When Germanic troops in the service of the Empire begin to rebel, and a Roman general disappears, Emperor Vespasian turns to the one man he can trust: Marcus Didius Falco, a private informer whose rates are low enough that even the stingy Vespasian is willing to pay them. To Falco, an undercover tour of Germania is an assignment from Hades. On a journey that only a stoic could survive, Falco meets with disarray, torture, and murder. His one hope: in the northern forest lives a powerful Druid priestess who perhaps can be persuaded to cease her anti-Rome activities and work for peace. Which Falco is eagerly hoping for as, back in Rome, the Titus Caesar is busy trying to make time with Helena Justina, a senator's daughter and Falco's girlfriend. Lindsey Davis' historical mystery Iron Hand of Mars is a "Seamless blending of humor, history and adventure" ( Publishers Weekly ). “Seamless blending of humor, history and adventure.” ― Publishers Weekly “Falco's never-ending wise cracks, humorous self-abasement, and genuine niceness are more than enough to captivate readers; the rich historical details add a caloric layer of frosting.” ― School Library Journal Lindsey Davis was born and raised in Birmingham, England. After taking an English degree at Oxford and working for the civil service for thirteen years, she “ran away to be a writer.” Her internationally bestselling novels featuring ancient Roman detective Marcus Didius Falco include Venus in Copper , The Iron Hand of Mars , Nemesis and Alexandria . She is also the author of Rebels and Traitors , set during the English Civil War. Davis is the recipient of the Crime Writers’ Association Cartier Diamond Dagger Award, the highest accolade for crime writers, as well as the Ellis Peters Historical Dagger Award and the Authors' Club Best First Novel award. The Iron Hand of Mars A Marcus Didius Falco Mystery By Lindsey Davis Minotaur Books Copyright © 2011 Lindsey Davis All right reserved. ISBN: 9780312647292 I   “One thing is definite,” I told Helena Justina; “I am not going to Germany!” Immediately I could see her planning what to pack for the trip. *   *   * We were in bed at my apartment, high up on the Aventine. A real sixth-floor bughole—only most bugs grew tired of walking upstairs before they ever got this far. I passed them sometimes, flaked out on halfway landings, with droopy antennae and tired little feet … It was a place you could only laugh about, or the squalor would break your heart. Even the bed was rocky. And that was after I had pieced in a new leg and tightened the mattress webs. I was trying out a new way of making love to Helena, which I had devised in the interests of not letting our relationship go stale. I had known her a year, let her seduce me after six months of thinking about it, and had finally managed to persuade her to live with me about two weeks ago. According to my previous experience of women, I must be right on target to be told I drank too much and slept too much, and that her mother needed her urgently back at home. My athletic efforts at holding her interest had not gone unnoticed. “Didius Falco … wherever did you … learn this trick?” “Invented it myself…” Helena was a senator’s daughter. Expecting her to put up with my filthy lifestyle for more than a fortnight had to be pushing my luck. Only a fool would view her fling with me as anything more than a bit of local excitement before she married some pot-bellied pullet in patrician stripes who could offer her emerald pendants and a summer villa at Surrentum. As for me, I worshipped her. But then I was the fool who kept hoping the fling could be made to last. “You’re not enjoying yourself.” As a private informer, my powers of deduction were just about adequate. “I don’t think…” Helena gasped, “this is going to work!” “Why not?” I could see several reasons. I had cramp in my left calf, a sharp pain under one kidney, and my enthusiasm was flagging like a slave kept indoors on a festival holiday. “One of us,” suggested Helena, “is bound to laugh.” “It looked all right as a rough sketch on the back of an old rooftile.” “Like pickling eggs. The recipe seems easy, but the results are disappointing…” I replied that we were not in the kitchen, so Helena asked demurely whether I thought it would help if we were. Since my Aventine doss lacked that amenity altogether, I treated her question as rhetorical. We both laughed, if it’s of interest. Then I unwound us, and made love to Helena the way both of us liked best. *   *   * “Anyway, Marcus, how do you know the Emperor wants to send you to Germany?” “Nasty rumour flitting round the Palatine.” We were still in bed. After my last case had staggered to what passed for its conclusion, I had promised myself a week of domestic relaxation—due to a dearth of new commissions, there were plenty of gaps in the schedule of my working life. In fact, I had no cases at all. I could stay in bed all day if I wanted to.