He thought the flame of her amber hair
Burned for the love of he
He thought without him she’d not dare
She was what he allowed her to be
Her fire burned low and sullenly
So he thought himself her god
And on the day a blaze burst free
He merely thought her odd

©️jane jago 2024

Since Ben and Joss Beckett took over The Fair Maid and Falcon, they have had to deal with ghosts, gangsters and well-dodgy goings-on. Despite that they have their own family of twin daughters and dogs, and a fabulous ‘found family’ of friends.

August ground towards an end. It was hot, dry and enervating, enlivened by the odd crack of dry thunder. And the pub was jumping from opening time until we closed the doors on the last nightly revellers.
Ben and I quietly discounted helpful advice about how to maximise our heatwave profitability – like opening early for breakfast or having the pub open on every day of the week. Breakfasts would require yet another full kitchen brigade: staff we just didn’t have. And opening Sunday evening and Monday simply felt like a bridge too far. To clarify, for those who are not our regular customers, we have never opened on Sunday evenings and we made the decision to also close all day Monday a couple of years ago, when we calculated that the profit margins were healthy enough so to do.
To be brutally honest, without that weekly break I don’t know how we would have coped. All our usual staff got some time off, while the cleaning crew came in on Mondays and gave the place what their redoubtable boss referred to as ‘a good bottoming’.
And that’s where we were on a breathless Monday afternoon. The twins were in the orchard, with Sian, Jed and Finoula, pursuing their fascination with gardening, while me, Ben and the dogs lazed gently in the deep shade of our north-facing patio. We were idly talking about a staff bonus when the weather finally broke for good and also speculating about the lack of any more unwelcome visitors.
“I really hope Mr Seanmóir has put an end to our troubles.” Ben said. “I’d about had enough.”
“Me too, but it seems that when he preaches his gospel the congregation listens.”
“Preaches?”
“As far as I am able to ascertain Seanmóir means preacher.”
“Ascertain?”
“I googled it but I ain’t sure I got the spelling right.”
He chuckled. “Only you.”
He was just leaning in for a kiss when we were interrupted by the sound of running feet. Sian careered around the side of the house and hurdled the gate in one. She screeched to a halt in front of us.
“You need to come to the orchard. Now. Leave the dogs and come. Please.”
Her face was sheet pale under her tan, so we adjured the dogs to remain and followed her trim little figure through the car park and across the orchard to where Finoula was talking quietly to the twins and Jed was busily erecting what looked like an oversized cloche under a venerable tree.
Ben cantered over to our daughters, who looked solemn but not overly upset.
“What’s up?” I asked, keeping my voice as level as possible.
Roz grasped her daddy’s hand firmly. “Esme says the hidden ones are found. And you needs to tell the preaching man.”
“I expect I do. And also the police.”
“And Uncle Mark,” Ali put in.
“I’ll do all of those things, but first can you tell me what happened? Clearly and carefully.”
“We can.” They spoke as one child, which was happening less and less often as they grew and was indicative, I thought, of the need of comfort. Ben must have thought it too because he sat on the crisp brownish grass and gathered them into his lap. I put an arm around Sian, who snuggled close as the girls told their story.
“We have been weeding around the raspberry canes, and when we finished we went to clean our trowels in the long grass under that tree. We had rubbed away the dirt when we saw a something shiny. We bent down to look, and saw a golden ring in the earth. It was round something white and hard like a dog bone. We didn’t want to touch it so we called Jed, who bringed Finoula to see with her mind. She said the hidden ones was discovered and took us over here to talk. Jed went for a big cloche to cover what we found and Sian ran to fetch you.”
I bent and kissed them both. “You are mummy’s very good sensible girls. Can you and Sian take Daddy back to our garden and ask him nicely for an ice cream each. I have to do some phoning, then I will come and eat ice cream too.”
They went without a backward glance and I turned to Finoula and Jed.
“I have a feeling this is going to turn into a proper three-ring circus.” Then I looked at the cloche and felt a tug of sorrow for what I assumed was going to be a mother and baby.
Finoula extended a hand and I took it in both of mine.
“She was almost ready to give birth. They laughed when she understood that the child would die too. Bastards.”
Esme spoke aloud. “Will you tell her brother?”
“If Seanmóir is her brother I’m calling him right now.”
“He is. And you have the thanks of she who was hidden to protect the evil ones.”
