I was led back outside: Dushara's temple was no place for a curious foreigner. I regretted this, for I would have liked to appreciate the fantastic interior with its striking ornamentation; to explore beyond the high arch leading to the dim inner sanctum, and climb up to the intriguing upper-storey balconies. But after one swift glimpse of a tall dark god with clenched fists gazing out towards his mountains, I was hustled away.
From the first I realised that hanging about for the anonymous great one was going to be a trial. I wondered where Helena was. I gave up on the idea of sending her a message. Our address would be difficult to describe and I had nothing to write on. I wished I had brought the corpse's note-tablet; he had no use for it now.
The young priest had been designated my official minder. That failed to make him communicative. He and I sat on one of the benches around the sanctuary, where he was approached by various acquaintances, but I was studiously ignored. I was growing restless. I had a strong sensation of sinking into a situation I would very much regret. I resigned myself to a lost day, with trouble at the end of it. Besides that, it was clear I would miss lunch – the kind of habit I deplore.
To overcome my depression, I insisted on making conversation with the priest. 'Did you see the fugitive? What did he look like?' I asked firmly in Greek.
Addressed so directly it was hard for him refuse me. 'A man.'
'Old? Young? My age?'
'I did not see.'
'You couldn't see his face? Or only his back disappearing? Did he have all his hair? Could you see its colouring?'
'I did not see.'
'You're not much help,' I told him frankly.
Annoyed and frustrated, I fell silent. In the slow, aggravating way of the desert, just when I had given up on him, my companion explained: 'I was within the temple. I heard footsteps, running. I went out and glimpsed a man far away, as he passed out of sight.'
'So you didn't notice anything about him? Was he slight or tall? Light or heavy?'
The young priest considered. 'I could not tell.'
'This fellow will be easy to spot!'
After a second the priest smiled, unexpectedly seeing the joke. He still felt disinclined to communicate, but he was getting the hang of the game now. Softening up, he volunteered brightly: 'I could not see his hair – he wore a hat.'
A hat was unexpected. Most people around here wrapped their heads in their robes. 'What sort of hat?' He gestured a widish brim, looking slightly disapproving. This was a definite rarity. Since Helena and I landed at Gaza we had seen lolling Phrygian caps, tight little skullcaps, and flat-topped felt circles, but a brimmed hat was a Western extravagance.
Confirming my own thoughts, he then said, 'A foreigner, alone and in a great hurry near the High Place, is unusual.'
'You could tell he was a foreigner? How?' The man shrugged.
I knew one reason: the hat. But people can always tell if they get a proper look at someone. Build, colouring, a way of walking, a style of beard or haircut all give a clue. Even a glimpse for a fraction of a second might do it. Or not a glimpse, but a sound: 'He came down whistling,' said the priest suddenly.
'Really? Know the tune?'
'No.'
'Any other colourful details?'
He shook his head, losing interest. That seemed to be as far as I could take it. I had a tantalising impression, from which nobody would be able to identify the fugitive. We resumed our boring wait. I started to feel depressed again. The hot golden light, bouncing back from the stonework, was giving me a headache.
People came and went; some sat on the benches chewing or humming to themselves. Many ignored the seats but squatted in the shade, giving me a sharp feeling of being among nomads who despised furniture. I told myself not to feel complacent. These leathery men in dusty cloaks looked only one step up from beggars and one stride short of the grave; yet they belonged to the richest nation in the world. They handled frankincense and myrrh as casually as my own relatives inspected three radishes and a cabbage. Each wrinkled old prune probably had more gold in the saddlebags of his camel train than Rome possessed in the whole Temple of Saturn Treasury.
Thinking ahead, I tried to plan an escape. I realised I stood no chance of sliding out of trouble with the traditional diplomacy; the meagre funds at my disposal would make an insulting bribe.
We were under obvious scrutiny, though it was polite. If you sat on the steps of the Forum Basilica for such a length of time you would fall prey to rude comments and be openly accosted by pickpockets, poets and prostitutes, sellers of lukewarm rissoles, and forty bores trying to tell you the story of their lives. Here they just waited to see what I would do; they liked their tedium bland.
The first hint of action: a small camel was led in through the arch of the great gate, carrying over its back the man I had found drowned. A quiet but curious crowd came following.
Simultaneously someone strode out from a great doorway cut through the enclosure wall. I never found out what lay behind it, whether the area beyond that impressive-looking portal housed the quarters of the priestly college, or was this high official's own stately residence. Somehow I knew he was important even before I looked at him directly. He carried the aura of power.
He was walking straight towards us. He was alone, but every man in the place was aware of him. Apart from a jewelled belt and a neat, high head-dress with a Parthian look to it, little marked him out. My priestly companion hardly moved or changed expression, yet I sensed a frantic upsurge of tension in him.
'Who is it?' I managed to mutter.
For reasons I could guess, the young man could barely croak out his answer. 'The Brother,' he said. And now I could tell that he was terrified.
Chapter IX
I stood up.
Like most Nabataeans the Petran Chief Minister was shorter than me, and slighter. He wore the usual full- length, long-sleeved tunic with other robes in fine material folded back over his upper arms. That was how I could see the glittering belt. There was a dagger thrust through it, with a ruby set in the hilt that barely left room for the handle's ornate metalwork. He had a high forehead, his hair well receded under the head-dress, and his manner was energetic. The wide mouth gave an impression of smiling pleasantly, though I did not fall into the trap of believing it. He looked like a friendly banker – one with his heart set on diddling you on your interest rate.
'Welcome to Petra!' He had a deep, resonant voice. He had spoken in Greek.
'Thank you.' I tried to make my accent as Athenian as possible – not easy when you've been taught your Greek under a ripped awning on a dusty street corner near the neighbourhood middenheap.
'Shall we see what you have found for us?' It was like an invitation to open a basket of presents from an uncle in the country.
His eyes gave the game away. The lids were so deeply pouched and crinkled that no expression was visible in those dark, faraway glints. I hate men who hide what they think. This one had the difficult manner I normally associate with a vicious fornicating fraud who has kicked his mother to death.
We walked to the camel, which thrust its head towards us unnervingly. Someone grabbed the bridle, hissing at its disrespect for my companion. Two men lifted down the body, fairly gently. The Brother inspected the corpse just as I had done previously. It appeared an intelligent scrutiny. People stood back, watching him earnestly. Among the crowd I recognised the elder priest from the temple with the garden, though he made no move to contact his young colleague, who was now standing behind me. I tried to believe the youngster was there in case I needed support, but help seemed unlikely. I was on my own with this.
'What do we know of this person?' The Brother asked, addressing me. I gathered that I was expected to take responsibility for explaining the stranger.
I indicated the writing block at the dead man's waist. 'A scholar or clerk maybe.' Then I pointed to the grazes
