift, but she was almost at the end of the caravan and had to accept that if she didn't I might be left behind. Nobody thought they needed a writer, but people like keeping a target to mock.

'Cheer up!' I cried, as I sprang aboard with a lithe twist of the torso and a charming grin. 'It won't happen!'

She continued to scowl bleakly. 'Drop the antique routine, Falco.'

'Sorry. The old lines are the best – '

'Diana of the Ephesians! Put a lid on it, poser.' I was about to think, This never happens to Philocrates, when I remembered that it had.

She was twenty, perhaps less. She had probably been on the stage for eight or nine years; it's one of those professions where girls with looks start young. In a different social circle she would have been old enough to become a vestal. There can't be much difference between being a priestess and an actress, except for public status. They both involve fooling an audience with a ritual performance in order to make the public believe in the unbelievable.

I did my best to be professional, but Byrria's looks were impossible to ignore. She had a triangular face with green eyes like an Egyptian cat set wide above high cheekbones and a thin, perfect nose. Her mouth had a strange lopsided quirk that gave her an ironic, world-weary air. Her figure was as watchable as her face, small and curvaceous, and hinting of unrevealed possibilities. To finish the business, she had a dramatic knack of looping up her warm brown hair with a couple of bronze hairpins, so it not only looked unusual but stayed in place, showing off a tantalising neck.

Her voice seemed too low for such a neat person; it had a huskiness that was completely distracting when combined with her experienced manner. Byrria gave the impression she was holding all the competition at arm's length while she waited for the right person to move in on her. Even though he knew it was a false impression, any man she met would have to try.

'Why the hatred of men, flower?'

'I've known some, that's why.'

'Anyone in particular?'

'Men are never particular.'

'I meant, anyone special?'

'Special? I thought we were talking about men!'

I can recognize an impasse. Folding my arms, I sat in silence.

In those days the road to Gerasa was a poor one, begging for a military highway to be thrust through to Damascus. It would be done. Rome had spent a great deal of money on this region during the Judaean troubles, so inevitably in peacetime we would be spending even more. Once the region settled down the Decapolis would be dragged up to decent Roman standards. In the meantime we were suffering on an old Nabataean caravan route that nobody maintained. It was a lonely landscape. Later we reached a level plain and crossed a tributary of the Jordan through more fertile pasture into thick pine forest. But this early stage of our trip involved a rocky track amongst scrubby hills with only occasional glimpses of low nomad tents, few of them with visible occupants. Driving was not easy; Byrria had to concentrate.

As I expected, after a short time the lady felt obliged to fire more arrows at me. 'I have a question, Falco. When do you intend to stop slandering me?'

'Goodness, I thought you were about to ask for the address of my cloak-maker or my recipe for tarragon marinade! I know nothing about any slander.'

'You're making out to everyone that Heliodorus died because of me.'

'I never said that.' It was only one possibility. So far it seemed the most likely explanation for the playwright's drowning, but until I had proof I kept an open mind.

'I had nothing to do with it, Falco.'

'I do know you didn't push him into the cistern and hold his head under. A man did that.'

'Then why keep hinting I was involved?'

'I wasn't aware that I had. But face facts: like it or not, you're a popular girl. Everyone keeps telling me Heliodorus was after you but you weren't having it. Maybe one of your friends tackled him. Maybe it was a secret admirer. It's always possible someone knew you would be pleased if the bastard was out of the way, and tried to help.'

'That's a horrible suggestion!' She was frowning bitterly. On Byrria a frown looked good.

I was starting to feel protective. I wanted to prove the murder was nothing to do with her. I wanted to find a different motive. Those wonderful eyes were working impossible magic. I told myself I was too professional to let a dainty little actress with a pretty set of wide-spaced peepers overcome me – then I told myself not to be such a fool. I was stuck, just as anyone would be. We all hate murderers to be beautiful. Before long if I did unearth evidence implicating Byrria as an accomplice I would find myself considering whether to bury it in an old hay sack at the bottom of a drainage ditch…