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…

It was an unseasonably cold, wet August morning, and Julia was in her sitting room watching the sun try to break through a veil of black cloud, with her two wolfhounds Canis and Lupo asleep in a twitching heap by a small simmering fire. Their usual keeper, her personal bodyguard Edbert, was busy about some other business, so the dogs stayed close to her. Julia was breaking her fast in the British manner, seated on a chair with both feet on the floor. As she had a sneaking preference for that manner of dining, she wasn’t making an issue of it. Instead, she smiled sunnily at her beloved who sat opposite her eating bread and honey.
“You,” she remarked with mock severity “have honey on your chin.”
“Do I?” he asked. “It’s probably because I was looking as well as eating.” His startling blue eyes met hers. “Isn’t the love of my life sitting opposite me dressed in silk and looking good enough to eat?”
She felt the blush running up from her throat to her face and he leaned across the table and placed a chaste kiss on one burning cheek, then he chuckled.
To her intense irritation, the sitting room door banged open and the burly, hook-nosed figure of Decimus Lucius Didero, Tribune in charge of the praetorian guard in Britain, stomped into the room.
“Do come in, Decimus,” Julia said coolly.
“I appear to be in,” the big man spoke mildly. “And now I am, I will have some of that bread and honey and some words with your man.”
Julia gave up the attempt to bring her foster brother to a sense of his own impropriety and spread honey on a hunk of crusty bread. She handed Decimus the bread and grinned at him.
“What do you want with my betrothed?”
Decimus masticated carefully before answering her.
“I’m in the nature of a supplicant. Being as how your man is now, thanks to his deeds of extraordinary valour, a Roman Citizen and a submagistratus-in-waiting to boot, the civilian authorities in general, and that stupid cunnus of a prefect in particular, can’t just order him to look into something. They have to ask. And it goes against the grain. They’d sooner lick my arse than his. So I get to ask.”
“Ask what?” Julia didn’t like the sound of this at all. “Today and tomorrow are public holidays and Dai and I had plans on how we wanted to spend them.”
Dai patted her hand.
“Hush, love. Let the man explain.”
She snarled at him, but subsided.
“Dai, do you remember Lugh Tasgo’s designs?”
Julia looked into Dai’s eyes and saw a slow flare of anger in their depths.
“Oh yes. I remember. I remember a dead Briton and a fat Roman bastard. And an investigation called off because nobody cared that a woman died.”
Decimus met his eyes.
“So you wouldn’t mind another look at the case?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
Dai got up and went around the table to where Julia sat. He lifted her out of her chair and sat down with her in his lap. She could feel the tension in his lean body and turned her face into his neck. He wrapped his arms around her and hugged tightly.
“Grainne Cathan died trying to protect those designs for her employer and he called the investigation off. So it depends,” he said harshly, “on me being permitted to actually investigate no matter what the outcome.”

From Dying to Alter History a Dai and Julia mystery by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, one of the fourteen alternate history short stories in Tales From Alternate Earths III from Inklings Press.

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

I am old and my needs are quite small
I will just make a list of them all
A home of my own
An iPad and phone
And a man with a good set of balls

© jane jago

September came with sticky fingers
Damply clad the browning trees
Blew on our necks, where dampness lingers
While wet grasses whipped our knees
And, wearing coats ‘gainst sulky rain
We struggled through the thickening air
As water muddied dusty drains
And droplets gathered in our hair
The dogs, who run through heat and sun
Draggled panting far behind
Or came to say ‘this isn’t fun’
To rather hope we’d change our minds
But where the river sings we stood
Listening, as they drank their fill
Finding the water clean and good
Before we climbed the final hill
We panting stood, as all around
September shouted ‘summer’s gone’
In words that needed not a sound
She plainly sang us winter’s song

©️jj 2021

A sci-fi story of love, betrayal and Space Pirates!

