Sneak Peek: Barbarian and the Throne Prologue
- Adam Lofthouse
- Jul 6
- 20 min read
As we're getting nearer to the release of Barbarian and the Throne, I thought I would offer a sneak peek at the prologue, just in case anyone was in two minds as to whether to give it a go!
The book is out on August 24th, and is the fourth book in the Shadow of Rome series. I have written four blog posts covering what the book is about, so I won't go into all that again.
I shall simply leave you with the words. Hope you enjoy!
Prologue
Rome, August, AD 410
Click. Clack. Click. The point of his cane scraped on the flagstones beneath him, the sound echoing down the empty corridor.
Click. Clack. Click. He paused a moment to catch his breath, chest wheezing as he sucked in air. Once, he could have run down this corridor and up the stairs at the end in moments, the time barely shifting on the water clock in the courtyard outside. It seemed, however, that was long in the past.
Click. Clack. Click. The iron hobnailed studs on his military boots grated as he dragged his feet along, the right leg giving him more support than the left. His trembling hands gripped the cane harder, leather-like skin whitening around the knuckles. He reached the foot of the stairs, looked up their winding passage and let out a wheeze that might have been a sigh.
Age was a cruel mistress. Sometimes he wished he had died a younger man. Still in his prime. Still the revered general. Still the magister militum of Theodosius, the man who had reunited the empire. He knew there were still people who looked up to him. Young soldiers stood in awe as he hobbled by; some even saluted. Though in his mind it was all somewhat ironic. What did the soldiers of today care about yesterday’s man? Who was there now to remember his victories in Britannia, Africa, at Poetovio against the usurper Maximus, and a hundred other battles and skirmishes across the years? It was against the law to even speak Maximus’s name these days.
Another rattle from his chest, and he was heaving himself up the stairs. Thunder cracked in the night sky above; the braziers on the wall flickered as if in fear, though even those old walls should still keep the flames safe from the rain. He had often wished he could have seen the city in its pomp. To walk the streets in the time of Augustus, and marvel at the industry of it all. A city of scaffolding, it would have been, as wooden buildings were replaced with stone and encased in marble. Painters working from dawn to dusk, the dull greys of progress hidden away behind the bright reds and greens and blues. Rome had been a city of colour, the envy of the world.
Oh, how far she had fallen.
Halfway up the stairs, heart shaking his ribcage, he stopped and stooped over on his trembling cane. God, how he wished he had died a younger man. Ask any young person on the street, slave or senator, and offer them twenty extra years of life and they would snap your hand off. But no one explains to you that it isn’t twenty extra years of your prime. It’s twenty extra years of joints stiffer than an iron sword. Bowels looser than your purse strings at the local lupanar. The latter made even more degrading when you could no longer be trusted to clean your own arsehole. Oh, and trips to the lupanar? Not much point when you could no longer get your member to be half as stiff as your joints.
‘Why all the stairs?’ he muttered to himself under a quivering breath, before setting off once more, leading with his stronger right leg. Two old wounds in his left had seen that one wither quicker than the other. One to the groin, a wound that had almost been the end of his military career before it had even begun, and another in his calf that had healed well enough at the time and had only caused him real problems twenty years after he had taken it.
He reached the top more sweat than man. Two guards stood at the end of another corridor; both were saluting before he rounded the corner and saw them. He smiled to himself, more gums than teeth on show. Clearly, the sound of his shuffling and scraping along the corridors of the imperial palace was unique. One day they would be as crippled as he. They wouldn’t be laughing then. ‘Where is the prisoner?’ he asked once he had shuffled up to them.
‘First cell on the left, Domine,’ one of the guards said. ‘Would you like us to go in with you?’
‘Unlock his cell and bring food and wine. Then you may leave us.’
‘I’m sorry, Domine, but we have been told the prisoner is dangerous—’
‘He is a protectore of Rome! Of course he is dangerous! He has led armies, served under the great Theodosius, father to our worthless emperor, who sits and plays with his birds in Ravenna as the holy city stands on the brink of destruction! He is a killer of men! A force like no other. And before the sun rises, I would break bread and drink wine with him. Now do as I say, you worthless pup!’
Allowing himself a small smile as he was let through the iron-barred door, he squinted in the gloomy light within, tired eyes struggling to make out what lay inside. ‘Bring me a torch,’ he said over his shoulder, and moments later one appeared in his hand. First cell on the left. He moved over, torch held out before him. It was hard to distinguish anything at first, but as he let his eyes adjust, he began to make out the outline of what he saw.
‘Videricus? It is you,’ he breathed, cane clicking on the cracked flagstones as he edged closer. ‘God above, man. Where have you been?’ He held out the torch before him, revealing the silhouette of a broken man.
‘Felicius?’ a hoarse voice whispered from beneath the folds of a cloak that might have once been white.