Esme faded away and I took out my phone. Three calls later and I had done all I could.
“I wish we could give her some privacy,” Finoula said.
“We might be able to do just that.” I showed Jed my teeth. “Don’t we have a load of bamboo fencing that turned up one night from who knows where.”
He nodded, though the lines of strain remained around his mouth.
“What do you have in mind?”
“If I can get you some muscular assistance, would it be possible to fence across the boundary between here and the car park? And I’ll get the lane coned off so access from that way is stopped.”
His shoulders relaxed. “Us’ll set that in train.”
I was about to phone Ben and get him to hunt up some muscle, when the man himself appeared followed by a dozen husky young lads.
“I emptied the bothy,” he said. “Esme deigned to speak to me. Said you would need muscle.”
“We do. Because we’re going to give that poor girl some privacy.”
“What can I do?”
“Nothing involving tools. But you and Simeon could get the road cones from the beer store and cone off the lane up to the memorial garden. Let’s stop the nosy bastards from sneaking up that way.”
Ben and Simeon went and Jed took charge of the fencing crew. By the time the local police, in the shape of a sturdy middle-aged WPC in a squad car and DS Graham Murray in his souped-up Beamer, arrived a tall fence was taking shape.
Graham came over to me.
“What’s afoot Joss?”
“There’s what looks to be human bones buried in the orchard?”
“Bugger. New bones?”
“I don’t think so. There doesn’t seem to be any flesh attached. But not centuries old neither.”
“Show us.”
Jed took them over and lifted the edge of his cloche.”
Graham sighed. “I’ll call SOCO in. And I need to speak to the person who disturbed the earth.”
It was my turn to sigh. “I’d prefer you not to.”
“Why not?”
“Because it was Roz and Allie.”
“Oh right. Fuck. I need advice. But I will have to talk to them.”
“I’m sure you will. But I’d like to ask that they are only spoken to once.”
The WPC looked confused.
“Roz and Allie are my twin daughters. They are six years old.”
“Well shit. That rather muddies the water. Were they digging?”
“Not where the bones are. They had been weeding around the raspberry canes over in the corner. Came over here to clean their trowels in the longer grass under the tree. Saw something shiny and called for adult assistance.”
“They did good, then.”
She looked at Graham. “A word of advice Sarge?”
“Advise away.”
“Best leave it until SOCO determines precisely what we have here. Then we’ll talk to the kids. Once. With their parents present. Record it and then it’s all neat and tidy.”
He nodded. “Whose idea was the fence?”
“Sort of mine. I wanted to give the bones some privacy. They seem awfully naked somehow.”
“What about the back lane?”
“We coned that off too.”
“Good. Keep the wowzers at bay.”
I was wondering how long it would take for our off the cuff precautions to be breached when a bus load of roaring boys turned up from who knew where and appointed themselves guardians of the orchard. I left them in conversation with Ben and the representatives of law and order and went to see my daughters.
Finding them on the grass on the shady of our private garden I sat down beside them.
“Are you all right my darlings?”
They came and cuddled one either side of me.
“We’re a bit sad for the poor lady who was buried in the orchard. But Grandmother ‘splained us that we did good to find her.” Roz sounded subdued but not unduly upset.
Ali put up a hand and touched my face. “It was funny, Mummy, because I could hear Grandmother too. And smell her scent.” She sighed. “I wouldn’t like that all the time.”
Roz leaned over and took her sister’s hand. “It’s okay Ali. She won’t do it any more. It was only so she could tell us that the lady and her baby is free now because we found her.”
“I know. And I was glad to hear it.”
“It’s just a bit unsettling to hear the voice of a person you loved.” I said.
Ali smiled. “It was. But if we helped the buried lady I don’t mind.”
“Oh you helped her. And you did precisely right. I’m very proud of you. There is a thing, though.”
“What’s that Mummy Beckett?” They spoke together although this felt more like solidarity than leaning on each other for reassurance.
“At some time soon, you are going to have to tell some police people how you came to find the bones.”
“We can do that.” Ali said calmly.
“But not mention Grandmother or Esme,” Roz showed me her dimples.
“Indeed not. Now. Did Daddy get you some ice cream?”
“He did not. Because we wanted to wait for you.”
“And now I expect you want to wait for Daddy.”
“We do, but he’s just coming.”
That was Roz who has supernatural help with some things, so I wasn’t surprised to see Ben’s tall figure come through the back gate. Sian was with him, laughing at something he said and I understood that I had no need to worry about her.
“Knickerbocker Glories all round?” I suggested, to be greeted by rapturous applause.

