Chapter LXVII

Rehearsing a half-written new play with a gang of cocky subversives who would not take it seriously nearly defeated me. I failed to see their problem. The Spook who Spoke was perfectly straightforward. The hero, to be played by Philocrates, was a character called Moschion – traditionally the name of a slightly unsatisfactory youth. You know the idea – trouble to his parents, useless in love, uncertain whether to turn into a wastrel or to come good in the last act.

I had never decided where the action should take place: some district no one ever fancies visiting. Illyria, perhaps.

The first scene was a wedding feast, an attempt to be controversial after all those plays where the wedding feast happens at the end. Moschion's mother, a widow, was remarrying, partly in order to allow Tranio to do his 'Clever Cook' routine and partly to let the panpipe girls wander around deliciously as banquet entertainment. Amidst Tranio's jokes about rude-shaped peppered meats, the young Moschion would be complaining about his mother, or when nobody had time to listen just muttering to himself. This portrait of dreadful adolescence was, I thought, rather finely drawn (it was autobiographical).

Moschion's grumbles were halted by a shock meeting with the ghost of his dead father. In my original concept the apparition was to have popped out of a stage trapdoor; in the amphitheatre, where this effect would be impossible, we planned to tow on various chests and altars. The spook, chillingly realised by Davos, would conceal himself there until needed. It would work, so long as Davos could avoid getting cramp.

'If you do, don't let it show, Davos. Ghosts don't limp!'

'Stuff you, Falco. Order someone else about. I'm a professional.'

Being a writer-producer was hard work.

The ghost accused the widow's new husband of having murdered her old one (himself), leaving Moschion in anguish about what to do. Obviously the rest of the play concerned Moschion's frustrated efforts to get the ghost into court as a witness. In the full-length version, this play was a strong courtroom drama, though the garrison was getting a short farce where Zeus nipped on in the last scene to clear everything up.

'Are you sure this is a comedy?' queried Philocrates haughtily.

'Of course!' I snapped. 'Have you no dramatic instinct, man? You can't have spooks leaping about with lurid accusations in tragedy!'

'You don't have ghosts in tragedy at all,' Chremes confirmed. He played both the second husband and also the funny foreign doctor in a later scene where Moschion's mother went mad. The mother was Phrygia; we were all looking forward to her mad scene, despite Chremes uttering disloyal thoughts that he for one would not be able to spot any difference from normal.

Byrria played the girl. There had to be one, though I was still slightly uncertain what to do with her (man's eternal predicament). Luckily she was used to minimal parts.

'Can't I run mad too, Falco? I'd like to dash on raving.'

'Don't be daft. The Virtuous Maid has to survive without a stain on her character so she can marry the hero.'

'But he's a weed!'

'You're learning, Byrria. Heroes always are.'

She gave me a thoughtful look.

Tranio and Grumio doubled up as various silly servants, plus the hero's worried friends. At Helena's insistence I had even devised a one-line part for Congrio. He seemed to have plans for expanding the speech: a typical actor already.

I discovered that one of the stagehands had been sent to buy a kid, which was to be carried on by Tranio. It was certain to lift its tail and make a mess; this was bound to appeal to the low taste of our anticipated audience. Nobody told me, but I gained the definite impression that if things were going badly Tranio had been ordered by Chremes to cook the cute creature live on-stage. We were desperate to satisfy the raw ranks from the barracks. The kid was only one distraction. There was also to be lewd dancing by the orchestra girls at the start of the evening, and afterwards a complete circus act that Thalia and her troupe would provide.

'It'll do!' Chremes pompously decided. This convinced all the rest of us that it would not do at all.

I wore myself out drilling the players, then was sent away while people practised their stunts, songs and acrobatics.

Helena was resting, alone in the tent. I flopped down alongside, holding her in the crook of one elbow while I stroked her still-bandaged arm with my other hand.

'I love you! Let's elope and keep a winkle stall.'

'Does that mean,' Helena demanded gently, 'things are not going well?'

'This looks like being a disaster.'

'I thought you were an unhappy boy.' She snuggled closer consolingly. 'Kiss?'

I kissed her, with half my mind on it.

'Kiss properly.'

I kissed her again, managing three-quarters of my attention. 'I'll do this, fruit, then that's the end of my glorious stage career. We're going home straight afterwards.'

'That's not because you're worried about me, is it?'

'Lady, you always worry me!'

'Marcus -'

'It's a sensible decision which I made some time ago.' About a second after the scorpion stung her. I knew if I admitted that, Helena would rebel. 'I miss Rome.'

'You must be thinking about your comfortable apartment on the Aventine!' Helena was being rude. My Roman apartment consisted of two rooms, a leaky roof and an unsafe balcony, six storeys above a neighbourhood that had all the social elegance of a two-day-old dead rat. 'Don't let an accident bother you,' she added less facetiously.

I was determined to haul her back to Italy. 'We ought to sail west before the autumn.'

Helena sighed. 'So I'll think about packing: Tonight you're going to sort out Thalia's young lovers. I won't ask how you plan to do it.'

'Best not!' I grinned. She knew I had no plan. Sophrona and Khaleed would just have to hope inspiration would strike me later. And now there was the additional complication of

'So, Marcus, what about the murderer?'

That was a different story. Tonight would be my last chance. I had to expose him, or he would never be brought to account.

'Maybe', I reflected slowly, 'I can somehow draw him out into the open in the course of the play?'

Helena laughed. 'I see! Undermine his confidence by affecting his emotions with the power and relevance of your drama?'

'Don't tease! Still, the play is about a murder. It might be possible to work on him by drawing succinct parallels – '

'Too elaborate.' Helena Justina always pulled me up sanely if I was flitting off into some rhapsody.

'We're stuck then.'

That was when she slipped in cunningly, 'At least you know who it is.'

'Yes, I know.' I had thought that was my secret. She must watch me even more closely than I realised.

'Are you going to tell me, Marcus?'

'I bet you have your own idea.'

Helena spoke thoughtfully: 'I can guess why he killed Heliodorus.'

'I thought you might! Tell me?'

'No. I have to test something first.'

'You'll do no such thing. This man is deadly dangerous.' Resorting to desperate tactics, I tickled her in various places I knew would render her helpless. 'Give me a clue then.' As Helena squirmed, trying not to give in, I suddenly eased off. 'What did the vestal virgin say to the eunuch?'

'I'd be willing if you were able?'

'Where did you get that from?'

'I just made it up, Marcus.'

'Ah!' I was disappointed. 'I hoped it might be from that scroll you always have your nose in.'

'Ah!' Helena said as well. She put on a light voice, avoiding particular emphasis. 'What about my scroll?'

'Do you remember Tranio?'

'Doing what?'

'Being a menace for one thing!' I said. 'You know, that night soon after we joined the company in Nabataea, when he came looking for something.'