‘Excuse me –’ she gasped.
‘Excuse me!’
She veered around me; I sidestepped politely. She dodged; I dodged. I had come to the Forum to visit my banker; I felt glum. I greeted this smouldering apparition with the keenness of a man who needs troubles taking off his mind.
She was a slight thing. I liked them tall, but I was prepared to compromise. She was wickedly young. At the time I lusted after older women – but this one would grow up, and I could certainly wait. While we sashayed on the steps, she glanced back, panic-struck. I admired her shapely shoulder, then squinted over it myself. Then I had a shock.
There were two of them. Two ugly lumps of jail-fodder, jellybrained and broad as they were high, were pushing through the crowds towards her, just ten paces off. The little lass was obviously terrified.
‘Get out of my way!’ she pleaded.
I wondered what to do. ‘Manners!’ I chided thoughtfully, as the jellybrains came within five paces.
‘Get out of my way sir!’ she roared. She was perfect.
It was the usual scene in the Forum. We had the Record Office and Capitol Hill hard above us on the left; to the right the Courts, and the Temple of Castor further down the Sacred Way. Opposite, beyond the white marble rostrum, stood the Senate House. All the porticos were crammed with butchers and bankers, all the open spaces filled with sweaty crowds, mainly men. The piazza rang with the curses of strings of slaves crisscrossing like a badly organized military display. The air simmered with the reek of garlic and hair pomade.
The girl pranced to one side; I slid the same way.
‘Need directions, young lady?’ I asked helpfully.
She was too desperate to pretend. ‘I need a district magistrate.’ Three paces: options fast running out … Her face changed. ‘Oh help me!’
‘My pleasure.’
I took charge. I hooked her away by one arm as the first of the jellybrains lunged. Close to they looked even larger, and the Forum was not an area where I could count on any support. I planted the sole of my boot on the first thug’s breastbone, then vigorously straightened my knee. I felt my leg crunch, but the draught-ox staggered into his evil friend so they teetered backwards like faltering acrobats. I looked around frantically for a diversion to cause.
The steps were crowded with the usual illegal touts and overpriced market stalls. I considered upending some melons but smashed fruit meant a diminished livelihood for their market gardener. I had a diminished livelihood myself so I settled on the tasteful copperware. Tilting it with my shoulder, I keeled over a complete stall. The stallholder’s thin cry was lost as bouncing flagons, ewers and urns sped at a denting pace down the Temple steps, followed by their despairing owner and numbers of righteous passers-by – all hoping to stroll home with a nice new fluted fruitbowl under one arm.
I grabbed the girl and hared up the Temple steps. Scarcely pausing to admire the dignified beauty of the Ionic portico, I pulled her through the six columns and into the inner sanctum. She squeaked; I kept going at speed. It was cool enough to make us shiver and dark enough to make me sweat. There was an old, old smell. Our footsteps rang fast and sharp on the ancient stone floor.
‘Am I allowed in here?’ she hissed.
‘Look pious; we’re on our way.’
‘But we can’t get out!’
If you know anything about temples you will realize they have a single imposing entrance at the front. If you know anything about priests, you will have noticed they usually have a discreet little door for themselves somewhere at the back. The priests of Saturn did not disappoint us.
I brought her out on the racecourse side, and set off south. The poor girl had wriggled out of the arena straight into a lion pit. I cantered her through dark alleys and pungent back doubles to home ground.
‘Wherever are we?’
‘Aventine Sector, Thirteenth District. South of the Circus Maximus, heading for the Ostia Road.’ As reassuring as a shark’s grin to a flounder. She would have been warned about places like this. If her loving old nurses knew what they were doing, she had been warned about fellows like me.
I slowed down after we crossed the Aurelian Way, partly because I was on secure home ground, but also because the girl was ready to expire.
‘Where are we going?’
‘My office.’
She looked relieved. Not for long: my office was two rooms on the sixth floor of a dank tenement where only the dirt and dead bedbugs were cementing together the walls. Before any of my neighbours could price up her clothing I wheeled her off the mudtrack that passed for a highroad, and into Lenia’s distinctly low-class laundry.
