The Case of the Bogus Detective 4

I stared down the barrel of that Colt’s revolver and slowly put my hands up.

‘Why am I under arrest?’ I asked.

‘You are under arrest for working in a bogus Detective Agency!’ said the man with the gun.

‘I ain’t working in a bogus Detective Agency,’ I protested.

‘Then what d’ye mean by this?’ said the other man.

BANG!

He slammed a wooden shingle onto my desk.

It was upside down but I could see it was the sign from outside my door.

It had the words P.K. Pinkerton, Private Eye. We Hardly Ever Sleep painted on it along with a picture of an eye.

‘Why did you take down my shingle?’ I said.

‘Because it ain’t legal and it ain’t authorized!’ said the man with the gun.

The other man turned to him. In a Scottish accent he said, ‘This one’s nay more than a bairn. I dinna believe he’s in charge.’

‘Get your pa!’ commanded the man with the gun. ‘We are going to throw him in jail for the rest of time!’

I said, ‘I do not have a pa.’

‘Then get your boss. The man you work for!’

I said, ‘I do not have a boss. I am boss of myself.’ I spat some licorice juice to make me seem tough, but my mouth was too dry & some of it dribbled down my shirt.

I wiped my mouth with my sleeve.

‘HANDS UP!’

‘Dinna shout, Ray,’ said the Scottish one, putting a hand on his partner’s arm. ‘And put your gun away. He’s only a bairn.’

The man named Ray uncocked his big revolver and lowered it. But he did not put it away.

The Scottish one turned to me. ‘Will ye explain yerself, please?’

I took a deep breath & then I let it out slow. ‘My name is Pinkerton and I am a detective,’ I said, ‘but I am not a genuine Pinkerton Detective.’

‘Dang right you’re not genuine,’ growled Ray. ‘You are bogus!’

‘We’re from the Agency,’ the Scottish man said. ‘If we had operatives here, we’d surely know.’

I was confused. ‘Agency? Which Agency? Who are you?’

‘We are the Pinkertons.’

‘You are the Pinkertons?’

Ray stuck his revolver in his belt. ‘Yup,’ he said. ‘We are the Pinkertons. The genuine Pinkertons.’

I could not believe it. it was my dream to work for the Pinkerton Detective Agency.

I said, ‘It is my dream to work for the Pinkerton Detective Agency. I know all about it. It is located in Chicago, Illinois. It was founded by Allan Pinkerton. A few years ago he thwarted an assassination attempt against President Lincoln—’

‘Hang on a wee moment,’ said the Scottish man. ‘The Pinkerton Agency wasnae founded by Allan. it was founded by me!’

‘It was founded by you?’

‘Aye,’ said the man. ‘I set it up nigh on twenty years ago to protect passengers, goods and guards on trains and stagecoaches. Me brother didna come in with me till it was well established.’ He turned to his partner. ‘Everybody makes the same mistake,’ he said. ‘They all think wee Allan is the founder.’

‘You are Robert Pinkerton?’ I said.

‘Aye, that’s me. And this is Mr. Ray G. Tempest.’

I am usually inscrutable but I reckon my mouth was hanging open.

The man standing before me was the older brother of Allan Pinkerton, the most famous detective in the whole wide world.

He was also my long-lost pa.

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The Case of the Bogus Detective by Caroline Lawrence is the fourth P.K. Pinkerton Mystery. You can buy the first 3 real cheap HERE. And you can read the rest of this one HERE. Or just check into this blog, where I will be posting chapters weekly!

The Case of the Bogus Detective 3

‘Nobody move!’ cried Mark Twain. ‘I will smish the varmint!’ He grabbed an iron plate from the stove. Immediately he dropped it. It struck the plank floor with a resounding clang. ‘Dam!’ he cried. ‘That’s hot!’

Then he saw the expression on Bee’s face & said, ‘I mean a mill dam, of course.’

I said, ‘Do not smish him. Mouse is my pet.’

I let my tarantula crawl onto my hand. His little claws felt like tickly pinpricks.

‘You dunderhead!’ cried Mark Twain. ‘That ain’t no mouse. That is a tarantula. I encountered a passel of them in Carson City a year or so back.’

‘Mr. Twain is correct,’ said Affable. ‘That is an arachnid of the Theraphosidae Family.’

‘I didn’t say he was a mouse, I said his name was Mouse. It is his nom de plume,’ I added. ‘If you can call yourself “Mark Twain” then I can call my tarantula “Mouse”.’

