Last Act in Palmyra (42 page)

It was welcome. I felt obliged to invite him to stay and share the first measure with me.

*   *   *

We talked of this and that, of nothing in particular, and of Helena's progress or lack of it. The wine did help. It was a fairly ordinary local red. Petronius Longus, the Aventine's wine expert, would have likened it to some off-putting substance, but that was just him. This was perfectly palatable to a tired, dispirited man like me.

Recovering, I considered the flagon. It was a handy size, about right for a packed lunch if you were not intending to do any work afterwards. It had a round base covered in wickerwork, and a thin, loosely plaited carrying string.

‘I saw one like this at a scene I'll not forget.'

‘Where was that?' asked Grumio, disingenuously.

‘Petra. Where Heliodorus was drowned.'

Naturally the clown expected me to be watching him, so instead I stared into the fire as if gloomily remembering the scene. I was alert for any twitches or sudden tensions in him, but noticed none. ‘These are about the most common kind you can get,' he observed.

It was true. I nodded easily. ‘Oh yes. I'm not suggesting it came from the same vintner, in the same basket of shopping.' All the same, it could have done. ‘There's something I've been meaning to ask you, Grumio. People have been wishing on me the idea that Heliodorus was killed because of his gambling habits.'

‘You asked Tranio about it.' I was interested to hear they had conferred.

‘So I did. He lost his temper,' I mentioned, now turning a calm stare on him.

Grumio cradled his chin, looking reflective. ‘I wonder why that could be?' He spoke with the light twist of malice I had heard from him before. It was hardly evident – could have been an unfortunate mannerism – except that one of the times I had heard it was when he was entertaining the crowd at Gerasa by hurling a knife at me. I remembered that rather clearly.

I stayed calm. ‘The obvious reason is he had something to hide.'

‘Seems a bit
too
obvious, though?' He made it sound like a question I should have thought of for myself.

‘There has to be some explanation.'

‘Maybe he was afraid you had found out something that looked bad for him.'

‘That's a good thought!' I replied brightly, as if I had been incapable of it myself. We were sparring here, each pretending to be simple. Then I let a growl slink back into my voice. ‘So tell me about you and your tentmate playing dice with the playwright, Grumio!'

He knew there was no point denying it. ‘Gambling's not a crime, is it?'

‘Nor is having a gambling debt.'

‘What debt? Playing was just a lark from time to time. We soon learned not to bet seriously.'

‘He was good?'

‘Oh yes.' There was no hint that Heliodorus might have cheated. Sometimes I wonder how gambling sharks get away with it – and then I talk to an innocent minnow, and realise.

Tranio might know that Heliodorus had weighted his dice; I had wondered about that when I talked to him. So now I considered the interesting prospect of Tranio perhaps keeping this information from his so-called friend. Just what
was
the relationship between these two? Allies covering up for each other? Or a pair of jealous rivals?

‘So what's the big secret? I know there must be one,' I urged him, putting on my frank, successful-informer air. ‘What's Tranio's beef?'

‘Nothing big, and not a secret.' Not now, anyway; his friendly tentmate was about to land him in it without compunction. ‘What he was probably loath to tell you was that once, when he and I had been having an argument, he played with Heliodorus while I was off on my own –'

‘With a girl?' I too could be disingenuous.

‘Where else?' After my chat with Plancina, I didn't believe it. ‘Anyway, they were in our tent. Tranio needed a forfeit and placed something that wasn't his, but mine.'

‘Valuable?'

‘Not at all. But as I felt like having a wrangle I told him he had to get it back from the scribe. Then, you know Heliodorus –'

‘Actually, no.'

‘Oh well, his reaction was typical. The minute he thought he had something important he decided to keep it and taunt Tranio. It rather suited me to keep our clever friend on tenterhooks. So I let on that I was mad about it. Tranio went spare trying to put things right, while I hid a smile and got my own back watching him.' One thing for Grumio; he possessed the full quota of the comedian's natural streak of cruelty. By contrast, I really could imagine Tranio taking the blame and becoming distraught.