‘It is I, old friend.’ A guard unlocked the gate; more torches were brought in, the chamber slowly illuminating. Rain hammered off the tiled roof, its pitter patter seemingly a fitting background noise to what was a dispiriting scene. ‘It has been many years since I have seen you. I assumed you dead.’
‘Dangerous to assume, dear General,’ the hoarse voice said. The cloak ruffled, and slowly, painfully, a man uncoiled himself from within. Tall and broad, a dark beard dusted with grey streaked down to his chest. His hair was long and wild, raven dark, and it was unwashed and presumably full of lice. It looked oily under the light of the braziers. Bare arms streaked with cuts and crusted blood, purple bruises across his knuckles, concealing the tattoos beneath.
‘You look as though you have been to hell and back, old friend,’ Felicius said. Food and wine arrived, a small folding table and two stalls set up just outside the cell. The guard departed with a nod, closing the iron-barred door behind him when he left.
‘Is this me being let out or you being let in?’ Videricus asked with a smile that showed a mouth missing a few teeth.
‘Why are you here, Protectore?’ Felicius asked.
Videricus barked a laugh, then winced as though the action had caused him pain. ‘Been a long time since anyone has called me that,’ he said, stumbling from the cell on shaky legs and falling onto one of the stools.
‘But that is what you are. A protectore of Rome. Of Theodosius, to be precise, may he rest in peace.’ Felicius made the sign of the cross. ‘In fact, I would go as far as to say you are the last of the protectores. It has been an age since one of those white cloaks was seen in this city.’
‘Judging by what I saw outside on my way in, it might be a while before anyone does again, too.’ Videricus poured himself a cup of wine and drained it. He was chewing on a hunk of bread when Felicius spoke again.
‘How did you get through? The Burner’s men must have recognised you.’
Videricus grinned. ‘I am not such an old dog, dear General, to not still have a few tricks up my sleeve. I made it through just fine. Quite a host the old bastard has brought with him. What’s his play, anyway? I would have thought it would have made much more sense for him to be besieging Ravenna. Honorius isn’t going to do shit about him being here.’
He would do nothing were Ravenna besieged either, Felicius thought, but he did not say it. ‘He wants money, what else? Well, land too. He is the leader of the Goths, and they are a people without a home. How many years has it been since the disaster of Hadrianopolis? Over thirty? That is how long his people have wandered for. Fought for us and against us in that time. I can well understand his frustrations, even if I find his methods barbaric.’
‘Barbaric?’ Videricus scoffed. ‘Is that not what we all are to you? Barbarico. You Romans use us when it suits you, discard us when we are inconvenient. Even your precious Theodosius was guilty of that.’
‘There was never a fairer emperor than Theo,’ Felicius said defensively, his watery eyes distant as he looked back at his past. ‘He used clemency far more often than the sword. All knew he could be reasoned with, and that he would treat people fairly. A greater man there never was.’
‘A shame his lessons did not reach to his sons.’ Videricus spat. ‘Two of the most worthless brats this empire has ever had on its twin thrones. And by the gods that is saying something.’ Felicius made to speak, but Videricus cut him off. ‘Let me help you remember, dear General, an event that happened some twenty years ago. Your beloved Theodosius had just beaten Maximus and was cementing his place in Italy. A group of Goths, I forget their name, or that of their leader, sought refuge from the Huns across the Danube. A petition was sent to Theodosius to allow them across, to settle on Thracian lands inside the empire. “Not more damn Goths!” Theodosius cursed, furrowing his brow in anger before coming to a quick conclusion. “Pass word that the bastards are to be allowed across the river. I want the Danube fleet waiting at the ready. When their small boats are in the water, attack them! Leave none alive.”’
Felicius hid his wince behind a cup of wine. ‘No man is perfect I suppose,’ he muttered.
‘I wonder who it was that passed that order on? Surely it would have gone through some form of military commander, no? Does your memory stretch that far, General? And shall we not mention the massacre of Thessaloniki?’
Laying down his cup with a sigh, Felicius pressed his aching elbows to the table. ‘I passed on the order, as you well know. As for Thessaloniki… it was beyond awful. What is your point, Videricus?’
The last protectore smiled. It was a predator’s smile, void of innocence. ‘My point is that history is all a matter of perspective. In your eyes Theodosius did no wrong, because in many ways you shaped the man he was. You were with him when he first fought, when he first knew what it was to kill. And you were with him when he first learned what it was to lead. In your eyes he is one of the finest leaders your empire has ever known – which may say more for the others than it does for him. But on the other side of the Danube the perspective is very different. There, he is the man who defeated the Goths under Fritigern that were running rampant across the empire. Heroes, they were, to those of us left across the river, the Huns breathing down our necks. And he was the man who forced us into your armies. Forced us to bleed for you, to die for you.’
‘And yet you bled for him many a time. You lived to see manhood because of his mercy.’