Things had been happening so fast she felt numbed by it and it was a few moments later that she remembered she was supposed to be watching the count. The door to the hygiene room opened again, making her jump and flatten herself instinctively against the wall. She didn’t recognise the woman who came in, but the look she got from her told Pan exactly how she must appear.
Muttering an apology, Pan forgot about the count and went back out into the bar. The way was blocked by a slowly moving wholesaler’s delivery cart, which shielded her from being seen by Tolin. So she walked beside it to the door. But there the cart stopped, its AI detecting people trying to come in. The trailer door was slightly open and without even thinking of the consequences of shutting herself in a cool store trailer, she stepped in and slid the door closed behind her.
Almost at once the cart moved on and she was jolted around in the pitch black. She was just starting to think that perhaps this had not been the best idea when the cart stopped and the doors unlocked again. Pan slid them open enough to see the trailer was backed up close to the wall of a retail booth, no doubt to make another delivery.
She slipped out and took a moment to get her bearings. The bar was away to her right on the other side of the delivery cart. She caught sight of Ducky walking briskly towards the docking bays and was about to cross over to follow, when she saw the freetrader approached by a pair of spaceport security personnel.
Pan wasn’t close enough to hear what they were saying and so she turned her attention to the nearest legitimate distraction, the retail booth. It was a local speciality food stall.
“Panvia? Must be years. I’d heard you’d got a job in Central. How’s your aunt?”
Startled, she met the eyes of the trader and recognised them as someone she knew from school. Their name escaped her and she stuttered some reply. At least it provided her with both distraction and cover, answering the questions asking the right ones in return. She kept half an eye on Ducky and then on the security people who seemed satisfied by their ID check and were walking towards the booth. For a moment she felt time slip into a frozen tableau.
She kept her gaze on the old school friend who was talking about a prank they had pulled off back in the day. The skin on her back crawled and she fought the urge to turn round. From the corner of her eye she could see more uniformed figures with drones moving in to cover the exits to the bar.
“Did you see anyone head this way from the bar?” The two security guards were talking to her companion in an easy way that suggested they knew each other. And they probably did. This place was the kind where anyone working in the spaceport would grab their meal breaks.
“Only that woman you already spoke to. I’d have seen if anyone else came by. It’s a bit of a bottle neck here, part of what makes it such a good spot for me.”
There was laughter, which Pan joined in, before the security team walked off. But a few moments later they broke into a run as there was some kind of disturbance going on in the bar. Pan could see something was happening behind the plexiglass windows but was too far away to make out what. Then the door opened and Tolin was running out. It was hard to be sure whether it was one of the drones, or the woman with the metallic blonde hair who was out of the door right behind him, but a shot was fired. The energy burn hit him in the back and he dropped instantly.
Pan found she had brought both her hands to her face, palms pressed hard over her mouth and cheeks, holding in a scream. The blonde woman had reached Tolin and crouched briefly beside him then got up and started talking to the security guards who had closed up.
There was no rush, no sense of urgency. No one linking for medical assistance.
Pan turned away, fighting nausea. Her school friend looked stunned, pale, mouth open in shock.
“I’m sorry, I’m going to be…” Pan stumbled off, barely aware of where she was going, only that it was away and out of sight of the horror. She vomited up the food she had been eating only a short time before, sitting in the bar with Tolin… Some deep level of survival instinct seemed to kick in once her stomach was empty. They would be looking for her now. She had to move and keep moving.

Roguing Thieves is a Fortune’s Fools story by E.M. Swift-Hook. There will be more Roguing Thieves next week…

Pearls of wisdom from an octogenarian who’s seen it all…

Queueing in the sunshine for an ice cream. The place has about forty flavours and a strict queuing system. Today’s flavours are displayed on a blackboard. Beside this there is a notice saying.

‘Please choose your flavour before entering so that other people aren’t kept waiting any longer than necessary.’

There’s also a little girl popping up and down the queue asking people to please choose their flavour from the blackboard.

I know the two women in front of me are too busy blethering.

In they go.

“What flavours have you got?” one asks brightly.

Read the $£%@* notice, assholes.

A darkling drabble offers a shiver of horror in a hundred words…

The girls got off the school bus, twittering like a flock of brightly plumaged birds. Watcher remained in the shadows, waiting for a sign. It came, when a head of gleaming copper braids left the pack and walked into the shadowy quiet of the park.

Watcher followed, closing up where the ground was soft with leafmould and running feet made no sound.

Even the high inhuman sound of the single scream failed to attract attention. 

It wasn’t until moonrise that the park warden found a body with a knife in its throat. He closed Watcher’s eyes and called it in.

Jane Jago

In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…

Procrastination 

1. (noun – pronunciation note: pro crass donation) Giving to charity with a very poor grace. Example: It is noticeable that the charitable donations of billionaires are always marked by loud procrastination 
2. (noun – pronunciation note: pro crusty nation) Members of right-wing political groups who cite patriotism as a blanket excuse for all their excesses. Example: on being challenged about the name-calling and booing which characterised his rare appearances in the House of Commons, the member for North Twitchingham snorted and blamed his procrastination on extreme love of this green and pleasant land.

If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.

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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.

The opening of Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook 

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

You are old and the fast passing years
Should fill you with sorrow and fears
It shouldn’t be you
With a camera crew
And a blog about sex and craft beers

© jane jago

Season of mists and mellow
The return of the school master’s bellow
And the post-summer holidays ‘Hello!’
As now life resumes again.

Time to start wearing a sweater
Time to feel cooler and wetter
September’s climate is better
Than summer’s hard blazing heat.

Apples on trees ripen brightly
Brambles grow blackberries rightly
Beech nuts and cobnuts fall nightly
September’s own proffered feast.

The sense of well-being is assuring
With this month the year is maturing
And winter we’re not yet enduring
Indian summer may come.

Eleanor Swift-Hook