was outstanding. We wished him good luck eventually, but were sorry to leave. By then even other performers had left their pitches to join his fascinated audience.
It was a superb night. Gerasa's mild climate is its chief luxury. Musa and I were happy to stroll about seeing the sights before we tackled our real business. We were men on the loose, not looking for lechery, nor even for trouble, but enjoying a sense of release. We had a quiet drink. I bought a few presents to take home. We stared at the markets, the women, and the foodstalls. We slapped donkeys, tested fountains, saved children from being crushed under cartwheels, were polite to old ladies, invented directions for lost people who thought we must be locals, and generally made ourselves at home.
North of the old town, in what was planned as the centre of the expanding new metropolis, we found a group of temples dominated by a dramatic shrine to Artemis, the ancestral goddess of this place. There was scaffolding around some of the twelve dramatic Corinthian columns – nothing new for Gerasa. Alongside lay a temple to Dionysus. Within that, since a synthesis could apparently be forced between Dionysus and Dushara, Nabataean priests had an enclave. We made their acquaintance, then I buzzed off to make extra enquiries about Thalia's girl, telling Musa not to leave the sanctuary without me.
The enquiries were unfruitful. Nobody had heard of Sophrona or Habib; most people claimed to be strangers there themselves. When my feet had had enough I went back to the temple. Musa was still chattering, so I waved at him and sank down for a rest in the pleasant Ionic portico. Given the abruptness of his departure with us from Petra, there could be fairly urgent messages Musa wanted to send home: to his family, his fellow priests at the Garden Temple on the mountainside, and perhaps to The Brother too. I myself felt a nagging guilt that it was time to let my mother know I was alive; Musa might be in the same trouble. He may have looked for a messenger while we were at Bostra, but if so I never saw him doing it. This was probably his first chance. So I let him talk.
When acolytes came to light the temple lamps, we both realised we had lost all sense of time. Musa dragged himself away from his fellow Nabataeans. He came and squatted beside me. I reckoned there was something on his mind.
'Everything all right?' I kept my voice neutral.
'Oh yes.' He liked his touch of mystery.
Musa drew his headcloth across his face and folded his hands together. We both stared out at the temple precincts. Like any other sanctuary, this temenos was full of devout old women who ought to be at home with a stiff toddy, swindlers selling religious statuettes, and men looking out for tourists who might pay for a night with their sisters. A peaceful scene.
I had been sitting on the temple steps. I adjusted my position so I could look at Musa more directly. With him formally wrapped, all I could see were his eyes, but they seemed honest and intelligent. A woman might find their dark, inscrutable gaze romantic. I judged him on his behaviour. I saw someone lean and tough, straightforward in his way, though when Musa started looking abstracted, I remembered that he had come with us because he thought it was what had been ordered by The Brother.
'Are you married?' Because of the way he had joined us, as The Brother's parole officer, we had never asked the normal questions. Now, although we had travelled together, I knew nothing of him socially.
'No,' he answered.
'Any plans?'
'One day perhaps. It is allowed!' A smile had anticipated my curiosity about sexual stipulations for Dushara's priests.
'Glad to hear it!' I grinned back. 'Family?'
'My sister. When I am not at the High Palace of Sacrifice, I live in her house. I sent her news of my travels.' He sounded almost apologetic. Maybe he thought I found his behaviour suspicious.
'Good!'
'And I sent a message to Shullay.'
Again, an odd note in his voice caught my attention, though I could not decide why. 'Who's Shullay?'
'The elder at my temple.'
'The old priest I saw with you when I was chasing after the killer?'
He nodded. I must have been mistaken about the nuance in his voice. This was just a subordinate worried about explaining to a sceptical superior why he had dodged off from his duties.
'Also there was a message for me here,' he brought out.
'Want to tell me?'
'It is from The Brother.' My heart took a lurch. The Decapolis had come under Roman authority, but the cities preserved their independent status. I was unsure what would happen if Nabataea tried to extradite Helena and me. You had to be realistic: Gerasa relied on Petra for its prosperity. If Petra wanted us, Gerasa would comply.
'The Brother knows you are here, Musa?'
'He sent the message in case I should come. The message is,' Musa revealed with some difficulty, 'I do not have to remain with you.'
'Ah!' I said.
So he was leaving. I felt quite upset. I had grown used to him as a travelling companion. Helena and I were outsiders among the theatre group; Musa was another, which had made him one of us. He pulled his weight and had an endearing personality. To lose him halfway through our trip seemed too great a loss.
He was watching me, without wanting me to see it. 'Is it possible I may ask you something, Falco?' I noticed his Greek was wandering more than normal.
'Ask away. We are friends!' I reminded him.
'Ah yes! If it were convenient, I would like to help you find this murderer.'
I was delighted. 'You want to stay with us?' I noticed he still looked uncertain. 'I see no problem.'
I had never known Musa so diffident. 'But before, I was under orders from The Brother. You did not have to take me in your tent, though you did so -'
I burst out laughing. 'Come along, Helena will be worrying about us both!' I leapt up, holding out my hand to him. 'You are our guest, Musa. So long as you help me drive the bloody ox-cart and pitch the tent, you're welcome. Just don't let anybody drown you while the rules of hospitality make me responsible for you!'
Back at the camp it turned out we need not have hurried home. There were three or four people talking quietly in a close-knit group outside Chremes' tent, looking as if they had spent the evening together. All the girls had gone off somewhere; that included Helena. I expected a consoling message, but no such luck.
Musa and I strolled out, intending to look for her. We assured ourselves we were not anxious, since she was in company, but I wanted to know what was going on. It might be something we would like to join in. (Wild hopes that the party Helena had disappeared to might involve an exotic dancer in some smoky den where they served toasted almonds in dainty bowls and the wine was free – or at least extremely cheap:) Anyway, we ourselves had been out in the city for several hours. I was a good boy sometimes; I was probably missing her.
At the same street corner as before, standing on the same barrel, we found Grumio. What looked like the same enthusiastic crowd was still clustering around. We joined them again.
By now Grumio had developed a close relationship with his audience. From time to time he pulled somebody out to assist with his conjuring; in between he tossed insults at individuals, all part of running jokes he must have set up before we arrived. This teasing had enough bite to tingle the atmosphere, but nobody was complaining. He was developing a theme; insulting the other towns of the Decapolis.
'Anyone here from Scythopolis? No? That's lucky! I won't say Scythopolitans are stupid:' We sensed an expectant ripple. 'But if you ever see two Scythopolitans digging a huge hole in the road outside a house, just ask them – go on, ask them what they're doing. I bet they tell you they've forgotten the doorkey again! Pella! Anybody from Pella? Listen, Pella and Scythopolis have this ancient feud – oh forget it! What's the point of insulting the Pellans if they're not here? Probably couldn't find their way! Couldn't ask. No one can understand ' t their accent: Anyone from Abila?' Amazingly a hand was raised. 'That's your misfortune, sir! I won't say Abilans are daft, but who else would own up? Your moment of fame: Excuse me, is that your camel looking over your shoulder, or is your wife extremely ugly?' This was low stuff, but he was pitching it right for the street trade.
It was time for a mood change; he switched the monologue into a more reflective tone. 'A man from Gadara had a smallholding, nothing immodest, built it up slowly. First a pig:' Grumio did a farmyard impression, each animal in turn, slowly to begin with, then he changed to little dialogues between them, and finally a furious
