We clapped our hands on our purses, clung together, and tried to forge our way through the impasse, wincing at the noise. We were assailed by entrancing scents from huge piles of spices and blinked at the glitter of tawdry trinkets hung in streamers on the stalls. We ducked to avoid casually wielded bales of fine-weave material. We gaped at the array of sponges and jewellery, figs and whole honeycombs, household pots and tall candelabra, five shades of henna powder, seven kinds of nuts. We were bruised. We were crushed against walls by men with handcarts. Members of our party panicked as they glimpsed an exotic bargain, some bauble in copper, with a twirl to its handle and an Oriental spout; they only turned round for a second, then lost sight of the rest of us among the jostling crowds.

Needless to say, we had to traverse almost the whole of this chaotic street. The theatre where Chremes had secured us a booking was at the far end, slightly south of the main thoroughfare, near the Jupiter Gate. It stood close to the second-hand clothes-sellers, in what people had honestly named the louse market.

Since we were to have the honour of performing at the monumental theatre built by Herod the Great, we could live with a few lice.

We never did find out how Chremes pulled off this coup. With a slight sign of awareness that people despised his powers as an organiser, he clammed up proudly and refused to say.

How he did it ceased to matter once we ascertained the local rate for theatre tickets and started selling them. At that point we cheered up tremendously. We had a smart venue (for once), and found no difficulty filling the auditorium. In this teeming hive of buyers and sellers people handed over good money regardless of repertoire. They all prided themselves on driving a hard bargain; once off the commodities in which they were experts, most of them became easy touches. Culture was merely a facet of retailing here. Plenty of brokers were looking to impress clients; they bought tickets to entertain their guests without bothering what might be on. Commercial hospitality is a splendid invention.

For a couple of days we all thought Damascus was a wonderful place. Then, as people started to realise they had been rooked by the money-changers and as one or two purses were lifted in the narrow alleys off the main streets, our views cooled. Even I went out on my own one morning and bought as a present for my mother a large quantity of what I believed to be myrrh, only to have Musa sniff at it and sadly tell me it was bdellium, a much less pure aromatic gum that should sell at a much less aromatic price. I went back to challenge the stallholder; he had disappeared.

Our booking was for three nights. Chremes settled on performing what he regarded as the gems in our repertoire: The Pirate Brothers, then a fornicating gods farce, and The Girl from Mykonos. The last sparkler had been cobbled together by Heliodorus some time before he died: maybe he should have died of shame. It was 'loosely based' on all the other Girl from: comedies, a teaser for lustful merchants who were on the razzle in a big city without their wives. It had what the Samos, Andros and Perinthos plays all lacked: Grumio's falling-off-a-ladder trick, Byrria fully clothed but doing a revealing dance while pretending to be mad, and all the girls in the orchestra playing topless. (Plancina asked to be paid a bonus after trapping a nipple between her castanets.)

Chremes' choice caused groans. He had no real sense of atmosphere. We knew these were the wrong plays and after a morning of muttering, the rest of the company, led by me as their literary expert, gathered to put matters right. We allowed The Girl from Mykonos, which was obviously a runner in a bad city, but overruled the other two; they were altered by democratic vote to The Rope, with its ever-popular tug of war, and a play Davos liked that enabled him to show off in his Boasting Soldier role. Philocrates, so in love with himself and public adulation, would probably have argued as his own part in the latter was minimal, but he happened to be hiding in his tent after spotting a woman he had seduced on our visit to Pella in the company of a rather large male relative who looked as if he had something on his mind.

That was the trouble with Damascus. All roads led there.

'And lead away,' Helena reminded me, 'in three days' time. What are we going to do, Marcus?'

'I don't know. I agree we didn't come to the East to spend the rest of our lives with a cheap drama company. We're earning enough to live on – but not enough to stop and take a holiday, and certainly not enough to pay our fares home if Anacrites won't sign for it.'

'Marcus, I could pay those.'

'If I lost all self-respect.'

'Don't exaggerate.'

'All right, you can pay, but let me try to complete at least one commission first.'

I led her into the streets. Uncomplainingly she took my arm. Most women of her status would have frizzled up in horror at the thought of stepping into the public hubbub of a loud, lewd foreign metropolis with neither a litter nor a bodyguard. Many citizens of Damascus eyed her with obvious suspicion for doing so. For a senator's daughter Helena had always had a strange sense of propriety. If I was there, that satisfied her. She was neither embarrassed nor afraid.

The size and liveliness of Damascus suddenly reminded me of the rules we had left behind in Rome, rules that Helena broke there, too, though at least it was home. In Rome scandalous behaviour among senatorial females was just a feature of fashionable life. Causing trouble for their male relatives had become an excuse for anything. Mothers regarded it as a duty to educate daughters to be rebellious. Daughters revelled in it, throwing themselves at gladiators, joining queer sects, or becoming notorious intellectuals. By comparison, the vices open to boys seemed tame.

Even so, running off to live with an informer was an act more shocking than most. Helena Justina had good taste in men, but she was an unusual girl. Sometimes I forgot how unusual.

I stopped at a street corner, caught by an occasional need to check up on her. I had one arm tight around her to protect her from the bustle. She tipped her head to look at me questioningly; her stole fell back from her face, its trimming caught on her earring. She was listening, though trying to free the strands of fine gold wire, as I said, 'You and I lead a strange life. Sometimes I feel that if I cared for you properly I would keep you somewhere more suitable.'

Helena shrugged. She was always patient with my restless attempts to make her more conventional. She could take pomposity, if it came as a near relative to a cheeky grin. 'I like my life. I'm with an interesting man.'

'Thanks!' I found myself laughing. I should have expected her to disarm me, but she still caught me unawares. 'Well, it won't last for ever.'

'No,' she agreed solemnly. 'One day you will be a prim middle-rank bureaucrat who wears a clean toga every day. You'll talk of economics over breakfast and only eat lettuce for lunch. And I'll have to sit at home with my face in an inch-thick flour pack, forever checking laundry bills.'

I controlled a smile. 'Well that's a relief. I thought you were going to be difficult about my plans.'

'I am never difficult, Marcus.' I swallowed a chortle. Helena slipped in thoughtfully, 'Are you homesick?'

I probably was, but she knew I would never admit to it. 'I can't go home yet. I hate unfinished business.'

'So how are you proposing to finish it?'

I liked her faith in me.

Luckily I had put arrangements in hand for resolving at least one commission. Pointing to a nearby house wall, I showed off my cunning device. Helena inspected it. 'Congrio's script is getting more elaborate.'

'He's being well taught,' I said, letting her know I realised who had been improving him.