Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in a modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules. If you would like to listen as you read, or instead of reading you can on YouTube.

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.

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

He waited, wondering if she would come. Anna, his wife, the torment of his days and the delight of his life. She had been visiting her terminally sick father. He could not resent the old man, but he feared the creature comforts of Anna’s old life and worried that his love might not be enough to make her return.

He looked at his work worn hands, and prayed for her return.

The train whooshed to a halt and the gate opened. Anna stood there quietly, almost as if unsure of her welcome. 

He opened his arms and she came home…

©️Jane Jago

Avilon half-woke into a new flood of memory – disjointed images painted in something of the quality of dream or nightmare, which slowly coalesced into a narrative of distinct scenes, vivid and real.
He had been on a strike – no – the strike. The strike that was intended to destroy the CSF communications and data collection capacity across an entire sector of the Middle and Peripheral worlds and would, at the very least, cripple all Coalition activities in that sector for years to come and at best allow some planets there the chance to throw off the Coalition yoke for good. He had the best of the Legacy’s young freedom-fighters and the help of Jazatar Baldrik, a good friend and a mercenary with solid military experience. It should have been straightforward, with only a little real fighting involved, against a small unit of regular troops, which was why Jaz had been there.
But it had gone horribly wrong.
They had walked right into an ambush.
Avilon had been manning the command centre on the ship and had seen the full horror unfold. Coalition marines had appeared as if from nowhere – and not regulars but the Special Legion: violent criminals, fighting under an impossible promise of freedom if they survived five years service in the toughest battles of the Coalition. Brutalised soldiers who excelled in vicious close quarters fighting and were renowned for giving no mercy to their foes, making them more feared than any regular troops. Avilon’s guerrilla units had collapsed under the sudden assault.
There had been no chance to evacuate more than a handful and then the ship itself came under attack and he had tried to flee into free space. Only space had not been free – a cruiser and its escort of frigates had come out from hiding behind the planet’s moon to swoop in for the kill. They had made it into FTL, but only after taking the damage that would eventually prove fatal for the ship.
Somehow, by someone, they had been betrayed.
It was the pain of that realisation that woke Avilon fully, a hollow sense of loss, of failure and self-blame, like a vacuum in his stomach.
The ground was rocking and creaking beneath him. He could hear sounds of men shouting, the dull clatter of hooves on stone and the grating groans of heavy wheels rumbling overland. Still half-wrapped in the haze of dream, he could make no sense of that. All he could think about was that he had been betrayed and did not even know by whom – and he had lost an entire strike team. Young lives wasted – and their loss severe to the Legacy.
And he had left Jaz behind.
He had left the man who called him ‘brother’ to die. Jaz, who had never been of the Legacy, who had still moved with a slight limp from being tortured by the bounty hunter Elias Bazath, because he had refused to betray where Avilon could be found.
The mercenary’s last report had been that he was slowed by the need to ‘baby sit’ and was heading back to the ship as fast as he could. But it had made no difference. Avilon could not have waited even one more moment for anyone, or the ship would have been destroyed. And now Jaz’s woman and two sons would be waiting in vain for him to come home. The knowledge bit deep into his psyche, bitter and dark. With an extreme effort of will, he banished it, aware of the rising nausea that cost.

From The Fated Sky part one of Fortune’s Fools Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook

Because life happens…

I’m doing an authoring course
From an online reputable source
It’s really a bargain
And teaches the jargon
I’ll be famous – and rich as a horse

Jane Jago

When journalist Grace Rampling falls over a corpse in a darkened church, she opens the door to a world of different possibilities.

Who killed the bishop?

Why is Grace herself attacked?

What is it about Detective Sergeant Adam Davis that sets her blood singing in her veins?

The answer to these questions is skilfully revealed strand by strand in a well-written mystery that’s a surprisingly easy read – for all the issues it deals with.

Grace and Adam are engaging and we quickly want them to find their answers and their happy ever after.

With just enough red herrings to keep the mind engaged as well as the emotions I’d heartily recommend a not-quite-cozy mystery.

