Death and The Poet by Fiona Forsyth. @for_fi @cathiedunn #HistoricalMystery #RomanHistoricalFiction #AncientRome #Ovid #BlogTour #TheCoffeePotBookClub

 

Death and The Poet 
By Fiona Forsyth

Book Title: Death and The Poet
Series: The Publius Ovidius Mysteries
Author: Fiona Forsyth
Publication Date: 20th March 2025
Publisher: Sharpe Books
Pages: 361
Genre: Historical mystery

Triggers: murder, references to slavery, domestic abuse, alcohol, cancer

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14 AD.

When Dokimos the vegetable seller is found bludgeoned to death in the Black Sea town of Tomis, it’s the most exciting thing to have happened in the region for years. Now reluctantly settled into life in exile, the disgraced Roman poet Ovid helps his friend Avitius to investigate the crime, with the evidence pointing straight at a cuckolded neighbour.

But Ovid is also on edge, waiting for the most momentous death of all. Augustus, the first Emperor of Rome, is nearing his end, and the future of the whole Roman world is uncertain.

Even as far away as Tomis, this political shadow creates tension as the pompous Roman legate Flaccus thinks more of his career than solving a local murder.

Avitius and Ovid become convinced that an injustice has been done in the case of the murdered vegetable seller. But Flaccus continues to turn a deaf ear.

When Ovid’s wife, Fabia, arrives unexpectedly, carrying a cryptic message from the Empress Livia, the poet becomes distracted - and another crime is committed. 

Ovid hopes for a return to Rome - only to discover that he is under threat from an enemy much closer to home.

Excerpt

Prologue: Rome, 14 CE

It was the night of the Ides of May, dark and raining, when they got back to Rome. Fabius decided that he needed to walk home, said a quiet farewell, then set off along the Tiber embankment with one slave accompanying. Not too long ago Augustus would have walked with him, but now the litter and entourage overtook him, the only sign of his friend a wave of a weary hand through the curtains. Augustus had always hated the rain and the cold and now went everywhere by litter. Well – he was after all seventy five years old, visibly aging after a cold winter and damp spring, and this voyage had been hard work.

Fabius walked down the glistening streets and attracted no attention from the few people darting through the rain. He strode out, skirting the sudden small streams that tumbled down any incline. Ahead of him, torches bobbed as the Emperor’s entourage called out for space. Fabius’ boots and old military cape kept off the worst, and soon he started to climb the lower slope of the Palatine Hill. The bustle of the official procession ahead of him faded and the last part of the journey was made in silence, until with thankfulness he saw the quiet door of home where warmth, dry clothes and food awaited him. He wanted Marcia. Dear Marcia. She would take over, fuss him, get him back to feeling like a decent Roman should.

The door-slave let him in immediately and he went straight to his room, leaving a noisy bustle in his wake. Marcia came in to find him already in a clean tunic though still damp. As expected she took over, scolding him and giving orders to the slaves. He relaxed. 

“And you can take that ridiculous smile off your face,” she said as she began towelling his hair dry. “Ah thank you, Parmenio, I don’t know what this house would do without you. Fabius, where have you been to get into this state? Parmenio, will you take the master’s cloak and have it thoroughly cleaned? Gods above, Fabius, your cloak stinks, and is that salt on it? You’ve been sailing haven’t you, and in this weather…”

She carried on towelling and he grabbed a blanket to wrap around himself. Gods, it was supposed to be May but felt more like a miserable November. 

A cup of wine spiced exactly as he liked arrived and was thrust into his hand as Marcia finished towelling. It tasted wonderful and he said so, smiling up at his wife.

“Are you hungry?” she asked. “I’ve asked the kitchen to bring forward dinner and it won’t be long. The Arval Brethren missed you at the meeting yesterday but apparently young Drusus was elected without any dissent.”

Fabius nodded, swigging some more wine.

“I heard that the Emperor was also missing from the meeting,” said Marcia brightly. “So while you eat you can tell me all about what you and the Emperor were up to that made you miss your favourite boys’ club.”

He shot a wary look at Parmenio, who murmured about seeing to dinner and vanished tactfully.

“Marcia, don’t talk about the Arval Brethren like that,” he said softly. “It’s the most prestigious priesthood in the city, I’m honoured to be part of it. And don’t talk about the Emperor either.”

Marcia laughed and poured some wine for herself. 

“Not talk about Augustus? My own cousin and I can’t mention him?”

Fabius sipped his wine and tried to change the subject.

“The roads were terrible, so much mud and rain,” he tried.

“Well it has been a miserable spring, and I don’t imagine you found the sea crossing much better,” said Marcia. “How sick were you?”

“Not much,” said Fabius.

“I expect Augustus was never out of his cabin,” said Marcia. “He has always had a delicate stomach.”

Augustus had only been sick once, Fabius thought grimly. 

“What is it?” Marcia read him so well – but he could not tell her.

“My dear Fabius, I do know or rather can guess where the two of you went,” she said, and put her hands on either side of his face. “It was Postumus wasn’t it? You went to see that poor boy on his horrible little island. I hope Augustus decides to pardon him.”

“Pardon him!” Fabius almost laughed at that irony. He wished – how he wished – that he had never agreed to go with Augustus, though the gods knew one did not deny the Emperor. 

“What is it?” Marcia looked at him with concern and his eyes dropped at her gaze. 

For a moment he saw the two men facing each other: Augustus shrunken with age, his good looks reduced to a memory one saw on statues, and Postumus young, tall and strong – and sitting on the wooden bed in his cell, rocking back and forth and babbling about fishing. 

“He’s having a good day today, sir,” the centurion had told Augustus. The old man had stood and watched Postumus with no expression on his face, but once they had left the stone cell, Augustus had turned away to be sick.

Fabius had once wondered how Augustus had endured the shattering series of disasters that had robbed him of so many family hopes, and now he marvelled all over again at his friend’s strength and determination. In Marcia’s arms, Fabius had to weep for this most recent tragedy, engineered by the gods to taunt an old man.

“Fabius? Fabius, what has happened? What is wrong?” 

Far too clever, his Marcia. 

“It will never be about the succession,” he said. “Oh, Marcia, I had no idea how bad it was with Postumus….”

He told her because he knew he was safe with her. He always had been.

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Fiona Forsyth

Fiona studied Classics at Oxford before teaching it for 25 years. A family move to Qatar gave her the opportunity to write about ancient Rome, and she is now back in the UK, working on her seventh novel.

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