An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

They were rescued from what Em was beginning to feel was a treacly morass of emotion by the insistent burbling of her phone. She dragged it out of her pocket. It was Leodigrace so she answered.
“Em speaking.”
“Your wererabbit is completely insane, Emmeline. He won’t ever be fit to be allowed back into society.”
“Well isn’t that a surprise. And what’s with the my wererabbit crap?”
Leodigrace laughed, a deep sensual sound guaranteed to melt the knickers of any normal female. But Em wasn’t a normal female so she snarled at him.
“Did you have anything useful to say, doggy?”
It was his turn to snarl and Em laughed at his discomfiture. 
“Okay, Emmeline shall we call it an honourable draw? And I do have some information you may find interesting.”
Em put her phone on speaker.
“I’m listening.”
“The batshit crazy bat hater was actually being paid to exterminate the small fliers. He seems to have reported locally to one Sidney Harmsley-Gunn, but the paymaster was an American gentleman called Dominic Schilling.” Leodigrace suddenly sounded serious and profoundly formal. “Be very careful, Emmeline Vanderbilt, your little village has something someone somewhere is prepared to go to almost any lengths to get. And. Queen of Vampires, I am permitted to offer you the aid of weres, should it be that we can help.”
Em felt a prickle over her skin at his formal tone. Leodigrace was someone she respected, which was rare for a were. They were still early on in their own Time of Mitigation, having not read the way things were changing as quickly as the vampire community. So now they had the same kind of problems with rogues that Em had needed to confront a century past. She had some sympathy for that, although tempered by frustration at their folly in failing to see the signs and leaving it so late. 
But Leodigrace had been one of the first to listen and had even swallowed his pride to ask her advice on how it could be done for the were community. If he was now offering his aid then whatever plans Harmsley-Gunn had bought into would be disastrous for the village. So she answered his formality with her own. 
“Thank you, Father of Weres.”
He broke the connection and Em looked at Agnes who was barely keeping her anger in check, but it was Ginny who held her attention. The wispy woman whose surprising bravery had bought her near destruction was gone and in her place sat a proper vampire. She looked as cold as death and as implacable.
“Dominic Schilling,” she hissed, “is a creature without honour or compassion, Demonic Schilling is closer to the mark and he belongs to Ronald Dump.”
Em heard the name, but for a moment she was unable to make any connection to the words. 
Agnes was a different matter. “Ronald Dump? Well we aren’t having that bastard on our patch.” Then she began to swear, comprehensively and with real white-hot anger.
Then Em put the pieces together. “Dump? Fat, bald guy with more money than God? Builds upmarket ‘resorts’, drives out the locals and bankrupts the surrounding economies?”
“Yes,” Ginny snarled. “That awful excuse for a human being. If I am right he will already have bought most of the county council. That’s how he operates – carpeting cash over everything so he can stroll over the crushed bodies to his next photoshoot with the latest bigtime supermodel. And Schilling is his procurer in chief, his right hand flunky.” She almost spat her contempt. “We have to stop him. That werewolf you were talking to is absolutely right. Everything we love about this village would be devoured by his obsessive need to win. He doesn’t care about anything or anyone except himself.”
Ginny broke off and closed her mouth tightly as if afraid what might come out of it if she let it open.
“You have encountered him before?” Em prompted.
 “I lost a battle with him many years ago. He wanted to demolish some listed buildings to expand one of his hotels. We had all the evidence. We had the law on our side. But he corrupted the leadership of the planning department – who I happened to be married to at the time. So he won then. But I’m ready for him now. And this time it’s personal.”
She flexed her fingers and Em almost heard the bugle that was calling her to battle.
Agnes finished swearing under breath and looked at Ginny.
“First stop, Harmsley-Gunn?”
“He invited me onto the parish council, so I really should accept.”
Ginny managed a grin so vicious that it gave Em a good feeling about their new recruit. She had thought her a wet hen, but the youngest vampire in the country seemed to be coming out of her corner, brimming with passion and spoiling for a fight even before her Making was complete.

Part Twenty-Two of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and Eleanor Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Because life happens…

Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.

Secret

For life has a secret to share
It’s all about when you should care
About who, and what for,
And how you show the door
To those takers who never are fair!

