Dying to be Cured is set in a modern-day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules. Dai and Julia take on a fight against institutional corruption whilst dealing with the demands of family, friendship and domestic crises.

Dai launched into an explanation of their morning. By the end, Julia was feeling truly grim, and it must have shown in her face as Dai was frowning with concern. 

“What is it love?”

“You aren’t going to like this, but…”

“What am I not going to like now?” He sounded weary, but also wary and angry.

Bryn put a hand on his forearm. 

“Remember, Bard. Didn’t we agree that whatever we have to deal with, it being Roman doesn’t make it Domina Julia’s fault?”

For a long moment nobody spoke, then Dai shook his head.

“We did. Sorry. I was just about to get bang out of line. Again.”

Julia, being too used to the pain of Dai’s anti-Roman outbursts, was surprised to find how much Bryn’s championship affected her. She smiled at him and stiffened her spine.

“You still might… We are going to have to tread very softly indeed. This is a temple sacred to the cult of the Divine Diocletian. That is one of the key foundations of the current Emperor’s right to rule. It has real power. And if we are not careful we could wind up getting told to turn a blind eye. It’s happened before.”

The men looked at her in glum silence. It was Bryn who found his voice first.

“What would happen,” he asked, “if we were ordered to keep our noses out?”

Julia favoured him with a sudden street urchin grin. “We’d have to investigate quietly.”

Dai just looked at her for a moment before leaning over the table to kiss her on both cheeks.

“Then maybe we shouldn’t be investigating too noisily now.”

“Stealth might be better. We need to hack into the computers at that temple. And we need to do so pretty bloody quickly.”

“That sounds like something you could do.”

“Probably. Very probably. Unless, of course, some irrumator has already erased the relevant files.”

Bryn wrinkled his brow. “I didn’t think you could ever really erase stuff from computers.”

“You can’t. Not if an investigator is in the same room with the computer. But you can certainly bury it deep enough to stop it being found remotely.” Julia sighed. “All of which means I should get right on it. You two go and look into some sheep stealing or something and keep out of my hair.”

Three hours later, and Julia was about to admit defeat. Oh, it had been laughably easy to get into the computer systems of the temple, and she had found out some pretty interesting stuff, like just exactly how much money the ‘cures’ had raked in over the previous two years. She could even see the places where somebody had simply chopped out clumps of information. But she couldn’t scrape off the top layer to find out what had been scrubbed without alerting even the most simple minded of computer operators to the hack.

Just as she was contemplating throwing her laptop at the wall, she got her much needed break. Somebody in the complex decided to send a belated birthday message to his mother, allowing Julia a nanosecond of access. That nanosecond was enough as she had already set up the data-capture to grab all the outgoing mails held on the computer. The information went back almost five years, presumably the amount of time that computer had been in use. 

And there it was – an unarguable connection. Somebody had been in the habit of sending regular emails to  Zirri Yedder. A man called Fabian Thrace, who his other emails revealed to be head of security in the place.

Interestingly there had been no emails sent out by Thrace to anyone since the same day as Yedder had his appointment at the temple, although prior to that he had sent out a number every day. Julia hummed a satisfied little hum before delving into the life and times of Fabian Thrace, who turned out to be the third son of a Citizen cloth merchant from Eboracum. He had served with the army then retired to take on various security roles. He was still listed as being head of security at the Temple of the Divine Diocletian in Canovium. 

“So,” Julia mused aloud, “what is the head of temple security doing in correspondence with a dirt-digging journalist?”

“It’s got me beat,” the voice from behind her was both lazily amused and unfeasibly basso profundo. 

Julia rounded on the man mountain that was Edbert her personal bodyguard.

“Spado. Will you stop creeping up on me like that…”

He grunted. Then brightened perceptibly. 

“We could always have a nosey round and see what we can find out.”

“The old paid assassin’s ploy?”

“Well. From what you have on screen about him nobody would be surprised to find assassins on his tail.” 

Julia thought for a moment then shook her head.

“Can’t do it, though, can we? Our faces may not be known, but I’m darned sure the Submagistratus’ miniature wife and her huge bodyguard are already a matter of local folklore. Together we’d stand out a mile.”

Edbert grimaced. “Well, you ain’t going in without me.”

“No. So you have to go. But not alone. Take Gallus. He’s almost as unprincipled as you.”