Four fat stars.

Jane Jago

A Great Start To A New Whodunit Series

Grace Rampling, reporter at the StarPheonix in Saskatoon, finds herself uwittingly first a key witness in a murder case and then the potential victim of attempted murder. DS Adam Davis has to solve the case whilst grappling with his real attraction to the woman who seems to be at the heart of it.

Adam’s Witness by J.C. Paulson is a great police based murder mystery bringing together the investigative talents of a journalist and a police officer. The two main characters are really worth getting to know and I look forward to meeting them again in future books in the series. They are ably supported by a very well written supporting cast.

I thoroughly enjoyed the book aside from two aspects of it. The first being the fact that the author seemed to equate signs of poverty and deprivation with being criminal – the bad guys smell, are poor housekeepers, struggle to form relationships and have mental and physical health issues. I find reinforcing such stereotypes very sad. I also wished the author would realise that when in conversation with one other person, people do not keep saying each other’s names. That broke my reading immersion over and over again.

Aside from these issues – which are my own preferences and might not trouble another reader at all – this is a well written and enjoyable whodunit and recommended for any who like reading such.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

In the surgery of a doctor who looked to be about fourteen years old – okay, I may have been being uncooperative because he called for reinforcements.
Says to the occupant of the next room: “I have an elderly lady here refusing blood pressure medication.”
I couldn’t resist: “I can hear you. And I ain’t no lady.”
I don’t guess I’ll be seeing that doctor again. 
But I was cross. The term elderly lady is both patronising and pejorative. Had he said cackling crone I’d have laughed. And I might even have taken his fucking tablets. As it was. I walked… 

Because life can be interesting when you are a character in a video game…

“Nice belt that.”
Milla looked round at Glory then down at the belt. It had a definite shimmer to it. Small motes of coloured mulit-coloured light danced around it, so close in as to seem part of the fabric itself. Her heart swelled with affection and gratitude, One Eye Rye had given her a magic item.
But there was no time to wonder what it might do, the boat had arrived and a couple of Visitors got off it, giving Milla odd looks as the three of them scrambled on. She held her head high and gripped Pew’s hand tightly as the ship pulled away from the dock almost immediately. It had to be a magical vessel as there was no crew and the sails seemed to manage themselves.
But the view as they slipped from the shore and out into the bay was incredible. For the first time Milla could see the whole of Wrathburnt Sands, from the far end of the beach, on one side to the palm trees that surrounded the pyramid on the other. She was so taken by the scene that she didn’t notice when they sailed over the Boundary only that in the next moment she was feeling very sick and the view had changed completely.
Above, clouds scudded across the sky, and sometimes darkened it. The land ahead of them was green and the sea more grey than blue. Almost completely green. So many trees and bushes and even the ground itself was covered in low growing grass and flowers. So very different from the familiar yellows and browns of home that she drew in a sharp breath of surprise and delight.
“You alright?” Pew was still gripping her hand and there was real anxiety on his face. He was worried for her. That made her feel warm inside and she found she was smiling back at him.
“I’m fine. But this place.” She gestured to the approaching coastline with a sweep of her free arm. “It’s amazing.”
Glory made a very unelven snorting noise. “Not so amazing when you have to spend day after day grinding here.”
“I like Barren Steppes,” Pew said. “It’s kind of like where I live.”
Milla blinked. “You live in Barren Steppes?”
“No. Of course not. I just meant…”
But whatever he just meant Milla didn’t find out as Glory was suddenly shouting and reaching for her bow.
“Incoming! Firedrakes! Don’t let them get close!”
Milla instinctively clutched at her pendant and looked up to see half-a-dozen dark shapes with leathery wings circling around the top of the mast. They looked much too small to be dangerous. Then one opened it’s oddly shaped beak and a massive gout of flame shot out, engulfing the rigging and setting it alight.
A moment later the flying creature shrieked and plummeted to the deck, pierced through by the shaft of an arrow. It vanished before it landed. The others swooped down to attack in a tight V formation. Milla found herself being pushed roughly behind the other two by Pew as Glory drew her sword.
“By the power of My Skull!” she yodeled, slashing at the nearest one and slicing into it. Pew had raised his hands and pushed them outwards, just as the drakes breathed their fire. It hit Pew’s invisible shield and barely any of the flames got through, enough to singe Glory’s eyebrows. But Pew’s shoulder’s were slumping with the effort of maintaining the shield
“Powerfeed me, Milla!”
Without really thinking, Milla grabbed her pendant and sent the magical energy it contained towards Pew. He straightened up almost immediately and keeping the invisible shield raised with one hand he threw out a series of small fireballs with the others.
A few moments later the last of the drakes had exploded into nothing and Glory was counting coins she had found somewhere. Pew wiped his brow.
“Where the frack did those firedrakes come from? I’ve never been attacked zoning here from WBS before.”
Glory looked up. “Oh yeah. Sorry about that. Just a class quest I’m on. I get randomly attacked now and then until I’ve finished.” She tipped the coins into her pouch and looked about as un-sorry as it was possible to be.
Pew drew a breath and Milla thought he might be about to say something very rude, but at the last moment he closed his jaw with an audible snap. She felt oddly proud of him and squeezed his hand to tell him so.

