Free Last Act in Palmyra by Lindsey Davis

victim nor his killer knew me. I have merely reported the incident.’
    â€˜Why did you do that?’ enquired The Brother sedately.
    â€˜I believe his killer should be traced and brought to justice.’
    â€˜There are laws in the desert!’ he rebuked me, his deep voice soft.
    â€˜I was not suggesting otherwise. For that reason I alerted you.’
    â€˜You may have wished to remain silent!’ He was still niggling about my role in Petra.
    Reluctantly I conceded: ‘It might have been more convenient! I’m sorry if you have been informed I’m a spy. To get this in perspective, let me tell you that your helpful informant is also the man who paid me to come here.’
    The Brother smiled. More than ever he looked like somebody you wouldn’t trust to hold your purse while you were undressing at the baths. ‘Didius Falco, you have dangerous friends.’
    â€˜He and I were never friends.’
    *   *   *
    We had stood talking in the open outdoor area for much longer than could be customary. At first it must have appeared to the onlookers that we were speculating about the dead man. Now people in the crowd were growing restless as they sensed more going on.
    This corpse had become a useful cover for The Brother. It could well be that at some future date the sensible Nabataeans would hand themselves over to Rome on negotiated terms – but there would be ample preparation. No disturbing rumour would be permitted to ruffle commerce prematurely. At this stage The Brother needed to hide from his people the fact that he had been talking with an official from Rome.
    Suddenly my interview reached its end. The Brother told me that he would see me again tomorrow. He stared at the young priest for a moment, said something in Arabian, then instructed him in Greek to conduct me to my lodging. I understood that all too well: I had been released on parole. I was being watched. I would not be permitted to inspect places they wished to keep secret. I would not be allowed free talk with the populace. Meanwhile, a decision on whether or not to let me leave Petra would be taken without my knowledge and without leave to appeal.
    From now on, the Chief Minister would always know where I was. All my movements and even my continued existence, were at his whim. In fact, it struck me he was the sort of unreliable potentate who could well send me off now with a smile and a promise of mint tea and sesame cakes tomorrow – then dispatch his executioner after me in half an hour’s time.
    I was escorted from the sanctuary. I had no idea what was intended for the corpse. I never did find out what happened to it.
    But that would not be my last connection with the man I had found on the High Place of Sacrifice.

XI
    Helena was waiting in our room. Expecting trouble, she had dressed her hair neatly in a decorated net, though she covered it demurely with a white stole when we entered. Discreet strands of beads were evenly hung on her fine bosom; hints of gold glinted at the tips of her ears. She was sitting very upright. Her hands were folded; her ankles crossed. She looked severe and expectant. There was a stillness about her that spoke of quality.
    â€˜This is Helena Justina,’ I informed the young priest, as if he ought to treat her respectfully. ‘I am Didius Falco, as you know. And you are?’
    This time he could not ignore it. ‘My name is Musa.’
    â€˜We have been adopted as personal guests of The Brother,’ I stated, for Helena’s benefit. Maybe I could impose duties of hospitality on the priest. (Maybe not.) ‘Musa, at The Brother’s request, is to look after us while we are in Petra.’
    I could see that Helena understood.
    *   *   *
    Now we all knew everyone. All we had to do was communicate.
    â€˜How are we off for languages?’ I asked, making it a matter of politeness. I was wondering how to shake Musa loose and