Lindsey Davis - Last Act In Palmyra

'So how did you get into this line, Grumio?'

'Partly heredity. I'm following my father and grandfather. Poverty comes into it. We never owned land; we never knew any other trade. All we had – a precious gift that most folk lack – was natural wit.'

'And you can survive by this?'

'Not easily any more. That's why I'm in a stage company. My ancestors never had to suffer like this. In the old days laughter-men were independent. They travelled around earning their meals with their varied skills – sleight of hand and tumbling, recitation, dancing – but most of all with a crackling repertoire of jokes. I was trained to the physical jerks by my father, and of course I inherited sixty years of family wisecracks. For me, it's a let-down to be stuck in Chremes' gang like this and tied to a script.'

'You're good at it though,' I told him.

'Yes, but it's dull. It lacks the edge of living on your wits; devising your patter on your feet; improvising the apt rejoinder; snapping out the perfect quip.'

I was fascinated by this new side to the country clown. He was a much more thoughtful student of his art than I had given him credit for, though it was my own fault for assuming that playing the fool meant he was one. Now I saw that Grumio had a devotee's respect for the practice of humour; even for our dreadful comedies he would polish his performance, though all the time he was hankering for better things. For him the old jokes really were the best – especially if he turned them out in a new guise.

This dedication meant he had a deep, private personality. There was far more to him than the sleepy character who yearned for girls and drink and who let Tranio take the lead as much in their off-duty lives as in some tiresome plot. Under that fairly lightly worn mask, Grumio was his own man.

Communicating wit is a lonely art. It demands an independent soul.

Being an informal stand-up comic at formal reclining! dinners seemed a nerve-racking way of life to me. But if someone could do it, I would have thought there was a market for a satirist. I asked why Grumio had had to turn to lesser things.

'No call. In my father or grandfather's day all I would have needed in life were my cloak and shoes, my flask and strigil, a cup and knife to take to dinner, and a small wallet for my earnings. Everyone who could find the wherewithal would eagerly ask a wandering jokesmith in.'

'Sounds just like being a vagrant philosopher!'

'A cynic,' he agreed readily. 'Exactly. Most cynics are witty and all clowns are cynical. Meet us on the road, and who could tell the difference?'

'Me, I hope! I'm a good Roman. I'd take a five-mile detour to avoid a philosopher.'

He disabused me. 'You won't be tested. No clown can do that any longer. I'd be run out of town like a warty beggar by the idlers who hang around the water tower inventing slander. Now everyone wants to be the funny man himself; all people like me can do is flatter them silly and feed them material. It's not for me; I won't be a yes-man. I get sick of pandering to other people's stupidity.' Grumio's voice had a raw note. He had a real hatred for the amateur rivals he was deriding, a real lament for the deterioration of his trade. (I also noticed a strident belief in his own brilliance; clowns are an arrogant lot.) 'Besides,' he complained, 'There are no morals. The new "humour", if you can call it that, is pure malicious gossip. Instead of making a genuine point, it's now good enough to repeat any ribald story without a thought for whether it's even true. In fact, making up a spiteful lie has become respectable. Today's "jesters" are outright public nuisances.'

A similar charge is often laid against informers. We too are supposed to be amoral vendors of overheard dirt, gutter know-alls who fabricate freely if we cannot produce hard facts; deliberate mixers, self-seekers and stirrers. It's even regarded as a suitable insult for people to call us comedians…

Abruptly Grumio lurched to his feet. There was a restlessness about him I had overlooked before; perhaps I had caused it by discussing his work. That does depress most people.

For a moment I felt I had annoyed or upset him. But then he waved a hand amiably enough, and sauntered off.

'What was all that about?' asked Helena curiously, coming up as usual just when I had been assuming she had her head down in business of her own.

'Just a history lesson about clowns.'

She smiled. Helena Justina could make a thoughtful smile raise more questions than a dead mouse in a pail of milk. 'Oh, men's talk!' she commented.

I leaned on my chin and gazed at her. She had probably been listening, then being Helena she had done some thinking too. We both had an instinct for certain things. I found myself being niggled by a sensation she must have shared: somewhere an issue that might be important had been raised.

To the great surprise of all of us, within the hour Chremes came rushing back to announce he had secured the theatre; moreover it was for the very next night. Obviously the Gerasenes had no notion of fair turns. Chremes and Davos had happened to be demanding attention from the booking manager just when that grafter received a cancellation, so for the proverbial small fee we were allowed to snap up the vacancy, never mind who else had been waiting around town.

'They like an easy life here,' Chremes told us. 'All the booker wanted to be sure of was that we'd pay his sweetener.' He told us how much the bribe had been, and some of us were of the opinion it would be more profitable to leave Gerasa now and play The Arbitration to a nomad's herd of sheep.

'Is this why the other troupe packed their traps?'

Chremes looked huffed that we were complaining after he had pulled off a triumph. 'Not according to my information. They were a sleazy circus act. Apparently they could cope when their chief trapezist had a fall that left him paralysed, yet when their performing bear caught a cold – '

'They lost their nerve,' Tranio broke in snappily. 'As we may do when all the groups who arrived here ahead of us find out how we jumped the queue and come looking for us!'

'We'll show the town something worth watching, then do a quick flit,' Chremes answered with a casual air that said just how many times the company had fled places in a hurry.

'Tell that to the Chersonesus Taurica weightlifting team!' muttered Tranio.

Still, when you think you are about to make some money, nobody likes to be too ethical.

We all had an evening to ourselves. Revived by the prospect of work tomorrow we pooled our food and ate as a group, then went our separate ways. Those with cash could spend it on seeing a classic Greek tragedy performed by an extremely sombre group from Cilicia. Helena and I were not in the mood. She sauntered off to talk to the girls from the orchestra while I had a few swift stabs at improving the scenes in The Arbitration that I decided the great Menander had left slightly rough.

There were things to be done during our visit and this seemed the night for it. I wanted an urgent talk with the tambourinist lone, but I could see her amongst the group Helena had just joined. I then realised Helena was probably trying to arrange a discreet meeting. I approved. If Helena persuaded the girl to talk, it could work out cheaper than if Ione spilled the tale to me. Girls don't bribe one another for gossip, I assured myself cheerfully.

Instead I turned my attention to Thalia's missing artiste. Chremes had already told me he had managed to ascertain that the theatre manager knew nothing of any water organist. That reasonably put an end to my search in this city. A water organ is not something you miss if one ever comes to town; apart from the fact they are as big as a small room, you cannot possibly avoid the noise. I felt clear to forget Sophrona, though I was prepared to make a show of double-checking by taking a turn around the forum and asking whether anybody knew a businessman called Habib who had been to Rome.