Read Online Last Act in Palmyra by Lindsey Davis - Free Book Online

slightly puffy face. ‘He had clearly suffered violence, though not an extreme beating. I found empty drinking vessels at the scene.’
    â€˜This occurred at the High Place?’ The Brother’s tone was not particularly angry, but the careful posing of the question spoke volumes.
    â€˜Apparently. Seems to be some drunk who fell out with his friend.’
    â€˜You saw them?’
    â€˜No. I had heard voices, though. They sounded amiable. I had no reason to rush up after them and investigate.’
    â€˜What was your own purpose in visiting the Place of Sacrifice?’
    â€˜Reverent curiosity,’ I stated. It sounded unconvincing and crass, of course. ‘I had been told it is not forbidden?’
    â€˜It is not forbidden,’ agreed The Brother, as if he thought that in a just world it should have been. Legislation seemed likely to emanate from his office later that afternoon.
    I took a stand. ‘I believe that is all the help I can give you.’ My remark was ignored. If a foreign visitor foolishly came across a drowned man in the Basin of Fundanus in Rome, he would be thanked for his sense of civic duty, given a public reward of modest proportions, and led quietly out of town – or so I told myself. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he would be flung into the worst jail available, to teach him not to malign the Golden Citadel with sordid discoveries.
    The Brother stood back from crouching over the corpse. ‘And what is your name?’ he enquired, fixing me with those pleasant dark eyes. From deep in their wrinkled pouches of weariness those eyes had already noted the cut of my tunic and style of my sandals. I knew he knew that I was Roman.
    â€˜Didius Falco,’ I answered, with a more or less clear conscience. ‘A traveller from Italy –’
    â€˜ Ah yes! ’ he said.
    My heart sank. My name was already known here. Somebody had warned the King’s Chief Minister to expect me. I could guess who it was. I had told everyone at home that I was going to the Decapolis on a seek-and-retrieve for Thalia’s water organist. Apart from Helena Justina, only one person knew I was coming here: Anacrites.
    And if Anacrites had written ahead to the Nabataeans, then as sure as honey makes your teeth rot, he wasn’t asking The Brother to extend me any diplomatic courtesies.

X
    I would have liked to punch The Brother in the solar plexus and make a run for it. If, as I guessed, he was hated and feared in Petra, then the crowd might let me through. If he was hated and feared even more than I suspected, however, it might be to their advantage to avert his wrath by stopping me.
    We Romans are a civilised nation. I kept my fists at my sides and faced him out. ‘Sir, I am a man of humble origins. I am surprised you know of me.’ He made no attempt to explain. It was vital that I found out his source of information, and quickly. There was no point trying to bluff. ‘Can I guess that you heard about me from a functionary called Anacrites? And did he ask you to put me top of the list for sacrifice in Dushara’s High Place?’
    â€˜Dushara requires immolation only from the pure!’ commented The Brother. He had a gentle line in sarcasm – the most dangerous kind. I was in a tricky situation here, and he liked the fact that I was aware of it.
    I noticed him make a surreptitious gesture to tell the surrounding crowd to stand off somewhat. A space promptly cleared. I was to be interrogated with a modicum of privacy.
    Ignoring the disturbance, I answered him lightly: ‘No doubt Petra has other quick and easy systems of disposal?’
    â€˜Oh yes. You can be laid out on an offering block for the birds and the sun.’ He sounded as if he would enjoy giving the order. Just what I always wanted: to die by being frizzled like offal, then picked clean by a clan of vultures.
    â€˜I look forward to the privilege! And what have you been told about