Lindsey Davis - Last Act In Palmyra

'A Roman tourist comes to a village and sees a farmer with a beautiful sister.'

I noticed that Grumio, who had been about to tug the mule's reins, abruptly stopped, as if he recognised the joke. Congrio was revelling in his new power to hold an audience.

' "Ho there, peasant! How much for a night with your sister?"

' "Fifty drachmas."

'"That's ridiculous! Tell you what, you let me spend a night with the girl and I'll show you something that will amaze you. I bet I can make your animals talk… If not, I'll pay you the fifty drachmas."

'Well the farmer thinks, "This man is crazy. I'll string him along and agree to it."

'What he doesn't know is that the Roman has been trained as a ventriloquist.'

'The Roman reckons at least he can have a bit of fun here. "Let me talk to your horse, peasant. Hello, horse. Tell me, how does your master treat you then?" '

' "Pretty well," answers the horse, "though his hands are rather cold when he strokes my flanks…" '

As Congrio rambled on, I could just make out through the mask that Philocrates looked stunned, while Grumio was seething furiously.

' "That's wonderful," agrees the farmer, though he isn't convinced entirely. "I could have sworn I actually heard my horse speak. Show me again." '

'The Roman chuckles quietly to himself. "Let's try your nice sheep then. Hello, sheep! How's your master?" '

' "Not too bad," says the sheep, "though I do find his hands rather cold on the udder when he milks me…" '

Philocrates had assumed a fixed grin, wondering when this unplanned torture was going to end. Grumio still stood like bedrock, listening as if he could not believe it. Congrio had never been so happy in his life.

' "You're convincing me," ' says the farmer.

'The Roman is really enjoying himself now. "I knew I would. I'll do one more, then your sister's mine for the evening. Hello, camel. You're a lovely-looking creature. Tell me – " '

'Before he can go any further, the farmer jumps up furiously. "Don't listen to him! The camel's a liar!" he shrieks.'

Someone else was jumping up.

With a cry of rage, Grumio flung himself at Congrio. 'Who gave it to you?' He meant his scroll of jokes. Helena must have lent it to Congrio.

'It's mine!' The bill-poster was taunting Grumio. He sprang down from the rock and leapt about the stage, just out of reach. 'I've got it and I'm keeping it!'

I had to act fast. Still wearing the ghost's costume, I entered the ring. In the vain hope of making the audience believe my appearance was intentional, I waved my arms above my head and ran with a weird loping gait, pretending to be Moschion's paternal phantom.

Grumio knew the game was up. He abandoned Congrio. Spinning around, he suddenly grabbed Philocrates by one smart boot, gave a wrench of his leg and pulled him off the mule. Not expecting the assault, Philocrates crashed to the ground horribly.

The crows roared with appreciation. It was not funny. Philocrates had fallen on his face. His handsome visage would be ruined. If only his nose was broken, he would be fortunate. Congrio stopped cavorting and ran to him, then pulled him towards the side niche, from which Tranio now emerged, also looking shocked. Together they carried the unconscious actor from the ring. The crowd were thrilled. The fewer cast members left still upright, the more delighted they would be.

Ignoring the rescue of Philocrates, Grumio was trying to mount the mule. I was still stumbling over the long hem of my costume, half blind in the mask. I struggled on, hearing the crowd's bursts of laughter, not only at my antics. Grumio had not reckoned with the mule. As he swung one leg to mount, the animal skittered sideways. The more he tried to reach the saddle, the more it veered away from him.

Amusement soared. It looked like a deliberate trick. Even I slowed up to watch. Hopping in frustration, Grumio followed the mule until they actually came face to face. Grumio turned to approach the saddle again, then the mule twisted, shoved him in the back with its long nose, and knocked him flat. Whinnying with delight at this feat, the mule then galloped from the scene.

Grumio was an acrobat. He had landed better than Philocrates and was on his feet straight away. He turned to follow the mule and escape on foot – just as Thalia had the far gate swung closed against him. Designed for keeping in wild beasts, it was far too tall to climb. He spun back – and met me. Still dressed as the ghost, I tried to fill enough space to block his exit the other way. The gateway behind me gaped open at least twelve feet wide, but members of the company were pressing into it, eager to see the action. They would not let him through.

It was him and me now.

Or rather, it was more than that, for two other figures had emerged. For that last scene in the arena it would be him and me – plus Musa and the sacrificial kid.

Ensemble playing of the finest quality.

I wrenched off the mask. Its flowing grey locks, made from rough horsehair, caught in my fingers. Shaking it free with some violence, I hurled it away.

Blinking in the torchlight, I saw Helena standing up in the tribunal, talking urgently to the commander. Davos was leaping down the steps towards the front, taking the treads three at a time. The Palmyra garrison must have some troops who were not quite the dregs; soon there was a flurry of controlled activity at one end of a row.

A long way behind me, Musa stood with the kid in his arms. He was crazy; a Nabataean; from another world. I could not understand the idiot. 'Back off. Get help!' He ignored my shout.

I gathered the ludicrous folds of the costume and stuffed them in my belt. The crowd suddenly fell so completely silent that I could now hear the flames on the bitumen torches that stood around to light the stage. The soldiers had no idea what was happening, but they knew it was not in the programme. I had a bad feeling that The Spook who Spoke was turning into something they would talk about for years.

Grumio and I were standing about fourteen feet apart. Scattered around were various props, mostly items left as hiding places for the ghost: the craggy rock; the beehive oven; a wicker laundry trunk; a couch; a huge ceramic pot.

Grumio was enjoying it. He knew I would have to take him. His eyes were flashing. His cheeks were flushed hectically. He looked drugged with excitement. I should have known all along he was one of those tense, arrogant killers who destroy life coldly and never recant.

'This is the killer from the High Place,' stated Musa, publicly inditing him. The bastard coolly started whistling.

'Give up.' My voice was quiet, addressing Grumio. 'We have evidence and witnesses. I know you killed the playwright because he would not return your missing scroll – and I know you strangled Ione.'

' "Now she's dead, which takes away some of the problem…"' He was quoting The Girl from Andros. The sheer flippancy enraged me. 'Don't come any closer, Falco.'

He was mad, in the sense that he lacked humanity. In every other sense he was as sane as me, and probably more intelligent. He was fit, athletic, trained to do sleight of hand, keen-sighted. I did not want to have to fight him – but he wanted to fight me.

A dagger was in his hand now. My own knife came from my boot into my grip like a friend. No time to relax, however. He was a professional juggler; if I came too close I was likely to find myself weaponless. I was unarmoured. He, casting aside the cloak from his costume, was at least protected by the leather apron of a stage slave.

He crouched, feinting. I stayed upright, refusing to be drawn. He snarled. I ignored that too. I started circling, weight secretly on the balls of my feet. He prowled too. As we spiralled gently, the distance between us reduced. On the long-benched galleries, the soldiers started a low drumming of their heels. They would sustain the dreadful racket until one of us was done for.