Mark Twain scowled and blew on his burned fingers. ‘It is no laughing matter! Those critters are poisonous. Why, an old Paiute chief died of a tarantula bite not three years back.’

I said, ‘Winnemucca was old and infirm. If you treat tarantula spiders right, they will not hurt you.’

‘Also,’ Affie Fitzsimmons pointed out, ‘they are venomous. Not poisonous.’

Ping spoke up. ‘I tell P.K. he should keep it at boarding house.’

I said, ‘Mrs. Matterhorn despises spiders of any description.’

‘I hate spiders, too,’ said Bee, who was hiding behind Affie. ‘They give me the fantods. Especially that one. Why, he is as big as a saucer!’

Mark Twain picked his pipe off the floor. ‘Come on, Affie! Let us hunt down your pa so I can collect my hot toddy. I need fortification badly. As soon as the roads are clear I have to flee the territory.’

‘Why?’ I asked him.

He puffed his pipe. ‘On account of something I wrote.’

Bee said, ‘Are you in “hot water” again, on account of the scurrilous & slanderous articles you often print?’

‘It was neither scurrilous nor slanderous,’ drawled Mr. Mark Twain. ‘It was a delicate, a very delicate satire. Coming, Affie?’

‘I will be there directly,’ said Affie. He was watching Mouse crawling on my arm.

Bee said, ‘Where do you live, Affie?’

Without taking his eyes from Mouse Affie said, ‘My father and I are staying at the International Hotel.’

Bee flapped her hand at Mark Twain. ‘You run along, Mr. Twain,’ she said. ‘I can show Affie the way.’

Mark Twain tipped his hat and exited the premises.

Bee hooked her arm in Affie’s. ‘Come along, then. It is almost eleven.’

Affie looked at Mouse. Then he looked at me. ‘May I come by later and examine your specimens?’ he asked me.

‘Sure,’ I said with a shrug.

Bee tugged Affie’s arm and together they exited the premises.

Ping stood up. ‘I cannot believe you do not wash in four month,’ he said. ‘Come! I take you to my uncle’s bath house.’

I tipped my chair back and put my feet on my desk. ‘It is a free territory,’ I said. ‘I reckon I will decide when and where to bathe.’

Ping narrowed his eyes at me. Then he exited the premises, banging the door as he left.

I raised my left arm & twisted my head so I could sniff my armpit. Yup. I smelled pretty ripe. But it was not as bad as a skunk.

And at least nobody would take me for a gal.

At that moment, the door of my office opened and two strangers in hats and long coats stomped in. Their boots left muddy footprints.

Through the open door I saw their horses tied to one of the posts that held up the awning of the boardwalk.

‘May I help you gentlemen?’ I took my feet off the desk and sat up straight.

‘You bet you can help us,’ said the taller of the two men. He had a flat-topped gray hat on his head and a bushy black mustache on his face and a Colt’s Army Revolver in his hand.

He aimed his big six-shooter at my chest.

‘Hands up!’ he commanded. ‘You are under arrest.’

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The Case of the Bogus Detective by Caroline Lawrence is the fourth P.K. Pinkerton Mystery. You can buy the first 3 real cheap HERE. And you can read the rest of this one HERE. Or just check into this blog, where I will be posting chapters weekly!

The Case of the Bogus Detective 2

I could not really blame Ping for not guessing that I am a girl. 

From the day I was born my Indian ma dressed me like a boy. 

She put me in little buckskin leggings, shirt and moccasins. She taught me how to ride a horse and shoot a bow & arrow and how to hunt & skin a critter. She trained me to use boy-endings for words rather than girl-endings when I spoke Lakota and she would give me a stinging slap if I forgot. 

Not that I spoke Lakota with anybody apart from my ma. For she had lit out from her tribe before I was born and taken up with a fur trader. She traded him in for a railroad detective named Pinkerton a while later, and thus was I born. But soon it was just me & her again, out in the wild frontier. I was fine with that and I was fine with dressing as a boy. 

You might say, ‘Why did your ma dress you as a boy?’ 

I reckon she thought if anything happened to her I would be safer as a boy, knowing how to hunt and ride and suchlike. 

And sure enough, something did happen to her. 

She got herself massacred on a wagon train travelling west when I was 10 yrs old.  

I was out gathering buffalo chips and thus I survived. After that, a preacher & his wife adopted me. They thought I was a boy at first & were mighty surprised to discover I was a girl, you bet. But they let me keep on dressing like a boy, probably for the same reason as my Indian ma. 