We will return to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook next Sunday.

Return to Wrathburnt Sands was first published in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.

Voters, if we have offended
Think but this and all is mended
That you have imagined us
To be mean and full of puss
That our incompetence doth seem
Of no more substance than a dream
Voters you must comprehend
That that we’ve broke we now shall mend
And as we are an honest crew
We’ll do so at no cost to you
And all that’s needed will be found
Even if it costs a pound
And when this cruel thing is over
We’ll embrace you like a lover
We will do good deeds to all
Or else ourselves a liar call
Give us your vote if we be friends
And Boris shall restore amends

©jj 2020

It was a beautiful May morning, but my life was currently being rendered hideous by my five-year-old twins throwing simultaneous epic tantrums. I wasn’t even sure what the screaming was about. I had been feeding the dogs when Ali started to whine, and I turned around just in time to see Roz slap her sister quite hard. Then they both began to scream. The dogs looked at me with deeply reproachful eyes, so I put their food out on the back patio. They went in evident relief, which only left me with two red-faced and hysterical children to deal with. I looked at them for a moment then came to a decision.
I filled a large jug with icy cold water. I was just lifting it out of the sink, when a masculine hand came over my shoulder.
“Allow me.”
My beloved, and normally wholly even-tempered, husband walked quietly over to where two of the loves of his life were screaming like demented banshees. He poured the water over their blonde heads. Miraculously the screaming stopped. Ben waited a beat then spoke very quietly.
“People who behave as badly as that the moment their Daddy’s back is turned should be very grateful he isn’t a spanking sort of a man.”
Then he turned on his heel and left.
The twins sat as if turned to stone and I let the enormity of what had just happened sink in.
It was Ali who found her voice first.
“Is Daddy very cross?” she breathed.
“Sounds like it to me,” I said briskly. “Now is somebody going to tell me what all that was about?”
But of course they couldn’t. It had come over them and they could no more explain than they could fly. They just shook their heads and looked at me with round eyes. Roz even went so far as to stick her thumb in her mouth, even thought she hadn’t sucked it for months. I tried to keep my own expression sober as I looked at their woebegone faces, but I wasn’t proof against the pleading in those big eyes. I held out my arms and scooped the two wet little girls into a hug.
“We’re sorry Mummy.”
“Never mind sweethearts. Let’s get you dry and calm.”
Half an hour later, we were at the breakfast table and the twins were eating porridge. The dogs were in their baskets and peace and quiet reigned. Ben walked back into the room on soft feet and two spoons stopped moving in two bowls. He crouched down between them.
“You two all better now?”
They nodded and he put an arm around each.
“You still cross, Daddy?” Roz quavered.
Ben smiled and kissed each rosy cheek.
“No I’m not cross. Don’t worry my loves. I know you didn’t mean to be naughty.”
Ali clutched his tee shirt in one small hand.
“We didn’t. We wasn’t meaning to be bad, but once we started we couldn’t stop.”
“I don’t expect you could. But there’s a lesson for you both. Don’t be silly. Because it is very hard to stop once you start.”
The twins studied his face carefully and he winked at them. They hurled themselves on his chest and he stood up with one little girl on each arm.
“Have you said sorry to Mummy.”
“We have.”
“Then let’s forget all about it. You two finish your breakfasts.”
