Lindsey Davis - Last Act In Palmyra

'I have sent word of our problem to Shullay,' Musa said abruptly. This meant nothing to Helena, though I recognised the name. Musa explained to her, 'Shullay is a priest at my temple.'

'So?'

'When the killer ran down the mountain ahead of Falco, I had been within the temple and only caught a fleeting sight of him. I cannot describe this man. But Shullay,' Musa revealed quietly, 'had been tending the garden outside.'

Helena's excitement overcame any anger that this was the first Musa had told us of it. 'You mean, Shullay had a proper view of him?'

'He may have done. I never had a chance to ask. Now it is difficult to receive a message from him, since he cannot know where I am,' Musa said. 'But every time we reach a new city I ask at their temple in case there is news. If I learn anything, I will tell Falco.'

'Yes, Musa. Do that!' Helena commented, still restraining herself commendably.

They fell silent for a while. After some time, Musa reminded Helena, 'You did not say what is troubling our scribe? Am I permitted to know this?'

'Ah well!' I heard Helena sigh gently. 'Since you are our friend I dare say I can answer.'

Then she told Musa in a few sentences about brotherly affection and rivalry, just why she supposed I had got drunk in Scythopolis. I reckon she got it more or less right.

Not long after that, Musa rose and went to his own part of the tent.

Helena Justina sat on alone in the dying firelight. I thought of calling out to her. The intention was still at the thought stage when she came inside anyway. She curled up, tucking herself into the curve of my body. Somehow I dragged one sluggish arm over her men stroked her hair, properly this time. We were good enough friends to be perfectly peaceful together even on a night like this.

I felt Helena's head growing heavier against my chest; then almost immediately she fell asleep. When I was sure she had stopped worrying about the world in general and me in particular, I did some more worrying for her, then fell asleep myself.

When I awoke the next day, I could hear the furious scratching of a stylus. I had a good idea why: Helena was reworking the play Chremes wanted from me.

I rolled off the bed. Stifling a groan, I scooped a beaker of water from a pail, put my boots on, drank the water, felt sick, managed to keep everything in place, and emerged from the tent. Light exploded in my head. After a pause for readjustment, I opened my eyes again. My oil flask and strigil had been placed on a towel, together with a laundered tunic – a succinct hint.

Helena Justina sat crossed-legged on a cushion in the shade, looking neat and efficient. She was wearing a red dress that I liked, with bare feet and no jewellery. Always a fast worker, she had already amended two scrolls, and was whipping through the third. She had a double inkstand, one belonging to Heliodorus that we had found in the play box. It had one black and one red compartment; she was using the red ink to mark up her corrections to the text. Her handwriting was clear and fluent. Her face looked flushed with enjoyment. I knew she was loving the work.

She glanced up. Her expression was friendly. I gave her a nod, then without speaking went to the baths.

When I returned, still moving slowly but now refreshed, shaved and cleanly clad, the play must have been finished. Helena had dressed up more with agate earrings and two arm bracelets, in order to greet the master of her household with the formal respect that was appropriate in a well-run Roman home (unusual meekness, which proved she was aware she had better look out after pinching my job). She kissed my cheek, with the formality I mentioned, then went back to melting honey in a pan to make us a hot drink. There were fresh bread rolls, olives, and chickpea paste on a platter.

For a moment I stood watching her. She pretended not to notice. I loved to make her shy. 'One day, lady, you shall have a villa crammed with Egyptian carpets and fine Athenian vases, where marble fountains soothe your precious ears, and a hundred slaves are hanging about just waiting to do the dirty work when your disreputable lover staggers home.'

'I'll be bored. Eat something, Falco.'

'Done The Birds?

Helena shrieked like a herring-gull, confirming it.

Exercising caution I sat, ate a small quantity, and with the experience of an ex-soldier and hardened man about town, waited to see what would happen. 'Where's Musa?' I asked, to fill in time while my disturbed guts wondered what unpleasant tricks to throw at me.

'Gone to visit a temple.'

'Oh why's that?' I queried innocently.

'He's a priest,' said Helena.

I hid a smile, allowing them their secret over Shullay. 'Oh, it's religion? I thought he might be pursuing Byrria.'

After their night of whatever it was (or wasn't), Helena and I had surreptitiously watched for signs of romantic involvement. When the pair next met in public all they exchanged were sombre nods. Either the girl was an ungrateful hag, or our Musa was exceedingly slow.

Helena recognised what I was thinking, and smiled. Compared with this, our own relationship was as old and solid as Mount Olympus. Behind the two of us were a couple of years of furious squabbling, taking care of each other in crazy situations, and falling into bed whenever possible. She could recognise my step from three streets away; I could tell from a room's atmosphere if Helena had entered it for only half a minute several hours before. We knew each other so closely we hardly needed to communicate.

Musa and Byrria were a long way from this. They needed some fast action. They would never be more than polite strangers unless they got stuck in to some serious insults, a few complaints about table manners and a bit of light flirting. Musa had come back to sleeping in our tent; that would never achieve much for him.

Actually neither he nor Byrria seemed the type to want the kind of mutual dependency Helena and I had. That did not stop us from speculating avidly.

'Nothing can come of it,' Helena decided.

'People say that about us.'

'People know nothing then.' While I toyed with my breakfast, she tucked into her lunch. 'You and I will have to try to look after them, Marcus.'

'You speak as if falling for someone were a penalty.'

She flashed me a smile of joyous sweetness. 'Oh that depends who you fall for!' Something in the pit of my stomach took a familiar lurch; this time it had nothing to do with last night's drink. I grabbed more bread and adopted a tough stance. Helena smiled. 'Oh Marcus, I know you're a hopeless romantic, but be practical. They come from different worlds.'

'One of them could change cultures.'

'Who? They both have work they are closely tied to. Musa is taking an extended holiday with us, but it can't last. His life is in Petra.'

'You've been talking to him?'

'Yes. What do you make of him, Marcus?'

'Nothing particular. I like him. I like his personality.' That was all, however. I regarded him as a normal, fairly unexciting foreign priest.

'I get the impression that in Petra he is thought of as a boy with promise.'

'Is that what he says? It won't be for long,' I chortled. 'Not if he returns to the mountain fastness with a vibrant Roman actress on his elbow.' No priest who did that would stand a chance of acceptance, even in Rome. Temples are havens of sordid behaviour, but they do have some standards.

Helena grimaced. 'What makes you think Byrria would abandon her career to hang on any man's elbow?'

I reached out and tucked in a loose strand of hair – a good opportunity to tickle her neck. 'If Musa really is interested -and that's a debatable issue in itself- he probably only wants one night in her bed.'

'I was assuming', Helena asserted pompously, 'that was all Byrria would be offering! She's just lonely and desperate, and he's intriguingly different from the other men who try to nobble her.'