Unfortunately, they got massacred, too. That was on my 12th birthday, just under a year ago. 

I fled to Virginia City to escape the desperados who kilt them & to avenge their deaths. I stayed on in Virginia in order to learn to be a Private Eye so I could one day join my long-lost pa, that railroad detective I mentioned earlier. That was the first time in my life I wore white girls’ clothing, as a means of Disguise. I hated the thin calico dresses with their itchy lace collars & cuffs. I hated the tight, tippy-tappy, fiddly buttoned boots. Most of all, I hated the pinching corsets and puffy hoop skirts I wore while pretending to be a widow woman.

After that, I vowed not to dress like a gal unless it was a matter of life or death. 

But recently my body has started changing. I have started my ‘monthlies’ and am beginning to develop. Not a lot, but enough so that I have to put a kind of bandage around my chest to keep myself flat. Luckily my poor dead foster ma Evangeline clearly laid out what was in store, so I was not too alarmed. The thing that worried me was this: Would I wake up one morning to find I preferred dolls to Deringers? Would I get a hankering to sew samplers instead of arrange my Tobacco, Bullet and Bug Collections? Would I stop feeling like a ‘Me’ and start feeling like a ‘She’? 

I surely hope not. 

I guess that is why I have taken to spitting & cussing & not stifling burps. I do not want to turn into a danged girly-girl. I may be a half-Indian Misfit, but I like me just the way I am. I do not want to change. 

‘I said give me two!’ snapped Ping, bringing me out of my reverie. 

I gave him two. 

‘I bet three,’ said Ping. He pushed three pieces of licorice forward. 

‘I’ll see your three pieces of licorice,’ I said, ‘and raise you a lemon drop.’ 

I showed the lemon drop to Mouse, who was perched on my shoulder, but he was disinterested. Mouse only eats live bugs, like crickets. 

Once more the door opened.

It was Miss Bee Bloomfield in her tippy-tappy button-up boots. School had been closed all week on account of the Big Freeze. 

Talk about girly-girls. Bee is about the girliest-girl in Virginia City. She uses Sozodont tooth powder & lilac toilet water & is always buying new bonnets. Worst of all, she is always trying to steal a kiss from me. If she knew she had been trying to kiss another gal, she would have conniptions, you bet. 

‘Good morning, P.K. and Ping!’ She put a waxed-paper packet on my desk. ‘I brought you some oatmeal cookies baked by my own fair hand.’ 

Ping opened the packet & took out a cookie & ate it.

Bee frowned. ‘What’s that on your shelf?’ She went to investigate my branch and then recoiled with a squeal. ‘Oh! What are those green things hanging on it?’

I said, ‘Those are butterflies in chrysalis form. I saw them last week. When it started to snow, I took pity on them & went up & broke off a branch & brought it back here so they wouldn’t get froze.’

‘Friz,’ said a familiar voice from the doorway. ‘First it blew, then it snew, then it thew and then it friz. That is what the wags are all saying. But the thaw is here, and I believe spring is finally on the way.’ The voice belonged to Mr. Sam Clemens, a local reporter. He had a skinny blond boy with him. 

‘Spring!’ Mr. Sam Clemens cried. ‘That fruitful time when young men turn their thoughts to bugs. P.K., this here is Affable Fitzsimmons.’ 

I nodded politely at the skinny blond boy. ‘Howdy,’ I said.

‘How do you do?’ said the boy in an English accent. I judged he was about 14. He was tall & thin with wire rimmed spectacles & straight blond hair. He wore a palm-leaf hat & beige linen knickerbockers & canvas shoes, none of which were suitable for the snowy climes of Virginia City in April. 

Bee Bloomfield stepped forward. ‘Are you from England?’

‘I reside in San Francisco, with my parents,’ said Affable, ‘but I am English by birth.’ 

‘I’m Bee Bloomfield,’ she said, showing her dimples. 

‘Affable is the son of the famous naturalist and jungle explorer, Sir Fitzhugh Fitzsimmons,’ drawled Sam. ‘Sir Fitzhugh promised to buy me a hot toddy if I could find some pals his own age.’

Affable Fitzsimmons looked around the room. ‘Mr. Twain said you have some interesting collections.’ 

I said, ‘Who is Mr. Twain?’

Sam said, ‘I am. It is my new nom de plume. I have started signing my newspaper articles “Mark Twain”.’ 

