Last Act in Palmyra Read Online Free

the sound of that! Before you bother asking, my answer’s no.’
    Anacrites was keeping his face expressionless. He sipped his wine. I had seen him quaff fine fifteen-year-old Alban, and I knew he could tell the difference. It amused me to watch his strange, light eyes flicker as he tried not to mind drinking this bitter brew in company he also despised. He asked, ‘What makes you so certain the old man instructed me to go myself?’
    â€˜Anacrites, when he wants me, he tells me so in person.’
    â€˜Maybe he asked my opinion, and I warned him you were unreceptive to work from the Palace nowadays.’
    â€˜I’ve always been unreceptive.’ I was reluctant to mention my recent kick in the teeth, though in fact Anacrites had been present when my request for promotion was turned down by Vespasian’s son Domitian. I even suspected Anacrites was behind that act of imperial graciousness. He must have noticed my anger.
    â€˜I find your feelings perfectly understandable,’ the Chief Spy said in what he must have hoped was a winning way, apparently unaware he was risking several broken ribs. ‘You had a big investment in getting promoted. It must have been a bad shock being turned down. I suppose this spells the end of your relationship with the Camillus girl?’
    â€˜I’ll handle my own feelings. And don’t speculate about my girl.’
    â€˜Sorry!’ he murmured meekly. I felt my teeth grind. ‘Look, Falco, I thought I might be able to do you a favour here. The Emperor put me in charge of this; I can commission whoever I want. After what happened the other day at the Palace, you may welcome an opportunity to get as far away from Rome as possible…’
    Sometimes Anacrites sounded as though he had been listening at my doorlatch while I talked life over with Helena. As we lived on the sixth floor, it was unlikely any of his minions had flogged up to eavesdrop, but I took a firmer grip on my winecup while my eyes narrowed.
    â€˜There’s no need to go on to the defensive, Falco!’ He could be too observant for anybody’s good. Then he shrugged, raising his hands easily. ‘Suit yourself. If I can’t identify a suitable envoy I can always go myself.’
    â€˜Why, where is it?’ I asked, without intending to.
    â€˜Nabataea.’
    â€˜Arabia Petraia?’
    â€˜Does that surprise you?’
    â€˜No.’
    I had hung around the Forum often enough to consider myself an expert in foreign policy. Most of the gossipmongers on the steps of the Temple of Saturn had never stepped outside Rome, or at least had gone no further than whichever little villa in central Italy their grandfathers came from; unlike them I had seen the edge of the Empire. I knew what went on at the frontier, and when the Emperor looked beyond it I knew what his preoccupations were.
    Nabataea lay between our troubled lands in Judaea, which Vespasian and his son Titus had recently pacified, and the imperial province of Egypt. It was the meeting point of several great trade routes across Arabia from the Far East: spices and peppers, gemstones and sea pearls, exotic woods and incense. By policing these caravan routes the Nabataeans kept the country safe for merchants, and charged highly for the service. At Petra, their secretively guarded stronghold, they had established a key centre of trade. Their customs levies were notorious, and since Rome was the most voracious customer for luxury goods, in the end it was Rome who paid. I could see exactly why Vespasian might now be wondering whether the rich and powerful Nabataeans should be encouraged to join the Empire and bring their vital, lucrative trading post under our direct control.
    Anacrites mistook my silence for interest in his proposal. He gave me the usual flattery about this being a task very few agents could tackle.
    â€˜You mean you’ve already asked ten other people, and they all developed sick