Every author must treasure their first published book. Looking back now, it seems hard to recall how difficult it was at the end of the Nineteen Eighties to persuade publishers to accept the idea of popular fiction set in the Roman period. This was thought to be somehow “too difficult.” Only a certain kind of literary classic could be about the ancient world, and new novels about the remote past were seen as off-putting for modern readers. Nowadays that seems a snobbish and commercially foolish attitude, but then I was taking quite a risk. Like many innocent new authors, I refused to give up.
Eventually I found Heather Jeeves, a literary agent trapped for six weeks with a broken leg in New Zealand, who had plenty of time to consider how best to place such a “difficult” manuscript. Like many slightly unusual books, mine acquired a fine history of being rejected by publishers. Hearing of an editor who was rumoured to be a classicist (not true, in fact), Heather took The Silver Pigs to Oliver Johnson, who had recently been given the task of starting a fiction list at Sidgwick & Jackson, an imprint just acquired as a subsidiary of Macmillan. More astute than the others, Oliver bought the first two books, with the same contract giving paperback rights to another sharp young editor, Bill Scott-Kerr at Pan Books. An American sale of both titles quickly followed.
Almost as soon as the books were published in Britain, that mysterious force known as “word of mouth” began to prove us all right. Every new book in the series has remained consistently in print. This is the best possible tribute to those who had faith from the start. Without them and without the timely flukes that brought us all together, the first two books would probably never have appeared, and no more would have been written. While I shall always be grateful to Sidgwick and Pan for taking a risk with curiosities by a then unknown author, I am delighted that The Silver Pigs and its sequel Shadows in Bronze are now to be reissued in the same imprint as the rest of the Falco series, which Oliver, now a magisterial presence at Random House, still edits. For the first time, all the Falco books will be together, and I have the thrill of seeing a brand new version of my first book. This time, I am allowed to introduce it too!
I had always read historical novels and when I started to be a writer historical subjects attracted me most. I believed that there was a keen audience waiting for good stories with an interesting period background. Novels which deliberately set out to force-feed history to people are ghastly, but that’s a different thing. Shun those authors’ books—and settle down instead with the proper stuff. My correspondents, who are people of all ages, orientations and backgrounds, confirm that they have a huge appetite for the past. Some do like learning from scratch in an entertaining way, others are nostalgic for the classics they learned in their youth. Then there are keen re-enactment groups hankering for anything that connects with their chosen period, together with many young people studying ancient history, archaeology, or classical languages, who enjoy a more relaxed perspective on their serious studies. All Falco enthusiasts are looking for the proverbial “good read.” Fiction readers want escapism. One way of achieving it is to go into a different world; be it fantasy, travel, or the past—and with this series I could see from the start I could encompass all three.
As a would-be romantic novelist, I first tackled the Roman period with a “straight” historical novel (at least, as straightforward as anything by me will ever be) about the long love affair between Antonia Caenis and Vespasian. This would appear many years later as The Course of Honour, though after I had finished it I started to think only my closest friends and family would ever see it.
I needed a new direction. My research into the Rome of the Caesars was what then gave me the idea, partly as a joke of course, to set a typical private eye figure, like those of the modern genre, among the graceful porticoes and dangerous back lanes of the Golden City two thousand years ago. This seemed an exciting milieu in which shady and colourful characters could operate scams. The post-Claudian era, with the Empire just settling down into its most glorious years, offered an apparently respectable, well-run society where plenty of people would be on the make in ways that might or might not be legitimate. Just like the classic gumshoes, an “informer” (a delator) would have to be a streetwise dodger living on his wits and by his fists, despised for his chosen career.
Archaeology even allows him the right kind of upstairs tenement office; the living quarters of ancient Rome were gimcrack places which we know from the Latin satirists were dangerously neglected by crooked landlords. They consisted of cramped, teeming, repetitious apartments where the poorest lived up the most flights of stairs. To this eyrie all kinds of characters could come in the traditional manner, bringing Falco dubious offers of poorly paid work. The vigiles, the night watch who acted as both fire brigade and police force, could provide our hero with a friend in officialdom, that indispensable old pal and contact whom all successful private eyes cultivate.
