|The Jupiter Myth
By Lindsey Davis
Published by Mysterious Press
September 2003; 0-892-96777-3; 352 pages
It depends what we mean by civilization," the procurator mused. Staring at the corpse, I was in no mood to discuss philosophy. We were in Britain, where the rule of law was administered by the army. Justice operated in a rough-and-ready fashion so far away from Rome, but special circumstances meant this killing would be difficult to brush aside.
We had been called out by a centurion from the small local troop detachment. The military presence in Londinium was mainly to protect the governor, Julius Frontinus, and his deputy, the procurator Hilaris, but since the provinces are not manned by the vigiles, soldiers carry basic community policing. So the centurion attended the death scene, where he became a worried man. On investigation, an apparently routine local slaying acquired "developments."
The centurion told us he had come to the bar expecting just a normal drunken stabbing or battering. To find a drowned man headfirst down a well was slightly unusual, exciting maybe. The "well" was a deep hole in a corner of the bar's tiny backyard. Hilaris and I bent double and peered in. The hole was lined with the waterproof wooden staves of what must be a massive German wine container; water came nearly to the top. Hilaris had told me these imported barrels were taller than a man, and after being emptied of wine they were often reused in this way.
When we arrived, of course the body had already been removed. The centurion had pulled up the victim by his boots, planning to heave the cadaver into a corner until the local dung cart carried it off. He himself had intended to sit down with a free drink while he eyed up the attractions of the serving girl.
Her attractions were not up to much. Not by Aventine standards. It depends what we mean by attractive, as Hilaris might muse, if he were the type to comment on waitresses. Myself, I was that type, and immediately as we entered the dim establishment I had noticed she was four feet high with a laughable leer and smelled like old boot liners. She was too stout, too ugly, and too slow on the uptake for me. But I'm from Rome. I have high standards. This was Britain, I reminded myself.
There was certainly no chance of anyone getting free drinks now that Hilaris and I were here. We were official. I mean really official. One of us held a damned high rank. It wasn't me. I was just a new middle-class upstart. Anyone of taste and style would be able to sniff out my slum background instantly.
"I'll avoid the bar," I joked quietly. "If their water is full of dead men, their wine is bound to be tainted!"
"No, I'll not try a tasting," agreed Hilaris in a tactful undertone. "We don't know what they may stuff in their amphorae . . ."
The centurion stared at us, showing his contempt for our attempts at humor.
This event was even more inconvenient for me than it was for the soldier.
All he had to worry about was whether to mention the awkward "developments" on his report. I had to decide whether to tell Flavius Hilaris-- my wife's Uncle Gaius--that I knew who the dead man was. Before that, I had to evaluate the chances that Hilaris himself had known the casked corpse.
Hilaris was the important one here. He was procurator of finance in Britain. To put it in perspective, I was a procurator myself, but my role-- which involved theoretical oversight of the Sacred Geese of Juno-- was one of a hundred thousand meaningless honors handed out by the Emperor when he owed someone a favor and was too mean to pay in cash.
Vespasian reckoned my services had cost enough, so he settled up remaining debts with a joke. That was me: Marcus Didius Falco, the imperial clown. Whereas the estimable Gaius Flavius Hilaris, who had known Vespasian many years ago in the army, was now second only to the provincial governor. Since he did know Vespasian personally, then (as the governor would be aware), dear Gaius was the emperor's eyes and ears, assessing how the new governor ran the province.
He did not need to assess me. He had done that five years ago when we first met. I think I came out well. I wanted to look good. That was even before I fell for his wife's elegant, clever, superior niece. Alone in the Empire, Hilaris had always thought Helena might end up with me. Anyway, he and his own wife had received me back now as a nephew by marriage as if it were natural and even a pleasure.
Hilaris looked a quiet, clerkish, slightly innocent fellow, but I wouldn't take him on at draughts--well, not unless I could play with my brother Festus' weighted dice. He was dealing with the situation in his usual way: curious, thorough, and unexpectedly assertive. "Here's one Briton who has not acquired much benefit from Roman civilization," he had said on being shown the corpse. That was when he added dryly, "I suppose it depends what you mean by civilization, though."
"He took in water with his wine, you mean?" I grinned.
"Better not jest." Hilaris was no prude and it was not a reproof.
He was a lean, neat man, still active and alert--yet grayer and more haggard than I had remembered him. He had always given a slight impression of ill health. His wife, Aelia Camilla, seemed little changed since my last visit, but Flavius Hilaris looked much older and I felt glad I had brought my own wife and youngsters to see him while I could.
Trying not to show that I was watching him, I decided he did know the dead man at his feet. As a career diplomat, he would also be aware of why this death would cause us problems. But, so far, he was not mentioning his knowledge to me.
That was interesting.Copyright © 2003 Lindsey Davis
Reprinted with permission.
There's no place like home. Unfortunately Marcus Didius Falco is a thousand miles north, stuck in the Roman outpost of Londinium. And just when he's about to pack up his family, assorted relatives, and friend Petronius to return to Rome, a dead body turns up, head down, in a well behind a local drinking establishment. The victim is Verovolcus, a nobleman known to Falco and, more important, a close friend of the king. Suddenly Falco has a murder case to solve before he can get out of town.
Deciding to go undercover to investigate, Falco asks his patrician wife, Helena, to dress up like a neighborhood tart. Incognito, this Roman Nick and Nora undertake that timeless British tradition...the pub crawl. Soon Falco has the makings of a major hangover, a tip that Verovolcus had dealings with dangerous gangsters, and a starving orphan. Actually, Helena has the orphan, as her soft heart compels her to take in yet another stray. Falco can't complain. She once took him in.
Sic eunt fata hominum; thus go the fates of men. Following the killer, Falco and his pal Petro delve deeper into the city's demimonde and wind up at an arena featuring female gladiators. Here a surprise waits for Falco, one that's sure to get him in trouble with Helena, while a deadlier one will be found in a deserted part of town. But even among outcasts and rogues, Falco discovers comradeship and honor...and, with his own life hanging in the balance, someone willing to die for a friend.
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Lindsey Davis was born in 1943 and brought up in Birmingham. She earned her English degree at Oxford, then joined the Civil Service. When she first started writing, she wrote romantic serial commissions for Woman's Realm. She then changed to writing about the Romans and published The Course of Honor, which is a remarkable true love story of the Emperor Vespasian and his mistress Antonia Caenis. Research into imperial Rome inspired The Silver Pigs, the first book in the series featuring Marcus Didius Falco, a Roman informer in the AD70s, which has now attracted a devoted readership.