Last Act in Palmyra by Lindsey Davis

journey, I could assume he had never budgeted for a large outlay. Probably nobody expected to see my happy grin at the accounts kiosk again. It meant that not for the first time I was nose to nose with bankruptcy.
    Helena, who discovered her sense of discretion whilst she was trying to handle a wildly flaring torch, found little to say about our situation. She had money. She would, if I allowed it, subsidise our journey home. I would let her do it eventually, if that was the only way to spare Helena herself discomfort. Biting back my pride would make me pretty short-tempered, so for both our sakes she refrained from asking pointedly what plans I had now. Maybe I could extricate us myself. More likely not.
    Most likely, as Helena knew from experience, I had no plans at all.
    *   *   *
    This was not the worst disaster of our lives, nor my worst failure. But I was dangerously angry about it. So when a small group of camels and ox-carts came rattling down the gorge behind us, my first reaction was to stay in the middle of the gravel track, forcing them to slow and stick behind us. Then, when a voice called out offering a lift on a cart, irrational frivolity took over. I turned round, dumping my load. The first cart stopped, leaving me gazing into the dolorous eyes of an edgy-looking ox.
    â€˜Your offer’s welcome, stranger! How far can you take us?’
    The man grinned back, responding to the challenge. ‘Bostra, perhaps?’ He was not Nabataean. We were talking in Greek.
    â€˜Bostra’s not on my itinerary. How about dropping us at the caravanserai here, where I can pick up my own transport?’
    â€˜Done,’ he said, with an easygoing smile. His intonation had the same overlay as mine; I was now sure of it.
    â€˜You from Italy?’ I asked.
    â€˜Yes.’
    I accepted the lift.
    Only when we were ensconced on the waggon did I notice what a raggle-taggle company had picked us up. There were about ten of them, split between three carts and a couple of moth-eaten camels. Most of the people looked white-faced and anxious. Our driver caught the question in my eyes. ‘I’m Chremes, an actor-manager. My company has been ordered to depart from Petra. We saw them lift the curfew to let you out, so we’re doing a quick flit before anybody changes their mind about us.’
    â€˜Might somebody insist you stay?’ I asked, though I had already guessed.
    â€˜We lost a friend.’ He nodded to Helena, whom he must have recognised. ‘You are the couple who found him, I believe. Heliodorus, who had the unfortunate accident up on the mountaintop.’
    That was the first time I heard our drowned man’s name.
    Immediately afterwards I heard something else: ‘Bostra might be an interesting town to visit, Marcus,’ suggested Helena Justina in a speculative voice.
    That young lady could never resist a mystery.

XII
    Of course we did go to Bostra. Helena knew she was doing me a favour by suggesting it. Having discovered the drowned man, I too was fascinated to have met up with his companions. I wanted to know much more about them – and him. Being nosy was my livelihood.
    That first evening, Chremes took us to recover our own stabled ox, the sad beast I had taken on at Gaza, together with the shaky contraption that passed for our hired vehicle. The night was really too dark now to travel on further, but both our parties were keen to put distance between ourselves and Petra. For added security and confidence we drove on in convoy, sharing our torches. We all seemed to feel that in the desert chance encounters are important.
    After we set up camp I approached the actor-manager curiously: ‘Are you certain the man Helena and I discovered was your friend?’
    â€˜Everything fits from your description – same build, same colouring. Same drinking habits!’ he added bitterly.
    â€˜Then why didn’t you come forward and claim the body?’ I