Two Women and Some Books
Love in times of Coronavirus
Isn’t about sex
It’s about taking precautions
And wondering who is next
Love in days of quarantine
Isn’t bulkly buying
It’s getting stuff for other folk
Alone and lonely sighing
Love in times of distancing
Isn’t about skin to skin
It’s about calling on the phone
When you can’t be dropping in
It’s about yelling over the fence
Across the street conversations
Trying to be sociable
Without leaving your station
Enjoy the opening of Dying on the Mosaics, one of The Dai and Julia Mysteries by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago set in a Britain where the Roman Empire never left, which is free to download 18-22 April.
The cheap baths in Londinium were not the most salubrious place to meet but needs must when times demanded. At first he thought no one was there, then a changing cubicle opened. The man who emerged looked much older than he expected and a slight tic flickered in the corner of his eye. They had been friends once, but now there were other bonds that tied them.
The man with the tic washed his hands and under the cover of the sound of running water, murmured. “You have to do something. This could destroy me – destroy us, destroy the entire consortium.”
It was interesting to see how weak and vulnerable a proud man could become. Contemptible but interesting.
“Don’t worry. Fortunately for you I’ve been thinking ahead and will be in a good place to deal with it.”
The man with the tic nodded, their eyes meeting in the mirror for a moment, then turned and walked out. He had left the data drive in the cubicle as arranged and it was a moment’s work to pocket it and walk out.
I
Ante Diem Septimum Idus September MDCCLXXVIII Anno Diocletiani
The body lay sprawled on the cold, mosaic floor of the Basilica Viriconia. Dai found irreverent and irrelevant thoughts going through his mind about how having a murder scene so close to the Vigiles House was so convenient and considerate of the killer. He recognised them for what they were. An instinctive protection against the horror.
And horror this was.
The headless corpse had been carefully arranged so its posture fitted to the Caput Deum, the head of the Divine Diocletian, picked out on the floor there as it was in every official building in the Empire. Haloed in tiny golden tiles, it replaced in two dimensions the murder victims own head. The body was naked, male, and the only obvious identifying mark was the silver ring of Citizenship. Whoever this was they were most-likely Romano-British.
“Same M.O. as the last one,” Senior Investigator Bryn Catrivel observed. “This is getting sick and creepy, Bard.”
His familiar tone and form of address drew an odd look from the other man present, Sextus Catus Bestia who had recently taken up the role of Magistratus for Demetae and Cornovii. Recently enough, Dai knew that he had yet to realise Bryn and Dai were long time friends and work partners. That they had served together in the Vigiles in Londinium for eight years before Dai was appointed to be Submagistratus based here in Viriconium.
Dai looked around the broad expanse of the civic building’s portico and noticed the dead-eyed cameras.
“They even found a way to take the surveillance offline, I’m guessing.”
The Magistratus cleared his throat. His long face looking distinctly sallow beneath the carefully trimmed black hair. He lifted one hand, palm forward, the heavy gold patrician ring of Citizenship very obvious on his index finger.
“Um. I’m terribly afraid that might be my fault. I was testing it late yesterday afternoon and I told the disadattatus I would restore it to normal mode as it was the end of his working day, but I must have forgotten and I suppose it stayed down overnight. Mea culpa. Isn’t there a night watchman of some sort?”
“Used to be, dominus,” Bryn said heavily. “Until Aprilis. That was when the last man retired and as the automatic surveillance had been upgraded it wasn’t felt necessary to replace him.”
“Oh dear. That is not good, not good at all.” The Magistratus looked profoundly unhappy and shook his head. “The poor, poor man.”
Dai was wondering whether the ‘poor man’ in question was the retiring watchman, the disadattatus or the deceased when he caught the look Bryn sent him.
“Dominus, we should allow SI Cartivel to continue this murder investigation. As long as we are here it is getting in the way of what he needs to do.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” He started walking towards his office and Dai walked with him leaving Bryn giving clipped and efficient orders to his team. “Two Roman Citizens killed in this bizarre way.” He frowned heavily. “Wasn’t there some extreme Anti-Roman group operating in this area recently?”
“Yes, dominus. We had an unpleasant encounter with such a group last year. But they were dealt with conclusively.”
“Such evil can grow deep roots and spring up like mushrooms. But if you are certain, Llewellyn…” He trailed off as another thought clearly distracted him. “Considering how this is going I think I should take over the investigation myself.”
Dai felt his guts tighten. The new Magistratus had been in Viriconium for less than three weeks and in that time the impression he had made was not one to inspire any confidence in his ability to lead an investigation.
“Might I suggest, dominus that as you are still settling in and are not fully acquainted with the local circumstances, it might be better to let me do so.”
