By Lindsey Davis
In first century A.D. Rome, through the reign of Vespasian, Marcus Didius Falco works as a personal “informer,” usually for the emperor, ferreting out hidden truths and bringing villains to floor. yet even informers take holidays with their better halves, so in A.D. seventy seven, Falco and his spouse, Helena Justina, with others in tow, shuttle to Alexandria, Egypt. yet they aren’t there lengthy prior to Falco reveals himself in the course of nefarious doings—when the Librarian of the nice library is located useless, below suspicious conditions.
Falco quick unearths himself at the path of dodgy doings, malfeasance, lethal expert contention, extra our bodies and the bottom of the low—book thieves! because the our bodies pile up, it’s as much as Falco to untangle this terrible mess and fix order to a disordered universe.
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Additional info for Alexandria (Marcus Didius Falco Mysteries)
Should she flee from the world and retreat with Jerry into a convent? It wasn’t impos sible; she must always have been prepared to do that, but first she risked one last folly, the Michael Fish escapade. Or should she just swallow the contents of a container of sleeping pills, of the empty bot tle that Lieutenant Popov filmed in close-up on the bedside table by the headless corpse? Had her assailants attacked her body when she herself P O S S E S S I O N S was already gone? But who? And why? Or had she been sound asleep, unconscious, stupefied, incapable o f resistance, but aware, in the depths of her toxic slumber, of the aggressors’ hatred?
T h e years go by, and the sand, a vast and hopeless solitude, still relies only on itself. Until one day a friend o f no particular consequence offers to save you time by parking your car for you, or a neighbor you hardly know says, for no special reason, that she ’11 look after Je rry for a few hours. Then 48 P O S S E S S I O N S suddenly the sand sees that it has been piling up for ten years on a dead planet, w hile all the time, som ewhere else, close by, there w as another life that w as simple and possible.
In the end she heard he’d died of an overdose in some Indian ashram where he’d been living with an old mistress, whether ancient or former wasn’t clear. My friend had met this news with the indifference that had been typical o f her for I don’t know how long— a neutrality just tinged with arrogance. But this didn’t stop her making a confidante o f me whenever I was around. Indifference, whether true or assumed, lets a person speak o f what’s impossible as if it were nothing out o f the ordinary.