Leisure vehicle users were dying.
They were going to sleep in their shiny ‘vans and just not waking up. Various theories were advanced for this phenomenon, including foul play by person or persons unknown, but nobody could actually put their finger on a cause. After some months of speculation. a government-sponsored study was set up. It discovered that people did indeed die in leisure vehicles far more frequently than was statistically explainable – even given the average age of the people concerned.
The findings were, of course, summarily dismissed by leisure vehicle builders as being merely an attempt to frighten customers, and the biggest players in the market banded together in defence of their profitable product.
For a while the buying public was convinced, but a proliferation of news stories about unexplained deaths began to seriously erode consumer confidence and the industry looked as if it would be reporting a drop in profits for the first time in living memory.
This was intolerable, so an emergency meeting of the big boys was convened to look into what could be done to repair the situation.
After a bit of fencing, the industry giants were forced to admit that some sort of a gesture was needed, and it was decided that the players would go away and have a think, reconvening in twenty-eight days with suggestions.
The second meeting was a noisy affair with not a few theories flying around the huge boardroom table. Some advocated an advertising campaign featuring holograms and huge city-centre billboards. Another faction was convinced by special edition models with gorgeous graphics and over-the-top specifications. Both options were considered seriously before being dismissed as being insufficiently impressive.
There was, however, one suggestion that nobody was prepared to entertain for a moment. It was proposed by a group of research and development operatives, who humbly suggested trying to discover whether leisure vehicles might indeed possess some underlying fault that could be responsible for the deaths. The scientist sent to present this unpalatable notion was lucky to escape the convocation with his skin intact, and it was made abundantly clear that such politically unpalatable ideas were not to be entertained.
The unfortunate scientist called his friends to report drawing a blank, and, although nobody was much surprised, there was more than a little disappointment among his peers. A small inner group determined to carry on researching the deaths, while resolving to keep what they were doing under wraps.
Meanwhile the wrangling among the bosses went on for days, with nothing of any substance being decided. In the end another four-week recess was called, and the delegates went away to bully their underlings for some better plans.
While the bullying and chivvying was going on, a very young research assistant beavering away in a design facility in the USA made a disturbing discovery. There was one factor that was common to every ‘van in which unexplained deaths had occurred. Each was fitted with a relatively new and spectacularly efficient battery system, part of which was a wireless control box enabling users to manage all the vehicle functions from their mobile phones. He postulated that there had to be a connection between the system and the fatalities, but the connotations of that were so sinister that nobody was willing to talk about it. The young geek was told to go and find some concrete evidence, and to keep his mouth shut until he did.
While this was going on, the big bosses met for the third time to thrash out an appropriate response to the growing unease. To say the meeting was tetchy is to massively understate the case. The arguments raged back and forth, and men in suits all but came to blows up and down the polished wood of the conference table.
In the end, the Managing Director of the biggest player of all stood up and spoke.
“What we should do,” he said portentously, “is host a worldwide series of long weekend rallies. Rallies with free food, free beer and free entertainment. By this means we will gain much public approval and prove to the doubters that leisure vehicles are absolutely safe.”
He paused for effect.
“We should each host at least one rally. More if we can. We offer free tickets to customers. We invite the world’s press to stay in ‘vans at the rallies. And we ourselves act as hosts of the events, also staying in ‘vans. Does anybody have a better idea?”
Of course nobody did and once the wave of arguments and counter-proposals died down, the job of making arrangements was handed to an army of administrators and gofers.
A paper-thin Latvian gentleman smiled thinly, and made a series of cryptic phone calls once he was in his chauffeur-driven Bentley. The upshot of these calls was a dramatic drop in the trade price of a certain battery system and a corresponding rise in production at a manufacturing plant in northern Germany.
The Latvian met an even thinner man in a private room at a very famous fish restaurant in Barcelona and, over course after course of seafood, into which neither man made much inroads, he reported the upshot of the industry meetings. His host laughed, a short humourless sound, and rubbed his hands together.
“It appears,” he remarked in a colourless and precise voice, “that I may have my vengeance at an earlier date than I could have expected. How did you arrange that?”
“We encouraged a young lady of dubious virtue to drop a suggestion in the ear of a certain gentleman. And he swallowed it.”
“Very good. You have my thanks. The second instalment of your fee will be in your bank tomorrow.”
When the Latvian had bowed himself out of the room the other man picked up his phone and dialled a number. When it was answered he had a quiet-voiced conversation with somebody on the other end. Had there been anyone in the room, they might have noticed the whitening of his knuckles as he held the phone and the single tear that coursed down the side of his rather beaky nose, but he was alone so those rare signs of emotion went unseen. He ended the call and sat for a while regarding his own hands with a grim set to his mouth. Then he spoke coldly and with absolute precision.
“Your little cartel declared war on me and mine all those years ago. Now you are about to pay your debts.”
Then he rose from his seat and left the room, walking very quietly.