The Magistratus stopped on the spot.
“Well isn’t that the point? How am I ever going to get to know how things are here if I don’t jump in and get my hands dirty? Oh, don’t worry. I won’t be breathing down the neck of the local Vigiles – I’m sure they know what they need to do, I’ll just be overseeing not interfering. This is the kind of thing that can echo all the way to Augusta Trevorum and even Rome, you know. I just want to keep across it so if there is any come back I am the one who gets to do the testudu and your Vigiles won’t have to worry about taking any flak.”
Dai stifled the urge to snap that the Vigiles wouldn’t need any protecting if they were just left to do their job, but clearly the Magistratus meant well and was trying to show care and consideration for his subordinates.
The Magistratus placed a heavy hand on Dai’s shoulder.
“I know I have a very large set of sandals to fill to be able to measure up to Magistratus Ambrosius, but I want my people to know I have their backs. So I’ll have my primus secretarius – what’s his name again? Turtle? Turnbull? Terfel. That’s it – arrange for SI Cartivel to brief me twice daily and on any key developments. I can provide any support and resources as the investigation might require.” He nodded as if well satisfied by his own solution to the issue then smiled encouragingly at Dai. “It’ll be for the best.”
To keep reading FOR FREE (18 – 22 April) click here to download the novella.
The clouds all roll like breakers ‘cross the ocean of the sky
White horses a-chasing greys, with dapples running by
The thunderheads, black stallions a-gallop with the gale
As howls the call of the banshee storm bringing sleet and hail.
The trees bend low before the wind, which makes like autumn spring
As leaves and twigs and buds and flowers they rip away and fling
The hollow roar of taunting gusts, the pounding of the rain
The water from the river floods the fields and drowns the lane.
The fingers of the tempest from the roofs rips slates free
Vital pylons are brought down by gusts of o’er eighty
The human world turned upsidedown as wounded nature ranges
Unseasonal and more extreme, and still the climate changes…
Hola niños.
In a spirit of kindness and the immolation of self upon the altar of mutual aid and comfort, one has undertaken to answer literary questions posed by one’s students and their little friends.
This particular problem is one that faces many of us as we strive to draw inspiration from the people around us. I have often found myself wondering if my next door neighbour has yet realised that he has been immortalised in my pen portrait of the evil villain in Chapter Thirteen of ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’.
Dear Ivy,
How do I include my annoying mother-in-law as a murder victim in my next novel without risking a divorce?
Thanking you for your kind attention.
Penny.
This is an absolutely spiffing question Pennykins. The answer is, of course, a matter of complete simplicity to a mind as great as one’s own…
Describe the lady in every irritating little detail.
Enumerate her most revolting habits. Show the reader how she speaks, snores, breaks wind, misunderstands, and annoys. Detail her physicality, how she dresses, and how her voice sounds. Because she will NEVER recognise herself, and her offspring will equally not ever connect their beloved mother with the horror depicted in your prose. You are absolutely safe. Kill her off. With impunity. Or with whatever blunt, or sharp, instrument pleases you. Those who dislike her will recognise the old beldame and applaud your perspicacity. Her loved ones will never catch the reference.
Oh, and be sure to include the statement at the front of your book that all names, characters and events in the story are fictitious and that no identification with actual persons (living or deceased), is intended or should be inferred. Then even the law is on your side.
Win. Win.
Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV
If you have a literary problem you may avail yourself of one’s wisdom by posting to my Facebook presence.
You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.
Sana stopped walking to work along the main street.
They’d be there. Men and women. Silent, hostile glares or shouting abuse.
“Come here! I’ve got some letters to post.” Laughter.
“I bet you wear that cos you’re an ugly cow underneath it.”
“Why don’t you return to your own country?”
“We don’t want your sort here.”
“Terrorist!
Like they thought it their right and she should be ashamed.
She daren’t shout back or tell them how she felt.
Persecuted.
Vilified.
Furious.
Women had been attacked for that – even killed.
So Sana walked an extra mile to work to avoid them.
When he reached the top of the steps he was met by a sweet-faced acolyte carrying a lantern.
“Good sir,” she said with gentle politeness, “our lady awaits you in the garden, may I escort you thither?”
He bowed floridly.
“That would be my pleasure.” His eyes rested on the girl’s smooth brown throat and the modest swell of her breasts. He thought he might come back one day for a bite of this tasty little morsel. But he followed her quietly enough, clasping his hands behind his back and emptying his mind of carnal thoughts.
The garden to which he was conducted was walled, and accessed via a green-painted wooden door. The acolyte curtseyed and gestured for him to enter. Once he was inside, the girl closed the door quietly behind him, before making the sign to ward off evil.
