Last Act in Palmyra by Lindsey Davis Page A

was going to be a trial. I wondered where Helena was. I gave up on the idea of sending her a message. Our address would be difficult to describe and I had nothing to write on. I wished I had brought the corpse’s note-tablet; he had no use for it now.
    The young priest had been designated my official minder. That failed to make him communicative. He and I sat on one of the benches around the sanctuary, where he was approached by various acquaintances, but I was studiously ignored. I was growing restless. I had a strong sensation of sinking into a situation I would very much regret. I resigned myself to a lost day, with trouble at the end of it. Besides that, it was clear I would miss lunch – the kind of habit I deplore.
    To overcome my depression, I insisted on making conversation with the priest. ‘Did you see the fugitive? What did he look like?’ I asked firmly in Greek.
    Addressed so directly it was hard for him refuse me. ‘A man.’
    â€˜Old? Young? My age?’
    â€˜I did not see.’
    â€˜You couldn’t see his face? Or only his back disappearing? Did he have all his hair? Could you see its colouring?’
    â€˜I did not see.’
    â€˜You’re not much help,’ I told him frankly.
    Annoyed and frustrated, I fell silent. In the slow, aggravating way of the desert, just when I had given up on him, my companion explained: ‘I was within the temple. I heard footsteps, running. I went out and glimpsed a man far away, as he passed out of sight.’
    â€˜So you didn’t notice anything about him? Was he slight or tall? Light or heavy?’
    The young priest considered. ‘I could not tell.’
    â€˜This fellow will be easy to spot!’
    After a second the priest smiled, unexpectedly seeing the joke. He still felt disinclined to communicate, but he was getting the hang of the game now. Softening up, he volunteered brightly: ‘I could not see his hair – he wore a hat.’
    A hat was unexpected. Most people around here wrapped their heads in their robes. ‘What sort of hat?’ He gestured a widish brim, looking slightly disapproving. This was a definite rarity. Since Helena and I landed at Gaza we had seen lolling Phrygian caps, tight little skullcaps, and flat-topped felt circles, but a brimmed hat was a Western extravagance.
    Confirming my own thoughts, he then said, ‘A foreigner, alone and in a great hurry near the High Place, is unusual.’
    â€˜You could tell he was a foreigner? How?’ The man shrugged.
    I knew one reason: the hat. But people can always tell if they get a proper look at someone. Build, colouring, a way of walking, a style of beard or haircut all give a clue. Even a glimpse for a fraction of a second might do it. Or not a glimpse, but a sound: ‘He came down whistling,’ said the priest suddenly.
    â€˜Really? Know the tune?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Any other colourful details?’ He shook his head, losing interest.
    That seemed to be as far as I could take it. I had a tantalising impression, from which nobody would be able to identify the fugitive.
    We resumed our boring wait. I started to feel depressed again. The hot golden light, bouncing back from the stonework, was giving me a headache.
    People came and went; some sat on the benches chewing or humming to themselves. Many ignored the seats but squatted in the shade, giving me a sharp feeling of being among nomads who despised furniture. I told myself not to feel complacent. These leathery men in dusty cloaks looked only one step up from beggars and one stride short of the grave; yet they belonged to the richest nation in the world. They handled frankincense and myrrh as casually as my own relatives inspected three radishes and a cabbage. Each wrinkled old prune probably had more gold in the saddlebags of his camel train than Rome possessed in the whole Temple of Saturn Treasury.
    Thinking ahead, I tried to plan an escape. I realised I