High summer in the northern hemisphere saw hundreds of venues prepared to receive visitors. Enormous marquees had been erected, catering companies were roasting pigs and sheep, beers and wines were ready to serve, sound checks had been carried out by expensive musicians, and ‘vans began arriving to be pitched in serried ranks by an armies of smiling marshals in smart uniforms.
At close to the end of the working day on the Friday groups of influential journalists were bused into the each of the various venues. The biggest North American rally was taking place in a huge grassy valley in Utah, and the bus paused on the lip of that valley to permit its passengers a view of the immensity of the undertaking.
A young female news anchor shuddered.
“Look at them,” she pointed at row upon row of all but identical ‘vans pitched with mathematical precision as far as the eye could see. “Will you just look. How does anybody tell them apart? They are fucking clones. Can you imagine being lost among rows and rows of those things?”
A tall Texan grinned.
“Yup. They are mostly indistinguishable. However. According to the press pack, that I seem to be the only one to have read, each ‘van has a homing device accessed via an app on your mobi.”
The girl shuddered again.
“I like that even less. It’s too much like being led along by the nose. And how does anybody know all those things aren’t talking to each other? Talking and plotting. It’s creepy. I’m not staying. Nobody could pay me enough to stay. I’ll walk out if need be.”
The bus driver gave her a thumbs up.
“Just stay on the bus then. I’m dropping off, and heading home. I don’t like this vibe any more than you do.”
The young woman stubbornly stayed on the bus, even in the face of telephone threats from her bosses and increasingly desperate entreaties from representatives of the industry. Something about the setup had her rattled and she wasn’t entirely comfortable until she was on an aeroplane heading home.

Friday evening saw each carefully orchestrated rally swinging into action, and the charm offensive for the world’s media turned up to megawatt intensity. Nobody mentioned the young American anchor, or two Italians, one Frenchwoman, and a Japanese, none of whom could be persuaded to spend any time at all enjoying the hospitality.
As the rally attendees partied, a serious-minded young researcher logged in at a secret facility in Cincinnati. He was convinced there was something wrong with the battery system that now powered more than ninety per cent of leisure vehicles. But he couldn’t for the life of him see what. He should have been at home for his brother’s birthday party, but something inside his head insisted he needed to be in his laboratory. His family excused him and he sat regarding the two examples of the system set up in glass boxes on the laboratory bench.
Something was going to happen, he was sure, he just wasn’t sure he wanted to know what.
Midnight found the last of the music petering out and even the hardiest of ralliers returning to their accommodation. The tall Texan looked at the phone in his hand as it pulled him gently towards his allotted ‘van. He found himself feeling hugely uneasy, and cursed the nervous anchorwoman under his breath. He shrugged his muscular shoulders, unlocked the door of his palatial home on wheels and pulled his soft bag out of the cupboard. Slipping the bag onto his back he rolled up the duvet from the king-sized bed and stuck it under his arm before making his silent way out of the ranks of silver-sided monsters and up the escarpment to a level meadow where he could roll himself in the duvet and sleep under the stars.