“Faugh,” she said, “he even smells of Her Majesty’s malice.”
Inside the garden, M’a’tsu found himself walking along a narrow grassy path beside a burbling stream. It wasn’t a comfortable walk as, although the path was lit with little twinkling star-like lights, the dragon had to bend his head to avoid the spiky undersides of the gunnera leaves that formed a green tunnel. When he stepped out into the moonlight he found himself blinking for a second in the brightness.
The princess was sitting on a velvety bank that was starred with tiny flowers which filled the air with a fugitive sweet fragrance. She turned her eyes to look at him, and the silver light picked out a sombre darkness in their depths that gave even M’a’tsu pause. His normally facile tongue deserted him for a moment and he stood in silence.
“Come and have a seat.”
She patted the grass and he walked towards her feeling the springy turf under his bare toes. It was still warm from the afternoon sun and the pleasure of it underfoot was almost sexual. The dragon smiled internally and regained his equilibrium. He couldn’t believe how his prey was playing into his hands. He sat down, at a careful distance from the princess. His eyes took in the long line of the princess’ neck and he allowed himself to think about his hands around that white skin as he despoiled her. The thought gave him great pleasure, but he kept his smile bland and avuncular. Or he thought he did. What he couldn’t see, or understand, was how the magic of the goddess’s garden revealed his innermost self to the gaze of his companion.
Her wide-set night-dark eyes, on the other hand, gave away nothing of what she was thinking. Banishing her inner revulsion, Tia smiled with shy modesty.
“Now then, my lord dragon, would you mind explaining why you are here?”
He gave her his shifted form’s most disarming smile and edged a little closer. “Truly, lady. I believe Her Majesty only seeks your happiness.”
“That is a change of heart since the last messenger who informed me that my lady mother had disinherited me and never wished to hear my name again.”
An extract from The Dragonheart Stories: Fairytales for Grownups by Jane Jago
The collected ‘wisdom’ of seven decades on this planet condensed into limerick form. Certainly not philosophy to live your life by…
A limerick’s good as a pet
I doesn’t need feeding, and yet
It will come to your aid
When you’re sad or afraid
And I’ve never been bit by one yet
The door opened with such force that it bounced back off the wall, and Hywel stomped in. His face was puce and he was waving a sheet of paper. Seemingly unable to speak he threw the paper on the table in front of Julia.
She read it and could feel the blood draining from her own face. It was an official complaint that the family of one Hywel Llewellyn, non-citizen, had been observed to be visiting a sub aquila residence without due authorisation.
The Villa Papaverus was not their own house, it was the residence that went with Dai’s job as Submagistratus and was owned by Rome. As such it was designated sub aquila which meant only Roman citizens and those non-citizens employed to work there were legally permitted inside.
“Oh merda,” she said softly. “I never even thought of that. Dai hates having that wretched eagle above our door.”
She passed the paper to Caudinus who read it swiftly then sighed.
“I am so sorry, I should have seen that coming. As I didn’t, I shall have to investigate.”
Hywel made a noise like a cat that has just had its fur stroked backwards,
“Sorry? Sorry that me and my entire family are being criminalised by your filthy Roman rules?”
Caudinus looked at him severely. “Hush man. Be glad I didn’t officially hear you say that. As I said, I do have to investigate. So will you just be quiet and let me think. Or is shouting and blustering at a pregnant woman something you think a good idea?”
Hywel subsided slightly.
“If this goes through the fine will take most of my livelihood for the last quarter.”
“Oh it’s worse than that,” Caudinus said his expression grim. “The fine would be the lightest of penalties. If it were deemed to have been done in deliberate defiance of Roman authority it could be counted as treason. And this complaint names you, your wife Enya and your step-mother, Olwen.”
Julia felt sick. Dai’s mother, sister-in-law and brother were being placed in real peril through someone’s spite.
“Treason?” Hywel echoed, his tone hollow and slumped into a chair, the fire and fury suddenly deserting him. Treason always carried the death sentence – a humiliating and agonising death in the arena.
Caudinus swept the printed emails into a pile and got to his feet.
“Yes, treason. But if I have anything to do with it, it won’t come to that and I will make sure you are issued with passes under my authority so there is not a problem ongoing.”
“Isn’t there something you can do to dismiss this?” Julia asked, “It is your legal jurisdiction after all.”
Caudinus pulled a face. “It will depend on the nature of the complaint and who the complainant is. It could go over my head to provincial level and those damnable bureaucrats in Augusta Treverorum.” He touched Julia lightly on the shoulder. “You mustn’t worry about this, you hear me?” His tone was stern. She mustered a smile more for his benefit than because she felt reassured. “And you come with me Llewellyn, I need to get some details from you, if you can guard your tongue enough to manage a trip to Viriconium with me?”
