'I'm glad of a chat,' I offered, as I squatted on a rock. It was not what Philocrates wanted to hear at that moment, but I was ready to have some fun. 'It's only fair to warn you, you're chief suspect in the murder case.'

'What?' Philocrates stopped stock-still in outrage. His mule saw its moment, snatched the straw and skipped away. 'I never heard such rubbish – '

'You've lost him,' I pointed out helpfully, nodding at his animal. 'Obviously you ought to be given a chance to clear yourself.'

Philocrates responded with a short phrase that referred to a part of his anatomy he overused. I pondered how easy it is to make a confident man flustered merely by saying something grossly unfair.

'Clear myself of what?' he demanded. He was definitely hot, and it had nothing to do with the climate or our recent labouring. Philocrates' life veered between two themes: acting and philandering. He was highly competent at both, but in other fields he was starting to look stupid. 'Clear myself of nothing, Falco! I've done nothing, and nobody can suggest I have!'

'Oh, come on! This is pathetic. You must have had plenty of angry husbands and fathers accusing you. With all that practice behind you, I expected a better-rehearsed plea. Where's your famous stage sparkle? Especially,' I mused thoughtfully, 'when these charges are so serious. A few adulteries and the occasional bastard may litter your off-colour past, but this is hard crime, Philocrates. Murder is called to account in the public arena – '

'You'll not send me to the bloody lions for something I had nothing to do with! There is some justice.'

'In Nabataea? Are you sure of that?'

'I'll not answer the case in Nabataea!' I had threatened him with the barbarians; instant panic had set in.

'You will if I make the charges here. We're in Nabataea already. Bostra's just up the road. One murder took place in its sister city, and I have with me a Petran representative. Musa has come all this way, on command of the Nabataean Chief Minister, specifically to condemn the killer who committed the sacrilege at their High Place!' I loved this sort of high-flown oratory. Incantations may be complete rubbish, but they have a gorgeous effect.

'Musa?' Philocrates was suddenly more suspicious.

'Musa. He may look like a lovelorn adolescent, but he's The Brother's personal envoy, charged with arresting the killer – who looks like you.'

'He's a junior priest, without authority.' Maybe I should have known better than to trust oratory with an actor; he knew all about the power of words, especially empty ones.

'Ask Helena,' I said. 'She can give you the straight story. Musa has been singled out for high position. This embassy abroad is a training job. He urgently needs to take a criminal back to preserve his reputation. I'm sorry, but you're the best candidate.'

Philocrates' mule had become disappointed by the lack of action. It strolled up and nudged its master on the shoulder, telling him to get on with the chase.

'How?' Philocrates spat at me; no use to a mule who was looking for entertainment. One ear up and one ear down, the fun-loving beast gazed across at me sadly, deploring its lot.

'Philocrates,' I advised him like a brother, 'you are the only suspect who has no alibi.'

'What? Why? He was well equipped with interrogatives.

'Facts, man. When Heliodorus was murdered you say you were bunked up in a rock tomb. When Ione died in the pools of Maiuma, you came up with exactly the same shabby story -bumping a so-called "cheeseseller". Sounds fine. Sounds in keeping. But do we ever have a name? An address? Anyone who ever saw you with either of these bits of flotsam? A furious father or fiance trying to cut your throat for the insult? No. Face it, Philocrates. Everyone else provides proper witnesses. You only hand me feeble lies.'

The fact that the 'lies' were completely in character should offer him a good defence. The fact that I also knew he had not been on the embankment at Bostra when Musa was attacked clinched his innocence for me. But he was too dumb to argue.

'As a matter of fact,' I continued the pressure, as he kicked his natty boot against a stone in helpless outrage, 'I do think you were with a girl the night Ione died -I think it was Ione herself.'

'Oh come on, Falco!'

'I think you were the lover Ione met at the Maiuma pools.' I noticed that every time I said Ione's name he jumped guiltily. Real criminals are not so nervous.

'Falco, I'd had a fling with her – who hadn't? – but that was long past. I like to keep moving. So did she, for that matter. Anyway, life is much less complicated if you confine your attentions outside the company.'

Ione herself was never that scrupulous.'

'No,' he agreed.

'So do you know who her special lover in the company was?'

'I don't. One of the clowns could probably enlighten you.'

'You mean either Tranio or Grumio was Ione's special friend?'

'That's not what I said!' Philocrates grew snappy. 'I mean they were friendly enough with the silly girl to have heard from her what she was up to. She didn't take either of those two idiots seriously.'

'So who did she take seriously, Philocrates? Was it you?'

'Should have been. Somebody worth it.' Automatically, he swept one hand back across his sleek hair. His arrogance was intolerable.

'You reckon so?' I lost my temper. 'One thing about you, Philocrates: your intellect is nowhere near as lively as your prick.' I fear he took it as a compliment.

Even the mule had registered its master's uselessness. It came up behind Philocrates, gave a sudden shove with its long-nosed head, and knocked the furious actor face down.

A cheer went up from the rest of our group. I grinned and walked back to my own slow, solid-wheeled ox-cart.

'What was going on there?' Helena demanded.

'I just told Philocrates he's lost his alibi. He'd already lost his cartwheel, his mule, his temper and his dignity – '

'The poor man,' murmured Musa, with little sign of sympathy. 'A bad day!'

The actor had told me virtually nothing. But he had cheered me up completely. That can be as much use as any piece of evidence. I had met informers who implied that to succeed they needed not just sore feet, a hangover, a sorry love life and some progressive disease, but a dour, depressing outlook too. I disagree. The work provides enough misery. Being happy gives a man a boost that can help solve cases. Confidence counts.

I rode into Bostra hot, tired, dusty and dry. But all the same, every time I thought of Philocrates' mule flooring him, I felt ready to tackle anything.

Chapter XLVIII

Bostra again.

It seemed an age since we had arrived here the last time and performed The Pirate Brothers in the rain. An age since my first effort as a playwright was ignored by everyone. Since then I had grown quite used to critical hammerings, though when I remembered my early disappointment I still did not like the place.

We were all glad to stop. Chremes staggered off to see about a booking. He was plainly exhausted; he had no sense of priorities and was bound to bungle it. He would come back with nothing for us; that was obvious.

Nabataean or not, Bostra was a capital city and boasted good amenities. Those of us who were willing to spend money on comfort had been looking forward to leaving our tents on the waggons and finding real rooms to stay in. Walls; ceilings; floors with spiders in the corners; doors with cold draughts flooding under them. Chremes' no-hope aura cast a blight. I clung to my optimism and still meant to find lodgings for Helena, Musa and myself, a basic roost that would not be too far from a bathhouse and not noticeably a brothel, where the landlord scratched his lice discreetly and the rent was small. Being unwilling to waste even a small deposit on rooms we might not enjoy for long, I waited for the manager's return before I booked a place.