There will be more from Joss, Ben and their friends, courtesy of Jane Jago, next week, or you can catch up with their earlier adventures in Who Put Her In and Who Pulled Her Out.

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in an alternative modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules.

Action replay.
Same arena.
Twenty four hours later.
This time, though, there were two bodies.
One was another British contestant, Tam Docca ‘Fly Boy’, from the Valentia Game team, but it was the second corpse lying as if awaiting funeral rites that had Dai’s fullest attention. Quintillas Publius Luca – son of a Roman Senator and a proper one at that, from proper Rome – not one of those who sat in Augusta Treverorum, giving themselves airs.
Trev, as Dai and most Britons thought of it, was the capital of Prefecture Galliae, home to the man who ruled Britannia and much of the Northern and Western parts of the continent as well. It was one of the four original Prefectures, each governed by its own Caesar, established by the Divine Diocletian under his sole rule as God-Emperor of a new Roman Empire.
According to the information Dai was getting, Luca was not supposed to even be in the province. There were media images which showed him in some small provincial town, identified as Lutetia in Gallia Lugdunensis, sipping cocktails on a terrace overlooking a river, with his gorgeous patrician bride of a year, one Marcella Tullia Junius. The same article claimed Luca was away from Rome on a long-term project to regenerate and oversee the family’s estates in Gallia.
“You would think,” Bryn observed dryly, “that after last night they would have kept a watch. Security cameras all down still and I bet no one saw a thing, just like before. That’ll put a sour look on the face of that jobsworth Flavia.”
Dai shot his decanus a look.
“Shut up, Bryn, you spado. I’m thinking.”
The decanus chuckled.
“It ain’t often I can get the Bard to swear,” he remarked happily. “Let’s see if I can shake a few more curses out of those pure Celtic lips. You know they’ll sic a Roman on us? This is too big for us local yokels.”
“Yeah. Just as long as it isn’t Titillicus…”
“Oh, course you won’t have heard. Titillicus is no longer a factor. He got in a ruck with the Tribune, who sent him home to his mammy.”
“In disgrace?”
“Nah. In a body bag. Seems he pulled a knife.”
“Moron. But what was the row about?”
“As if you couldn’t guess.”
“He didn’t?”
“Yep. The Tribune’s wife under the very eyes of the family lares.”
Dai grinned viciously. He had never liked working with Titillicus, the kind of Roman who assumed he ruled the Province and owned every provincial he encountered. Surely whoever they sent from Trev HQ would have to be better than that?

Two days later, he found out.
He stood outside the Prefect’s office feeling as if he had been grilled like a flatbread on a griddle. The Prefect seemed to feel it was all Dai’s fault too, on top of which she was seething they had not sent one of her extended family’s clients from Trev. They had sent someone direct from Rome.
“This is a client of the Praetor himself so if you mess this up, Llewellyn, you make one mistake, or upset her at all, you will be stuck in the Pit monitoring security footage until you reach your dotage.”
“Domina.”
The Pit was a room under the main HQ where failed vigiles would be sent to serve out their term going over the endless amount of security footage the AI decided needed a human decision. The chances of making the wrong call were high, and too many of those, would get you a missio ignominiosa – meaning you’d be thrown out of the vigiles with nothing and little chance of getting any decent employment anywhere, ever. The idea of a future life as a nightclub bouncer in one of the shadier suburbs did not fill Dai with a warm fuzzy feeling.
That and the fact this was his turf, his case and he was going to have to solve it somehow, whilst keeping some place-holding sycophantic client of Praetor Marius Aurelius Naribus distracted enough not to get in the way.
In the lift back to the main office he had time to contemplate the implications. Bryn must have seen his mood, because the decanus wisely said nothing when Dai gestured to him to follow. The two of them made their way to the plush reception room where important people from Rome could be properly accommodated and entertained. Dai ignored all protocols and strode in, then stopped so fast Bryn pushed into him and he heard the decanus swear under his breath. But Dai barely noticed because he had just realised that this was going to be worse than he could ever have imagined. This wasn’t a woman, it was a little boy in leather trews and bristling with weapons.

Part III will be here next week. If you can’t wait to find out what happens next you can snag the full novella here.

