Lindsey Davis - Last Act In Palmyra

This atmosphere upset me more than I admitted. There was a reason. I had a close interest in the town's military past.

My brother Festus had served in the Fifteenth Apollinans, his final posting before he became one of the fatalities of Judaea. That last season before he died, Festus must have been here.

So Scythopolis does stay in my memory. I spent a lot of time there walking about on my own, thinking private thoughts.

I was drunk.

I was so drunk even I could hardly pretend I had not noticed. Helena, Musa and their visitor, all sitting demure around the fire outside our tent waiting for me to come home, must have summed up the situation at once. As I carefully placed my feet in order to approach my welcome bivouac, I realised there was no chance of reaching it unobserved. They had seen me coming; best to brazen it out. They were watching every step. I had to stop thinking about them so I could concentrate on remaining upright. The flickering blur that must be the fire warned me that on arrival I would probably pitch face first into the burning sticks.

Thanks to a ten-year career of debauched living, I made it to the tent at what I convinced myself was a nonchalant stroll. Probably about as nonchalant as a fledgling falling off a roof finial. No one commented.

I heard, rather than saw, Helena rising to her feet, then ray arm found its way around her shoulders. She helped me tiptoe in past our guests and tumble on to the bed. Naturally I expected a lecture. Without a word she made me sit up enough to take a long quaff of water.

Three years had taught Helena Justina a thing or two. Three years ago she was a primly scowling fury who would have spurned a man in my condition; now she made him take precautions against a hangover. Three years ago, she wasn't mine and I was lost…

'I love you!'

'I know you do.' She had spoken quietly. She was pulling off my boots for me. I had been lying on my back; she rolled me partly on my side. It made no difference to me as I could not tell which way up I was, but she was happy to have given me protection in case I choked. She was wonderful. What a perfect companion.

'Who's that outside?'

'Congrio.' I lost interest. 'He brought a message for you from Chremes about the play we are to put on here.' I had lost interest in plays too. Helena continued talking calmly, as if I were still rational.'I remembered we had never asked him about the night Ione died, so I invited him to sit with Musa and me until you came home.'

'Congrio…' In the way of the drunk I was several sentences behind. 'I forgot Congrio.'

'That seems to be Congrio's destiny,' murmured Helena. She was unbuckling my belt, always an erotic moment; blearily I enjoyed the situation, though I was helpless to react with my usual eagerness. She tugged the belt; I arched my back, allowing it to slither under me. Pleasantly I recalled other occasions of such unbuckling when I had not been so incapable.

In a crisis Helena made no comment about the emergency. Her eyes met mine. I gave her the smile of a helpless man in the hands of a very beautiful nurse.

Suddenly she bent and kissed me, though it cannot have been congenial. 'Go to sleep. I'll take care of everything,' she whispered against my cheek.

As she moved away I gripped her fast. 'Sorry, fruit. Something I had to do…'

'I know.' Understanding about my brother, there were tears in her eyes. I made to stroke her soft hair; my arm seemed impossibly heavy and nearly caught her a clout on the side of the brow. Seeing it coming, Helena held my wrist. Once I stopped flailing she laid my arm back tidily alongside me. 'Go to sleep.' She was right; that was safest. Sensing my silent appeal, she came back at the last minute, then kissed me again, briskly on the head. 'I love you too.' Thanks, sweetheart.

What a mess. Why does solitary, deeply significant thought lead so inevitably to an amphora?

I lay still, while the darkened tent zoomed to and fro around me and my ears sang. Now that I had collapsed, the sleep I had been heavily craving refused to come. So I lay in my woozy cocoon of misery, listening to the events at my own fireside that I could not join.

'Marcus Didius has things on his mind.'

It was the briefest excuse, as Helena sank back in her place gracefully. Neither Musa nor the bill-poster answered; they knew when to keep their heads down.

From my position the three figures looked dark against the flames. Musa was leaning forwards, rebuilding the fire. As sparks suddenly crackled up, I caught a glimpse of his young, earnest face and the scent of smoke, slightly resinous. I wondered how many nights my brother Festus had spent like this, watching the same brushwood smoke lose itself in the darkness of the desert sky.

I had things on my mind all right. Death, mostly. It was making me intolerant.

Loss of life has incalculable repercussions. Politicians and generals, like murderers, must ignore that. To lose one soldier in battle – or to drown an unlovable playwright and strangle an unwanted witness – inevitably affects others. Heliodorus and Ione both had homes somewhere. Slowly the messages would be winding back, taking their domestic devastation: the endless search for a rational explanation; the permanent damage to unknown numbers of other lives.

At the same time as I was pledging a violent vow to right these wrongs, Helena Justina said lightly to Congrio, 'If you give me the message from Chremes to Falco, I will pass it on tomorrow.'

'Will he be able to do the work?' Congrio must be the kind of messenger who liked returning to source with a pessimistic announcement of it can't be done'. He would have made a good cartwheel-mender in a backstreet lock-up workshop.

'The work will be completed,' replied Helena, a firm girl, Optimistic too. I would probably not be able to see a scroll tomorrow, let alone write on it.

'Well, it's to be The Birds,' said Congrio. I heard this impassively, unable to remember if it was a play, whether I had ever read it, and what I thought if I had done so.

'Aristophanes?'

'If you say so. I just write up the playbills. I like the ones with short names; takes less chalk. If that's the scribe's name who wrote it, I'll leave him off.'

'This is a Greek play.'

'That's right. Full of birds. Chremes says it will cheer everyone up. They all get a chance to dress in feathers, then hop about squawking.'

'Will anyone notice the difference from normal?' Helena quipped. I found this incredibly funny. I heard Musa chuckle, though sensibly he was keeping out of the rest of it.

Congrio accepted her wit as a straight comment. 'Doubt it. Could I draw birds on the posters? Vultures, that's what I'd like to have a go at.'

Avoiding comment, Helena asked, 'What does Chremes want from us? Not a full translation into Latin, I hope?'

'Got you worried!' Congrio chortled, though in fact Helena was perfectly calm (apart from a slight quiver as she heard his plans for artwork). 'Chremes says we'll do it in Greek. You've got a set of scrolls in the box, he says. He wants it gone through and brought up to date if the jokes are too Athenian.'

'Yes, I've seen the play in the box. That will be all right.'

'So you reckon your man in there is up to it?'

'My man in there is up to anything.' Like most girls with a strongly ethical upbringing, Helena lied well. Her loyalty was impressive too, though perhaps rather dry in tone. 'What will happen about these elaborate beak-and-feather costumes, Congrio?'

'Same as usual. People have to hire them off Chremes.'

'Does he already possess a set of bird costumes?'

'Oh yes. We did this one a few years ago. People who can sew,' he menaced cheerfully, 'had better get used to the idea of stitching feathers on!'