Two hours later, in Cincinnati, the researcher was awoken by a message notification, something was talking to his two battery systems. Some elementary instinct for self preservation had him carefully closing the airtight doors on the glass cases before checking his gauges. Nothing. Then he heard the distinctive sound of breaking glass. In each of the systems set up for study a tiny blown-glass vial, which the schematic of the devices said was something to do with self-levelling, had exploded and its contents dripped through a grating into the largest of the batteries. The gauges went wild. It was nerve gas. Powerful nerve gas. The researcher grabbed for his phone, all the while fearing himself to be too late. Two hours later he gave up on trying to contact anybody at any of the rallies. He put his head down on his bench and let the bitter tears fall.

Some hours later in Utah, the Texan awoke with the sun in his eyes, and stretched before sitting up with a rueful grin. It must, he thought, be very early still as there wasn’t a sound in the valley below him. He looked at his watch, then stiffened. That couldn’t be right. It couldn’t be after nine. If it was, the valley would be abuzz with activity. Breakfast was scheduled to start at eight, and by nine there should have been volleyball, tennis, soccer, watercolour painting, and all manner of activities going into on below him. Something was wrong. Badly wrong. He dragged his phone out of his trouser pocket and called for help.
While he waited for the police to arrive he watched the valley, alert for any sign of movement. Of course there was none.
Just shy of fifteen hundred people fell asleep in that valley. None of them ever awoke.
It was the same story all over the world.
Nobody ever moved any of the ‘vans from the venue in Utah and for all we know they are still talking to each other as they quietly rot away where they stand…

Jane Jago

The Dog Days are the high days of summer and a perfect time to celebrate our canine companions in verse and prose.

Puppy dog, puppy dog
Where have you been?
I’ve been in the garden
To keep the house clean.

Puppy dog, puppy dog,
What did you there?
I pooped under the rose bush
Then peed up the chair

Puppy dog, puppy dog
Why did you do that?
I couldn’t quite make it
When chasing the cat.

Puppy dog, puppy dog
That is so bad!
I know I’ve been naughty
But please don’t be mad.

Puppy dog, puppy dog,
You know it’s forbidden
I know and I’m sorry,
So am I forgiven?

Puppy dog, puppy dog
Oh what can I do?
Just cuddle and love me
And I’ll love you too.