Hearing the voice of Smaractus my landlord, we wheeled smartly back out.
THE COURSE OF HONOUR
Newsletter
The Course of Honour … has had a long history.
I had left my office job (in the Civil Service), sick of always being given the hard tasks and never being given rewards. A romantic novel I had written to cheer myself up was runner-up in a competition, so I decided to risk all and try to be a writer.
I wanted to write historical novels, probably romantic fiction for women. My chosen period was the English Civil War, which I tackled in the only style I have ever used: with humour, domestic interests, and also politics. Humour worried publishers and so did politics - even when the setting was a great revolutionary conflict! I had serials published in a women's magazine (they are tougher than people think) but I just could not find anyone to publish my work in book form.
Needing to pay my bills, I decided to change the setting. It was madness to choose the Romans, of course, but I always liked a challenge. I had been introduced to archaeology at school, particularly Roman Britain, which I now took as my starting point. Researching the Roman Invasion under the Emperor Claudius, I stumbled upon Vespasian. I convinced myself that people would have heard of the Colosseum in Rome, which he built, and that if they had read I, Claudius or seen the superb BBC TV serialisation with Derek Jakobi, they would find this era accessible.
In the Suetonius biography of Vespasian there was a tantalising reference: 'after his wife died, he took up again with Caenis, his former mistress and one of Antonia's freedwomen and secretaries, who remained his wife in all but name, even after he became Emperor'. At the heart of this is the fact that a Roman senator was legally forbidden to marry a slave. The way Suetonius nervously refers to the affair - wanting to disapprove yet not quite managing it - attracted me. When I worked out dates, using the known birthdays of Vespasian's two sons, I realised that here you had two people who were lovers when young, who separated for a period of many years during his marriage, and who went back together in middle age. That would be very unusual even today - it spoke resoundingly of True Love. An additional twist was that when Vespasian so unexpectedly became Emperor at the age of 60, everyone (including Caenis) must have believed that he would abandon her a second time.
I put many personal experiences into the novel, not least what I had learned at work - because this is, after all, the archetypal Secretary-to-Boardroom story. My Mum thought it was my best work; that counts! No publisher saw her point for the next ten years, during which time I developed the Falco detective novels and perhaps helped make the Roman period look more friendly. When at last The Course of Honour was published, internationally, it was a special thrill for me. I see it as my first real book, and because the true story is so wonderful, it will always be my favourite.
LINDSEY DAVIS
By Jax Lovesey
You can read about Lindsey Davis’s early life, the credit she gives to her Latin teacher for awakening her interest in Roman times, her degree in English from Oxford, her resignation from the Civil Service with the loss of a good pension. You can learn about her struggle to become a writer before getting the idea for a Roman detective. You may even have talked to Lindsey and know first hand that she is a witty, kind, perceptive person. But none of this will prepare you for the sheer power of her
writing. She is an original. After the publication of The Silver Pigs historical fiction changed forever.
To open a book by Lindsey is to enter a parallel universe full of people struggling with the woes that still beset us in the twenty-first century: unsympathetic landlords, biased bosses, difficult siblings, unreliable child-minders, dodgy plumbers, sporadic cash-flow, and dog fleas. Worse, we lose the comforts that technology has given us and face up to the rigors of living in Rome two thousand years ago. Lindsey wraps us in the atmosphere of Rome with all its aromas and stenches and hustle and noise. She does not inundate us with historical details. Instead she paints vivid pictures of a culture that was barbaric yet civilised.
Lindsey’s Rome has a vibrant street life. Buskers in exotic costumes entertain the crowds while pickpockets try their luck. Street traders shout their wares. The aromas from the stalls selling snacks fill the air, with spices tantalising the hungry. Slaves hurry by on errands and litter-bearers stagger under the weight of their passengers. Less salubrious parts of the city are rank with the stench from sewers and slaughter houses. The trick to surviving is to keep away from these mean streets. Unfortunately for Lindsey’s Roman detective, Falco, this is usually where he has to go in pursuit of villains. Sometimes he gets lucky and interviews members of the upper classes in their mansions. But as he finds out, aristos are every bit as deadly as any back street assassin.