Eleanor Swift-Hook

In a modern-day Britain where the Roman Empire never left, Dai and Julia solve murder mysteries, whilst still having to manage family, friendship and domestic crises…

“Notebook entry. Confirm date, Post Ides, Maius. Time, night watch, at two twenty three, and location Augusta Arena, Londinium, Britannia Maxima. Looks like the report of a murder was not wrong. He seems pretty deceased to me.”
Under the brilliant lights of the pitch, which turned night into day, the body would have looked gruesome anyway. It had no face. But laid out as it was on a white sheet, the injuries seemed to stand out more. There was no blood but…
Dai wished he had not put quite so much garum on the chips he had been eating less than an hour ago. Even after more than eight years in the job he still found he had little stomach for the messier end of it. At least the hands seemed to still be intact, which made part of the process a lot easier. He pressed the touchscreen of his identipad against one finger and then entered the other necessary details. DNA and fingerprint checks both came up. Which was unusual as most murder victims were unregistered on either database. But when he saw the image he knew why this one was different.
This had once been Treno Bellicus ‘Big Belly’: one of the leading lights of the Caledonian Game team here in Londinium for the Games. That had to be more than ironic.
Dai, like every schoolkid in Britannia, knew that an arena had stood here since before the Divine Diocletian had rebuilt the Empire under his heavy hand, spreading his brand of Romanisation as far as his arms would reach and at the same time snatching back the privilege of being a full citizen from all born outside Italia. Back then, the arena had staged the kind of barbaric and bloody spectacles ex-patriot Romans expected. And now? In all honesty, Dai could not say it was too much different. It might include a ball as a sop to those who wanted to call it sport, but the brutality remained the same. The Games in all their unrelenting savagery. Those who couldn’t be there in person to taste the dust and smell the blood could freely watch the spectacle on the screens on every street corner and in every public building. Bread and Circuses.

The prize that lured the finest athletes of the provinces to risk life and limb was otherwise unattainable Roman Citizenship, and this poor bastard had been a star player. A broad-featured face looked out of the screen on Dai’s wristphone, wearing a manufactured snarl; behind him was a virtual backdrop with sports drink logos and other product placements. Well, those sponsors had just lost one of their money-spinning assets.
Reluctantly, he returned his attention to the body and bent over it to peer at the visible injuries as he made his initial informal observations. It was as much talking himself through coping with the gruesome scene as anything of real value.
“Victim ID biometrics confirmed. Body is supine. Been dead the last four hours. He looks like he has been laid out all ready for anointing and Charon’s obol. But placed on a white cloth that I’m willing to bet half my next salary is going to be a bed sheet. Body was bled out, through the throat – ugly gash there – and cleaned up before being put here. The other half of my pay is going on the certainty there will be nothing on the body we can use to ID the killer. Other injuries I can see -”
One of the disadvantages of being a plainclothes investigator was it seemed to lead to less respect from civilians, especially from Roman civilians.
“Llewellyn?” the voice was coolly condescending.
Even though he had told his decanus to keep everyone away, Dai was grateful for the excuse to straighten up and stop looking at the corpse.
The woman who stood there was in her thirties, with classic Roman features; she wore her fashionably short stola over close-fitting leggings and boots. For someone who must have been dragged out of bed in the small hours, she looked very well turned out and made Dai wish he could cover the small stain on his tunic where he had dropped a chip when the call to attend this crime came through. Her name badge declared her to be ‘Annia Belonia Flavia’ and said she was Curatrix Prima. No doubt in charge of this arena. She was frowning at him and he realised he must be staring.
“That is indeed who I am, domina.”
Behind her back he could see Bryn, his decanus, looking guilty. So he should, but Dai had the feeling this woman was not the kind to be easily put off.
“Do you you know how this happened?” she demanded, as if it was Dai’s fault the body had been left in the middle of her pitch.
“Investigations are already underway,” he told her smoothly. “We have identified the victim and my people are questioning everyone who might have seen anything here.”
He had tried to put himself between her and the body, but she sidestepped and looked. Her hands went up to her face and the skin behind them looked almost as pale as the corpse, leaching into a light hint of green. To her credit, she recovered without vomiting, but she stepped back and took a breath before restoring the gravitas expected of a Roman matron.
“Who is it?”
“Treno Bellicus. You may have heard -”
“Of course I have.” She cut across him rudely as if wanting to reassert herself after the moment of weakness he had witnessed. “He is one of the contestants. He was reported missing days ago but you useless vigiles have done nothing about it.”
Dai took a breath and met her accusing glare with his own brand of gravitas.
“Well, you can be certain we are giving the matter our full attention now,” he assured her.
She snorted and stalked off.
“It strikes me that after two thousand years of unbroken Roman rule and all the incredible technological advances that has brought to the world, they would have figured simple things like that,” Bryn said, watching her retreating figure.
Dai glanced at his decanus, saw his expression and decided to bite.
“Things like what?”
“How to run a decent criminal investigation service. I mean clearly these vigiles she speaks of are cack. That poor woman, having to deal with such incompetents. It must be very trying for her.”
“I’ve met a few who really are,” Dai agreed, grinning, “but Roman Citizens just have to man up and make do with the inefficiencies and restrictions of Imperial rule out here in the provinces. She should just be glad we have the most essential basics like hovercars and the internet.”
“Yeah. I don’t know how the poor dears manage here in this primitive and barbarous land, so far from Rome where everything is always perfect.”
“If I didn’t know you better I might think you were abandoning Stoicism to become a Cynic, Bryn.”
“What? You have met my half-Roman wife? My mother’s half-Roman too. With those women folk I’m a Stoic, man, through and through. I have to be.”
Dai laughed and shook his head, then they both turned their attention back to the very unfunny reality of the corpse at their feet.

