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Chapters (80)
  1. Cover
  2. RAVES FOR LINDSEY DAVIS AND THE MARCUS DIDIUS FALCO SERIES
  3. THE FALCO SERIES BY LINDSEY DAVIS
  4. THE SILVER PIGS
  5. Dedication
  6. DRAMATIS
  7. PERSONAE
  8. CONTENTS
  9. AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION
  10. AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION TO NEW AMERICAN EDITION
  11. PART I
  12. I
  13. II
  14. III
  15. IV
  16. V
  17. VI
  18. VII
  19. VIII
  20. IX
  21. X
  22. XI
  23. XII
  24. XIII
  25. XIV
  26. XV
  27. XVI
  28. XVII
  29. XVIII
  30. XIX
  31. PART II
  32. XX
  33. XXI
  34. XXII
  35. XXIII
  36. XXIV
  37. XXV
  38. XXVI
  39. XXVII
  40. XXVIII
  41. XXIX
  42. XXX
  43. XXXI
  44. XXXII
  45. XXXIII
  46. XXXIV
  47. XXXV
  48. XXXVI
  49. XXXVII
  50. PART III
  51. XXXVIII
  52. XXXIX
  53. XL
  54. XLI
  55. XLII
  56. XLIII
  57. XLIV
  58. XLV
  59. XLVI
  60. XLVII
  61. XLVIII
  62. XLIX
  63. L
  64. LI
  65. LII
  66. LIII
  67. LIV
  68. LV
  69. LVI
  70. LVII
  71. LVIII
  72. LIX
  73. LX
  74. LXI
  75. LXII
  76. LXIII
  77. LXIV
  78. LXV
  79. LXVI
  80. Copyright

He knew the district. I let him work out the plan.

A week later we arrived at the Vebiodunum silver mines, Vitalis astride a pony in the leather and furs of a bounty hunter, me running behind in the rags of a slave. He told the contractor’s foreman he was working through the limestone gorges, rounding up runaways from the caves. He extracted the names of the owners they had eluded, then handed back his wretched contraband for reward. I had refused to say where I belonged, so after three weeks of feeding me Vitalis was losing patience and wanted to restore my memory with a spell of hard labour in the mines.

Rufrius Vitalis outrageously embroidered on the story we agreed, not least—once I was safely shackled—by hitting me so hard he split open my cheek, then hurling me in some toothless villager’s pile of pig manure. My sullen look on delivery was as genuine as my smell. At Vebiodunum, Vitalis claimed there must be a good chance I had murdered my master if I would not admit who I was. This extra certificate of good character was a luxury I could have managed without.

“I call him Chirpy,” he said, “because he isn’t. Don’t let him escape. I’ll be back when I can, to see if he wants a little chat.”

The foreman always called me Chirpy. I never was.

XXVI

From the neighbouring countryside the upland is deceptive.

The limestone ridge where the lead mines lie looks no more hostile than any of the low hills characteristic of southern Britain. Only when you approach this ridge directly from the south or west do stark crags suddenly rise in your face, quite unlike the gentle swell of the downs elsewhere. On the southern side are the Gorges—ancient caves and unpredictable waters which plunge underground or rise in a ferocious spate during sudden rain. On the kinder northern edge, small hamlets cling to the steep slopes, joined by precarious tracks that jerk up and over the contours among patches of pasture land.

From the east, the terrain hardly seems to rise at all. The route to the mines is unmarked; anyone with official business comes provided with a guide. For casual visitors the settlement is deliberately difficult to find.