We are plunged into this world where life is cheap. Lindsey takes us by the hand and leads us page by page deeper into the intrigues and murders she has in store. Although there are technical constraints in writing historical crime fiction, Lindsey is a supreme artist. There is no help from computers or DNA technology. Falco must arrive at the solution through hard work and deductive reasoning.
Before you dive into one of her novels, spare several moments enjoying the list of characters before the first chapter. Just a few words whet your appetite to meet them. M. Didius Falco – a principled informer who needs the money: Anacrites – Falco’s enemy, a useless spook and Glaucus, Falco’s trainer, who has seen it all. There you go – already hooked. Then begin Chapter One and enjoy.
The sparkling dialogue is a joy. It leaps off the page with wit and vitality. The street urchins have all the attitude of street urchins everywhere. Surly doorkeepers with chips on their shoulders the size of Stonehenge give Falco a hard time. Lindsey’s characters pulsate with energy. We soon know these people as surely as we know our own family and friends. We are immersed in their lives. The rhythm of the narrative passages swings along in its own dance and you are caught up in the pace and must follow as surely as all the children followed the Pied Piper. Lindsey Davis is the nonpareil of story-tellers. I don’t know how she does it, but you keep turning the pages in the happy knowledge that you are in the hands of a mistress of her art.
Above all we enjoy being with Falco and his family. There is no doubt that Falco is a real, true man with many faults. We wouldn’t have him otherwise. What I admire most about him is his great heart. When Helena, the Senator’s daughter, first saw him, she recognised this and took him for her husband as quickly as possible. His lowly social status and depleted bank account did not worry her. Good decision, Helena.
Lindsey’s books are literary gems with a flow and rhythm to the language that is a joy to read. Each page has a freshness about it and her descriptions of people make the characters materialise in front of your eyes. And there is something else about Lindsey’s books which holds your attention. She deals subtly with all the dark passions of the human soul and by the end of a book you have been on a spiritual journey. Some of your ideas of what life is about will have changed for ever. Life is not simple. It never was and will never be. The good guys seldom win. Falco has to suffer injustices for many years before he gets some reward for his service. But he never sells his soul. And as long as his children are fed that is reward enough. He is his own man faithful to his principles. We prize him for this.
I heard that Lindsey started out as a writer of romantic fiction. Can she write a love story? Can she ever! Read The Course of Honor, the true story about the soldier Vespasian and the slave girl Caenis who meet and fall in love. If you are ever disillusioned by humanity, read this book and relish the love between these two people that survives all obstacles. Vespasian becomes Emperor and Caenis is his lady and they do live happily ever after.
It is my good fortune to live just up the road from Fishbourne Roman Palace – the setting for The Body in the Bathhouse – where Lindsey draws large audiences for her talks. She gives generous support to literary and archaeological projects. This year sees her promoting the campaign “Get London Reading” when she will be signing books and answering questions in the library she first used to research the Romans. Then on to Nottingham to encourage volunteers at the last (mainly) undisturbed greenfield town site in Roman Britain.
While all this giving back to the community is highly praiseworthy, I would rather have Lindsey chained to her desk working on the next Falco. Lindsey, we all owe you a great debt of gratitude for the many hours of happiness you have given us and for all the spiritual journeys you have taken us on. Please keep writing and never let Falco grow old.
By kind permission of the author.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN: 9781446457658
Version 1.0
Published by Arrow Books 1998
13 15 17 19 20 18 16 14 12
Copyright © Lindsey Davis 1997
Extract from The Silver Pigs Copyright © Lindsey Davis 1989
Lindsey Davis has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in Great Britain in 1997 by Century
Arrow Books
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780099227 427
The Course of Honour Page 34