Though the biggers never see it, there is much going on in their own backyard where the ‘nomes make their home…

The veggible garden had fallen silent, and the more optimistic nomes thought the poteen incident might be dying a natural death. Brenda and Granny were less sanguine, and when the moles reported seeing flames and smelling smoke they felt certain some catastrophe was in the immediate offing.
It was coming towards sundown when Brenda felt earth movement through her feet.
“Heads down nomes,” she bellowed and threw herself flat onto the turf.
She was just in time as the ground heaved and distorted before the sound of an explosion rent the air and the greenhouse was consumed by a fireball.

Jane Jago

A dictionary for the bemused by Jane Jago…

ahs sing (noun) – extremely melodious fart

amradidlo (noun) – country song about onanism 

bargrh (noun) – posh barbecue food

fbelievableront (adjective) – of dragons and the like having quirks of personality that make them readable

fraft (noun) – sliced cheese of dubious origins, having a strange odour and an oddly mottled appearance

griness (adjective) – of bread being flabby and of a strange colour

jumipr (noun) – woollen garment smelling vaguely of gin

nayway (noun) – street where only those in the know dare go

ompire (noun) – person qualified to officiate at many sports

peopel (noun) – a peephole in a front door as installed by an idiot where the hole on the outside is an inch below the hole in the inside

qaurrle (noun) – arrow fired by Cupid in an attempt to undo one of his unlikelier  pairings 

resonse (noun) – the chair you kept for the bloke that never showed up

tdrippingap (noun) – computer program for hay fever sufferers

wriitng (noun) – sarcastic grin – of the sort usually aimed at door-to-door salespersons and evangelists

yhen (noun) – curious chicken

zegra (noun) – horse wearing a stripy jumper

Disclaimer: all these words are genuine typos defined by Jane Jago. The source of each is withheld to protect the guilty.

Telling an entire story in just one hundred words…

She knew it made good sense. Great-aunt Tiffany had given an understanding smile and patted her hands, folded like pinioned birds in her lap.

“It will keep the money in the family and it’s not like Cousin Richard is a monster or anything.”

Not a monster.

No.

Kind, but thirty years older than her and smelling of foot powder and stale pipe tobacco. 

At the altar, he took her hand.

“You alright, m’dear? We can call it all off. Even now. I’m an old bear but not a grumpy one.”

For a moment she hesitated.

“My old bear,” she said.

E.M. Swift-Hook.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV takes time from his immensely important life to proffer profound advice to those who still struggle on the aspirational slopes of authorhood…

Bonjour mes petites!

I am your practical pedagogue in the arcane art of literary logistics, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, Ivy to my friends and much acclaimed author of the science fantasy masterpiece ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’. Those necessary formalities having been removed, it behoves me to explain how the topic of today’s teaching entered the arena of my awareness.

Last week, you may recall, you learned from my loquacious lecture of literary lore which explored the concept of Voice – the unique belling of tone, taste and texture which each and every author brings to their work. But when I told Mumsie of my pedagogical piece de resistance, she stopped buttering her toast and reached over to wack me on the back of the hand with the flat side of her cutlery.

“You are a muppet, Moons,” she told me in her usual loving snarl. “Voice is not some literary fa-di-da subtle imponderable thing, it’s grammar!” And nothing would satisfy her except my writing to explain to you, my dear Reader Who Writes, that there is another use of ‘voice’ in the literary kingdom – the grammatical usage.

The Passive Voice

There are, as I am confident you will already know, two grammatical voices. The active and the passive. This is, of course, as applied to verbs. Verbs? Did I hear somebody say the word verbs with a questioning note in their voice. Depart immediately for the naughty step and sit there considering your ignorance while I enlighten your classmates. And desist the whining. Verbs are, as if explanation were needed, doing words. In the sentence Adam chased Eric around the classroom. The verb is chased. Hands up all of those who knew that already. If you didn’t put your hand up one is ashamed of you.

But to our muttons. To quote some dry old grammarian or another: the passive voice is when the subject of the sentence is acted upon by the verb, rather than the subject of the sentence verbing.

Simple explanation:
John smacked Alec’s bottom. Active voice.
Alec’s bottom was smacked. Passive voice. And an intriguing question. Who did the smacking?

