stood no chance of sliding out of trouble with the traditional diplomacy; the meagre funds at my disposal would make an insulting bribe.
We were under obvious scrutiny, though it was polite. If you sat on the steps of the Forum Basilica for such a length of time you would fall prey to rude comments and be openly accosted by pickpockets, poets and prostitutes, sellers of lukewarm rissoles, and forty bores trying to tell you the story of their lives. Here they just waited to see what I would do; they liked their tedium bland.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
The first hint of action: a small camel was led in through the arch of the great gate, carrying over its back the man I had found drowned. A quiet but curious crowd came following.
Simultaneously someone strode out from a great doorway cut through the enclosure wall. I never found out what lay behind it, whether the area beyond that impressive-looking portal housed the quarters of the priestly college, or was this high officialâs own stately residence. Somehow I knew he was important even before I looked at him directly. He carried the aura of power.
He was walking straight towards us. He was alone, but every man in the place was aware of him. Apart from a jewelled belt and a neat, high head-dress with a Parthian look to it, little marked him out. My priestly companion hardly moved or changed expression, yet I sensed a frantic upsurge of tension in him.
âWho is it?â I managed to mutter.
For reasons I could guess, the young man could barely croak out his answer. âThe Brother,â he said. And now I could tell that he was terrified.
IX
I stood up.
Like most Nabataeans the Petran Chief Minister was shorter than me, and slighter. He wore the usual full-length, long-sleeved tunic with other robes in fine material folded back over his upper arms. That was how I could see the glittering belt. There was a dagger thrust through it, with a ruby set in the hilt that barely left room for the handleâs ornate metalwork. He had a high forehead, his hair well receded under the head-dress, and his manner was energetic. The wide mouth gave an impression of smiling pleasantly, though I did not fall into the trap of believing it. He looked like a friendly banker â one with his heart set on diddling you on your interest rate.
âWelcome to Petra!â He had a deep, resonant voice. He had spoken in Greek.
âThank you.â I tried to make my accent as Athenian as possible â not easy when youâve been taught your Greek under a ripped awning on a dusty street corner near the neighbourhood middenheap.
âShall we see what you have found for us?â It was like an invitation to open a basket of presents from an uncle in the country.
His eyes gave the game away. The lids were so deeply pouched and crinkled that no expression was visible in those dark, faraway glints. I hate men who hide what they think. This one had the difficult manner I normally associate with a vicious fornicating fraud who has kicked his mother to death.
We walked to the camel, which thrust its head towards us unnervingly. Someone grabbed the bridle, hissing at its disrespect for my companion. Two men lifted down the body, fairly gently. The Brother inspected the corpse just as I had done previously. It appeared an intelligent scrutiny. People stood back, watching him earnestly. Among the crowd I recognised the elder priest from the temple with the garden, though he made no move to contact his young colleague, who was now standing behind me. I tried to believe the youngster was there in case I needed support, but help seemed unlikely. I was on my own with this.
âWhat do we know of this person?â The Brother asked, addressing me. I gathered that I was expected to take responsibility for explaining the stranger.
I indicated the writing block at the dead manâs waist. âA scholar or clerk maybe.â Then I pointed to the grazes on the broad,
We were under obvious scrutiny, though it was polite. If you sat on the steps of the Forum Basilica for such a length of time you would fall prey to rude comments and be openly accosted by pickpockets, poets and prostitutes, sellers of lukewarm rissoles, and forty bores trying to tell you the story of their lives. Here they just waited to see what I would do; they liked their tedium bland.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
The first hint of action: a small camel was led in through the arch of the great gate, carrying over its back the man I had found drowned. A quiet but curious crowd came following.
Simultaneously someone strode out from a great doorway cut through the enclosure wall. I never found out what lay behind it, whether the area beyond that impressive-looking portal housed the quarters of the priestly college, or was this high officialâs own stately residence. Somehow I knew he was important even before I looked at him directly. He carried the aura of power.
He was walking straight towards us. He was alone, but every man in the place was aware of him. Apart from a jewelled belt and a neat, high head-dress with a Parthian look to it, little marked him out. My priestly companion hardly moved or changed expression, yet I sensed a frantic upsurge of tension in him.
âWho is it?â I managed to mutter.
For reasons I could guess, the young man could barely croak out his answer. âThe Brother,â he said. And now I could tell that he was terrified.
IX
I stood up.
Like most Nabataeans the Petran Chief Minister was shorter than me, and slighter. He wore the usual full-length, long-sleeved tunic with other robes in fine material folded back over his upper arms. That was how I could see the glittering belt. There was a dagger thrust through it, with a ruby set in the hilt that barely left room for the handleâs ornate metalwork. He had a high forehead, his hair well receded under the head-dress, and his manner was energetic. The wide mouth gave an impression of smiling pleasantly, though I did not fall into the trap of believing it. He looked like a friendly banker â one with his heart set on diddling you on your interest rate.
âWelcome to Petra!â He had a deep, resonant voice. He had spoken in Greek.
âThank you.â I tried to make my accent as Athenian as possible â not easy when youâve been taught your Greek under a ripped awning on a dusty street corner near the neighbourhood middenheap.
âShall we see what you have found for us?â It was like an invitation to open a basket of presents from an uncle in the country.
His eyes gave the game away. The lids were so deeply pouched and crinkled that no expression was visible in those dark, faraway glints. I hate men who hide what they think. This one had the difficult manner I normally associate with a vicious fornicating fraud who has kicked his mother to death.
We walked to the camel, which thrust its head towards us unnervingly. Someone grabbed the bridle, hissing at its disrespect for my companion. Two men lifted down the body, fairly gently. The Brother inspected the corpse just as I had done previously. It appeared an intelligent scrutiny. People stood back, watching him earnestly. Among the crowd I recognised the elder priest from the temple with the garden, though he made no move to contact his young colleague, who was now standing behind me. I tried to believe the youngster was there in case I needed support, but help seemed unlikely. I was on my own with this.
âWhat do we know of this person?â The Brother asked, addressing me. I gathered that I was expected to take responsibility for explaining the stranger.
I indicated the writing block at the dead manâs waist. âA scholar or clerk maybe.â Then I pointed to the grazes on the broad,
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