Eleanor Swift-Hook

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…

There were, Dai decided as his two children buried him in the sand on the beach at Traeth Abermaw for the third time that day, far worse times of year to be placed on gardening leave from his job as Submagistratus of Demetae and Cornovii.
It was not that he was under real suspicion, that had been made clear several times by the Magistratus Domina Agrippina Julius Valerius Apollinara, but the fact remained that Caeso Maol had been an acquaintance of his and he had not only been the one to find the body, but he had also been in the next room when the murder took place and so it was simply a matter of propriety and perception (her exact words) that Dai should be kept out of the gaze of both the public and officialdom whilst his wife Julia, who happened to be the other Submagistratus of Demetae and Cornovii, found out who had actually done it.
However, just because he was not involved in the investigation did not mean that, up to his neck in sand, arms behind his head, he could not spend some time considering it. The murder had taken place at an informal gathering of some of the well to do men of Viriconium. Dai had gone along as the guest of Paulus Vinicius Cato, a lawyer friend, who had virtually begged him to be there in order to make a gods-awful social commitment into something bearable.
“You can not imagine what these dos are like,” Paulus had told him on the drive to the baths, “everyone trying to both show off how wonderful and independently successful they are and all at the same time trying to get the support of others for whatever their present pet project in self-promotion might be. I have to attend as half my clients go.”
Dai could imagine, and had imagined, and had been close to making some careful social excuse to avoid the misery right at the last minute, but Paulus was a good friend and it was not a bad notion anyway for Dai to mix a bit with the kind of community that were attending.
They were almost exclusively Romano-British, with names that reflected the fact. Most had the defensive pride which many non-native Romans developed, seeing themselves one step up from their British neighbours, but never quite able to feel they were fully equal to a Roman citizen from Italia itself. And, to be fair, Dai knew that was not entirely their own fault. He, too, straddled that boundary and grappled with being seen as too Roman by the British and too British by the Romans. But he was fortunate in that his family was one that carried a lot of respect in the area and he had good friends in Rome, being married to a woman the Praetor regarded as a foster sister.
But for those without such advantages allowing them to maintain and deepen their connections in both directions, being Romano-British put them into an uncomfortable middle ground and, as a group, they tended to keep together.
That evening’s gathering reflected a painful awareness of their cultural insecurity. It was held at the baths in Viriconium and then was to include a meal at Aureum Anatisa, the Golden Duck, a very expensive caupona, on the banks of the river. The Duck was one of less than a handful of exclusive sub aquila places in Viriconium, a building where the eagle above the entrance declared it was reserved exclusively for Citizens. But, ironically, the Duck was renowned for its excellent British menu. Dai had a feeling that the owners had cleverly, and cynically, carved their niche, by playing on the insecurities of these cross-culture families.
He had no opportunity to find out though, because whilst they were all having a post bathe massage before heading to the caupona, a scream from one of the staff had shattered his relaxation. The woman was screaming because there was blood trickling out from a changing cubicle and when Dai had pulled the door open, the body of Caeso Maol had literally fallen into his arms.
There would have been no suspicion of Dai at all had he not needed to use the urinal and left the main party for a few minutes shortly before the body was discovered. Which meant, in theory, he could have had time to kill poor Caeso. It did not help that earlier Caeso had been regalling the company as they sat in the hot room with tales from his schooldays—schooldays he had shared with Dai as they had happened to be in the same class—and not all the stories had been that complimentary to Dai, who had been a rather shy and studious nerd at that time.
So, expressing her profound regret at having to do so, the Magistratus had told Dai to take paid leave of absence and enjoy the summer sunshine and his children’s company until the matter had been resolved.
He had decamped for the week to Traeth Abermaw taking his daughter, five year old Aelwen and her three year old brother, Rhodri together with their nursemaid, Luned and a discreet individual called Duggan—though whether that was his first or last name Dai was not entirely certain. The Magistratus had insisted on Duggan accompanying them to ensure their security. Dai had initially objected seeing no reason to have a bodyguard on a family holiday in the place where he himself had spent many happy such as a child, but Pina had simply knitted her brows and given him a stern look.
“Until we know what went on,” she told him in a tone that was filled with the gravitas of her Imperial heritage, “we have no idea whether your being a witness might place you at an additional risk.”
He could not argue that and to be fair to Duggan, the man was so little in evidence that Dai sometimes wondered if he had neglected his duty altogether and sloped off to the nearest taberna. So he was a bit surprised when he heard Luned say the man’s name and opened his eyes to see the compactly muscular, steel eyed Duggan looking down at him.
“Someone named Cartival, dominus, says he knows you.”
Dai tried to sit up, but the sand the children had packed firmly around him did not give way.
“Er—yes, that’s Bryn,” he said quickly, feeling acutely embarrassed to be stuck immobile in the sand. “Bryn Cartival is indeed a friend of mine. Thank you, Duggan.”
The man gave a terse nod and Dai was sure there was a grin breaking out as he turned away, but perhaps that was just his own humiliation.
By the time Bryn had strolled over, carrying five dripping ice creams, Dai had managed to free himself from the beach, with the enthusiastic assistance of his two children and was dusting down the damp sand with a towel.