‘A rose by any other name,’ said Affable, ‘would smell as sweet. You can call me “Affie”,’ he added.

‘Something in here does not smell very sweet,’ said Bee, sniffing the air. She leaned towards me and wrinkled her nose. ‘P.K.! When did you last bathe?’

I confess I had to ponder this question. 

‘December,’ I said at last, ‘I reckon my last bath was in December.’

‘Which year?’ asked Sam Clemens, AKA Mark Twain, striking a match and lighting up his notorious ‘pipe of a thousand smells’.

‘Last year,’ I replied. ‘1862.’

‘P.K.!’ gasped Bee, clapping her hand over her mouth. ‘You have not bathed in four months! Why, that ain’t Christian!’

I pointed at Mark Twain.

‘I ain’t as stinky as his tobacco,’ I said. ‘Folk call it “The Remains” on account of it smells like a dead critter.’

Affable AKA Affie chuckled. 

‘At least it ain’t me who stinks,’ drawled Mark Twain, ‘but just my tobacco.’ He winked at me. ‘I was just being ironikle,’ he said, using one of his pet words. 

‘Oh, I say!’ Affable stepped forward to examine the pale-green chrysalises dangling from my butterfly branch. ‘Don’t keep them so near the stove,’ he advised, ‘or they will hatch too early. May I move them out of danger?’

‘Sure,’ I said. 

As he was carefully moving the branch away from the stove, he saw my glass-fronted butterfly tray on the shelf below. 

‘What a bully collection!’ he cried. ‘And you are only missing one.’ He bent closer and read the label. ‘A Buckskin Fritillary, native to Nevada & California.’

Bee said, ‘What is a fritillary?’

Affie said, ‘It is a kind of butterfly.’  

I said, ‘It was my foster pa’s collection. I am trying to finish it to honor his memory. I am hoping my branch will hatch out into Buckskin Fritillaries,’ I added. 

Suddenly Bee Bloomfield’s brown eyes went round as quarters.
‘P.K.!’ she squealed. ‘There is a giant spider crawling on you!’ 

Mark Twain’s eyes bugged out, too, and his ‘pipe of a thousand smells’ clattered to the floor. ‘That ain’t no spider,’ he yelped. ‘That there is a deadly tarantula!’

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The Case of the Bogus Detective by Caroline Lawrence is the fourth P.K. Pinkerton Mystery. You can buy the first 3 real cheap HERE. And you can read the rest of this one HERE. Or just check into this blog, where I will be posting chapters weekly!

The Case of the Bogus Detective 1

My name is P.K. Pinkerton and I will soon be breakfast for a couple of grizzly bears. 

I am trapped in a mountain cave with my dying pa. I have a small fire but not much wood left to keep it going and only 1 bullet left in my Henry Rifle. 

I can hear those grizzlies a-prowling & a-growling, and I can smell them, too. I reckon I only have a few hours to record how I came to be in this sad predicament. When my fire goes out they will gobble me up. And my dying pa, too. 

You may say, ‘Why are you wasting the final hours of your life scribbling in a Ledger Book?’

Here is my reply:
If I write an account, people will know who done it and they can avenge me.

You may also say, ‘Being half Sioux, why don’t you use your Indian skills to sneak past those bears and at least save yourself?’ 

My answer is this: 
I will not abandon my dying pa. 

It all started when two strangers rode into town. I was sitting at my desk in my Detective Agency on B Street in Virginia City. I was ordering the Butterfly part of my Bug Collection. Detective business had been slow on account of a localized snowstorm. But now a strong sun was out. 

The scent of melting snow swirled in as the door of my detective office opened. 

It was my 14-yr-old partner Ping, with a bag of sugar & a coffee pot. He had filled the pot with pure water from the new filter in the Shamrock Saloon across the street. I could hear someone playing Camptown Races on a piano.

‘Road dang muddy,’ Ping said. ‘Traffic should be running again soon.’ He put the coffee pot on our new stove & the bag of sugar on one of the shelves. 

Ping does not drink coffee, but he says the smell entices people in & encourages them to linger.  

‘You want game of poker?’ he asked, as he turned the handle of the little wooden coffee grinder. ‘While we wait for clients?’

‘H-ll, yeah,’ I replied. 

I try to keep up my skill, because sometimes I help a gambler named Poker Face Jace play cards for money. Jace is my friend & mentor.

I put my Butterfly Tray on one of the shelves on the wall. When my office was a Tobacco Emporium those shelves held tins of tobacco.

