'Ah but you could have done the bills the next morning,' Helena challenged.
Congrio laughed again. 'Oh I did that, lady! Ask Chremes. He can vouch for it. I wrote up bills everywhere in Gerasa the night Ione died. Chremes saw them first thing next morning and I had to go round to every one of them again. He knows how many I did and how long it must have taken. He came round with me the second time and stood over the job. Ask me why? Don't bother. The first time I did it, I spelt the word wrong.'
'The title? Arbitration Arbitration?
'Right. So Chremes insisted that I had to sponge off every single one next day and do it again.'
Not long after that Helena stopped asking questions so, bored with no longer being the centre of attention, Congrio stood up and left.
For a while Musa and Helena sat in silence. Eventually Musa asked, 'Will Falco do the new play?'
'Is that a tactful way of asking what is up with him?' queried Helena. Musa shrugged. Helena answered the literal question first. 'I think Falco had better do it, Musa. We need to insist The Birds The Birds is performed, so you and I - and Falco if he ever returns to the conscious world -- can sit beside the stage and listen out for who is performed, so you and I - and Falco if he ever returns to the conscious world -- can sit beside the stage and listen out for who an an whistle! Congrio seems to be ruled out as a suspect, but it leaves plenty of others. This slim clue is all we have.' whistle! Congrio seems to be ruled out as a suspect, but it leaves plenty of others. This slim clue is all we have.'
'I have sent word of our problem to Shullay,' Musa said abruptly. This meant nothing to Helena, though I recognised the name. Musa explained to her, 'Shullay is a priest at my temple.'
'So?'
'When the killer ran down the mountain ahead of Falco,I had been within the temple and only caught a fleeting sight of him. I cannot describe this man. But Shullay,' Musa revealed quietly, 'had been tending the garden outside.'
Helena's excitement overcame any anger that this was the first Musa had told us of it. 'You mean, Shullay had a proper view of him?'
'He may have done. I never had a chance to ask. Now it is difficult to receive a message from him, since he cannot know where I am,' Musa said. 'But every time we reach a new city I ask at their temple in case there is news. If I learn anything, I will tell Falco.'
'Yes, Musa. Do that!' Helena commented, still restraining herself commendably.
They fell silent for a while. After some time, Musa reminded Helena, 'You did not say what is troubling our scribe? Am I permitted to know this?'
'Ah well!' I heard Helena sigh gently. 'Since you are our friend I dare say I can answer.'
Then she told Musa in a few sentences about brotherly affection and rivalry, just why she supposed I had got drunk in Scythopolis. I reckon she got it more or less right.
Not long after that, Musa rose and went to his own part of the tent.
Helena Justina sat on alone in the dying firelight. I thought of calling out to her. The intention was still at the thought stage when she came inside anyway. She curled up, tucking herself into the curve of my body. Somehow I dragged one sluggish arm over her men stroked her hair, properly this time. We were good enough friends to be perfectly peaceful together even on a night like this.
I felt Helena's head growing heavier against my chest; then almost immediately she fell asleep. When I was sure she had stopped worrying about the world in general and me in particular, I did some more worrying for her, then fell asleep myself.
Chapter XXXVI.
When I awoke the next day, I could hear the furious scratching of a stylus. I had a good idea why: Helena was reworking the play Chremes wanted from me.
I rolled off the bed. Stifling a groan, I scooped a beaker of water from a pail, put my boots on, drank the water, felt sick, managed to keep everything in place, and emerged from the tent. Light exploded in my head. After a pause for readjustment, I opened my eyes again. My oil flask and strigil had been placed on a towel, together with a laundered tunic - a succinct hint.
Helena Justina sat crossed-legged on a cushion in the shade, looking neat and efficient. She was wearing a red dress that I liked, with bare feet and no jewellery. Always a fast worker, she had already amended two scrolls, and was whipping through the third. She had a double inkstand, one belonging to Heliodorus that we had found in the play box. It had one black and one red compartment; she was using the red ink to mark up her corrections to the text. Her handwriting was clear and fluent. Her face looked flushed with enjoyment. I knew she was loving the work.
She glanced up. Her expression was friendly. I gave her a nod, then without speaking went to the baths.
When I returned, still moving slowly but now refreshed, shaved and cleanly clad, the play must have been finished. Helena had dressed up more with agate earrings and two arm bracelets, in order to greet the master of her household with the formal respect that was appropriate in a well-run Roman home (unusual meekness, which proved she was aware she had better look out after pinching my job). She kissed my cheek, with the formality I mentioned, then went back to melting honey in a pan to make us a hot drink. There were fresh bread rolls, olives, and chickpea paste on a platter.
For a moment I stood watching her. She pretended not to notice. I loved to make her shy. 'One day, lady, you shall have a villa crammed with Egyptian carpets and fine Athenian vases, where marble fountains soothe your precious ears, and a hundred slaves are hanging about just waiting to do the dirty work when your disreputable lover staggers home.'
'I'll be bored. Eat something, Falco.'
'Done The Birds?
Helena shrieked like a herring-gull, confirming it.
Exercising caution I sat, ate a small quantity, and with the experience of an ex-soldier and hardened man about town, waited to see what would happen. 'Where's Musa?' I asked,to fill in time while my disturbed guts wondered what unpleasant tricks to throw at me.
'Gone to visit a temple.'
'Oh why's that?' I queried innocently.
'He's a priest,' said Helena.
I hid a smile, allowing them their secret over Shullay. 'Oh, it's religion? I thought he might be pursuing Byrria.'
After their night of whatever it was (or wasn't), Helena and I had surreptitiously watched for signs of romantic involvement. When the pair next met in public all they exchanged were sombre nods. Either the girl was an ungrateful hag, or our Musa was exceedingly slow.
Helena recognised what I was thinking, and smiled. Compared with this, our own relationship was as old and solid as Mount Olympus. Behind the two of us were a couple of years of furious squabbling, taking care of each other in crazy situations, and falling into bed whenever possible. She could recognise my step from three streets away; I could tell from a room's atmosphere if Helena had entered it for only half a minute several hours before. We knew each other so closely we hardly needed to communicate.
Musa and Byrria were a long way from this. They needed some fast action. They would never be more than polite strangers unless they got stuck in to some serious insults, a few complaints about table manners and a bit of light flirting. Musa had come back to sleeping in our tent; that would never achieve much for him.
Actually neither he nor Byrria seemed the type to want the kind of mutual dependency Helena and I had. That did not stop us from speculating avidly.
'Nothing can come of it,' Helena decided.
'People say that about us.'
'People know nothing then.' While I toyed with my breakfast, she tucked into her lunch. 'You and I will have to try to look after them, Marcus.'
'You speak as if falling for someone were a penalty.'
She flashed me a smile of joyous sweetness. 'Oh that depends who you fall for!' Something in the pit of my stomach took a familiar lurch; this time it had nothing to do with last night's drink. I grabbed more bread and adopted a tough stance. Helena smiled. 'Oh Marcus, I know you're a hopeless romantic, but be practical. They come from different worlds.'
'One of them could change cultures.'
'Who? They both have work they are closely tied to. Musa is taking an extended holiday with us, but it can't last. His life is in Petra.'
'You've been talking to him?'
'Yes. What do you make of him, Marcus?'
'Nothing particular. I like him. I like his personality.' That was all, however. I regarded him as a normal, fairly unexciting foreign priest.
'I get the impression that in Petra he is thought of as a boy with promise.'
'Is that what he says? It won't be for long,' I chortled. 'Not if he returns to the mountain fastness with a vibrant Roman actress on his elbow.' No priest who did that would stand a chance of acceptance, even in Rome. Temples are havens of sordid behaviour, but they do have some standards.
Helena grimaced. 'What makes you think Byrria would abandon her career to hang on any any man's elbow?' man's elbow?'
I reached out and tucked in a loose strand of hair - a good opportunity to tickle her neck. 'If Musa really is interested -and that's a debatable issue in itself- he probably only wants one night in her bed.'
'I was assuming', Helena asserted pompously, 'that was all Byrria would be offering! She's just lonely and desperate, and he's intriguingly different from the other men who try to nobble her.'
'Hmm. Is that what you thought when you nobbled me?I was remembering the night we had first managed to recognise we wanted each other. 'I've no objection to being thought intriguing, but I did hope that falling into bed with me was more than a desperate act!'
'Afraid not.' Helena knew how to aggravate me if I pushed my luck. 'I told myself, Once, just to know what passion feel like Once, just to know what passion feel like... The trouble was, once once led straight to led straight to once again once again!'
'So long as you never start feeling it's been once too often once too often... I held out my arms to her. 'I haven't kissed you this morning,'
'No you haven't!' exclaimed Helena in a changed tone, as if being kissed by me was an interesting proposition. I made sure I kissed her in a way that would re-enforce that view.
After a while she interrupted me: 'You can look through what I've done to The Birds The Birds if you like, and see if you approve.' Helena was a tactful scribe. if you like, and see if you approve.' Helena was a tactful scribe.
'Your revising is good enough for me.' I preferred to embark on extra kissing.
'Well my work may be wasted. There's a big question marl hanging over whether it can be performed.'
'Why's that?'
Helena sighed. 'Our orchestra has gone on strike.'
Chapter XXXVII.
'Hey, hey! Things must be bad if they have to send the scribbler to sort us!'
My arrival amidst the orchestra and stagehands caused a surge of mocking applause. They lived in an enclave at one end of our camp. Fifteen or twenty musicians, scene-shifters and their hangers-on were sitting about looking militant while they waited for people in the main company to notice their complaint. Babies toddled about with sticky faces. A couple of dogs scratched their fleas. The angry atmosphere was making my own skin prickle uneasily.
'What's up?' I tried playing the simple, friendly type.
'Whatever you've been told.'
'I've been told nothing. I've been drunk in my tent. Even Helena has stopped talking to me.'
Still pretending not to notice the ominous tension, I squatted in the circle and grinned at them like a harmless sightseer. They glared back while I surveyed who was here.
Our orchestra consisted of Afrania the flautist, whose instrument was the single-piped tibia; another girl who played panpipes; a gnarled, hook-nosed old chap whom I had seen clashing a pair of small hand-cymbals with an incongruous delicacy; and a pale young man who plucked the lyre when he felt like it. They were led by a tall, thin, balding character who sometimes boomed away on a big double wind instrument that had one pipe turned up at the end, whilst he beat time for the others on a foot clacker. This was a large group, compared with some theatre-company ensembles, but allowed for the fact that the participants also danced, sold trays of limp sweetmeats, and offered entertainment afterwards to members of the audience.
Attached to them were the hard-labour boys, a set of small, bandy-legged stagehands whose wives were all hefty boot-faced wenches you wouldn't push in front of in a baker's queue. In contrast to the musicians, whose origins were varied and whose quarters had an artistic abandon, the scenery-movers were a closely related group, like bargees or tinkers. They lived in spotless tidiness; they had all been born to the roving life. Whenever we arrived at a new venue, they were the first to organise themselves. Their tents were lined up in straight rows with elaborate sanitary arrangements at one end, and they shared a huge iron broth cauldron that was stirred by a strict rota of cooks. I could see the cauldron now, breathing out coils of gravy steam that reminded me of my stomach's queasiness.
'Do I detect an atmosphere?'
'Where've you been, Falco?' The hook-nosed cymbalist sounded weary as he threw a stone at a dog. I felt lucky he chose the dog.
'I told you: drunk in bed.'
'Oh, you took to the life of a playwright easily!'
'If you wrote for this company you'd be drunk too.'
'Or dead in a cistern!' scoffed a voice from the back.
'Or dead,' I agreed quietly. 'I do worry about that sometimes. Maybe whoever had it in for Heliodorus dislikes all playwrights, and I'm next.' I was carefully not mentioning Ione yet, though she must matter more here than the drowned scribe.
'Don't worry,' sneered the girl who played the panpipes. 'You're not that good!'
'Hah! How would you know? Even the actors never read the script, so I'm damned sure you musicians don't! But surely you're not saying Heliodorus was a decent writer?'
'He was trash!' exclaimed Afrania. 'Plancina's just trying to annoy you.'
'Oh, for a moment I thought I was hearing that Heliodorus was better than everyone tells me - though aren't we all?' I tried to look like a wounded writer. This was not easy since naturally I knew my own work was of fine quality - if anyone with any true critical sense ever did read it.
'Not you, Falco!' laughed the panpipe girl, the brash piece in a brief saffron tunic whom Afrania had called Plancina.
'Well thanks. I needed reassurance... So what's the black mood in this part of the camp all about?'
'Get lost. We're not talking to management,'
'I'm not one of them. I'm not even a performer. I'm just a freelance scribe who happened upon this group by accident; one who's starting to wish he'd given Chremes a wide berth.' The murmur of discontent that ran around warned me I had best take care or else instead of persuading the group back to work I would end up leading their walk-out. That would be just my style: from peacemaker to chief rebel in about five minutes. Smart work, Falco.
'It's no secret,' said one of the stagehands, a particular misery. 'We had a big row with Chremes last night, and we're not backing down.'
'Well you don't have to tell me. I didn't mean to pry into your business.'
Even with a hangover that made my head feel like the spot on a fortress gate that's just been hit by a thirty-foot battering-ram, my professional grit had stayed intact: as soon as I said they need not spill the tale, they all wanted to tell me everything.
I had guessed right: Ione's death was at the heart of their discontent. They had finally noticed there was a maniac in our midst. He could murder dramatic writers with impunity, but now that he had turned his attention to the musicians they were wondering which of them would be picked off next.
'It's reasonable to feel alarmed,' I sympathised. 'But what was last night's row with Chremes about?'
'We arc not staying on,' said the cymbalist. 'We want to be given our money for the season - '
'Hang on, the rest of us were paid our share of the takings last night. Are your contract terms very different?'
'Too damn right! Chremes knows actors and scribes are pushed to find employment. You won't leave him until you're given a firm shove. But musicians and lifters can always find work so he gives us a fraction, then keeps us waiting for the rest until the tour packs up.'