‘Maybe you should let him off now, if he's sensitive! What was the pledge, Grumio?'

‘Nothing important.'

‘Heliodorus must have believed it was.' So must Tranio.

‘Heliodorus was so dedicated to torturing people, he lost touch with reality. It was a ring,' Grumio told me, saying it with a slight shrug. ‘Just a ring.'

His apparent indifference convinced me he was lying. Why should he do that? Perhaps because he didn't want me to know what the pledge really was …

‘Precious stone?'

‘Oh no! Come on, Falco. I had it off my grandfather! It was only a trinket. The stone was dark blue. I used to pretend it was lapis, but I doubt if it was even sodalite.'

‘Was it found after the playwright died?'

‘No. The bastard had probably sold it.'

‘Have you checked with Chremes and Phrygia?' I insisted helpfully. ‘They went through the playwright's stuff, you know. In fact we discussed it and I'm sure I remember them owning up quite freely that they had found a ring.'

‘Not mine.' I thought I detected just a faint trace of irritation in young Grumio now. ‘Must have been one of his own.'

‘Or Congrio might have it –'

‘He hasn't.' Yet according to Congrio, the clowns had never asked him properly about what they were looking for.

‘Tell me, why was Tranio afraid to tell me about this missing pledge?' I asked gently.

‘Isn't that obvious?' A lot of things were obvious, according to Grumio. He looked remarkably pleased with himself as he landed Tranio in it. ‘He's never been in trouble, certainly not connected with a murder. He overreacts. The poor idiot thinks everyone knows he had a row with Heliodorus, and that it looks bad for him.'

‘It looks far worse that he hid the fact.' I saw Grumio's eyebrows shoot up in a surprised expression, as if that thought had not struck him. Somehow I reckoned it must have done. Drily, I added, ‘Nice of you to tell me!'

‘Why not?' Grumio smiled. ‘Tranio didn't kill Heliodorus.'

‘You say that as if you know who did.'

‘I can make a good guess now!' He managed to sound as if he were chiding me with negligence for not guessing myself.

‘And who would that be?'

That was when he hit me out of the blue: ‘Now that he's skipped so suddenly,' suggested Grumio, ‘I should think that the best bet is your so-called interpreter!'

*   *   *

I was laughing. ‘I really don't believe I heard that!
Musa?
'

‘Oh, he really took you in, did he?' The clown's voice was cold. If young Musa had still been here, even innocent, I reckon he would have panicked.

‘Not at all. You'd better tell me your reasoning.'

Grumio then went through his argument like a magician consenting to explain some sleight of hand. His voice was level and considered. As he spoke, I could almost hear myself giving this as evidence before a criminal judge. ‘Everyone in the company had an alibi for the time Heliodorus was killed. So maybe, unknown to anyone, he had an outside contact at Petra. Maybe he had an appointment with somebody local that day. You say you found Musa in the close vicinity; Musa must have been the man you had followed from the High Place. As for the rest – it all follows.'

‘Tell me!' I croaked in amazement.

‘Simple. Musa then killed Ione because she must have known that Heliodorus had some private connection in Petra. She had slept with him; he could have said. Again, the rest of us all have alibis, but wasn't Musa in Gerasa on his own that night for hours?' Chilled, I remembered that indeed I had left him at the Temple of Dionysus while I went off to make enquiries about Thalia's organist. I didn't believe he had been to the Maiuma pools in my absence – but nor could I prove that he had not.

With Musa no longer here, I could never ask him about it either.

‘And how do you explain Bostra, Grumio? Musa being nearly drowned himself?'

‘Simple. When you brought him into the company, some of us thought him a suspicious character. To deflect our suspicion, he took a chance at Bostra, jumped into the reservoir deliberately, then made up a wild claim that someone shoved him in.'

‘Not the only wild claim hereabouts!'

I said it, even though I had the inevitable feeling that all this could be true. When someone throws such an unlikely story at you with such passionate conviction, they can overturn your common sense. I felt like a fool, a bungling amateur who had failed to consider something right under my nose, something that ought to have been routine.