Now they hold my collections, viz: my Bug Collection, my Button Collection & my Big Tobacco Collection. I also had a branch with butterflies waiting to hatch out. 

I opened a drawer in my desk and got out some strings of black licorice, some lemon drops & a pack of cards. 

I tore off a piece of the stretchy licorice and put it between my cheek and gum, like people do with chewing tobacco. 

Ping left the coffee pot on the stove to brew.  He pulled up one of the chairs where clients usually sit. The door was still ajar so you could hear boots on the boardwalk & the curses of the first riders trying out the snowy thoroughfare. 

I divided the licorice strings and lemon drops between us. Then I shuffled the deck and we played a few hands of ‘five card draw’.

Even when I get dealt bad cards I usually win because I have learned to tell when people are bluffing. Ping’s natural expression is a scowl, even when he has a good hand, but my pal Poker Face Jace says the face is the lyingest part of the body.

So I ignored Ping’s scowly face & scooted my chair back a little & kind of slouched down so I could see his feet. 

Everybody has their own ‘tell’ and Ping’s is a common one. Whenever he has a good hand his toes point up and when he has a bad one he pulls his feet back under his chair. 

If the Face is the lyingest part of the body, the Feet are the most truthful. 

I spat some black licorice juice into a spittoon. I had tried proper chaw tobacco once but it made me feel queasy so I had taken to chewing licorice to make me look older & tougher. 

Ping’s nose wrinkled and his lip curled a little. My dead foster ma Evangeline had taught me how to identify five expressions. 

No. 1 - If someone’s mouth curves up & their eyes crinkle, that is a Genuine Smile. 

No. 2 - If their mouth stretches sideways & their eyes are not crinkled, that is a Fake Smile. 

No. 3 - If a person turns down their mouth & crinkles up their nose, they are Disgusted.

No. 4 - If their eyes open real wide, they are probably surprised or scared.

No. 5 - If they make their eyes narrow, they are either mad at you or thinking or suspicious.

Ping’s face was making Expression No. 3 – Disgust. 

I felt something tickle my arm. It was my pet, Mouse, crawling on my pink flannel shirt. 

Ping’s expression No. 3 got stronger. ‘I don’t like that critter. I afraid I step on him. Make him go crunch.’

‘That would be unpleasant,’ I agreed. ‘But he is usually in his tank when I ain’t letting him perambulate on me.’

Ping shifted his gaze from Mouse to my face. His eyes were narrowed. It was no longer Expression No. 3 – Disgust. It was now Expression No. 5, which meant he was either Mad or Thinking or Suspicious. Or all three. 

‘You can stare all you like,’ I said to Ping. ‘I am inscrutable. I can neither understand nor express emotions well. It is a Thorn in my Side. But it is useful for playing poker,’ I added. ‘People can not tell if I am holding a good hand or a bad one.’

‘I am not trying to tell if you have good or bad hand,’ said Ping, his scowl deepening. 

‘Then why are you staring at me?’ I asked him. 

‘Something bogus about you.’ He tipped his head to one side. ‘I can’t think what.’  

I pressed my lips together, wondering if he had finally guessed my secret. To throw him off the track, I wiped my nose with my finger. 

Then I spat some more licorice-tinted spit to make me look more like a tough detective.

Ping scowled at me. 

I scratched my armpit & burped.

Then I farted, just for good measure.  

I was not really surprised that Ping was trying to figure out what was ‘not right’ about me. I knew dang well. What surprised me was that in nine months of us being pards, he had not realized that I ain’t a boy.

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The Case of the Bogus Detective by Caroline Lawrence is the fourth P.K. Pinkerton Mystery. You can buy the first 3 real cheap HERE. And you can read the rest of this one HERE. Or just check into this blog, where I will be posting chapters weekly! 

Boudicca's Hair

First of all let’s get one thing straight. 

detail from cover of Roman Quest #4 by Paul Young

There is absolutely no evidence that Boudica, the famous warrior queen of the Iceni, had red hair. 

The only archaeological evidence we have for Boudica is a layer of burnt deposits up to half a metre thick in the three British towns she is said to have destroyed in AD 61: Camulodunum (Colchester), Londinium (London) and Verulamium (St Albans). But there is no graffiti that says BOUDICCA WAS HERE. Even in variant spellings of her name such as BOADICEA, BOUDICA (one C) or BUDDUG.

photo by Caroline, hair colour by Richard

That exciting tombstone recently found at Cirencester which read BODICACIA? It turns out it probably marked the grave of a man BODUS erected by his wife CACIA (both names already attested in Britain). The most likely Latin reading and the bones underneath confirm that. If by some chance it does read BODICACIA, that is nowhere near enough evidence for BOUDICCA.

