By Lindsey Davis
AD75. Marcus Didius Falco, as soon as a standard informer, now heart classification, discovers that newly bought rank brings linked difficulties, the main ugly of that's a corpse buried below the tiles of his new tub condominium. The contractors have fled to Britain whence, because the Fates have it, Falco is ordered. an area leader and best friend of the Romans is having a Palace equipped by means of the Emperor Vespasian. but the undertaking is operating past due, paintings is slipshod, and deadly injuries continue taking place. someplace on website are the murderers who could be at the back of this most modern spate of killings. someplace within the leading edge, trouble-shooting for the Emperor is Falco, with out an best friend and now subsequent at the checklist for assassination.
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Extra info for A Body in the Bathhouse (Marcus Didius Falco, Book 15)
Yes, I like your looks, Weaver. You dress like a man of sense, and you conduct yourself like a man of sense, too. ” I resumed our perambulation, hoping movement would bring Sir Owen to a more relevant topic of conversation. “And you’re a game-enough-looking spark,” he continued. “I would wager you are a man who likes his pleasures. I can assure you I am. I shall be bold with you. I like gambling, and I like whores. ” For an instant I feared I had offended him, but he burst into a laugh as thick as a dish of chocolate.
I had certainly heard your name in the past—in the same connotation, you understand, as one hears of ropedancers and raree-shows and that sort of thing—but recently I found myself in a coffeehouse, when I heard a gentleman mention your name. A friend of his, a Sir Owen Nettleton, had engaged you in a matter of business and believed you to be competent—a rating of sufficient merit in this age. ” I often marveled that London, for so enormous a city, is sometimes astonishingly small. Among countless thousands, these kinds of interactions occur almost daily, for men of like nature and like concerns congregated inevitably at the same clubs and taverns and coffeehouses and tea gardens.
No doubt he had heard something of the unfortunate adventure with which I had met and had come to ask me to pay for his silence. I knew well how to dispose of a man of this stripe. Not with money, certainly, for to give a rascal any silver at all was to encourage him to return for more. No, I had found that in these cases violence usually did my business. I would think of something bloodless—something that would not attract Mrs. Garrison’s attention when I escorted the blackguard out. A woman with no taste for the talk of murder under her roof should hardly countenance an act of mutilation paraded down her staircase.