The Graveyard of the Hesperides
A Flavia Albia NovelBook - 2016
Life is sweet for Flavia Albia and her soon-to-be husband Faustus. But his new job as a building contractor runs into a problem: At the Garden of the Hesperides a barmaid went missing years before; now the workmen start unearthing her bones.
Albia takes on the task of finding out what happened. Five more skeletons are discovered. Despite the fact that nobody seems to know or care who died, violent attempts are made to stop her enquiries.
Soon Albia is exploring the world of Roman streetlife, where bars are brothels, workers lead brutal lives, foreigners are muscling in on the gambling syndicates, and extortion is commonplace. What's more there's little time to solve the mystery before the wedding day when Albia is expected to show Rome that her affair with Manlius is a much more than a casual fling. The gods, however, have other ideas...
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The whiffs of peculiar perfume were ripe. Flies were dropping dead all over the courtyard.
Rome was full of mosaics saying beware of the dog, with portraits of fierce curs in big spiked collars. Few houses actually had a guard dog, or if they owned one, he was gentler than his portrait. Of course we had the usual men who wanted to look tough, leading about horrible curs they could not properly handle – and also families with much-loved pets who wanted to greet strangers with ferocious licking.
he had just been sent home in disgrace after a foray into the Circus of Gaius and Nero while in the custody of his birth mother, a snake dancer. His visit had ended abruptly when he involved himself in the escape of a lion, a fire, an accidental death, financial strife and several divorces. He was a lonesome child, who liked adventures.
[The dogs] adored going on walks so they could look around, check out the neighbourhood and make as many friends as possible. We saw them even try to lick a potter’s raven though the bars of its cage. The bird told them to get lost. Well, it was ruder than that, but they wagged their long tails anyway.
It struck me nothing is a simple as it looks. I could easily dismiss the Ten Traders and White Chickens as filthy enclaves of vice: all drink, prostitution, extortion and slave-trading, alien to respectable people like me and Tiberius. Yet he and I had both done things we would never talk about at dinner parties.
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