Last Act in Palmyra by Lindsey Davis Page B

will marry and the bathhouse masseurs who will probably father those senators’ sons.
    I was feeling sour. An intellectual diet of The Girl from Andros, followed by The Girl from Samos, then The Girl from Perinthos, had not produced a sunny temperament. This turgid stuff might appeal to the kind of bachelor whose pickup line is asking a girl where she comes from, but I had moved on from that two years ago when a certain girl from Rome decided to pick me up.
    Helena smiled gently. She always knew what I was thinking. ‘Well that’s the men. There’s no particularly striking motive there. So maybe the killer we heard was acting for somebody else. Shall we reconsider the women?’
    â€˜I’ll always consider women!’
    â€˜Be serious.’
    â€˜Oh I was … Well, we’ve thought about Phrygia.’ I stretched luxuriantly. ‘That leaves the eavesdropping maid.’
    â€˜Trust you to spot the beauty at the bar counter!’ Helena retorted. It was hardly my fault. Even for a bachelor who had had to stop asking strange women where they hailed from, this beauty was unmissable.
    Her name was Byrria. Byrria was genuinely young. She had looks that would withstand the closest inspection, a perfect skin, a figure worth grabbing, a gentle nature, huge, glorious eyes …
    â€˜Perhaps Byrria wanted Heliodorus to give her some better lines?’ wondered Helena far from rhapsodically.
    â€˜If Byrria needs anyone murdered, it’s obviously Phrygia. That would secure her the good parts.’
    I knew from my reading that in plays which could barely support one good female role, Byrria must be lucky to find herself a speaking part. Such meat as there was would be snaffled by Phrygia, while the young beauty could only watch yearningly. Phrygia was the stage manager’s wife so the chief parts were hers by right, but we all knew who should be the female lead. There was no justice.
    â€˜In view of the way all you men are staring,’ said my beloved icily, ‘I shouldn’t wonder if Phrygia would like Byrria removed!’
    I was still searching for a motive for the playwright’s death – though had I known just how long it would take me to find it I should have given up on the spot.
    â€˜Byrria didn’t kill Heliodorus, but good looks like hers could well have stirred up strong feelings among the men, and then who knows?’
    â€˜I dare say you will be investigating Byrria closely,’ said Helena.
    I ignored the jibe. ‘Do you think Byrria could have been after the scribe?’
    â€˜Unlikely!’ scoffed Helena. ‘Not if Heliodorus was as disgusting as everyone says. Anyway, your wondrous Byrria could take her pick of the pomegranates without fingering him. But why don’t you ask her?’
    â€˜I’ll do that.’
    â€˜I’m sure you will!’
    I was not in the mood for a squabble. We had taken the discussion as far as we could, so I decided to abandon sleuthing and settled down on my back for a snooze.
    Helena, who had polite manners, remembered our Nabataean priest. He had been sitting with us contributing total silence – his usual routine. Perhaps restraint was part of his religion; it would have been a tough discipline for me. ‘Musa, you saw the murderer come down the mountain. Is there anybody in this group of travellers whom you recognise?’
    She did not know I had already asked him, though she ought to have guessed. Musa answered her courteously anyway. ‘He wore a hat, lady.’
    â€˜We shall have to look out for it,’ replied Helena with some gravity.
    I grinned at him, struck by a wicked possibility. ‘If we can’t solve this puzzle, we could set a trap. We could let it be known that Musa saw the murderer, hint that Musa was planning to identify him formally, then you and I could sit behind a rock, Helena, and we could see who comes – hatted or hatless – to shut Musa