'We have never seen anybody wearing the hat again,' Helena pointed out. She must have been dunking hard, like me.

'And he has stopped whistling,' Musa added.

He seemed to have stopped killing too. He must know I was utterly stumped. If he did nothing else he would be safe. I would have to make him do something.

Refusing to give up, I nagged at the problem: 'We have a situation where all the suspects are ruled out on at least one of the attacks. That cannot be right. I still feel one person is responsible for everything, even what happened to Musa.'

'But there can be other possibilities?' asked Helena. 'An accomplice?'

'Oh yes. Perhaps a general conspiracy, with people providing false alibis. Heliodorus was universally loathed, after all. It is possible more than one of them was actively involved.'

'You don't believe that though?' Musa tackled me.

'No. A man was killed, for a reason we don't know, but we'll assume it made sense at the time. Then a possible witness was attacked, and another who intended to name him was strangled. This is a logical progression. To me, it fits one killer acting alone, and then reacting alone as he tries to escape discovery.'

'It's very confusing,' Helena complained.

'No, it's simple,' I corrected her, suddenly sure of myself. 'There is a lie somewhere. There must be. It cannot be obvious, or one of us would have spotted a discrepancy.'

'So what can we do?' Helena demanded. 'How can we find out?'

Musa shared her despondency. 'This man is too clever to change the lie just because we ask the same questions a second time.'

'We'll test everything,' I said. 'Make no assumptions, recheck every story, but asking somebody different whenever we can. We may jog a memory. We may drag more information to the surface just by putting pressure on. Then, if that fails, we'll have to force the issue.'

'How?'

'I'll think of something.'

As usual it had a futile ring, yet the others did not question my claim. Maybe I would think of a way to break this man. The more I remembered what he had done, the more I was determined to better him.

Chapter XLIII

For Abila, Chremes came up with another new play, an unfunny farce about Hercules sent down to earth on a mission from the other gods. It was deep Greek myth rendered as crass Roman satire. Davos played Hercules. The actors all seemed to know the work and there was nothing required of me beforehand. At rehearsal, while Davos, in a ridiculous rolling baritone, sailed confidently through his stuff needing no direction from Chremes, I took the opportunity to ask the manager for a private word some time. He invited me to dinner that evening.

There was no performance; we were having to wait for the theatre behind a local group who had the run of the stage fora week doing something proclamatory with drumbeats and harps. I could hear the throb of their music as I walked through the camp to attend my tryst. By then I was starving. Chremes and Phrygia dined late. At my own bivouac Helena and Musa, who were not included in my invitation, had made a point of tucking into a lavish spread while I hung about waiting to go. Outside the tents I passed on the way happy people who had already eaten were tipsily waving beakers or spitting olive stones after me.

It must have been perfectly obvious where and why I was going, for I had my napkin in one hand and the good guest's gift of an amphora under the other arm. I wore my best tunic (the one with least moth holes) and had combed the desert grit out of my hair. I felt strangely conspicuous as I ran the gauntlet of the rows of long black tents that we had pitched in nomad fashion at right angles to the track. I noticed that Byrria's tent lay in near-darkness. Both Twins were outside theirs, drinking with Plancina. No sign of Afrania tonight. As I passed, I thought one of the clowns stood up and silently stared after me.

When I arrived at the manager's tent, my heart sank.

Chremes and Phrygia were deep in some unexplained wrangle and the dinner was not even ready yet. They were such an odd, ill-assorted couple. By firelight Phrygia's face appeared more gaunt and unhappy than ever as she swooped about like a very tall Fury who had some harsh torments lined up for sinners. As she made desultory motions towards eventually feeding me I tried to be affable, even though my reception was offhand. Slouching outside with a furious scowl, Chremes looked older too, his striking looks showing signs of early ruin, with deep hollows in his face and a wine gut flowing over his belt.

He and I opened my amphora furtively while Phrygia crashed platters inside the tent.

'So what's the mystery, young Marcus?'

'Nothing really. I just wanted to consult you again over this search for your murderer.'

'Might as well consult a camel-driver's hitching post!' cried Phrygia from indoors."

'Consult away!' boomed the manager, as if he had not heard his jaded consort. Probably after twenty years of their angry marriage his ears were genuinely selective.

'Well, I've narrowed the field of suspects but I still need the vital fact that will pin this bastard down. When the tambourinist died I had hoped for extra clues, but Ione had so many menfriends that sorting them out is hopeless.'

Without appearing to watch him, I checked Chremes for a reaction. He seemed oblivious to my subtle suggestion that he might have been one of the girl's 'friends'. Phrygia knew better, and popped out of the tent again to supervise our conversation. She had transformed herself into a gracious hostess for the night with a few deft touches: a flowing scarf, probably silk, thrown over her shoulders dramatically; silver earrings the size of spoonbowls, daring swathes of facepaint. She had also switched on a more attentive manner as she produced our food with a lazy flourish.

Despite my fears, the meal was impressive: huge salvers of Eastern delicacies decorated with olives and dates; warmed bread; grains, pulses and spiced meats; small bowls of sharp pastes for dipping; plenty of salt and pickled fish from Lake

Tiberias. Phrygia served with an offhand manner, as if she was surprised by her own success in concocting the feast. Both hosts implied that food was incidental to their lives, though I noticed that all they ate was of the best.

Their travelling dinnerset was one of bold ceramics, with heavy metal drinking cups and elegant bronze servingware. It was like dining with a family of sculptors, people who knew shape and quality; people who could afford style.

The domestic quarrel had gone into abeyance; probably not abandoned, but deferred.

'The girl knew what she was doing,' Phrygia commented on Ione, neither bitter nor condemning.

I disgreed. 'She can't have known she would be killed for it.' Minding my manners, for the mood seemed more formal than I was used to, I scooped up as many tastings as I could fit in my feeding bowl without looking greedy. 'She enjoyed life too much to give it up. But she didn't fight back. She wasn't expecting what happened at the pool.'

'She was a fool to go there!' Chremes exclaimed. 'I can't understand it. She thought the man she was meeting had killed Heliodorus, so why risk it?'

Phrygia tried to be helpful: 'She was just a girl. She thought no one who loathed him could have the same reason for loathing her. She didn't understand that a killer is illogical and unpredictable. Marcus – ' we were on first-name terms apparently ' – enjoy yourself. Have plenty.'

'So do you think', I asked, manipulating a honey dip on my flat bread, 'that she wanted to let him know she had identified him?'

'I'm sure she did,' Phrygia answered. I could tell she had been thinking this through for herself; perhaps she had wanted to feel certain her own husband could not be involved. 'She was attracted by the danger. But the little idiot had no real idea this man would see her as a threat. She was not the type to blackmail him, though he would probably suspect it. Knowing Ione, she thought it was a good giggle.'