By Lindsey Davis
The spirit of event calls Falco on a brand new spying undertaking to the untamed East looking for the Emperor Vespasian . He's deciding upon up additional charges from his previous pal Thalia the snake dancer as he searches for Sophrona, her misplaced water organist. With the executive secret agent Anacrites paying his fare, Falco understands whatever can move wrong.
A harmful brush with the Brother, the sinister ruler of Nabataean Petra, sends Falco and his female friend Helena on a quick camel trip to Syria. the following they subscribe to a touring theatre crew, which retains wasting individuals in nonaccidental drownings. The undesirable appearing and negative audiences are virtually as undesirable because the barren region and its scorpions-then because the killer hovers, Falco attempts to jot down a play...
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Additional info for Last Act in Palmyra (Marcus Didius Falco, Book 6)
The temperature was hot that day, and the kids decided they didn’t feel like doing my dad’s conditioning drills, which he had learned during his time in the navy. After a series of foul-pole-to-foul-pole sprints, one of them staged a revolt and refused to follow his orders. “This is dumb. Baseball isn’t about running. Any real coach would know that,” my teammate shouted, standing defiantly in front of my dad. The instant the sound of that kid’s insubordinate voice hit our fearless leader’s ears, my dad had the same reaction Bruce Willis has at the end of The Sixth Sense when he realizes he’s been dead the whole time: complete shock and confusion, followed by deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself.
On the first night of my imprisonment, my dad came home from work, tossed on some sweatpants, and strolled into my room. “Get out your math book. We’re gonna cure this case of the stupids,” he said as he sat down next to me on my bed, pointing at a stack of books underneath a pile of my dirty clothes. “Jesus, open a window, it smells like death shit in here,” he added. As we started to go through the book, he realized that not only did I not know how to do any of the problems, I didn’t understand the basics I needed to even tackle them.
When my dad moved to Point Loma, our seaside San Diego suburb, in 1972, it was mostly a military community. He had served in the navy, and the familiar atmosphere and like-minded residents made him feel welcome. Over the years, Point Loma’s proximity to the beach made it a desirable neighborhood to the wealthy, and huge houses sprouted up all around our modest three-bedroom home. My dad was not pleased. “I refuse to become a fucking yuppie by proxy,” he announced after a young couple moved in next door, replacing one of the last of the old military officers who had once lived on our street.