Gallus was the decanus of a small detachment of Praetorians who had been sent with Dai from Londinium to help him establish his authority.

“I resent that. That Praetorian cunnus is nowhere near as unprincipled as I am.”

As an attempt to lighten Julia’s mood it succeeded as well as anything could, and she grinned a wry grin. 

“You scoop up Gallus and head out to Canovium. Take a wrist unit so I can contact you. I will find Dai and bring him up to speed.”

Edbert was gone almost before she had finished speaking. She looked at the mountainous hole in the air where he had been and sighed before whistling for her wolfhounds Canis and Lupo.

Dying to be Cured by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook first appeared in Gods of Clay: A Sci Fi Roundtable Anthology.

Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…

If you’re old then you’ve long passed your prime
You’re not going to have a good time
It just isn’t right
That you spent last night
Doing something that should be a crime!

E.M. Swift-Hook

Father brought Alib to the Temple, where the boy sat cross-legged on the floor and watched a procession of sweet-faced young nuns making their obeisance to the Idol. As each passed she dropped something into a huge glass jar.

Alib felt the torment of the girls as they dropped their offerings into the shining vessel. Each gift made a high, sweet note as it passed the neck of the glass.

He touched Father’s sleeve.
“What do they offer?”
“Time, my son, each offers a moment of her life.”
“And why do they look so sad?”
“The pain of rending a moment from yourself.”
Alib nodded.
“May anyone make such an offering?”
“They may.”
“Then may I?”
“If you will. I cannot say no.”
Alib made his obeisance to his father and joined the line of worshippers.

He looked very small, but his back was straight, and his eyes were clear, and the priests let him pass. As he approached the bottle of time his lips could be seen to be moving as if in prayer.

Instead of dropping something into the bottle, Alib threw himself through the wide neck of the glass. For a nanosecond nothing happened, and then the vessel burst, filling The Temple with shards of glass and high keening music.

A voice from the very earth lamented. And then there was silence. Alib walked back to his father, with glass sparkling in his hair and the knowledge of a thousand lifetimes filling his eyes.

Jane Jago

Poems of puppy Fozzie Jago as he is exploring and experiencing the world!

I wants to go down the field some more
Where the grass is wet and high
And cows goes moo and sheeps says baa
And I doesn’t understand why

Jane Jago

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.

Until the next…

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

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.

Take this exclusive opportunity to explore the mysteries of the zodiac through the wisdom of the esoterically enigmatic Madam Pendulica…

Aries. 

The mythical ram with his thick woolly coat and his sharpened horns is the father of this house. His children are simple folk, and as sheep to those they love – following without thought or complaint. But make an enemy of one and the whole flock will turn upon you stamping you into the mire of their ordure with little hard hooves and spearing your very breast with the weapons on their foreheads. 

Good as winter clothing.

Bad side? Often having hairy bottoms that can be crusted with faeces.

Taurus.

After the ram comes the bull. Slow of intellect and lumbering in movement, the children of the bull are known for tenacity and a certain ponderous determination. The bull is a reliable, if boring, friend, but as an enemy he is implacable and deadly. He will get you however long it takes. Beware the horns of Taurus

Good on the barbecue.

Bad in that Taureans stick to one as if attached by Velcro, and they know stuff like train timetables by heart. Befriend one at your peril.

Gemini.

The twins have two faces and look both ways. They see both the future and the past with equal clarity making their offspring both difficult to lie to and impossible to believe. Those outside their coterie will never know which face they are looking at. Beware the obfuscation of Gemini.

Good as observers at obtuse junctions and busy interchanges

Bad – unimaginably untrustworthy and two-faced. Remember this: while one twin is fornicating with your beloved the other is available to keep watch.

Cancer.

As the crab scuttles sideways about his work so do his children approach life from the side. No scion of Cancer will be straightforward or clear in any action, and they possess a nasty nip too. On the upside they are rather tasty. Beware the claws of Cancer.

Good in a sandwich.

Bad on a country ramble as the silly bastards keep sidling off into the undergrowth.

Leo.

The king of the savannah spends twenty hours of each day asleep, and his children are similarly unlikely to put themselves to too much trouble. They tend to be large, handsome, golden people whose physical attractiveness cannot be overstated. They like sex, but they also like raw meat. Beware the appetites of Leo.

