Review
Nobody does it better than Lindsey Davis - the unassailable mistress of the historical thriller. For Falco, a relaxed visit to Helena's relatives in Britain turns serious at the scene of a downtown murder. The renegade henchman of Rome's vital ally, King Togidubnus, has been stuffed headfirst down a barroom well - leading to a tricky diplomatic situation that Falco must diffuse. One murder leads to others. Londinium now has a forum and an amphitheatre; the town is a magnet for legitimate traders - and for criminals from Rome. With his pal Petronius, Falco leads the hunt for gangsters who are intent on taking over. Death lurks everywhere, from the new wharves beside the River Thames to the familiar old haunts of organised crime back in Italy. Davis on cracking form.
The Telegraph
'This book is a delight for Falco fans...’
Book Description
Lindsey Davis' fourteenth novel in the bestselling Marcus Didius Falco series is a Londinium noir tale of gangsters, gladiators and love-
--This text refers to the
Paperback
edition.
Product Description
Falco and his family are staying in London when Falco he is summoned to the scene of a murder. The victim, Verovolcus, was a renegade with ties to Roman crime magnates operating in London - but he was also close to King Togidubnus. So when he is discovered stuffed head first down a well, a tricky diplomatic situation develops that Falco needs to defuse. This leads Falco into the seedy underbelly of London, a world plundered by Roman gangsters out to profit from the excitement-starved population. Sex, death and gambling are the order of the day and the newly built Amphitheatre, with its flashy female gladiators, is proving particularly popular. Falco soon realises that the initially troublesome gladiators - including one from his own bachelor past - may just give him the edge he needs to solve Verovolcus' murder, as the gangsters are pursued back to the Italian town of Ostia for a final showdown.
From the Publisher
Lindsey Davis' fourteenth novel in the bestselling Marcus Didius Falco series is a Londinium noir tale of gangsters, gladiators and love…
From the Back Cover
Marcus Didius Falco is about to get involved in a Londinium noir tale of gangsters, gladiators and love... For Falco, a relaxed visit to Helena's relatives in Britain turns serious at the scene of a downstown murder. The renegade henchman of Rome's vital ally, King Togidubnus, has been stuffed head-first down a bar-room well - leading to a tricky diplomatic situation which Falco must diffuse. One murder leads to others, and with his vigiles pal Petronius, Falco leads the hunt for gangsters who are intent on taking over, while danger and death lurk throughout their pursuit... 'Modern, exciting and plausible.' Sunday Times 'As always, Davis weaves a plot full of humour, surprises and domestic irony.' Times Literary Supplement
--This text refers to the
Paperback
edition.
About the Author
Lindsey Davis was born in Birmingham but now lives in Greenwich. After an English degree at Oxford she joined the Civil Service but now writes full time.
Excerpted from The Jupiter Myth by Lindsey Davis. Copyright © 2002. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
I
'It depends what we mean by civilisation,' the procurator mused.
Staring at the corpse, I was in no mood to discuss philosophy. We were in Britain, where the rule of law was administered by the army. Justice operated in a rough and ready fashion so far away from Rome, but special circumstances meant this killing would be difficult to brush aside….
…The centurion told us he had come to the bar, expecting just a normal drunken stabbing or battering. To find a drowned man head-first down a well was slightly unusual, exciting maybe. The 'well' was a deep hole in a corner of the bar's tiny back yard. Hilaris and I bent double and peered in. The hole was lined with the waterproof wooden staves of what must be a massive German wine container; water came nearly to the top. Hilaris had told me these imported barrels were taller than a man, and after being emptied of wine they were often re-used in this way.
When we arrived of course, the body had already been removed. The centurion had pulled up the victim by his boots, planning to heave the cadaver into a corner until the local dung cart carried it off. He himself had intended to sit down with a free drink while he eyed up the attractions of the serving girl.
Her attractions were not up to much. Not by Aventine standards. It depends what we mean by attractive, as Hilaris might muse, if he were the type to comment on waitresses. Myself, I was that type, and immediately we entered the dim establishment I had noticed she was four feet high with a laughable leer and smelt like old boot-liners. She was too stout, too ugly, and too slow on the uptake for me. But I'm from Rome. I have high standards. This was Britain, I reminded myself.
There was certainly no chance of anyone getting free drinks now Hilaris and I were here. We were official. I mean really official. One of us held a damned high rank. It wasn't me. I was just a new middle-class upstart. Anyone of taste and style would be able to sniff out my slum background instantly.
'I'll avoid the bar,' I joked quietly. 'If their water is full of dead men, their wine is bound to be tainted!'
'No, I'll not try a tasting,' agreed Hilaris, in a tactful undertone. 'We don't know what they may stuff in their amphorae . . .'
The centurion stared at us, showing his contempt for our attempts at humour.
This event was even more inconvenient for me than it was for the soldier. All he had to worry about was whether to mention the awkward 'developments' on his report. I had to decide whether to tell Flavius Hilaris - my wife's Uncle Gaius - that I knew who the dead man was. Before that, I had to evaluate the chances that Hilaris himself had known the casked corpse.
Hilaris was the important one here. He was procurator of finance in Britain. To put it in perspective, I was a procurator myself but my role - which involved theoretical oversight of the Sacred Geese of Juno - was one of a hundred thousand meaningless honours handed out by the Emperor when he owed someone a favour and was too mean to pay in cash. Vespasian reckoned my services had cost enough, so he settled up remaining debts with a joke. That was me: Marcus Didius Falco, the imperial clown. Whereas the estimable Gaius Flavius Hilaris, who had known Vespasian many years ago in the army, was now second only to the provincial governor. Since he did know Vespasian personally, then (as the governor would be aware) dear Gaius was the Emperor's eyes and ears, assessing how the new governor ran the province.
