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

me?’
    â€˜Naturally that you are a spy.’ He appeared to be making a polite joke of it. Somehow I felt no urge to grin at the pleasantry. That was information on which he would certainly act.
    â€˜Ah, the usual diplomatic nicety! Do you believe it though?’
    â€˜Should I?’ he asked, still giving me the dubious courtesy of appearing open and frank. A clever man. Neither vain nor corrupt: nothing to bite back against.
    â€˜Oh I think so,’ I replied, employing similar tactics. ‘Rome has a new emperor, an efficient one for once. Vespasian is taking stock; that includes surveying all the territory which borders on his own. You must have been expecting visitors.’
    We both glanced down at the body. He deserved more personal consideration. Instead, some tawdry domestic quarrel had made him an opportunity for this unexpected high-flown discussion of world events. Whoever he was, he had wound himself into my mission. His fate was welded to mine.
    â€˜What is Vespasian’s interest in Petra?’ The Brother asked. His eyes were sly, deceptive slits in that passionless face. A man so astute must know exactly what Rome’s interest would be in a rich nation that controlled important trade routes just outside our own boundaries.
    I can argue politics as fiercely as the next man who is standing around the Forum with two hours to fill before dinner, but I did not relish putting the Empire’s point of view in a foreign city. Not when nobody at the Palace had bothered to instruct me what the Empire’s foreign policy was supposed to be. (Nor when the Emperor, being pedantic about such trifles, was likely to hear about my answer sooner or later.) I tried to escape. ‘I can’t answer you, sir. I’m just a humble information-gatherer.’
    â€˜Not so humble, I think!’ It sounded elegant in Greek, but was not a compliment. He could sneer without the slightest change of expression.
    The Brother folded his arms, still staring down at the dead man lying at our feet. Water from the sodden body and its clothing had seeped into the paving. Every fibre within the cadaver must be growing cold; soon flies would be coming to look for egg-laying sites. ‘What is your quality? Do you have many possessions?’
    â€˜My house is poor,’ I answered. Then I remembered Helena reading out to me a passage from a historian who said the Nabataeans particularly prized the acquisition of possessions. I managed to make my remark sound like polite modesty by adding, ‘Though it has seen feasting with the son of the Emperor.’ The Nabataeans were supposed to enjoy a good feast, and most cultures are impressed by men who dine freely with their own rulers.
    My information left The Brother looking thoughtful. Well it might. My relationship with Titus Caesar had its puzzling aspects, plus one that was perfectly clear: we both hankered for the same girl. Unsure of the Nabataean attitude to women, I kept quiet on this subject.
    I thought about it aplenty. Every time I went somewhere dangerous abroad, I wondered if Titus was hoping that I never came back. Maybe Anacrites was not merely plotting to get rid of me for his own reasons; perhaps he had sent me here on prompting from Titus. For all I knew, the Chief Spy’s letter to The Brother had suggested that Titus Caesar, the heir to the Empire, would deem it a personal favour if I stayed at Petra for a very long time: for ever, for instance.
    â€˜My visit has no sinister implications,’ I assured Petra’s minister, trying not to look depressed. ‘Rome’s knowledge of your famous city is somewhat thin and out of date. We rely on a few very old writings that are said to be based on eye-witness reports, chief among them an account by Strabo. This Strabo had his facts from Athenodorus, who was tutor to the Emperor Augustus. His value as an eye-witness may be tempered by the fact that he was blind. Our sharp new