Last Act in Palmyra (50 page)

Then, as my heart sank further than I had ever thought it could, Congrio began to tell a joke.

LXXII

Congrio had climbed up on a model of a rock for a better view. ‘Hello down there! You look glum. Would you like cheering up? Here's one I bet you haven't heard.' Philocrates, still on the mule, looked furious. He liked to know where he was with a script, and hated minions anyway. Congrio was unstoppable.

‘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.

LXXIII

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.

My body felt stiff. I realised just how long it was since I had exercised in a gymnasium. Then he came for me.

*   *   *

The fight was fierce. He had nothing to lose. Hate was his only incentive; death now or later the only possible prize.

One thing was pretty obvious: the garrison enjoyed gladiators. This was better than mere comedy. They knew the knives were real. If someone got stabbed, the blood would not be cochineal.

Any thought that the officer in charge would send men in to help me faded early. There was a group in armour at each gate now, but they were just standing there for a better view. If anyone from the theatre company tried to rush on and assist, the soldiery would hold them back and call it keeping the peace. Their commander would know his best hope of maintaining order was to allow the contest, then either praise me or arrest Grumio, whoever survived. I was not taking bets; nor was the officer, I guessed. Besides, I was an imperial agent. He would expect a certain standard of competence, and if I failed to find it, he probably would not care.

Things began stylishly. Cut and slash. Parry and thrust. Balletic moves. Soon choreographed into the usual panic, heat and mess.

He tricked me. Dismayed, I fled; rolled; threw myself at his feet as he ran at me. He leapfrogged over me and dodged behind the laundry basket. The soldiery roared. They were on his side.

He was safe. I had to be more cautious.

I grabbed the spook's mask and flung it at him. Ever the juggler, he caught the thing and sliced it at my throat. I was no longer there. He spun; glimpsed me, so he thought; felt my knife rip the back of his tunic; but managed to slide out of it.

I pursued. He stopped me with a tornado of whipping strokes. Some bastard in the audience cheered.

I kept my head. I had been the unfavoured man before. Plenty of times. Let him think he had the crowd. Let him believe he had the fight … Let him jab me in the shoulder as the ghost's robes untwined around my feet and tripped me up.

I got out of that. With an ungainly clamber I straddled the wicker basket, flopped over it and just found time to thrust the folds of dragging material back in my belt. I stopped thinking pretty thoughts. Stuff strategy. Best just to react.

Stuff reacting. I wanted to finish it.

Grumio suspected the trip had thrown me. He was coming for me. I grabbed his knife arm. The dagger flipped across to his other hand: an old trick, and one I recognised. He stabbed up at my ribs, only to gasp as my knee hit his left wrist and cheated him of his intended blow. Now I was the one who was laughing while he looked stupid and yelled.

Taking advantage of his lapse in concentration, I fell on him. I had trapped him on top of the laundry basket. It lurched wildly as we struggled. I slammed Grumio's arm against the lid. I pinned him to the basketwork. I managed to press my own arm down on to his throat.

He looked thinner, but was as strong as me. I could find no better purchase. I knew that any minute he would fight back and it would be my turn to be hammered. Desperate, I rammed his body against the prop, so the whole basket skidded forwards. We both fell.

Grumio scrambled up. I was coming after him. He hurled himself across the basket as I had done earlier, then turned back. He withdrew the wedge from the clasp and pulled up the lid in my face.

*   *   *

The lid dropped open, on my side. Grumio had dropped his dagger but made no attempt to retrieve it. The thunder of boots from the soldiers stilled. Grumio stood transfixed. We both stared at the basket. There was an enormous snake looking out at Grumio.

The thud of the lid had mobilised the reptile. Even I could tell it was disturbed by the blaze of the torches, the strange setting, the violent shaking it had just experienced. Slithering restlessly, it swarmed out of the chest.

A gasp ran around the amphitheatre. I was gasping myself. Yard after yard of diamond-patterned scales ran from the basket to the ground. ‘Keep away!' Grumio yelled at it. No use. Snakes are nearly deaf.

The python felt threatened by the clown's aggression; it opened its mouth, showing what seemed to be hundreds of curved, needle-sharp, backward-pointing teeth.

I heard a quiet voice. ‘Stand still.' It was Musa. The keen snakekeeper. He seemed to have known what the chest contained. ‘Zeno will not hurt you.' He sounded like some competent technician taking charge.

Thalia had told me pythons do not attack humans. What Thalia said was good enough for me, but I was not taking chances. I remained quite motionless.

The kid, still in Musa's arms, bleated nervously. Then Musa moved steadily past me towards the huge snake.

He reached Grumio. Zeno's tongue flicked rapidly through the side of his mouth. ‘He is just taking your scent.' Musa's voice was gentle, yet not reassuring. As if to free himself for dealing with the python, he set down the kid. It leapt forwards. Tottering towards Grumio on fragile legs, it looked terrified, but Zeno showed no interest. ‘I, however,' Musa continued quietly, ‘already know you Grumio! I arrest you for the murder of the playwright Heliodorus and the tambourinist Ione.' In Musa's hand had appeared the slim, wicked-looking blade of his Nabataean dagger. He was holding it with its point towards Grumio's throat; it was merely a gesture, though, for he was still several feet from the clown.

Suddenly Grumio sprang sideways. He grabbed the kid, and threw it towards Zeno. The kid let out a pitiful bleat of terror, expecting to be bitten and constricted. But Thalia had once told me that snakes in captivity can be choosy. Instead of co-operating, Zeno executed a smooth about-turn. Plainly unhappy, he doubled up on himself with an impressive show of muscle and tried to leave the scene.