Lindsey Davis - Last Act In Palmyra

Even so, running off to live with an informer was an act more shocking than most. Helena Justina had good taste in men, but she was an unusual girl. Sometimes I forgot how unusual.

I stopped at a street corner, caught by an occasional need to check up on her. I had one arm tight around her to protect her from the bustle. She tipped her head to look at me questioningly; her stole fell back from her face, its trimming caught on her earring. She was listening, though trying to free the strands of fine gold wire, as I said, 'You and I lead a strange life. Sometimes I feel that if I cared for you properly I would keep you somewhere more suitable.'

Helena shrugged. She was always patient with my restless attempts to make her more conventional. She could take pomposity, if it came as a near relative to a cheeky grin. 'I like my life. I'm with an interesting man.'

'Thanks!' I found myself laughing. I should have expected her to disarm me, but she still caught me unawares. 'Well, it won't last for ever.'

'No,' she agreed solemnly. 'One day you will be a prim middle-rank bureaucrat who wears a clean toga every day. You'll talk of economics over breakfast and only eat lettuce for lunch. And I'll have to sit at home with my face in an inch-thick flour pack, forever checking laundry bills.'

I controlled a smile. 'Well that's a relief. I thought you were going to be difficult about my plans.'

'I am never difficult, Marcus.' I swallowed a chortle. Helena slipped in thoughtfully, 'Are you homesick?'

I probably was, but she knew I would never admit to it. 'I can't go home yet. I hate unfinished business.'

'So how are you proposing to finish it?'

I liked her faith in me.

Luckily I had put arrangements in hand for resolving at least one commission. Pointing to a nearby house wall, I showed off my cunning device. Helena inspected it. 'Congrio's script is getting more elaborate.'

'He's being well taught,' I said, letting her know I realised who had been improving him.

Congrio had drawn his usual poster advertising our performance of The Rope that evening. Alongside it he had chalked up another bill:

HABIB

(VISITOR TO ROME)

URGENT MESSAGE: ASK FOR FALCO

AT THEATRE OF HEROD

IMMEDIATE CONTACT IS

TO YOUR DEFINITE ADVANTAGE

'Will he answer?' asked Helena, a cautious girl.

'How can you be so sure?'

'Thalia said he was a businessman. He'll think it's a promise of money.'

'Oh well done!' said Helena.

The specimens called Habib who asked for Falco at the theatre were varied and sordid. This was common in my line of work. I was ready for them. I asked several questions they could answer by keen guesswork, then slipped in the customary clincher: 'Did you visit the imperial menagerie on the Esquiline Hill?'

'Oh yes.'

'Very interesting.' The menagerie is outside the city by the Praetorian Camp. Even in Rome not many people know that. 'Don't waste my time with cheating and lies. Get out of here!'

They did eventually catch on, and sent their friends to try 'Oh no' as the answer to the trick question; one spectacularly blatant operator even attempted to delude me with the old 'Maybe I did, maybe I didn't' line. Finally, when I was starting to think the ploy had failed, it worked.

On the third evening, a group of us who had suddenly become very interested in helping out with the costumes were stripping off the female musicians for their half-naked starring roles in The Girl from Mykonos. At the crucial moment I was called out to a visitor. Torn between pulchritude and work, I forced myself to go.

The runt who might be about to help me with Thalia's commission was clad in a long striped shirt. He had an immense rope girdle wrapped several times about his unimpressive frame. He had a lazy eye and dopey features, with tufts of fine hair scattered on his head like an old bedside rug that was fast losing its grip on reality. He was built like a boy, yet had a mature face, reddened either by life as a furnace stoker or some congenital fear of being found out in whatever his routine wrongdoing was.

'I suppose you're Habib?'

'No, sir.' Well that was different.

'Did he send you?'

'No, sir.'

'Are you happy speaking Greek?' I queried drily, since his conversation did seem limited.

'Yes, sir.'

I would have told him he could drop the 'sir', but that would have left us staring in silence like seven-year-olds on their first day at school.

'Cough it up then. I'm needed on stage for prompting.'I. was anxious to see the panpipe girl's bosom, which appeared to be almost as alarmingly perfect as the bouncing attributes of a certain rope dancer I had dallied with in my bachelor days. For purely nostalgic reasons I wished to make a critical comparison. If possible, by taking measurements.

I wondered if my visitor had just come to cadge a free ticket. Obviously I would have obliged just to escape and return to the theatre. But as a hustler he was sadly slow, so I spelled it out for him. 'Look, if you want a seat, there are still one or two at the top of the auditorium. I'll arrange it, if you like.'

'Oh!' He sounded surprised. 'Yes, sir!'

I gave him a bone token from the pouch at my belt. The roars and whoops from the theatre behind us told me the orchestra girls had made their entrance. He didn't move. 'You're still hanging around,' I commented.

'Yes.'

'Well?'

'The message.'

'What about it?'

'I've come to get it.'

'But you're not Habib.'

'He's gone.'

'Gone where?'

'The desert.' Dear gods. The whole damn country was desert. I was in no mood to start raking through the sands of Syria to find this elusive entrepreneur. In the rest of the world there were vintages to sample, rare works of art to accumulate, fine foods to cadge off rich buffoons. And not far from here there were women to ogle.

'When did he go?'

Two days ago.'

My mistake. We should have omitted Canatha.

No. If we had omitted Canatha, Canatha would have turned out to be where the bastard lived. Destiny was against me as usual. If the gods ever did decide to help me out, they would mislay their map and lose themselves on the road down from Mount Olympus.

'So!' I took a deep breath and started off again with the brief and unproductive dialogue. 'What did he go for?'

'To fetch his son back. Khaleed.'

'That's two answers to one question. I haven't asked you the second.'

'What?'

'What's his son's name?'

'He's called Khaleed!' wailed the red-faced drip of rennet plaintively. I sighed.

'Is Khaleed young, handsome, rich, wayward and utterly insensitive to the wishes and ambitions of his outraged parent?'

'Oh, you've met him!' I didn't need to. I had just spent several months adapting plays that were stuffed with tiresome versions of this character. Nightly I had watched Philocrates shed ten years, put on a red wig, and stuff a few scarves down his loincloth in order to play this lusty delinquent.

'So where is he being a playboy?'

'Who, Habib?'

'Habib or Khaleed, what's the difference?'

'At Tadmor.'

'Palmyra?' I spat the Roman name at him.

'Palmyra, yes.'

He had told me right then. That really was the desert. The nasty geographical feature of Syria that being a fastidious type I had sworn to avoid. I had heard quite enough stories from my late brother the soldier about scorpions, thirst, warlike tribesmen, deadly infections from thorn prickles, and men raving as their brains boiled in their helmets from the heat. Festus had told a lurid tale. Lurid enough to put me off.

Perhaps we were talking about entirely the wrong family.

'So answer me this: does your young Khaleed have a girlfriend?'

The dope in the shirt looked guarded. I had stumbled on a scandal. Not hard to do. It was the usual story after all, and in the end he admitted it with the usual intrigued glee. 'Oh yes! That's why Habib has gone to fetch him home.'