the intuitive girl would tell me whether Davos had been Phrygia's lover in the past, or was now, or merely wished to be. He had spoken with the assurance of an old acquaintance, a troupe member who had earned himself the right to be consulted about a newcomer.
'She told me about being asked to play Medea at Epidaurus.'
'Ah that!' he commented quietly, with a soft smile.
'Did you know her then?' In reply to my question he nodded. It was a reply of sorts – the kind of simple answer that leads down a dead end. I tackled him directly: 'And what about Heliodorus, Davos? How long had you known him?'
'Too long!' I waited, so he added more temperately: 'Five or six seasons. Chremes picked him up in southern Italy. He knew an alphabet or two; seemed ideal for the job.' This time I ignored the arrow.
'You didn't get on?'
'Is that right?' He was not truculent, merely secretive. Truculence, being based on simple motives such as guilt and fear, is easier to fathom. Secrecy could have any number of explanations – including the straightforward one that Davos had a polite personality. However, I did not ascribe his reserved manner to mere tact.
'Was he just an awful writer, or was it personal?'
'He was a bloody awful writer – and I bloody loathed the creep.'
'Any reason?'
'Plenty!' Suddenly Davos lost patience. He stood up, leaving us. But the habit of making an exit speech overtook him: 'Somebody will no doubt whisper to you, if they haven't yet: I had just told Chremes the man was a troublemaker and that he ought to be dropped from the company.' Davos carried weight; it would matter. There was more, however. 'At Petra I gave Chremes an ultimatum: either he dumped Heliodorus, or he lost me.'
Surprised, I managed to fetch out, 'And what was his decision?'
'He hadn't made any decision.' The contempt in his tone revealed that if Davos had hated the playwright, his opinion of the manager was nearly as low. 'The only time in his life Chremes ever made a choice was when he married Phrygia, and she organised that herself, due to pressing circumstances.'
Afraid I would ask, Helena kicked me. She was a tall girl, with an impressive length of leg. A glimpse of her fine ankle gave me a frisson I could not enjoy properly at that moment.
The warning was unnecessary. I had been an informer long enough; I recognised the allusion, but I asked the question anyway: 'That, I take it, is a dark reference to an unwelcome pregnancy? Chremes and Phrygia have no children with them now, so I assume the baby died?' Davos screwed up his mouth in silence, as if reluctantly acknowledging the story. 'Leaving Phrygia shackled to Chremes, apparently pointlessly? Did Heliodorus know this?'
'He knew.' Full of his own anger, Davos had recognised mine. He kept his answer short and left me to deduce for myself the unpleasant follow-on.
'I suppose he used it to taunt the people involved in his normal friendly manner?'
'Yes. He stuck the knife in both of them at every opportunity.'
I didn't need to elaborate, but tried it to put pressure on Davos: 'He ragged Chremes about the marriage he regrets -
'Chremes knows it was the best thing he ever did.'
'And tormented Phrygia over the bad marriage, her lost chance at Epidaurus, and, probably, over her lost child?'
'Over all those things,' Davos answered, perhaps more guardedly.
'He sounds vicious. No wonder you wanted Chremes to get rid of him.'
As soon as I said it I realised that this could be taken as a suggestion that Chremes had drowned the playwright. Davos picked up the implication, but merely smiled grimly. I had a feeling that if Chremes was ever accused, Davos would cheerfully stand by and see him convicted – whether or not the charge was a just one.
Helena, ever quick to smooth over sensitivities, broke in. 'Davos, if Heliodorus was always wounding people so painfully, surely the company manager had a good excuse -and a personal motive – to dismiss him when you asked for it?'
'Chremes is incapable of decisions, even when it's easy. This,' Davos told Helena heavily, 'was difficult.'
Before we could ask him why, he had left the tent.
Chapter XXI
I was beginning to see the picture: Chremes, Phrygia, and where Davos himself fitted in as the old friend who had mourned for their mistakes and his own lost opportunities. When Helena caught my eye, I checked with her: 'What do you think?'
'He's not involved,' she answered slowly. 'I think he may have meant more to Phrygia in the past than he does now, but it was probably a long time ago. After knowing her and Chremes for twenty years, now he's just a critical but loyal friend.'
Helena had been warming some honey for me. She rose and fetched it from the fire. I took the beaker, settling down more comfortably and giving Musa a reassuring smile. For a while none of us spoke. We sat in a close group, considering events.
I was aware of a change in the atmosphere. As soon as Davos left the tent, Musa had relaxed. His manner became more open. Instead of huddling under his blanket he ran his hands through his hair, which had started to dry and curl up at the ends ridiculously. It made him look young. His dark eyes had a thoughtful expression; the mere fact that I could judge his expression marked a change in him.
I realised what was up. I had seen Helena looking after him as if he belonged to us, while he accepted her anxious attentions with little trace of his old wariness. The truth was clear. We had been together for a couple of weeks. The worst had happened: the damned Nabataean hanger-on had joined the family.
'Falco,' he said. I could not remember him addressing me by name before. I gave him a nod. It was not unfriendly. He had not yet attained the position of loathing I reserved for my natural relatives.
'Tell us what happened,' Helena murmured. The conversation was taking place in low voices, as if we were afraid there might be lurking figures outside the tent. That seemed unlikely; it was still a filthy night.
'It was a ridiculous expedition, ill-conceived and ill-planned.' It sounded as if Musa had viewed his jolly night on the town as some military manoeuvre. 'People had not taken enough torches, and those we had were waning in the damp.'
'Who asked you to go on this drinking spree?' I broke in.
Musa recollected. 'Tranio, I think.'
'I guessed it might have been!' Tranio was not my chief suspect – or at least not yet, because I had no evidence – but he was first choice as a general stirrer-up of trouble.
'Why did you agree to go?' Helena queried.
He flashed her an astonishing grin; it split his face apart. 'I thought you and Falco were going to be quarrelling about the play.' It was Musa's first joke: one aimed at me.
'We never quarrel!' I growled.
'Then I beg your pardon!' He said it with the polite insincerity of a man who shared our tent and knew the truth.
'Tell us about the accident!' Helena urged him, smiling.
The priest smiled too, more wickedly than we were used to, but immediately grew intense as he told his story. 'Walking was difficult. We were stumbling, our heads low. People were grumbling, but nobody wanted to suggest turning back. When we were on the cistern's raised embankment, I felt somebody push me, like this – ' He suddenly aimed a hard blow with the flat of his palm against the lower middle of my back. I braced my calves to avoid falling into the fire; he had quite a shove. 'I fell down over the wall -'
'Jupiter! And of course you can't swim!'
Unable to swim myself, I viewed his predicament with horror. However, Musa's dark eyes looked amused. 'Why do you say that?'
'It seemed a reasonable deduction, given that you live in a desert citadel -'