Good as a soft toy or fictional hero.

Bad as a friend, partner, or workmate as they are unbelievably lazy but so persuasive that somebody else does the work and they get the credit. And they make a lot of pointless noise

Virgo.

The ‘virgin’ smiles primly self-satisfied by her own virtue. She ignores her offspring as they make liars of her virgin state, preferring to cut them loose, armed only with rigid moralistic views of life and very little charm. Beware the dogma of Virgo.

Good in nunneries.

Bad anywhere people are living normal lives.

Madame Pendulica predicts she will return…

We tried to catch the wind today
My fickle friend and me
But as the zephyr flew this way
My friend deserted me
We tried to catch a friend today
The winter wind and I
But as my friend came out to play
The breeze did wave goodbye
Oh you may have the wind he sighed
Should that be as you choose
Or you may have me at your side
You win one, one you lose
We tried to catch the wind today
A wind to sail us home
But fickle fate gangs aft agley
And now I cry alone

© jane jago

Dying to be Cured is set in a modern-day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules. Dai and Julia take on a fight against institutional corruption whilst dealing with the demands of family, friendship and domestic crises.

A sudden hush descended on the crowd before Dai could reply. On the steps of the temple stood a group of lay devotees, and three of the priesthood. One of these was a man wearing a purple toga marking him out as the presiding priest. Aside from the reigning Emperor only a priest who represented the Divine Diocletian when officiating in a temple service for the people was permitted to wear the colour.

Now he lifted aloft a purple wrapped scroll and there was a collective indrawn breath from the crowd. Every seeing eye watched as the priest loosened the ribbons and unrolled the vellum.

“The names of those chosen today are, Mara Cefn, Bedwyr Penrhyn…”

The list went on and as each name was called a small flurry occurred somewhere in the crowd as the individuals who had been chosen and their supporters or carers reacted and began to make their way towards the door at the side of the temple where a group of priests, who looked more like medical staff than religious men, waited to take each person through. This time eighteen names were read out, but Dai knew from his research there could be as many as fifty or as few as three in any given session. 

After the last of those selected had vanished into the temple building, the side door closed and the purple clad priest gave a final blessing. Then those on the steps retreated up them and the main doors into the sanctuary closed.

The crowd slowly dispersed back towards the gate. Dai estimated there were nearly three hundred people of whom maybe a third were clearly ill. As they left each was given a private blessing, a smile and some encouraging words by one of three young novice priests. Some of the worshippers pushed donations into the hands that blessed them. More than one had silent tears falling down their cheeks as if their last hope had been taken from them.

It took the best part of an hour until Dai and Bryn stood alone in the courtyard and when they showed no sign of leaving, one of the novices came over.

“I am sorry, Submagistratus, but I can’t let you stay. The temple will be open to visitors later this afternoon, but for now you -”

“I need to speak to the chief administrator here, is that the Pontifex himself?” 

The novice looked a little uneasy. “Uh – no. that would be his subadiuva – Domina Adria Plautia Tacita. Would you like to see her?”

Dai smiled. “I would indeed, if you would be kind enough to take me to her office.”

The subadiuva suited her cognomen ‘Tacita’. She was a small, mouselike woman, with dark brown hair tied back into a neat knot at the back of her neck. She spoke in a very quiet voice, using the minimum of words required to answer Dai and Bryn’s enquiries.

“So you have no record that Zirri Yedder was ever here?”

“No.”

“No record of him sending an initial enquiry?”

“No.”

“And none that he was sent an invitation to attend a service here?”

She shook her head, her doe like eyes looking regretful. “I am sorry, dominus. We have no record of any of that.”

Bryn cleared his throat. “So can we have a complete list of who was invited the day he was seen to attend here?”

“Those names are…”

“And those for the two days before and after as well,” Dai added. “Please.”

“I would need the permission of the Pontifex,” Tacita said in little more than a whisper.

“No. You wouldn’t,” Dai assured her. “This is a murder investigation and as a pious man the Pontifex would not stand in the way of justice I am sure.”

She coloured slightly her hands lifting towards her face but pausing to fold over each other on her breasts. It was a gesture that made her look more mouselike than ever.

“I will have the information sent directly to your office later today, Submagistratus. But I will have to ask the Pontifex as he is the only one who has the password to access our archives.”