Even the fabulous Romano-Celtic head (above) that I’ve used to illustrate this article is probably too late to be Boudicca, though it was found near Lactodurum (Towcester), the possible site of her final battle against the Romans.

So no firm archaeological evidence, then. 

Our only ancient literary evidence for Boudica is from a few passages in three histories, two by Tacitus and one by Cassius Dio. 

The only physical description of her is in the single passage of Cassius Dio, a Roman writing in Greek more than a hundred years after Boudica’s death. This makes it highly unlikely that Dio had an eye-witness. And yet he is the one who gives us the sensational description of her as having a terrifying appearance: tall, fierce in eye, harsh in voice and with long hair down to her waist. He even tells us what she was wearing. Here it is in the original Greek and in translation:

Dio's description of Boudicca in Greek and English in the Loeb version

In ancient Greek, if you add the suffix -otatos to a word it means ‘very’ or ‘extremely’. Dio has added -otatos to the word xanthos (having put both in feminine singular accusative form) to describe Boudica’s hair. But xanthos does not mean red. It means yellow, blonde or tawny. In other ancient passages, xanthos is used to describe gold, sand, corn, bile and lions, none of which are red (though they might have a tinge of red.)

photo by Caroline, hair colour by Richard

So really, we should translate that bit of passage as ‘she had masses of very blonde hair reaching as far as her buttocks’! 

But wait! We now think that Greek and Roman colours didn’t have quite the same meanings as they do today. 

You might say, ‘A colour is a colour’. But some scholars claim that ancient Greeks and Romans never thought about pure colours on their own but always linked colours to other things. 

Mark Bradley, professor of Classics at the University of Nottingham, is one of the scholars who claims that the ancients did not separate emotion from colour. 

In one article he likens the ancient concept of colour to the condition neurologists call synaesthesia where certain people might ‘see’ Monday as a red colour or the number 5 as purple. But synaesthetic associations vary from person to person. For the Greeks and Romans there were always specific emotional links to the colours. 

We have traces of that in modern English. We say ‘She’s green with envy’ or ‘He’s feeling blue’. 

In his book, Colour and Meaning in Ancient Rome, Professor Bradley suggests that Greeks associated chloros (yellow-green) with fertility, argos (silver-white) with quick and flashing things, porphureos (purple) with swollen things and oinops (wine) with passion or melancholy. 

The most famous example is Homer’s ‘wine-dark’ sea. Of course the sea isn't the colour of wine. But Homer knows that drinking too much wine can make you violent, passionate or sad. So when he describes the sea as ‘wine-dark’ there is a hint of violence, passion and the potential for grief. 

Hercules fights a tawny lion in this Roman mosaic from Paphos

So let’s go back to xanthos (yellow) and its extra strong version xanthotatos (very yellow). If we agree to translate it ‘tawny’ as the translator above did, we get associations of a lion: savage, rough, and fearless. 

photo by Caroline, hair colour by Richard

Dio’s description of Boudica’s tawniest hair makes us think of a fierce shaggy lion, but then the mention of buttocks reminds us that she is a woman. So we get another flavour – sexy! – added to her lioness-like qualities.

Do you see what Dio is doing? He is talking more about the emotions Boudicca aroused than the actual colour of her hair. 

So why am I sticking to the translation of red hair for mentions of Boudica in my new series set in Roman Britain? 

Three reasons:

1. I don’t want to defend my translation of xanthotatos as ‘very blonde’ or ‘extremely lion-coloured’ for the next five years with teachers, primary school pupils and fans. 

2. The colour red has similar associations today (fire, hot-tempered, dangerous) as tawny did in Roman times. 

3. More than one primary school teacher has told me that she can encourage the ginger-haired girls in her class with these words: ‘Don’t be ashamed of your red hair. Queen Boudicca had red hair and she was awesome!’ 

That last reason, most of all, is why any references I make to Boudicca will include her red hair.

Caroline Lawrence’s new series set in Roman Britain is The Roman Quests. The final book of four, Return to Rome, about Boudica's possible great-granddaughter, was published in early 2018 and is available in paper or ebook format.