From Dying as a Spy by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

Glossary of Latin and Other Terms
Please note these are not always accurate translations, they are how these terms are used in Dai and Julia’s world.
caupona – an inn or hotel
Demetae and Cornovii – Wales and several English Midland counties including Shropshire
domin-a/us – Ma’am/Sir. Used to superiors both in rank and social status
Italia – we would call it Italy
magistratus – senior official with legal jurisdiction over an area
sub aquila – literally ‘under the eagle’. An eagle above the entrance of any building means it is Citizen access only – aside for those who might work there of course
submagistratus – a more junior official with legal jurisdiction over an area, under the authority of a magistratus
taberna – pub/bar
Traeth Abermaw – we would call it Barmouth Beach
Viriconium – we would call it Wroxeter. The area capital of Demetae and Cornovii

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 you are a disgrace
Should be modest and downcast of face
It is so deeply wrong 
That you’re wearing a thong
And a peephole in black silk and lace

© jane jago

Where the beer flows, there go I
In the pub snug bar I lie
Drinking beer until the cry:
‘Last orders, please’ when I sigh.
Until summer merrily.
Verily, merrily
Shall I go then
Into the beer garden, to drink with friends!

Eleanor Swift-Hook

One of the poems you can find in In Verse

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

So home was now an underground lair on a nameless, tempest ravaged dust world.
And although she knew that all she touched was soaked with the blood of freetraders, Pan found it surprisingly easy to push that away and focus on the work she was expected to do.
The hard part, the really hard part, was sleeping with her betrayer as if nothing had changed between them.
At first someone shadowed her all the time, checking what she had been doing. They were being careful despite accepting her as one of their own. Usually it was Tolin or Daiyu who would at least chat a bit. Sometimes it was the silent Goldie, who Pan was beginning to believe might be mute. Once, about a cycle in, it was even Dekker himself who came to check some upgrade work she had been doing on his ‘girl’ the systems interceptor.
“How you settling in?” he asked, slipping into the copilot seat as she was running the final link interface checks. She glanced at him, those brutalised eyes belying the friendly smile.
“So-so.” It was an honest answer.
“I’d have left you and Tols out there running for us if I could’ve. The work you two had going was awesome. Finest runners ever. But…” He gestured to the ship then lifted a finger and circled it to indicate the underground hanger and the habitation attached to it. “This place needs nursing along. Randja said it needed a lot of babying to keep the old tech up and running.”
Pan finished the last check and set the system live, watching for anything to suggest she might have made a mistake. But the upgrade was installed well within the tolerance of the smart-assist AI to compensate for any clumsiness or oversight on her part.
She sat back in the pilot’s seat and turned it slightly to face in towards Dekker’s chair.
“Then Randja was talking bollocks,” she said. “I think he just didn’t want to be out there in that dangerous galaxy – the one that eventually killed him. He wanted to be safe here while you and the others were out there doing the dirty stuff. Ready to take his cut when the time came. The systems they put in here were built with more back ups and fail safes than you can imagine and constructed to last.”
She had his attention now and his eyes had taken on a feral look. They were so dark she could see herself reflected in them.
“You saying Randja was lying to me?”
She gave that a few moments consideration before replying.
“Being a little creative with the truth maybe. Of course this all needs maintenance, but he had tech mechs doing most of that. You don’t need someone sitting here watching it all the time.”
Dekker grinned.
“That’s good news. We badly need a runner out there and to tell you the truth before you hitched up with him, Tols was flailing around most of the time. The two of you together, though. Sweet.” He leaned forward and ran a hand up Pan’s thigh. “Very sweet.”
He caught the slap with the same hand, well before it reached his face. Pan cursed herself silently as something primitive and ugly stirred in the depths of Dekker’s gaze. He released her wrist as if it burned him and sat back, the grin gone.
“I just lost a bet. Daiyu said you were Tols’ and his alone. Guess she was right after all.” He pushed himself to his feet. “If, as you say, this place could get by without you for half a cycle or so, I think you two lovebirds should spread your wings and hunt us up some trade.”