This is the wonder of the passive voice, it opens up multifarious imponderables for the reader’s eager speculation to latch onto and expand within the nemeton of his or her own imagination. Take this example and see how the mystery is enhanced and the sense of inevitable doom is heightened:

The final blow was dealt when the mighty Robot Lord was empowered. Falling to the ground, the Queen’s head was cleaved cleanly from her shapely shoulders. Her face was smashed beneath the boot of the victor. Fate was satiated and destiny was fulfilled.

From the point of view of the humble scrivener, the wiseacres out there will tear their sparse and greying locks and cry despairingly – use not the passive voice lest the house of cards you have constructed upon the shifting sands of your enfeebled imagination collapse in a whining heap of pips and smirking pictures. Well I am here to reassure you my little students. They speak of that which they wot not. A beautifully turned sentence is a beautifully turned sentence irrespective of whether the quick red fox jumps, or the lazy dog is jumped over.

Ignore the small minded and febrile who would collar your creativity in the bonds of grammatical usage or common phraseology.

Or look at it this way if you have eyes to see.
John Smith wrote a book. Meh. Blah. Boring.
This example of the authorly genus was made with skill and love by the fair hand of Johannes Smythe.
I rest my case.

Until next my fuzzy little bunnies.

May your voices be passive and your heroes erect.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound advice in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

The sun it is melting
The internet cried
We see it is dying
With our crying eyes
They publish the pictures
They crumble and cry
Conspiracy theorists
All fooled by AI

©️jane jago 2024

Since Ben and Joss Beckett took over The Fair Maid and Falcon, they have had to deal with ghosts, gangsters and well-dodgy goings-on. Despite that they have their own family of twin daughters and dogs, and a fabulous ‘found family’ of friends.