You can keep reading about the murder of Treno Bellicus in Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook 

Some words seem much neglected
Such as galumphing and hirsute
And pedagogue and ortanique
(That is a sort of fruit).
And then there’s words like eldritch
And others of such feral fame
Preternatural, numinous
Are just two that I could name

And in the world of nature
So many words have wilted now
Like bosky, glebe and moiley
(That is a sort of cow).
Yet if I should then apricate
And rain falls from the welkin blue
I might get wet, yet still enjoy
The petrichor with you.

Mayhap tis serendipity
That English can record
Words like nithing and guerdon
(That’s a sort of reward).
But I am otiose today
And so will close this posy
And take my scapegrace self to reave
A potation we call rosy.

Eleanor Swift-Hook

Being a true shifter isn’t the blessing it may seem. But through pain and darkness Perdita seeks to find her own life despite the ambition of others…

Chapter Nine – Sister Act

As soon as the old one hit the ground his illusion began to disintegrate. With the enchanted landscape falling apart around her, the Queen sat up straighter. It was as if she was awakening from a deep sleep. She stretched until you could hear her joints pop and looked around her.
The illusion was truly horrible now with trees and stones turning into what looked and smelled like decomposing corpses and the ground beneath our feet running with every imaginable effluvium – and some I didn’t want to imagine. As the landscape stretched and contracted about Her Majesty, the only fixed points were ourselves and the wolves. Those two crouched side by side and I wondered what they were up to. It hit me, about a half a second too late.
Fortunately for the Faerie Queen, Mandrake does do thinking and the burst of blue fire he shot stopped the leaping wolves before they reached her throat.
The Queen froze them where they dropped with blue ice from her fingertips before returning to her accustomed form. She saw Moth and rapped out a question in the fae language – which is beyond my understanding. Moth broke the mind link before responding. To be honest, I didn’t much like her tone, but thus is ever the way between the sisters. And when the two of them stood nose to nose shouting I was glad not to understand what it was they said.
Mandrake wrapped his arms around me and bent to my ear.
“As a dragon should I be offended by the supposition I am incapable of thought?” he whispered.
I turned in his embrace and looked into his eyes to see he was far from angry at my deception. “I nearly got away with it.”
“You did. And to be honest if your folksy milkmaid hadn’t got him to drop his guard as far as it did we were all dead. Whilst he was busy regretting the necessity of killing you, Moth could cast an illusion and I could bash in his brains. Tell me something, though, why did he not see your wise old soul in your eyes?”
I made the tiny shift that gives me guileless brown eyes dimmed with the clouds of cataracts. Mandrake smiled.
“Very clever. Adds to the impression of vulnerability, but doesn’t it affect your vision?”
“Yes. Which is why I only do it in emergencies.”
The conversation between Moth and the Queen was becoming spikier and spikier and I hid my face against Mandrake’s chest.
“What is with those two?” he muttered.
“Apart from the fact they are half-sisters who were brought up to be in constant competition with each other?”
“Yes. Apart from that.”
“The Queen’s Majesty has more than a touch of paranoia when it comes to her siblings. Thinks they’re after her throne. Which is ridiculous. Moth wouldn’t have it as a gift, and their brother, Shadow, is gentle scholarly soul with a club foot and zero ambition. Trouble is, their guardian raised them to believe the throne was their destiny and encouraged the kind of blind ambition that goes with that assumption. I think Moth even bought into it until she found me and we bonded.”
Mandrake rubbed a hand up and down my back. “Not a lot of family feeling then?” I shook my head. “And their carping echoes right through your bones doesn’t it?”
I nodded and he hugged me wrapping one big, warm hand about the back of my neck, where it eased the tension and the headachy feel.
“Thank you, loved dragon.”
He extended his loving protection like a barrier around me and I willingly surrendered to comfort. I don’t know for how long I leaned on his formidable physicality, but I was dragged back to the business in hand by a distraught Moth. She landed on my shoulder and threw her arms around my head hugging as tight as she was able and sobbing broken-heartedly. I put one hand on her heaving shoulders and Mandrake covered it with his. We poured our love into her, and her sobs slowly subsided.
She sat back and knuckled her eyes. I proffered a small handkerchief and she mopped herself efficiently.
“Moth is sorry. Bad things happen. Shadow dead.”
“Oh no.”
Moth hiccuped. “Yes. Stupid sister still won’t see he don’t want throne.”
I sighed. “No. I don’t suppose she can. But what happened?”
“They bring his head.”
“Who?”
“I don’t understand. Black dragon comes. Brings old one. After this Sister remembers not.”
For a brief time I was too absorbed in sorrow for Moth and her gentle brother to notice anything else. However I was dragged into the reality of our situation by the unnatural rigidity of Mandrake’s body. I turned quickly and laid my hands on his face. I had thought him on the edge of the change, but he wasn’t. He was in control, just in a state beyond anger and I understood that he knew who this black dragon must be, and that it was bad.
“Are you sure it was a black dragon?” he managed to be gentle with Moth.
“Yes. Sister says black and gleaming like oiled silk.”
Mandrake made a sound deep in his chest and I felt impelled to touch my hand to his heart.
“Whatever it is, loved one, we are in it together.”
Moth laid her hand over mine. “Together.”
His smile was purest love. “Trust me? I need to do something and there’s no time to explain.”
“With my life and beyond.”
“Moth too.”
Mandrake took a step forward and flamed. Flames of the hottest blue consumed the body of the old enchanter and carried on burning until there was nothing left but a pile of ash. Divining his intention I ran to a huge oriel window and wrenched it open letting in real snow to mix with the rapidly decaying fake. Moth clapped her tiny hands and a wind picked up the sorcerer’s ashes sweeping them out into the snowstorm that now howled about Castel Seelie. When the last fragment was gone I wrestled the window closed and turned to face the fury of the Queen. She pointed a shaking finger at Mandrake.
“How dare you! I will have you skinned alive for that.”
“Won’t,” Moth declared. “Unless you want fight.”
The Queen deflated a bit. “At least tell me why that was necessary. I wanted to send his head to his confederates – as soon as I find out who they are.”
Mandrake showed her his teeth. “Oh yes, and have some necromancer reanimate a creature whose mind is intimately entwined with that of the Queen of the Fairies. That’d be great wouldn’t it?”
The Queen narrowed her eyes and stared at him but then the truth of what he said hit her and she crumpled into her throne, suddenly looking old and afraid.
“I need to stop reacting and start thinking, don’t I?”
I didn’t bother to sugar coat it. “You do. And pretty quickly unless you want to lose your throne to some conniving elf.”
Moth looked severe. “You needs help.”
“But who can I trust?”
Moth shrugged. “Who you likes least.”
“You then.”
“No. I am bonded. I will not.”
“Not even for the fate of your people?”
I stepped in. “Stop trying to manipulate your sister. Or would you contend with me?”
For about ten seconds, I thought she would be that stupid but she pulled back.
“What’s the matter with me? I open my mouth and something stupid comes out.”
It was difficult not to explain that it happened because, on a lot of levels, she was stupid, but I held my tongue. Moth came to my shoulder in search of help and even if I would have refused the silly queen, I could never refuse my bond sister.

Jane Jago

He stalks the night on silent paws
From shadow to shadow like a wraith
Obedient only to his own laws
Glossy and midnight from tail to face
Astride the fence defiance calls
To any who dare his wrath incur
And stands atop the garden wall
Malice hid in silken fur
He walks alone yet has no fear
Of anything the dark may hold
Bright of eye and sharp of ear
Moonlight only makes him bold
Throughout the day he cushioned sleeps
And twitching dreams of silver moons
His human servants fawn and weep
And bring him food on a golden spoon

Jane Jago

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

It’s difficult to be afraid when your mind and body have been so augmented that you can no longer feel pain, and although Figgis was outnumbered he crawled into a scrape in the ground beneath his enemies’ transport. 

Whistling soundlessly, he attached one of the limpet mines from his belt then snake-wriggled onto the shelter of the one stubby tree the oasis boasted.

Another entity might have felt a stirring of pity when the slavers herded the children into their transpo just before it exploded.

But it’s difficult to be human when your emotions have been scientifically scraped away…

Jane Jago

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

“Post-menopausal, wise, calm and risk averse?” Ginny digested the news and grinned wryly. “So I qualify on at least one criterion.”
Agnes, who seemed supremely good at the ‘there, there, never mind’ bits of this conversation, offered a smile of fellow feeling. “You are probably better qualified on all counts than I was when I was Made.”
Em laughed. “You were a dreadful old tart. I was horrified.”
“I still am a dreadful old tart at heart. You’ve just got used to me.”
Ginny gazed from one face to the other. “Just how long have you two been friends?”
“A couple of hundred years, give or take a decade or so.”
Deciding to let that one sit and not think about it right now, Ginny asked the other big question that had been nagging at her ever since she’d seen the vicar become a giant rabbit. A wererabbit, Agnes had said.
 “Given that I have to accept that vampires are real, how many other supernatural beings are more than wild fiction?”
Agnes shrugged. “Most of them. There’s obviously weres and rather a lot of nature spirits. Weres and vampires are natural enemies, so we tend to keep out of each other’s way. And nature spirits are shy. Goblins are a problem if they aren’t regulated as they breed like rabbits and they will eat anything they can catch.”
Caught completely unawares Ginny shook her head. “How do you regulate goblins?”
“There used to be an annual goblin cull, but that got stopped in the last century when we discovered their numbers could be controlled by contraception. Now the females get an annual implant.”
Em looked sternly into Ginny’s face. “Which only leaves elves and fairies.”
Ginny clasped her hands together, her mind full of the flower fairy books she’d adored as a child and the majestic elves of Tolkein she had loved in her teens.
Em made a tutting noise with her tongue behind her teeth. “Never trust a fairy. And if you are ever unfortunate enough to meet an elf, keep your hand on your weapon and don’t take your eyes off the double-dealing little bastard.”
Ginny felt deflated. Was nothing as she had believed it to be? But then she realised she was being told all this for her own protection and sat up straighter. 
“What else do I need to know?”
Agnes picked up the ball. “For now? Not much. Em does the interface between the ‘normal’ community and the local supes, and she will introduce you to the various liaison officers when the occasion allows… Otherwise? Keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth closed.”
“I think I can manage that bit. Do I get a teacher of any sort?”
“Yes. You get a mentor. Strictly speaking it should be Em. But as she is Queen and has far too much to do already, I’ll be deputising for her.”
Ginny felt a good deal of relief, as she was more than a bit intimidated by the formidably elegant and imposing Em, who raised a finger.
“Before Agnes takes you home and bores you to death with vampire lore I have two things to say. The first is a question. How are you fixed financially?”
Ginny felt herself redden, but realised honesty was the only possible policy. “Truthfully not as well as I had hoped. I can probably just about scrape by until I get my old age pension. If I’m careful.”
Em actually smiled, a kindly sort of a smile. “Sadly, vampires don’t get that pension, but the supernatural scheme is far more generous anyway. It’s kind of like unemployment benefits, but they can’t sanction you. The idea is that if we are given a basic level of support we’ll not be tempted to run riot. You qualify immediately and if you email me your bank details I’ll fill in all the forms for you and get it up and running straight away.”
It all sounded so normal and well organised that Ginny found her underlying anxiety at the strangeness of it all receding. She felt warmed by the thought of financial security, and her relief must have shown in her face because Agnes leaned across and gave her a hug. 
“I live very comfortable on the pension.” Ginny glanced at Em and Agnes laughed a big belly laugh. “No. She doesn’t need a pension –  being filthy rich and all that.”
Em sighed. “Thanks Agnes.”
“Better to get it out in the open. Things only fester in the dark.”
“I suppose so. But the second thing I wanted Ginny to understand is that she is now a Sister of our nest.”
Ginny understood this at some basic level of self. The word ‘nest’ suddenly summoned a powerful sense of belonging and she felt a tear run down her face. “Sisterhood being, if I understand it properly, both a duty and a boon.  You have my word that the concerns of the nest are now my concerns.”
Em inclined her head. “And care for your well-being and happiness is the duty and pleasure of your Sisters.”
Ginny felt as if she had received both a blessing and a task and above all it felt, in her heart of hearts, like coming home.