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

They called her Nanny Bee, although as far as anyone knew she had never been a wife or a mother, let alone a grandmother. But she was popularly believed to be a witch – so Nanny it was. She lived in a pink-walled thatched cottage that crouched between the village green and the vicarage. The Reverend Alphonso Scoggins (a person of peculiarly mixed heritage and a fondness for large dinners) joked that between him and Nanny they could see the villagers from birth to burial.
Nanny’s garden was the most verdant and productive little patch you could ever imagine, and she could be found pottering in its walled prettiness from dawn to dusk almost every day. People came to visit and were given advice, or medicine, or other potions in tiny bottles or scraps of paper – but they always had the sneaking suspicion they were getting in the way of the gardening.
But there again, digging is second nature to gnomes.

It was one of those winter evenings when your own fireside is the best place to be when Nanny’s dream of bee-loud summer was interrupted by a quiet tap on the door. It was the vicar’s housekeeper. She dropped a small curtesy and Nanny wondered why her prickles didn’t tear holes in her flowered gown.
“The vicar asks if you could spare him a few moments ma’am.”
“What? Right now?”
“If you please.”
Nanny shoved her feet into her bright red rubber boots and wrapped herself in a cloak of fine combed wool.
“Lead the way, Tiggywinkle.”
In the vicar’s study, the formidable bosom of the village’s premier gossip was accompanied by her daughter – who didn’t look too happy to be there.
“Ah. Bee. I’m being asked to call out Farmer Greengrass in church as an adulterer and the father of the baby Amelia here is carrying.”
“I’m not asking Reverend, I demand that you put my daughter in place of that man’s barren wife.”
Nanny sniffed. “Adulterer he may well be. But the child ain’t his.”
“Are you calling my daughter a liar?”
“Egg it how you please. The babe ain’t his.”
The bosom loomed.
“How dare you?”
Nanny grinned. “It ent his wife what’s barren.”
Then she went home.

©janejago

The circus wagons move from town to town, with the brightly-arrayed creatures tumbling and dancing about them – animated only by the strangely compelling music of the singing oil drums. And all the while, the masters collect money in their horny palms.
Do we ever feel the joy of the dance? No. It is not permitted. We must remain with the freak show, alongside the moustached lady who flaunts her tattooed self and the strangely misshapen beings whose birth was unfortunate and whose lives have rarely been more than burdensome.
We sometimes wonder if we were born as we are now. Truth to tell, we do not know. Although we sometimes speak of where we might have come from none of us has even an idea of before we were as we are.
But our life isn’t hard. Not now. Not if we can manage not to mind the staring eyes.
We speak of that, too, in the quiet of the night – understanding that, hate the eyes though we might, they are less troublesome than the hurled rocks and stones that were overwhelming us in the only other place we can remember. We still feel the hurt to our bones, and the strangeness of relief when the masters drove our persecutors from us with cudgels and harsh words. They removed us from the place and we understood that we became their possessions from that day on.
Our present owners are never truly unkind, although they think of us as animals who have no more comprehension than the heffalumps and the prancing unicorn.
So we stand in our wagon, and those with a brown penny to spend come to look and enjoy their own revulsion. Sometimes those with coins of silver or gold pay to come into the place where we are. They are permitted to do certain things to us. Things that are unpleasant, but never as painful as the rocks of those who sought our deaths. We endure, and are rewarded for our stoicism with treats of honey and brief walks in quiet woodland glades.
Sometimes we think of escape. If we ever get a chance.
Opportunity comes to those who are patient, though, and ours knocked in a most unexpected way.
It was a hot summer night and the circus was leaving town in a hurry. There were whispers of inquisitors in the district and the dark ones had no mind to lose any of their pets to the heavy hand of such as those. The procession hustled along as fast as was possible given the need for discretion. The only sound to be heard was wagons softly creaking in the darkness, while the rising dust clogged our nostrils and besmirched our robes. Nobody capered in a foolish dance, and no music heralded our movement. All was tight-lipped quiet and care to be unobserved.
At a certain place in the deepest shade of the trees our party left the road and turned its face to the hidden ways, where the old trees moved their limbs aside making a path between themselves for the swaying wagons.
We judged it to be coming towards dawn when the wagon beneath us lurched and broadsided itself across the barely discernible byway. There came a horrid cracking sound and we shuddered to a stop.
“Blasted, buggering axle.”
The master who had been driving the patient burden beasts swore in a bitter undervoice. For a few moments there was sufficient chaos to awaken the hungry flesh eaters in their shiny cages. But the masters are resourceful and they soon regained order although we feared certain of the chattering ones would have felt the lash of a stock whip before they quieted.
And we?
We stood in our customary quietude whilst they argued the best way forward.
“Leave them. We can return for them tomorrow night.”
“Leave them, and have them run away? What foolishness is this.”
We knew that cold, harsh voice. It belonged to the ringmaster, who was heavily handsome in the way of humans, and whose anger all the circus feared. Or almost all.
Around him, the talk subsided, until only one was left to brave, or foolish, enough to argue. It was the old one. The one whose voice rustled like last years desiccated leaves and was so discordant as to make our mouths and throats feel as if we had been thirsting for many a day.
“Have them run away? Think again grandson of my son. Where would they go?”
The silence fell heavily cold into the breathless heat of the night, but then he laughed. “Where indeed.”
In a very short while they were gone and around us there was no sound save for the noises as the forest herself awoke. Emboldened by our unaccustomed aloneness we sat swinging our feet over the sides of our broken home.
The air grew cooler and the scent of grass came to our nostrils.
“Such beauty,” one of us spoke into the softly verdant air.
We watched as the sun rose and the creatures of the day took over from the night fliers and crawlers.
Another of us spoke into the pinkness of the dawn.
“Do we dare?”
“Do we dare what?”
But we knew. We knew that if we would ever leave the wooden prison in which we dwelt, now was our time.
Nobody moved, though, and our hands stroked the smooth wood of familiarity.
It must have been high noon before yet another found voice.
“After all. Where would we go?”

Jane Jago

This story was inspired by the image created by Paul Biddle

The Dog Days are the high days of summer and a perfect time to celebrate our canine companions in verse and prose.

“Listen here, bonehead. They are talking about castration if you don’t stop.”
Scraps pawed his phone and the screen flashed up a message.
“Stop what?”
“Stop harassing bitches and offering violence to random males. It’s taking up too much of their time.”
He licked his scrotum meditatively, but the message must have got through, because he was much more careful about his phone use thereafter.
So careful that it wasn’t him hailed off to the veterinarian in a dog van.
No. It was his arch enemy Jaws whose testicles were removed.
Learning to hack enemy phones had been worth it.

Jane Jago

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…

The door slammed shut behind him and the solid sound of bolts shooting home followed, reinforcing the sense of finality. The room was a depressing dull grey from ceiling to floor. It was square with two beds, bunks, running the full length of one sidewall and essential facilities in the far corner. Zero privacy from either his cellmate or, through the door hatch, from the custodius. Above the door a vent the size of his fist was vibrating with an annoying humming-whine as it reluctantly circulated fresh air.
“Llewellyn? What did they drag you in here for? Sticking your nose too deep in someone else’s business?”
The voice was vaguely familiar, though Dai was slow to place it as the shaven head of the man sprawled on the lower bunk was not. His puzzlement must have shown because the man swung his legs over the side of the bunk and sat up.
“I don’t suppose you remember me. It was some months ago and I’m sure you’ve been a busy Submagistratus since then.”
“I’m sorry, but I really don’t…”
The other man laughed, which turned into a cough part way before he was able to speak again. “Gods! Politeness. Not heard a word of that since they locked me in here.” He pushed himself to his feet and straightened the green tunic, before offering a formal greeting. “Tertius Cloelius Rufus. It is an honour to share my captivity with you. A pleasure. You may recall we met in Viriconium before these unfortunate events.”
Dai found himself shaking the outheld hand as if they were at a social event or meeting, as his memory searched desperately for the name and face. When it came, he snatched his hand away and stepped back involuntarily.
“You were the cunnus of a medicus involved with a group holding vicious sex parties that led to the death of young streetgirls.”
“No need to use titles here,” the older man said brightly and then smiled at his own joke. “You can call me Rufus. It’ll make a change from seven-eight-one-one-two-six. It’s those little things you get to miss the most in this place. By the way, I hope you’re not hungry, you missed the evening meal. Nothing til tomorrow now.”
Dai felt a curl of cold revulsion in his guts.
“You disgust me.“
“Really?” Cloelius sounded unconcerned. “At least I’m not a traitor like you. That tends to evoke more outrage in our society at every level than any sexual adventures a man might embark on.”
“The difference is,” Dai snarled, unable to keep the contempt from his voice. “I am not guilty of the faked-up charges against me, but I know for a fact you are guilty as charged. I caught you red-handed, literally. And the blood of a good Vigiles was shed that night too.”
Cloelius sighed and sat back on his bunk. “Appearances can be very deceptive Llewellyn, and like it or not your guilt or innocence will be decided in a court of law not by whatever you might choose to say or believe.” He lay back as if reclining on a lectus. “You might discover that I am in fact the innocent one and you turn out to be guilty. Now that would be an interesting outcome, don’t you think?”
The chilling realisation that the corrupt medicus spoke the truth staggered Dai. The words leeched all strength from his muscles and he sank down to sit with his back against the cold grey wall.
“Why are you still here?” he demanded, when the moment of weakness had passed.
“What a strange question. It’s not as if I can just stroll along to the atrium or visit the baths, is it?”
Dai lifted a hand in protest. “You know what I mean. You must have been here for months. Yours was an open and shut case. I signed off all the evidence myself back in Martius. It only needed a hearing before an independent Magistratus to…”
“Sentence me to death?” Cloelius gave a rasping laugh. “You show yourself the true Briton, Llewellyn. There are people I’ve met who have been held here for the last ten years.”
Dia bridled at that.
“But it’s against the law. No Citizen can be deprived of his or her freedom. They are tried and if found guilty, sentenced either to death or whatever fine is due.”
“Ah, British logic,” Cloelius said, his tone shifting to that of a teacher explaining simple facts to a schoolboy. “Those I speak of are Citizens who stand accused of capital offenses and are awaiting their day in court. They all have powerful friends in Rome using every legal wrangle there is to keep them from coming to trial. Some of the crimes have to be prosecuted within a certain time limit, so if they can delay that day long enough they can walk free. Others are commuted by prolonged negotiation from death to a fine. Everyday is a barter day. But you worked here in Londinium as a Vigiles so you really should know that.”
It was true that he had heard the rumours so it was not really a surprise. But his day-to-day clientele at that time had been almost exclusively non-Citizen criminals.
“You have powerful friends?”
Cloelius hunched one shoulder in an exaggerated shrug. “Perhaps I do. Or powerful enough to keep me from trial so far. Don’t you? I am assuming you must do to have secured both Citizenship and a plum administrative appointment.” He leaned forward as if offering a confidence. “At the very least they might be able to have your Citizenship rescinded which would give you the chance of commuting your sentence to hard labour instead of the arena.”
That was something that had not occurred to Dai as a possibility before. It was true that committing any serious crime could lead to an application for the revocation of an awarded Citizenship – something given could be taken away. An option not open to those born with Citizenship status. But the kind of hard labour criminals were condemned to was brutalising.
“I don’t see that would be much better,” he said, hearing the bitterness in his own tone. “Just a slower way to die.”
“Perhaps. But at least, my British friend, you have options. Who knows? We may even grow old together in this cell.”

From Dying to be Innocent the 9th Dai and Julia Mystery by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.