Gladiator Games Fun Facts by Caroline Lawrence

Yesterday I attended the final event (of nine) of the 2015 Gladiator Games held at London's Guildhall and sponsored by the Museum of London. Before the event I visited Londinium's real underground amphitheatre (under the Guildhall Art Gallery) where I chatted with resident archaeologist Andrew and ancient musician John. 

Dan Shadrake AKA Draco was a brilliant announcer

During the event I listened with delight to Dan Shadrake (AKA Draco) who was a brilliant commentator. I also talked to people in the audience including Roman expert Charlie (aged 7). Afterwards I grilled tired but happy members of Britannia, the fabulous group who provided the talent. I even went behind the scenes to visit a potter, carpenter and a family of belt-pouch makers! 

In the course of a hugely enjoyable afternoon, I learned some useful facts that might well appear in my next series, The Roman Quests, which will be set in Roman Britain between the years AD 94-96. (Two of these "facts" are bogus! Can you guess which ones?)

John Warren AKA Vitellius

1. John Wheeler AKA Vitellius told me that fighting a gladiatorial combat in the rain is pretty much the same as fighting in sunshine. (Only instead of the sun getting in your eyes, raindrops keep falling on your head.) Gladiators fight barefoot on sand, which does not get slippery in rain, unlike grass or marble. 

Chris Luck and Jo Bishop

2. Chris Luck AKA Titus told me it had rained on the Friday evening event and there had been thunder and lightning. Idea for future book: Have a gladiator struck by lightning on his metal helmet!

The Emperor Domitian - you never saw him!

3. It is a Little Known Fact that the Emperor Domitian visited Britannia during his reign. But when he sponsored some games at Londinium's amphitheatre, one of the gladiators tried to assassinate him. The emperor was rushed back to Rome. Because of the humiliating attempt on his life, all records of his visit to Britannia were expunged. It must be true: Draco said it!

information board in London's Guildhall Art Gallery

4. Today, Londinium's amphitheatre is underground but its position is marked by an oval of dark grey marble paving stones in the courtyard of London's Guildhall, right where they held yesterday's games!

Draco, Mercury and Charon

5. Mercury is the man in the scary mask who pokes fallen gladiators with a red-hot poker to see if they are really dead or just pretending. 

Charon's belt is scary!

6. Charon is the man dressed all in black in the not so scary mask (but scary belt) who bashes fallen gladiators on the head with his mallet if they twitch at the jab of a red-hot poker. I touched his mallet after: it was really, really heavy and also sticky with blood. Ew. 

The referee at Gladiator games was called the summa rudis

7. We know there were referees at Gladiatorial Games and even what they wore, thanks to several images from antiquity, including a scene of gladiators painted on a glass beaker from the Roman fort at Vindolanda. 

Carpenter Graham and wooden crocodile

8. Carpenter Graham showed me how to use a wooden crocodile instead of a strigil to scrape off dead skin, oil and sweat at the baths. 

Chris Lydamore and carrot amphora

9. Chris Lydamore, re-enactor, potter and curator of the Bishops Stortford Museum, showed me that some amphorae (storage jars) looked like giant carrots!

lemon in water kept wasps away from this lunch

10. A punctured lemon in a bowl of water (sea-sponge optional) keeps wasps away from your Roman lunch of cheese and grapes. Same principle as citronella candles, I guess!

The Gladiators from Capua

Of course I knew most of these facts already: I put them in my 8th Roman Mystery, The Gladiators from Capua. But I did learn a few new things and I had huge fun. More importantly, so did the boys and girls sitting around me. Thank you Britannia and Museum of London!

Caroline (2nd left) with fab Gladiator Games helpers!

P.S. Look out for Escape from Rome, The Archers of Isca and especially Death in the Arena, the first three books in my new Roman Quests series.

N.B. THE 2017 GLADIATOR GAMES ARE BOOKING NOW!

P.P.S. For more pictures of this and other Roman re-enactment events, go HERE. 

P.P.P.S. The two "facts" that are NOT true are numbers 3 and 8! Did you get them?

Thirteen Perks of Being a Kidslit Author

Philip Ardagh and his beard

1. You can dress however you like (within reason). Sometimes you can even indulge your eccentricities and make it your trademark.