I took a reviving belt just as Ben reached us. He sat beside me and wrapped a warm arm around me.
My companion looked at us in what appeared to be genuine distress.
“I’m sorry, Mrs Beckett, I should have been more tactful.”
“Than what?” Ben’s voice was dangerously even.
“It ain’t his fault, Ben. I’ve just found out what we’re going to discover on our land.”
“What?”
And.
“Going to discover?”
The two men spoke together. Of course I answered Ben first.
“The body of a pregnant woman, murdered some forty years ago.”
I turned my eyes to Seanmóir.
“We have a resident ghost, who tells us that it is time for that which has been hidden to reveal itself.”
Our visitor looked sourly sceptical, but as he opened his mouth to pour scorn on me, Esme revealed her presence with a snatch of plaintive song before speaking in my ear. ‘He believes in me now.’ She giggled and stepped back.
I handed him back his brandy and he downed what was left before staring at me through haunted eyes.
“How do you stand a presence from beyond the grave around you? I’d never sleep.”
“She’s here. And she is who she is. And I believe it comforts her to speak to me.”
He sort of shrunk into himself though he managed a sarcastic half grin.
“Are you telling me you find it simple to do the job of mother church and all her saints,” he snarled.
“Oh, it’s simple enough if you’ve a clear conscience.”
He took that like a blow and Ben shook his head.
“Joss. Please.”
“Sorry. But he had that coming.”
“He did indeed. However.”
I felt Esme very close again and she started to sing something in a language I didn’t understand. Seanmóir slumped in his seat and I thought he was about to faint.
“Esme,” I said sharply, “stop that.”
She stopped singing.
“Óró sé do bheatha abhaile.” One of the younger guys by the bar came over bearing another brandy which he put down in front of his boss. “Here Da, drink this.”He looked at me. “Our grandmother used to sing that.”
“I’m sorry, it didn’t come from me.”
“No. It’s his own fault. He disrespected a ghost. We’d a bad experience when our aunt fell in with a false clairvoyant. Since then he’s set his face against anything that smacks of the supernatural. And he’s not learned to hide his contempt.”
“We found Esme’s abused and drowned remains, among others, when we investigated some strange goings on before we bought the pub. The other ghosts have more or less moved on, but Esme adopted my wife as a sort of surrogate mother.” Ben explained gently.
To my surprise the young man took my hand and almost bowed over it. “You’ve a strong spirit Mrs Bennett, and I’m sure my father will see that.”
His father had straightened up and managed to return to his normal urbanity.
“That’s enough, now, boy. I’m fine and I owe Mrs Beckett an apology.”
His son went back to the bar where a fresh coffee awaited him.
“I’m sorry Mrs Beckett. I was a long way out of line there.”
“And Esme slapped you right where it hurts,” I smiled my understanding. “If it’s any comfort to you she doesn’t like clairvoyants any more than you do.”
His smile grew more natural. “Strangely enough. It is.”
I drew serenity around me like a blanket. “Tell me what you want from us.”
“We don’t want anything, though we would ask a favour.”
“What sort of a favour?”
He opened his mouth to speak as the pub door crashed open allowing about a dozen men armed with pickaxe handles and sawn-off shotguns to boil into the room.
“You’ve two minutes to clear the place before we start shooting.” The front runner shouted. Which would have been impressive had not one of the Brown boys currently busy bussing tables put down the tray he was carrying and felled him with a kick to the gonads. What with that, and a fair amount of scientific persuasion from our security detail and the visiting hard boys, the whole thing was over almost before it begun.
Ben stood up and grinned his most engaging grin.
“Security exercise.”
One of our regulars looked up from his dominoes. “Oh aye,” he remarked, before spitting very accurately into the face of one of the shotgun carriers. “It’d be a hem do if’n he was to try and shoot that thing. It’d blow his fule arm off. Even a bloody eejit oughter know you don’t cut a shotgun down so short and fire the darned thing.”
I looked at Ben, who shrugged. “Don’t ask me.”
“The blast would probably spread sideways immediately and cause the most damage to the shooter and anyone standing beside him. Could even blow his fool arm off.” Seanmóir sounded drily amused. “You might have the odd poacher among your clientele.”
“Retired,” the dominoes player snapped, “but I’d still back myself to creep up on you in any dark night.”
I found myself chuckling and the better for it. Seanmóir Smiled me a nice smile.
“Will you permit me to deal with this offal?”
I looked at Ben who shrugged. “Maybe. But I’ll give Mark a courtesy call.”
“Good idea.”
A quick call having established that Mark had absolutely no objection to delivering our problem into the warm embrace of Seanmóir‘s family there was nothing to do except await their transportation. A coach with darkened windows turned up swiftly and bore away two dozen very frightened men. Twelve from the pub, six from the ice cream parlour, and six from the house if you’ve been counting. I suppose I should have been concerned about their fate but in all honesty I was so fed up with people turning up intent on causing grief to me and mine that I couldn’t bring myself to care.
Seanmóir took my hand and bent over it in a courtly fashion.
“We’ll bid you farewell Mrs Beckett, and I’ll make it my business to see you are not disturbed by any more rude incursions.”
I must have looked as sceptical as I felt, because he raised his eyebrows.
I lifted a shoulder. “You aren’t the first to promise that. So far to no avail.”
His smile was something different altogether, and, although I knew he posed no danger to me, I felt an icy finger crawl up my spine.
“Precisely.” He said and his voice was completely uninflected. “It wasn’t me doing the promising before. Now it is. You will have no more trouble. Though I may be tempted to return for a meal when I’m in the district. Speaking of which…”
He reached for his wallet but I forestalled him with an upraised hand.
“If you can really stop assorted idiots from attacking my family and friends, then please accept the meal as a small token of my gratitude.”
He bowed again. Taking a small square of pasteboard from his wallet he passed it to me.
“Would you be kind enough to telephone me should that which is hidden indeed reveal itself?”
“I will. But I’ll also be telling the police.”
“Understood and appreciated.”
Then they were gone, leaving me feeling like a worn out dishrag.
“Sheesh Benny. That guy gives me the heebies.”
“Me too. But at least he seems kindly disposed to us.”
My phone vibrated in my pocket and the twins voices demanded that I answer at once. Ben looked apologetic.
“I think that is currently a misplaced joke,” he said.
I mimed a punch before answering. It was Sian.
“The gruesomes are fine. Out in the garden ‘explaining’ the happenings to Bud and Lew. Our handymen were brilliant, and the inept bad guys got nowhere near us. Plus, they managed to have the twins believing it was all an exercise to test our readiness should there ever be trouble. I think I’m in love with them.”
“That’s a relief. And I’m given to understand that was the last of it.”
“I hope so. But I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“You didn’t meet the man who made the promise. He really is an alpha predator.”
“Fortunately he likes our food,” Ben put in.
Sian chuckled and ended the call.

There will be more from Joss, Ben and their friends, courtesy of Jane Jago, next week, or you can catch up with their earlier adventures in Who Put Her In and Who Pulled Her Out.

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in an alternative modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules.

I

Anno Diocletiani MDCCLXXVII Maius

“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.

Part 2 will be here next week or if you can’t wait to read on you can snag the full novella here.