Part Twenty-One of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and Eleanor Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Because life happens…

Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.

Heaven

It isn’t as if we can tell
When life isn’t going to go well
So being prepared
Means you need not be scared
Cos you’ll still find your heaven in hell

Eleanor Swift-Hook

In a modern-day Britain where the Roman Empire never left, Dai and Julia solve murder mysteries, whilst still having to manage family, friendship and domestic crises…

Anno Diocletiani MDCCLXXV Augustus

Temporary border guard, Julia Lucia Maxilla, was both angry and suspicious, but she kept both emotions hidden under a bland expression. The grizzled time-server who was handing out the orders looked a bit puzzled for a moment, but he pressed on.
“Maxilla. Looks as if you have copped the forest road patrol. You should have been with Ampillus but he has the grippe. Nobody scheduled to take his place. So you’re on your own.”
“Dominus,” she said woodenly.

When the briefing was over and the officer had retreated a few of her fellow border guards commiserated.
“That ain’t right,” one of the older women said. “They shouldn’t ought to put anybody on the forest road alone. Let alone a bit of a girl like you. I got a good mind…”
Julia gave the hard, scarred woman her urchin grin.
“I’ll be all right. All else fails I can climb a tree and wait for rescue.”
“Yeah. But this is a three-day shift. Just be careful, kid.”
They headed into the mess tent where they were serving… beans. As Julia held out her plate the server pressed a scrap of paper into her hand. She didn’t react, merely indicating that one scoop of beans in red sauce was quite enough for her. On the pretext of wiping her hand on her trousers, Julia transferred the paper to her pocket and went to sit with a group of the day’s detail.
“Beans aren’t bad today,” one of the youngest lads ventured, “nice and spicy.”
Julia essayed a spoonful to find that, as pork and beans went, this wasn’t bad at all.
“You don’t eat enough to keep a bird alive,” the same youngster opined, only to be given a sharp clip across the ear by the nearest veteran.
Julia laughed. “There isn’t much of me.”
“No. There ain’t.” The young guard was crimson to his eartips and clearly suffering great embarrassment.
“Eat up, you great lump,” a stringy toothless middle-aged professional soldier recommended. “Otherwise we’ll be off before you has finished.”
The youngster subsided and began shovelling his enormous portion of beans into his mouth.
Julia ate quickly and neatly, taking her plate to the wash up on her way out of the tent. She made an unnecessary side trip to the latrines, this being the only place she could be sure of privacy. The one-armed ex-soldier on latrine duty grinned at her.
“Go to the far end and I’ll make sure none of the asshole boys disturbs you.” “Thanks.”
Once seated, she removed the scrap of paper from her pocket.
‘Dont eet stu’. The writing was laboured and at best semi-literate and there was what looked like a drawing of closed eyes. Oh merda, she thought bitterly, somebody had slipped a sleeping potion into her food. There really was something underhand going on.
Carefully shredding the scrap of paper she dropped it into the malodorous pit beneath her and reassembled her clothing. One day, she thought wryly, Rome would give some consideration to the living conditions on the eastern border. Then maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to garrison the forts. She sauntered out of the stink, with her small nose wrinkled.
“Thanks Corvus,” she grinned at the old timer who was one of the few inhabitants of the border fortress to have been consistently kind and considerate to a small female, graduate entrant soldier on secondment to plug a hole in the border troop.