At the same time, because my man would not have read the books about the modern fellows, he would not know the rules and therefore need not follow them. For instance, although Falco likes women, nobody has told him he is supposed to love them and leave them; dallying with a different gorgeous creature in every adventure and never having to face an enraged father or even to risk a paternity suit. I don’t want to spoil the story so won’t say what he does instead. The way it turned out was not even what I planned, let alone what he would have expected himself…
I could see much scope for overturning clichés, especially when doing so can be a joke. The classic private eye is a loner, a man with the sketchiest past—recent war service usually—in which he may hint that he was a hero so we believe he can win his fights. This tough cynical figure is normally remarkable for having no visible family, at best beset by some stormy divorce, but never boasting parents or siblings, a home town, or schooldays. It seemed to me that Falco had to be provided with the absolute antithesis; a rampaging Italian family headed by a forthright mother—a matriarch furiously on the loose in this supposedly patriarchal society. Family responsibility was a duty for a Roman male, and I wanted him to have the right preoccupations—even when he is trying hard to avoid them. How was I to know that this would be so popular? My hero’s troubled, troublesome relatives, his loyal friends and his devious foes, his neighbours in the baking hot alleys around Fountain Court on the Aventine, have become for many readers the best-loved feature of the books. It provides me with tremendous fun as I catalogue the ever-increasing cast and their curious lives. The regular characters—many of whom new readers will meet here in The Silver Pigs—have acquired passionate followers, often supporting the worst reprobates. Even the pets now have their devotees. I am hotly berated if I omit people’s favourites.
Writing about a historical period gave me distinct advantages. The exotic details, social settings and locations instantly make a novel more lively and give it greater depth. Researching these aspects is a pleasure for me; whether it involves books, museums, archaeological sites or travel. In the course of writing the series I have explored backgrounds in Italy, Spain, Germany, Syria and Libya, not to mention parts of Britain where I had never been before. There are also responsibilities. I see no point in writing about the past unless you try to make it as authentic as our current perception of that period may be; otherwise you may as well create your own place and time in science fiction or fantasy. So I do try to be accurate. But this is fiction, which I am writing fast to meet readers’ keen demands, and writing in a daring, innovative way sometimes. Mistakes may creep in; there were a few loose ends and carelessly chosen words due to inexperience in The Silver Pigs. We have discreetly corrected some in this new edition (no, I shall not list them!).
In the twelve years since I started, I have learned more and hope to continue to improve. Scholarship itself moves on. Once British archaeologists automatically called lead ingots “pigs.” Now (perhaps even arising out of interest in this novel) there is a debate about how those ingots were really formed—whether the molten metal would cool too quickly to run into channels, for instance, and whether real “pigs” ought to show snibs where they were broken off the main channel. On reflection, it does seem likely that the silver/lead ingots we see in museums were made in individual moulds. So it’s possible that when Falco describes the process to Petronius, he is wrong. Well, he is not infallible and it’s a scene I was always fond of, too. It shows their relationship well. I mention this, as it shows the problems an author can face in keeping up-to-date even after publication, but on reflection I have decided not to change the scene. Another thing I feel we cannot do is retitle the book, not least because The Silver Moulds would sound like plates of blancmange!
I admit mistakes and correct them later if I can. By publishing this book I set myself up as a target for “helpful” people who would feel driven to point out my errors. Once, I was mortified by this, but I now merely reflect that as a crime writer it is useful to observe the darker motives that afflict otherwise pleasant folk.
It seems to me that in fiction, which is not intended to be taken too seriously, ultimately only the narrative sense matters. Do readers believe in Falco’s world and his actions? Some find the leap of imagination hard, but in general yes they do. No author can please everyone. I can forgo the sceptics and the nitpickers, in return for the passionate faith of those who are convinced.
Luckily, there are plenty of those. From the moment The Silver Pigs appeared I began to encounter completely delightful readers, many of whom urgently want to say thank you. It is a great joy to me that many seem to feel they are writing to a friend and often they start by saying, “I have never written to an author before…” This very first book in the series brought my first letter from my official “Number One Fan.” He is Nigel Alefounder, a devoted supporter, though typically diffident about his vital role. He set the pattern: cheerful, intrigued, fascinated by the Romans, yet always very sensible about what this kind of fiction is really trying to do.
Falco readers are, I must say, the most strikingly nice group of people. It is a pleasure to write for them. It is an inspiration too, and while I cannot obey those who urge me to “Write faster!” at least for the time being I can promise not to stop. I do hope that some of you reading this will be new to Falco and Helena, just setting out on the series and about to be converted. To you, a warm welcome. While to old friends, welcome again—and as always, thank you for your continuing loyalty.