‘This is an amazing thought, Grumio. According to you, I've spent all this time and effort looking for the killer when the plain fact is I brought him with me all along?'

‘You're the expert, Falco.'

‘Apparently not … What's your explanation for the scam?'

‘Who knows? My guess is Heliodorus was some sort of political agent. He must have upset the Nabataeans. Musa is their hit man for unwelcome spies –'

Once again I laughed, this time rather bitterly. It sounded weirdly plausible.

Normally I can resist a clever distraction. Since there certainly was one political agent amongst us, and he was indeed now acting as a playwright, Grumio's solemn tale had a lurid appeal. I really could envisage a scenario in which Anacrites had sent more than one disguised menial into Petra – both me and Heliodorus – and The Brother had schemed to deal with each of us in turn, using Musa. Helena had told me Musa was marked for higher things. Maybe all the time I had been patronising his youth and innocence, he was a really competent executioner. Maybe all those messages to his ‘sister' deposited at Nabataean temples were coded reports to his master. And maybe the ‘letter from Shullay' he kept hoping to receive would not have contained a description of the murderer, but instructions for disposing of me …

Or rather, maybe I should lie down quietly, with sliced cucumber cooling my forehead, until I got over this lunacy.

Grumio rose to his feet with a demure smile. ‘I seem to have given you a lot to think about! Pass on my regards to Helena.' I managed a wry nod of the head, and let him go.

The conversation had been devoid of clowning. Yet I was still left with the sinking sensation that somehow the joke was on me.

Very neat.

Almost, as the grim jokester Grumio himself would have said, too obvious to be true.

LX

I was dismal now. It felt like a nightmare. Everything appeared close to reality, yet was hugely distorted.

I went in to see Helena. She was awake, but flushed and feverish. I could tell by looking at her that unless I could do something, we were in serious trouble. I knew she could see I had problems I wanted to talk about, but she made no attempt to ask. That in itself was a depressing sign.

In this mood, I was hardly expecting what happened next.

We heard a commotion. The Palmyrenes were all exclaiming and shouting. It did not sound as though raiders had set upon us, but my worst fears leapt. I rushed out of the tent. Everyone else was running, all in the same direction. I felt for my knife, then left it down my boot so I could run faster.

At the roadside an excited group had clustered around a particular camel, a new arrival whose dust was still creating a haze above the road. I could see the beast was white, or what they call white in a camel. The trappings looked brighter than usual and more lavishly fringed. When the crowd suddenly spilled outwards so I had a clearer view, even to my untutored eye this was a fine creature. A racing camel, plainly. The owner must be a local chief, some rich nomad who had made several fortunes from myrrh.

I was losing interest and about to turn back when somebody yelled my name. Men in the crowd gesticulated to some unseen person who was kneeling at the camel's feet. Hoping this might be Musa returning, I walked up closer. People fell back to let me through, jostling close behind again as they tried to see what was happening. With bruised heels and a bad temper I forced my way to the front.

On the ground beside the splendid camel, a figure wrapped in desert robes was searching in a small roll of baggage. Whoever it was stood up and turned to me. It was definitely not Musa.

The elaborate head-dress was pushed back from a startling face. Vivid antimony eye paint flashed while earrings as big as the palm of my hand rattled out a joyous carillon. All the Palmyrenes gasped, awestruck. They dropped back hastily.

It was a woman, for one thing. Women do not normally ride the desert roads alone. This one would go anywhere she wanted. She was noticeably taller than any of them, and spectacularly built. I knew she must have chosen her own camel, with expertise and taste. Then she had cheerfully raced across Syria unaccompanied. If anyone had attacked her, she would have dealt with them; besides, her bodyguard was wriggling energetically in a large bag she wore slung across a bosom that meant business.

When she saw me, she let out a roar of derision, before brandishing a little iron pot. ‘Falco, you miserable dumb-head! I want to see that sick girl of yours – but first come here and say a nice hello!'

‘Hello Jason,' I responded obediently, as Thalia's python finally forced his head out of his travelling bag and looked around for somebody meek whom he could terrorise.