Defeated, Dai managed a polite leavetaking and headed back to Viriconium with Bryn and his own barely concealed annoyance for company.

***

The Villa Papaverus was a typical provincial dwelling for those Citizens of rank and status serving far from Rome and wanting to keep their civilized comforts. A large U-shaped building on two floors, set in the midst of its own estate, with a walled garden to the rear and outbuildings dotted around. It had become home to Dai Llewellyn and his new bride when he took on the role of Submagistratus in Demetae and Cornovii little less than a month previously. The villa went with the job as its official residence.

When the two men rolled up there in the late afternoon, Dai’s diminutive Roman wife, Julia, who had a shrewd handle on her husband and his friend, was waiting with a spicy dish of mutton and beans. She had asked their cook to heat and serve it when her husband told her he and Bryn were coming, and kept it hot over a spirit lamp. 

“That smells a bit exotic,” Bryn was cautious, though clearly tempted.

“Worried me at first,” Dai admitted, “but my lady wife persuaded me and it goes down very well.”

While they ate, Julia sat quietly, assessing the mood as one of generalised frustration. When Bryn finally put his spoon down and barely suppressed a satisfied belch she eyed the pair with some asperity.

“You may as well tell me, you know. I will find out anyway.”

Prior to her marriage, Julia had been an Inquisitor in the Vigiles herself, reporting directly to the Praetor in Rome, so this was no idle boast.  

Dying to be Cured by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook first appeared in Gods of Clay: A Sci Fi Roundtable Anthology.

Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…

If you’re old then you listen to me
There are many things that you must be
Kind natured and sweet
Liking tea as a treat
Not rampant and bold and sexy!

E.M. Swift-Hook

“It is entirely in your own hands archbishop,” the slender red-haired woman in the huge gilded chair spoke coldly and deliberately, “but you and your confederates have ensured that the majority of the populace believes in one virgin birth so I fail to see your problem.”

The ancient, and cadaverously thin, prelate stared at her for a long moment while the muscles in his jaw worked. He obviously wanted to say something but in the end he lacked the courage and subsided into fulminating silence.

“And you Master Cecil. Do you have nothing to say?”
The richly clad figure of Her Majesty’s spymaster in chief bowed floridly.
“This, your Majesty, is either a master stroke or the biggest mistake a reigning monarch ever made. With the greatest respect, we will not know which it is for many months yet.”
“Agreed, there is an element of risk but I would know whether you are with us in our great endeavour.”
Cecil dropped his world-weary pose and bowed his head.
“To death and beyond, Majesty. To death and beyond.”
“You can serve us best by remaining alive,” the Queen spoke with some asperity although her narrow dark eyes warmed a little as they rested on Cecil’s beaky face.

The third man came forward and bent the knee before his sovereign.
“Parliament will uphold whatever your majesty chooses to do.”
“My lord Essex was ever the gentleman,” the Queen laughed although it was a mirthless sound. “The lords temporal range themselves alongside us, as does Master Cecil’s organisation, which just leaves the lords spiritual to declare.”
Essex looked at the cleric with something akin to loathing.
“You are either with us, my lord archbishop, or you are against us. We have no time for you to mull over your decision.”
The stubborn old man in the cope and mitre stared at his queen.
“Do you even begin to know what you are asking?”
She regarded him for a long moment.
“We are perfectly well aware. But what would you have us do? Marry England to some foreign prince? Elevate one of our noble families above the others?”
The archbishop looked at her marble pale features with dawning respect.
“No, Majesty, I would have you do neither of those.”
“Then give me an alternative.”
The old man bowed his head.
“There is none. I stand corrected. The church ranges itself beside you.”
“Good.You may all leave us now.”

The three men bowed themselves out of the room and as soon as they had closed the door behind them the figure in the huge chair allowed her shoulders to sag just a little. A large sandy-haired man, dressed plainly in leather and homespun, stepped out from behind the rich hangings and came to kneel at her feet. She smiled down at him.
“It appears,” she said carefully, “that our plan has the support it needs. Now it is for you to do your part.”
He lifted one small foot in his large, calloused hand and brought it to his lips.

In due time Gloriana, the virgin queen, gave birth to a strapping red-haired son. She called him Henry after her great father, and he ruled wisely and well as did his own son and the son of his son, and the son of the son of his son….

Jane Jago