Lindsey Davis - Last Act In Palmyra

'What was yours called?' demanded the owner. He was definitely mad.

'What? Oh my goat. She didn't have a name. Growing too familiar only leads to heartache on both sides.'

'That's right…' The goat owner could tell I understood his problems. 'This is Alexander, because he's great.' Wrong. He was just terrible.

'Don't sell him!' I urged, suddenly unable to bear the thought of them parting. It seemed to me mis couple of deadbeats depended on each other more than either realised. 'You need to know he has a good home. If you're going to retire from the road, take him with you.'

'He'll eat the beans.' True. He would eat everything. Goats actually tear up plants and shrubs by the roots. Nothing they come near to ever sprouts again. 'You seemed like a good sort, Falco-'

'Don't bet on it.'

'He has his funny ways, but he repays affection… Still, maybe you're right. He belongs with me.' I had been reprieved. 'I'm glad I've seen you again; it's cleared my mind.' I pulled Alexander by the ears, almost regretfully. Obviously a connoisseur of quality, he tried to eat my belt.

I was leaving them when the long-faced goat owner suddenly asked, 'That night in Gerasa, did your friend ever find his way to the pools?'

'What friend?' if we were talking about Gerasa, I didn't need to ask what pools.

I was trying to keep things light, whilst all the time my sense of oppression grew. I hate murder. I hate murderers. I hate running up against the need to name one of them. Very soon now it was going to be unavoidable.

'He was in your company. When I came to offer you the goat, I asked him where you were. He said you'd gone into town, and in return for that he asked me directions to the pools of the Maiuma.'

'What did he look like?'

'Blow me if I know. He had no time to stop; he was dashing off on a camel.'

'Young? Old? Tall? Short? Can you see him here now?'

The man looked panicky. Unused to describing people, he was fumbling for anything to say. It was no use pressing him. Not even with one possible murderer – Tranio – standing ten feet from us waiting to go on-stage. The witness was unreliable. Too much time had passed. Now if I offered suggestions he would agree with them instantly to escape his quandary. This loon held the answer to everything, but I would have to let him go.

I said nothing. Patience was my only hope. Alexander was slyly consuming the sleeve of my tunic; seeing it, his owner biffed him between the ears. Striking the goat's head reminded him of something: 'He wore a hat!' I had heard that before.

While I was catching my breath, the goat's owner voluntarily described the Gerasa specimen. 'It was one of them knitted things, with a flopped-over top.'

That was nothing like the wide-brimmed, round-crowned Greek hat that Musa had been sent from Petra by Shullay. But I knew where I had seen this. 'A Phrygian cap? Like the sun-god Mithras wears?'

'That's right. One of them long floppy ones.'

Grumio's collection cap.

So Ione's killer was Grumio. I had given him an alibi myself, based on the bad premise that I had seen him several times in the same place. I never dreamt that in between he might have galloped off somewhere else.

Looking back, my confidence had been ridiculous. Of course he had taken a break from his act. He could never have sustained that sparkling performance all night. If he had stood on that barrel for the whole evening, by the time Musa and I returned from the Temple of Dionysus he would have been hoarse and completely exhausted. That had not been his condition when he dragged me up for abuse and the near-fatal 'accident' using my own knife. He had been alert, in control, exhilarated, dangerous. And I had missed the obvious.

Grumio had done two turns on the barrel. In between, he had ridden to the pools and killed the girl.

Had he acted alone? And had he killed Heliodorus too? It was hard to work out. My mind was a mess. Sometimes it is better to have twenty suspects than a mere two. I wanted to consult Helena. Unluckily I had trapped her in the commander's private box.

I walked to the arena entrance. Grumio was no longer there. He and Chremes had slipped into the arena ready to make their entrances from one side. They were hiding in one of the niches. Davos was concealed on-stage, ready to pop out as the ghost. The rest of the cast had been waiting for me.

Ribes was still enjoying himself with the lyre. Luckily Syrians liked minstrels. Ribes fancied himself rotten, and since no one had signalled him to end the overture, he was working it up in frenzied improvisation.

Tranio was by the gate. I walked up to him casually. 'You'll be glad to know I found Grumio's ring.'

'His ring?'

'Blue stone. Could be lapis; might just be sodalite…" He had absolutely no idea what I was talking about.

'As I thought – he even lied about that!' I grabbed Tranio by the elbow and yanked him closer.

'What's the game, Falco?'

'Tranio, I'm trying to decide whether you're foolishly loyal – or just a complete fool!'

'I don't know what you mean – '

'It's time to stop protecting him. Believe me, he's tried quite happily to implicate you! Whatever you think you owe him, forget it now!'

Other people were listening: Thalia, Musa, many of the cast. Tranio's eyes flickered towards those present.

'Let them hear,' I said. 'We can do with witnesses. Own up. What was the pledge you gave to Heliodorus, then had the row about?'

'Falco, I have to go on – ' Tranio was panicking.

'Not yet.' I gripped his costume by the neck and jerked it tight. He could not tell whether I was really angry, or just playing him along. 'I want the truth!'

'Your play, Falco – '

'Stuff my play.'

For a moment I felt things were getting away from me. Help came from an unexpected quarter: 'The pledge was a scroll.' It was Philocrates who spoke. He really must be worried that he would be blamed for the crimes himself. 'It was Grumio's; his collection of terrible old jokes.'

'Thanks, Philocrates! All right Tranio, you've got some fast answers to provide! First, were you really with Afrania the night Ione died?'

He gave up. 'Yes.'

'Why did you ask her to pretend otherwise?'

'Stupidity.'

'Well that's honest! And were you conscious or in a stupor in Petra the afternoon Heliodorus was killed?'

'Paralytic'

'What about Grumio?'

'I thought he was the same.'

'Are you certain he was?'

Tranio dropped his eyes. 'No,' he admitted. 'I passed out. He could have done anything.'

I let go of him. 'Tranio, Tranio, what have you been playing at? If you are not the killer, why protect the man who was?'

He shrugged helplessly. 'It was my fault. I'd lost him his scroll.'

I would never entirely understand it. But I was a writer, not a performer. A comedian is only as good as his script. A writer never has to grieve too long for lost material. Unluckily for the reading and viewing public, writers can easily rattle off more.

I despaired of Tranio. In the arena Ribes had been covering the unexpected pause with his rapid plectrumming but the audience was tired of it. I could see he was starting to feel desperate as he wondered why Tranio was failing to enter. I took a swift decision. 'We'll have to discuss this later. Get out on-stage. Don't warn Grumio, or you'll be arrested too.'

Released from my furious grip, Tranio pulled on a sparse two-tone wig, then strode in through the gate. Free members of the cast, together with Thalia, Musa and myself, all crowded around to watch.

Looking out at ground level, the elliptical space seemed immense. Musa and Thalia stared at me curiously as I wondered what to do. On-stage, Tranio began carrying on as the hectic cook. He seemed to be safely sticking to his lines. Soon he was berating the less sophisticated Grumio, playing a farm boy who had brought meat for the feast. Chremes rushed on to give them orders, made some jokes about voracious women wanting sex night and day, then rushed off again.