He put them back in their chairs and they picked up their spoons. At a quirk of his eyebrows I got up and walked into his embrace. As I leaned in he bent and whispered in my ear.
“Fancy a day off? We can keep the brats out of school and take them for a good walk in the forest.”
“Yeah. I was going to suggest keeping them home anyway. There’s something not right about them. Even before the screaming fit I was concerned. They are unusually clingy, and when I went to wake them this morning Roz was in Ali’s bed.”
“I thought it was just me being fussy Daddy.” He watched the two blonde heads with a worried frown.
I looked out of the open door and across the garden to the flat that was occupied by our chef and good friend, Neil, his wife Stella and their two daughters Ellen and Sian. If I ever needed Stella’s input on parenting it was now.  As I opened my mouth to say who knew what my phone demanded my attention by screaming ‘bugger me boy’ in the voice of a parrot. The twins cracked up, covering their laughing mouths with their hands. I could feel the tension oozing out of them so I forbore to comment on my latest ring tone, merely picking up the call. It was Stella.
“Joss,” she said without preamble, “there’s something going on at school you need to deal with. Sian has been obviously worried, if tight-lipped, for a few days. I thought she had been naughty at school but it ain’t the case. I just wormed the problem out of her. You know that your girls have a new teacher, but what I’m sure you don’t know is that she has taken them in dislike. Sian says she punishes them all the time. Now, it seems, they aren’t even allowed to sit together in the dining room. Sian says it’s a crock of shit, and I reckon she is right enough so that I haven’t even said anything about her language.”
“Thanks Star. Tell Sian not to worry. Me and Benny are on the case. The twins can have a few days off while we get it sorted.”
“Good thinking. I’m keeping Sian home today, too, she’s right out of sorts.”
She ended the call and I looked at the phone with some dislike.
“Girls, can you eat your breakfasts quietly while I have a little chat with Daddy?”
“We’ve finished our porridge, Mummy, and isn’t it time for the school bus?”
I found myself floundering, but Ben rescued me smoothly. “You could go on the bus, or you could have a sneaky day off with Mummy and me.”
The twins beamed at him. “Shall we go and take our uniforms off while Mummy talks to you?”
“You do that. Jeans and sweatshirts for a walk in the forest.”
They shot off and Ben looked at me sombrely.
“What is the big worry? You are as pale as a ghost.”
I told him, and then watched as he found and dealt with the white hot rage he felt at the thought his daughters were being victimised.
“What do we do, Joss? What the hell do we do?”
“First we need to find out more about what has been going on. Then we take steps. If it means home schooling Roz and Ali for a year then that’s what we’ll do. First job, though, is a chat with Sian. Can you manage that without letting her see the berserker flare?”
“Have to don’t I?”
“It would be best if you could, because you are much closer to her than am I.”
“Okay. But walk first. Let’s let everyone settle. Meaning me primarily.”

From Who Pulled Her Out?  by Jane Jago 

Summertime and the livin’ is wheezy
Nose is runnin’ and the pollen count’s high
Oh, your daddy’s face is no longer good lookin’
So hush, little baby, just you nebulise.

Most every morning
You’ get to rise up coughin’
Yes, you cough so bad
When the pollution is high
Mm, the weather man says
The very air can can harm you
Yes, with daddy and mommy standin’ by

Summertime and the livin’ is wheezy
Nose is runnin’ and the pollen count’s high
Oh, your daddy’s face is no longer good lookin’
So hush, little baby, just you nebulise.

E.M. Swift-Hook