Hywel struggled to his feet looking shamefaced and anxious.
“Uh – yes. I’m sorry, dominus. I know it’s not your fault. I’m sorry, Julia too – it’s just that…”
Julia held out her arms and Hywel walked into them to receive a quick hug.
“It’s alright,” she said, letting him go, “but for Enya and Olwen’s sake and the children, you have to keep a lid on your anger over this.”
Hywel nodded and Julia felt a little more hopeful when Caudinus dropped her a wink over his head. A short time later she saw Caudinus’ hovercar gliding along the driveway.
An extract from Dying for a Vacation, by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook
Sara stopped walking to work along the main street.
They’d be there. Men. Blocking her path or following her, cat calling and wolf-whistles.
“Wow! Nice tits!”
“I’ll give you a hand with those big…” pause for effect, “bags!” Laughter.
“Give us a smile, you’d look so pretty if you smiled.”
“You got a boyfriend?”
“What’s your number?”
Like they thought it their right and she should be flattered!
She daren’t shout back or tell them how she felt.
Diminished.
Objectified.
Furious.
Women had been attacked for that – even killed.
So Sara walked an extra mile to work to avoid them.
They rode in silence through the streets of Alfor. The townsfolk moving quickly aside to let the Warlord and his entourage pass and then standing to watch as they went by. Some cheered half-heartedly, but most had sombre faces. Durban nodded and grinned at people he knew and caught a small wineskin thrown to him by one, a gorgeously dressed young man, whom he rewarded with an extravagant blown kiss. But he was fully aware of the dark and hostile glares which were directed at the man beside him.
Then someone yelled from the back of the crowd: “Gut the murdering bastard!”
And like a flame touched to dry tinder an ugly murmur spread quickly and rose, as the braver or more foolish amongst them, hurled abuse at Jariq.
“Baby-butcher!”
“Rapist!”
“Murderer!”
The voices seemed torn at random from the seething heart of the throng, as though the bitter hatred had swelled up and found tongue through a few individuals who spoke for them all. Durban glanced curiously at Jariq, who was riding stiffly in the saddle, his face set and his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance. Only the slight tightness of his lips betrayed his feelings.
“I never realised you were so popular,” Durban observed in an undertone. “Does this happen often?”
The Vavasor’s lips curved now into the grim travesty of a smile.
“Only in Terzibrand – I did not think to hear it in Alfor.”
“Don’t you think you should silence them?”
Jariq gave a brittle laugh.
“What’s the point? They’d only shout louder next time.”
“Your men are getting angry.”
It was true. The outriders of Jariq’s elite troupe were eying the crowd to pick out the source of the shouting and throwing appealing looks towards the Vavasor, eager to avenge the insults to their commander in blood. Then a stone flew out of the throng to glance off the Vavasor’s burnished metal vambrace. As Durban watched, he saw something within Jariq snap like a brittle twig and the Vavasor reined in his pony so sharply that it reared up in protest.
“Death of the gods,” he roared. “Must I put up with this cowardly babble?”
The crowd grew oddly quiet and the Warlord’s entourage ground to a jumbled halt behind them. They were about level with the entrance to the plaza and a knot of Zoukai had joined the throng. Durban felt the exultation of a master playwright, watching the first performance of his prize production. He had stopped his own pony a few paces behind the Vavasor, leaving Jariq alone centre stage, trembling with rage. His mount was now sidestepping nervously beneath him, its stubby ears flattened against its head. His words could incite a riot or initiate a massacre and at that moment Jariq looked quite prepared to do either or both. He took a breath and raised his voice to reach to the back of the crowd.
“The Fair is over. The entertainers are gone. Is this how you must now amuse yourselves? Bringing shame on your city and your Castellan by insulting the Most Honoured One, Qabal Vyazin and his retinue? Go back to your homes and your daily business. Be grateful that your sons and daughters do not know the meaning of war. Be grateful that the Warlord protects the people of his kinfolk and will stand between you and an army of conquest when the time comes.
“Only a foolish man will set a lapdog to guard his house. If you want protection for your children and your trade, you need men of spirit, men of war and not gelded eunuchs.”
His eyes raked the crowd as he spoke, challenging and defiant and Durban could see none brave enough to meet his gaze.
“Ride on!” Jariq’s voice rang out incisively and the Warlord’s escort resumed its interrupted passage through the city.
From The Fated Sky part one of Transgressor Trilogy a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook
