Last Act in Palmyra by Lindsey Davis

the playwright? Marcus, won’t they wonder why we keep enquiring?’
    â€˜You’re a woman; you can be plain nosy. I shall tell them the killer must be one of our party and I’m worried about protecting you.’
    â€˜Load of mule-dung!’ scoffed my elegant lady with one of the pungent phrases she had picked up from me.
    *   *   *
    I had already seen what the theatre troupe was like. We were dealing with a fickle, feckless crowd here. We would never pin down any of them unless we set about it logically.
    It had taken most of the trip just to work out who everyone was. Now we sat on a rug outside our tent. Musa was with us, though as usual he squatted slightly apart, not saying a word but calmly listening. There was no reason to hide our discussion from him so we talked in Greek.
    â€˜Right, let’s survey the tattered cast list. They all look like stock characters, but I’m betting that not one of them is what they seem…’
    The list had to be headed by Chremes. Encouraging us to investigate might exonerate him as a suspect – or it might mean he was cunning. I ran through what we knew about him: ‘Chremes runs the company. He recruits members, chooses the repertoire, negotiates fees, keeps the cash box under his bed when there’s anything in it worth guarding. His sole interest is in seeing that things run smoothly. It would take a really serious grievance to make him jeopardise the company’s future. He realised that a corpse in Petra could land them all in jail, and his priority was to get them away. But we know he despised Heliodorus. Do we know why?’
    â€˜Heliodorus was no good,’ Helena answered, impatiently.
    â€˜So why didn’t Chremes simply pay him off?’
    â€˜Playwrights are difficult to find.’ She kept her head down while she said it. I growled. I was not enjoying reading through the dead man’s box of New Comedy. New Comedy had turned out to be as dire as Chremes had predicted. I was already tired of separated twins, wastrels jumping into blanket chests, silly old men falling out with their selfish heirs, and roguish slaves making pitiful jokes.
    I changed the subject. ‘Chremes hates his wife and she hates him. Do we know why? Maybe she had a lover – Heliodorus, say – so Chremes put his rival out of the way.’
    â€˜You would think that,’ Helena sneered. ‘I’ve talked to her. She yearns to star in serious Greek tragedy. She feels dragged down by having to play prostitutes and long-lost heiresses for this ragged troupe.’
    â€˜Why? They get to wear the best dresses, and even the prostitutes are always reformed in the last scene.’ I was showing off my research.
    â€˜I gather she gives her all powerfully while longing for better things – a woman’s lot in most situations!’ Helena told me drily. ‘People tell me her speech when she gives up brothelkeeping and becomes a temple priestess is thrilling.’
    â€˜I can’t wait to hear it!’ In fact I’d be shooting out of the theatre to buy a cinnamon cake at a stall outside. ‘She’s called Phrygia, isn’t she?’ The players had all taken names from drama. This was understandable. Acting was such a despised profession any performer would assume a pseudonym. I was trying to think up one myself.
    Phrygia was the company’s somewhat elderly female lead. She was tall, gaunt, and flamboyantly bitter about life. She looked over fifty but we were assured by everybody that when she stepped on stage she could easily persuade an audience she was a beautiful girl of sixteen. They made much of the fact that Phrygia could really act – which made me nervous about the talents of the rest.
    â€˜Why does Chremes hate her?’ I wondered. ‘If she’s good on stage she ought to be an asset to his company.’
    Helena looked dour. ‘He’s a man, and she is good.