Back in the tiny space she got to call her own Julia packed, carefully adding a number of pieces of contraband from their hiding place in the gel mattress on the unoccupied bunk above hers. She shouldered her pack and went to join the queue at the commissariat. A wooden faced cook handed out packets of food designed to last each soldier for the three days of their shift. When she appeared in front of him he gave her a very shifty look before essaying a smile. He bent down and pulled a parcel out from under the counter.
“Special packet with smaller portions for a little lady,” he leered.
Julia forced herself not to spit into his face as he handed her the ‘special’ food parcel.
I’ll bet it’s special, she thought, but contrived a smile as she passed out onto the parade ground.
She found her group, under the aegis of a big red-faced bully who had made little secret of his contempt for a female soldier of such diminutive size and with what he considered to be an excessive amount of education. However, this particular morning he forbore from comment and even halfway smiled. None of which filled Julia with confidence, but she kept a smooth, bland face even if her mind was racing.
As usual, the centurion in charge of fort number XXVI came out onto the apron of stamped sand outside the guardroom to speak to the detail before they left for their shift.
Julia was too far away to hear whatever inspiring sentiments he was mouthing, instead she studied his handsome face with some contempt. He was too smooth, too comfortable, and altogether too rich for the commander of an unremarkable fort on the thousand-mile eastern border of Imperium Romanum. His wife wore silk and cashmere and the whole family ate the most expensive delicacies off the finest silver-gilt dishes and drank the best Gallic wines out of delicate glassware from Venezia. Oh yes, he was up to something, it was only a matter of proving what.
Her mind went back three months to a private interview with the newly-appointed Tribune in charge of forts number XXI to XL. Decimus Lucius Didero had looked down his formidable patrician nose at her before grinning a wolfish grin.
“There’s too much money sloshing about up there. Rome wants to know where it is coming from. The idea being to plug the hole, or, failing that, to raise some taxes out of it.”
She had nodded, and received an approving pat from a big hand.
“Be careful Julia. Money and power equals danger.”
“I know. But they are a lot less likely to suspect me than a man.”
“As long as they don’t know who you are…”
“That’s your job. I’m just a junior customs officer. You’re the big bad wolf.”
“You are not just a customs officer, though that would be bad enough, you are also the adopted sister of one of the men tasked with putting Rome’s sandalled foot on the back of people’s necks.” He looked down into her smooth little face. “Just be very, very careful.”
And she had been careful. But now she was pretty sure somebody had lined her up for something, probably something unpleasant. She didn’t think she had been rumbled, so what in the name of Jupiter was going on? She would have to wait and see – and walk very carefully in the meantime.
The centurion finished his peroration and disappeared back into the arms of his family. That was the signal for the detail to move out. At first there was properly Roman marching, but once out of sight of the fort, progress became rather less regimented with the detail rapidly dispersing into smaller groups.
“Maxilla,” the red-faced bully of a decanus bellowed.
“Dominus.” “Orelious and his boys will escort you to your guard hut on the way to their patrol area. Keep up now.”
She ducked her head and he took that as respectful assent.
When he had disappeared, the veteran Orelious spat eloquently.
“Cunnus,” he grunted.

You can keep reading about Julia Lucia Maxilla‘s investigation in Dying to be Friends by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook