Lindsey Davis - Last Act In Palmyra

By now Grumio had developed a close relationship with his audience. From time to time he pulled somebody out to assist with his conjuring; in between he tossed insults at individuals, all part of running jokes he must have set up before we arrived. This teasing had enough bite to tingle the atmosphere, but nobody was complaining. He was developing a theme; insulting the other towns of the Decapolis.

'Anyone here from Scythopolis? No? That's lucky! I won't say Scythopolitans are stupid…' We sensed an expectant ripple. 'But if you ever see two Scythopolitans digging a huge hole in the road outside a house, just ask them – go on, ask them what they're doing. I bet they tell you they've forgotten the doorkey again! Pella! Anybody from Pella? Listen, Pella and Scythopolis have this ancient feud – oh forget it! What's the point of insulting the Pellans if they're not here? Probably couldn't find their way! Couldn't ask. No one can understand 't their accent… Anyone from Abila?' Amazingly a hand was raised. 'That's your misfortune, sir! I won't say Abilans are daft, but who else would own up? Your moment of fame… Excuse me, is that your camel looking over your shoulder, or is your wife extremely ugly?' This was low stuff, but he was pitching it right for the street trade.

It was time for a mood change; he switched the monologue into a more reflective tone. 'A man from Gadara had a smallholding, nothing immodest, built it up slowly. First a pig…' Grumio did a farmyard impression, each animal in turn, slowly to begin with, then he changed to little dialogues between them, and finally a furious intercutting that sounded just like the whole group honking and mooing at once. He topped it off by introducing the farmer – represented by an elaborately disgusting human fart.

'What a swine… Hey, Marcus!' Musa grabbed my arm, but it was too late. Grumio must have spotted us earlier but he was ready now to turn me into embarrassing material. 'This is my friend Marcus. Come up here, Marcus! Give him a hand here.' A routine had been set for nervous volunteers; people reached for me as soon as I was identified and I was manhandled into the performance area without a chance. 'Hello, Marcus.'Jumping off his barrel to greet me, his voice dropped but his eyes twinkled wickedly. I felt like a herring about to be filleted. 'Marcus is going to help me with my next trick. Just stand there. Try not to look as if you've wet yourself.' He squared me up to the audience. Obediently I looked as dumb as possible. 'Ladies and gentlemen, pay attention to this boy. He looks nothing, but his girlfriend's a senator's daughter. So stiff that when they want to you-know-what, he just kicks her ankles and she falls straight on her back -'

Such disrespect for Helena from anyone else and I would have broken his neck. But I was trapped. I stood there enduring it while the crowd could feel the tension. They must have seen me colour up, and my teeth had set gratingly. Next time Grumio wanted a discussion of humorous history, I would be teaching him some very serious new words.

I had to get out of this first.

We started with illusions. I was the stooge, of course. I held scarves from which wooden eggs vanished, then had eggs discovered tucked into parts of my person that caused fits of giggles in the audience: an unsophisticated lot. I had feathers produced from behind one ear and coloured knucklebones from up my sleeve. Finally a set of balls appeared in a manner I still blush to remember, and we were ready for some juggling.

It was very good. I was given an improvised lesson, then every now and then Grumio made me take part. If I dropped the ball it raised a laugh because I looked ridiculous. If I caught it, people roared at my surprise. Actually I caught quite a few. I was meant to; that was Grumio's throwing skill.

Finally the handballs were exchanged one by one for an assortment: a knucklebone, a quoit, one ball, a flywhisk and a cup. This was much more difficult, and I supposed I was now out of it. But suddenly Grumio bent low; in a flash he had extracted my own dagger, which I kept hidden down my boot. Jove only knows how he had spotted it there. He must be damned observant.

A gasp ran through the crowd. By some terrible luck the knife had come into his hand unsheathed.

'Grumio!' He would not stop. Everyone could see the danger; they thought it was intentional. It was bad enough to sec the blade flash as he spun it in the air. Then he started whizzing items at me again. The crowd, which had chuckled at my astonishment when the knife was produced, now leant forwards in silence. I was gripped by terror that Grumio would cut off his hand; the crowd all hoped he would hurl the naked blade at me.

I managed to catch and return the quoit and the cup. I was expecting the knucklebone or the flywhisk, then thought Grumio would finish the whole scene gracefully. The bastard was drawing out the final moment. Sweat poured off me as I tried to concentrate.

Something beyond the audience caught my eye.

Not a movement: she was absolutely still on the edge of the crowd. A tall, straight-backed girl in blue with softly looped dark hair: Helena. She looked angry and terrified.

When I saw her my nerve went. I did not want her to watch me near danger. I tried to warn Grumio. His eyes met mine. Their expression was totally mischievous, completely amoral The whisk flickered; the ball spooled up.

Then Grumio threw the knife.

I caught it. By the handle, of course.

Why the surprise?

Anyone who had spent five years in the legions, banged up in a freezing estuary fortress in western Britain, had tried knife-throwing. There was not much else to do. There were no women, or if there were they just wanted to marry centurions. Draughts palled after a hundred nights of the same strategy. We would bathe, eat, drink, some would fornicate, we would shout insults into the mist in case any British homunculi were listening, then, naturally, being young lads a thousand miles from our mothers, we tried to kill ourselves playing Dare.

I can catch knives. In Britain, catching a knife thrown after I had turned away was my speciality. When I was twenty I could do it blind drunk. Better drunk than sober, in fact, or if not drunk, then thinking about a girl.

My thoughts were on a girl now.

I put my knife back down my boot – in its sheath. The crowd was whistling ecstatically. I could still see Helena, still not stirring. Nearby, Musa was making frantic efforts to break through the crush to her.

Grumio was flapping: 'Sorry, Falco. I meant to throw the knucklebone. You caught me off guard when you moved…' My fault, eh! He was an idiot. I forced my attention back to him. Grumio had been bowing low in response to the crowd's applause. When he looked up, his eyes were veiled. He was breathless, like a man who had had a nasty shock. 'Dear gods, you know I wasn't trying to kill you!'

'No harm done.' I sounded calm. Possibly I was.

'Are you going to take the hat round for me?' He was holding out his collection cap, one of those woollen Phrygian efforts that flop over on top like wearing a long sock on your head.

'Something else to do – ' I hopped into the crowd leaving the clown to make the best of it.

As I barged through the press he was continuing the patter: 'Well, that was exciting. Thanks Marcus! What a character… Now then, anyone here from Capitolias?'

Musa and I reached Helena simultaneously. 'Olympus! What's wrong?' I stopped in my tracks.

Musa heard my urgency and drew back slightly.

There was a deep stillness about her. Knowing her best I interpreted it first, but our friend soon saw her agitation too. It had nothing to do with Grumio's act. Helena had come here to find me. For a moment she could not tell me why. The worst conclusions flashed into my mind.