He did not need to assess me. He had done that five years ago when we first met. I think I came out well. I wanted to look good. That was even before I fell for his wife's elegant, clever, superior niece. Alone in the Empire, Hilaris had always thought Helena might end up with me. Anyway, he and his own wife had received me back now as a nephew by marriage as if it were natural and even a pleasure.
Hilaris looked a quiet, clerkish, slightly innocent fellow, but I wouldn't take him on at draughts - well, not unless I could play with my brother Festus' weighted dice. He was dealing with the situation in his usual way: curious, thorough, and unexpectedly assertive. 'Here's one Briton who has not acquired much benefit from Roman civilisation,' he had said on being shown the corpse. That was when he added drily, 'I suppose it depends what you mean by civilisation, though.'
'He took in water with his wine, you mean?' I grinned.
'Better not jest.' Hilaris was no prude and it was not a reproof.
He was a lean, neat man, still active and alert - yet greyer and more haggard than I had remembered him. He had always given a slight impression of ill health. His wife, Aelia Camilla, seemed little changed since my last visit, but Flavius Hilaris looked much older and I felt glad I had brought my own wife and youngsters to see him while I could.
Trying not to show that I was watching him, I decided he did know the dead man at his feet. As a career diplomat, he would also be aware of why this death would cause us problems. But, so far, he was not mentioning his knowledge to me.
That was interesting.
'It depends what we mean by civilisation,' the procurator mused.
Staring at the corpse, I was in no mood to discuss philosophy. We were in Britain, where the rule of law was administered by the army. Justice operated in a rough and ready fashion so far away from Rome, but special circumstances meant this killing would be difficult to brush aside….
…The centurion told us he had come to the bar, expecting just a normal drunken stabbing or battering. To find a drowned man head-first down a well was slightly unusual, exciting maybe. The 'well' was a deep hole in a corner of the bar's tiny back yard. Hilaris and I bent double and peered in. The hole was lined with the waterproof wooden staves of what must be a massive German wine container; water came nearly to the top. Hilaris had told me these imported barrels were taller than a man, and after being emptied of wine they were often re-used in this way.
When we arrived of course, the body had already been removed. The centurion had pulled up the victim by his boots, planning to heave the cadaver into a corner until the local dung cart carried it off. He himself had intended to sit down with a free drink while he eyed up the attractions of the serving girl.
Her attractions were not up to much. Not by Aventine standards. It depends what we mean by attractive, as Hilaris might muse, if he were the type to comment on waitresses. Myself, I was that type, and immediately we entered the dim establishment I had noticed she was four feet high with a laughable leer and smelt like old boot-liners. She was too stout, too ugly, and too slow on the uptake for me. But I'm from Rome. I have high standards. This was Britain, I reminded myself.
There was certainly no chance of anyone getting free drinks now Hilaris and I were here. We were official. I mean really official. One of us held a damned high rank. It wasn't me. I was just a new middle-class upstart. Anyone of taste and style would be able to sniff out my slum background instantly.
'I'll avoid the bar,' I joked quietly. 'If their water is full of dead men, their wine is bound to be tainted!'
'No, I'll not try a tasting,' agreed Hilaris, in a tactful undertone. 'We don't know what they may stuff in their amphorae . . .'
The centurion stared at us, showing his contempt for our attempts at humour.
This event was even more inconvenient for me than it was for the soldier. All he had to worry about was whether to mention the awkward 'developments' on his report. I had to decide whether to tell Flavius Hilaris - my wife's Uncle Gaius - that I knew who the dead man was. Before that, I had to evaluate the chances that Hilaris himself had known the casked corpse.
Hilaris was the important one here. He was procurator of finance in Britain. To put it in perspective, I was a procurator myself but my role - which involved theoretical oversight of the Sacred Geese of Juno - was one of a hundred thousand meaningless honours handed out by the Emperor when he owed someone a favour and was too mean to pay in cash. Vespasian reckoned my services had cost enough, so he settled up remaining debts with a joke. That was me: Marcus Didius Falco, the imperial clown. Whereas the estimable Gaius Flavius Hilaris, who had known Vespasian many years ago in the army, was now second only to the provincial governor. Since he did know Vespasian personally, then (as the governor would be aware) dear Gaius was the Emperor's eyes and ears, assessing how the new governor ran the province.
He did not need to assess me. He had done that five years ago when we first met. I think I came out well. I wanted to look good. That was even before I fell for his wife's elegant, clever, superior niece. Alone in the Empire, Hilaris had always thought Helena might end up with me. Anyway, he and his own wife had received me back now as a nephew by marriage as if it were natural and even a pleasure.
Hilaris looked a quiet, clerkish, slightly innocent fellow, but I wouldn't take him on at draughts - well, not unless I could play with my brother Festus' weighted dice. He was dealing with the situation in his usual way: curious, thorough, and unexpectedly assertive. 'Here's one Briton who has not acquired much benefit from Roman civilisation,' he had said on being shown the corpse. That was when he added drily, 'I suppose it depends what you mean by civilisation, though.'
'He took in water with his wine, you mean?' I grinned.
'Better not jest.' Hilaris was no prude and it was not a reproof.
He was a lean, neat man, still active and alert - yet greyer and more haggard than I had remembered him. He had always given a slight impression of ill health. His wife, Aelia Camilla, seemed little changed since my last visit, but Flavius Hilaris looked much older and I felt glad I had brought my own wife and youngsters to see him while I could.
Trying not to show that I was watching him, I decided he did know the dead man at his feet. As a career diplomat, he would also be aware of why this death would cause us problems. But, so far, he was not mentioning his knowledge to me.
That was interesting.