2. You are your own boss.

3. You can "play God" by making up whole worlds.

Robert Muchamore in London

4. You can be "famous" without being recognised and hassled.

5. You can "escape" to another world inside your head.

6. You are creating something new and exciting that blesses and inspires others.

7. You can work anywhere. 

Steve Cole and his iPhone

8. You can play with cool toys and gadgets.

9. You can call travel, cinema and reading "research".

10. You meet fun and interesting people (especially other kidslit authors) and learn new things.

CBBC Roman Mysteries season one

11. It is a huge thrill to see artists and/or film-makers bring your world to life.

12. Every bad experience can be used and is grist to the writer's mill. 

13. Kids are the best fans and audiences ever! 

enthusiastic pupils at an unnamed school

All photos by Caroline Lawrence, author of The Roman Mysteries, The P.K. Pinkerton Mysteries, The Night Raid and the forthcoming Roman Quests. 

The Minions' Journey

Kevin the Hero

Yesterday at Seaton House School I gave a short version of my Hero’s Journeys speech to 11-year-old girls and their families. As I spoke, I wondered if the steps of Joseph Campbell’s Monomyth template applied to Minions, the movie. 

Here’s how you could do it:

1. The Hero’s World. 
The Minions have lots of worlds: underwater, onto the shore, the Age of Dinosaurs and Napoleon’s Army... until they are stuck in the Ice Cave. That is their World. At first they have fun: eating snow cones and building ice houses. But the Hero can’t stay in the world forever, so sometimes there is a whiff of death: the sense that if you stay somewhere any longer, you might as well be dead.

2. The Call to Adventure. 
Sometimes the call is a phone call, letter, or knock on the door. But it can also be that “whiff of death”. Joy has gone out of their lives as they play football with no enthusiasm; without a boss they have no purpose.

3. The Refusal of the Call
Most heros go on a quest to discover more about themselves. But the Minions know their calling. They are meant to be faithful sidekicks. One of the qualities of a side-kick is that they are easy-going and like to have fun. They don’t have to take responsibility. “But one minion had a PLAN. His name was Kevin.” Kevin’s plan is to leave the cave in search of a boss. He asks others to come with him. Bob is the only other Minion who really wants to go but Stuart gets persuaded. 

4. The Mentor
There really isn’t a Mentor in this story. And that means no talisman. It’s a fun step but this movie shows it’s not absolutely essential. 

5. Crossing the Threshold
There are several Crossings of the Threshold in the Minions movie. The first major one is where Kevin and his sidekicks leave the ice cave. They cross snow, polar bears, rivers and finally an ocean before they arrive in the World of Adventure: New York in 1968.

The Nelson family are evil allies

6. Allies, Opponents, Tests and Training
The Minions are taken to Orlando by the Nelsons, a family of crooks. They cross another fun threshold to Break On Through by The Doors. They meet Scarlett Overkill the baddest villain around and complete some tests to become her henchmen. Back in London, they undergo more tests and training and are assigned a quest: to steal the Crown Jewels la crowna! 

7. Approach to the Inmost Cave
As the hero trains and prepares to Grasp the Prize, he often descends to the underworld or goes up to a high place. Kevin, Bob and Stuart infiltrate the Tower of London, ascend to a tower, descend via a kind of gauntlet and chase the Queen. When Bob pulls a Sword from a Stone he becomes King Bob, gets the crown, adoring subjects and free run of Buckingham Palace. But when the minions realise that they have upset Scarlett, they offer to give her back the crown. They don't want power, they want a boss. 

[These middle steps are often repeated, increasing in intensity and stakes, like heats before a big race.]

8. Supreme ordeal - Visit to death
For the Hero, this moment is often the one when he must be prepared to sacrifice himself. The Minions are happy to give la crowna to Scarlet, but she is a villain and has not forgiven them. She sends them to the dungeon with orders that they are to be tortured. They escape but Scarlet captures Bob and Stuart and threatens to kill them. Kevin must come to the rescue of “les buddies”. When he sees Scarlet’s bomb dropping onto his friends he can’t bear the thought of them being hurt, so he swallows it! Thanks to our Hero’s willingness to sacrifice himself, Kevin saves the day... (and doesn’t die!)

9. The Reward 
Having vanquished Scarlet Overkill and her sidekick, the Minions return the Crown Jewels to the Queen and each get a reward. 

10. The Cycle Begins Again 
During the reward ceremony the Queen’s crown goes missing again. It is Scarlet again, but this time she is vanquished by a boy with a freeze ray. Kevin, Stuart and Bob, now joined by the other Minions, have found a new Boss and he is DESPICABLE! 

P.S. If you go to see Minions stay right to the very end of the credits! 

P.P.S. The images on this blog are from The Minions Junior Novel.