‘No, dear General. I lived because of your mercy, something I shall never forget. Theodosius was not there, in that tent by the Danube, my father, king of the Greuthungi, kneeling before him. It is true that Theodosius was the man to officially offer clemency on behalf of the empire. But only because that was what you had already promised. Not once in all the years I served him did I hear of Theodosius ever countermanding an order you had given or an offer you had made. Your word was iron. Your word was Rome. You should not underestimate the weight your own name carries, dear General.’
Felicius smiled at that, took another sip of his wine. ‘I thank you for the compliment, but I knew my place in the world. On the battlefield I was king. Off it, I found my social status baffling. And anyway, it has been a long time since I have been a general. I am a humble servant of God, now.’
‘I heard you had taken refuge in the Lateran Palace. I assume your beloved Pope has not stuck around to see his holy city be overrun by pagans?’
‘I’d wager there are as many men of God outside the walls of Rome tonight as there are men of other faiths. A long time these people have lived in our borders now. But you are correct, Pope Innocent has seen fit to leave the comfort of his palace and travel to Ravenna. There the head of the Church and the head of the empire can decide on the best course of action to take.’
Videricus scoffed a laugh. ‘And what do you think the spoiled brat Honorius is going to do about this?’ He waved a hand around the small chamber, though both men knew he was encompassing Rome with that gesture, and not the small prison wing in the imperial palace in which they sat. Outside the walls of Rome, an army camped. Not a Roman army, though they had fought for the empire many a time. They were a Gothic army, under the command of Alaric, a man who had been both a faithful general in Rome’s war machine, and a thorn in its side. Seemed the time had come for him to be the latter once again. This was the third time he had besieged Rome in little over a year.
‘An army will be assembled. We must keep the faith,’ Felicius said, though both men knew it to be a lie.
‘There are no men to fill the ranks of such an army, and you know it. Roman troops are spread too thin. The Rhine frontier is in disarray; this I have seen with my own eyes. From what I hear the Danube fairs little better. The East has closed its doors, Arcadius abandoning his little brother. And even, dear General, were Rome able to put an army in the field. Who would lead it? I think we can both agree your marching days are over. And it has been two years since your cursed emperor executed your finest general.’
‘I’m going to skip over the fact you don’t deem me to be Rome’s finest general.’ Felicius sniffed. ‘But I accept your point. You speak of Stilicho’s passing, of course. And you are right; his absence has left a hole the West has so far been unable to fill.’
‘His passing?’ Videricus snapped. ‘You speak as if my beloved commander slipped away peacefully in his sleep, having led a long and full life. No, dear General, he did not pass from this world. He was snatched from it. Violently.’ Videricus shuddered, and Felicius watched the man, the pained expression in his eyes as he relived one of the darkest days of his life.
‘Where did you go? After it happened? Two years you have been gone. There has been no word.’
Videricus said nothing, just fixed the old general with a stare. ‘You know where I have been. Don’t play games with me. Not for one moment do I believe you have allowed contact with your family to end. Man of God or not, you were not always so chaste, dear General.’
Felicius allowed himself a wry chuckle. He did indeed know where the protectore had been hiding himself. It had just been a case of discovering if he was going to be prepared to admit it. ‘How are they?’ he asked. ‘I get their letters, of course. But it is one thing to read words on parchment, another to look a person in the eye as they speak, hear emotion in their voice.’
‘Your daughter is well. She took the loss of her mother hard. I think she blames herself for not being present when the illness took hold. Gods, what a monster I have become.’ Videricus trailed off. He slapped himself on the thigh, as if chiding himself for something. ‘I am so sorry for the loss of Lucia, Felicius. Your wife was a wonderful person.’
The aged general offered his companion a flat smile. ‘Kind words. She was always very fond of you, Videricus. But her time had come, and mine will soon follow. We shall be together again in God’s kingdom, of that I have no doubt.’
‘I sincerely hope you are. Your grandchildren thrive, as does your son-in-law and his family.’
Felicius felt his flat smile widen at that. ‘To think the youngest was a babe when I last laid on eyes on him. Oh, the sacrifices I have made, all for this empire of ours.’
‘You did not have to leave them in Britannia. That was your choice. Marcelina often wondered why.’
‘I thought they would be safer, far removed from the politics of court. I fear now, though, that I was wrong. How fairs it over there?’
‘Now that Rome has abandoned them, you mean?’ Videricus held up a hand to prevent the general cutting in. ‘Officially it is still part of the empire, I know! But come now, dear General, both of us know Rome no longer rules on that windswept isle. The Saxons have firmly planted themselves on the east coast now. They are putting down roots.’
‘How long do you think our people can hold out?’
‘A while yet, I should think. It is why I have come.’
A silence stretched between the two men. Felicius popped some bread into his mouth and then regretted it. Bread wasn’t easy to eat when you had as few teeth left as he did. ‘He sent you, didn’t he?’
Videricus nodded, a half-smile dancing across his lips. ‘He said you owe him one.’
Felicius rolled his eyes. ‘God above. How on earth is he even still alive? I swear the old rogue has more lives than your average cat.’
‘I’ve no doubt he’ll outlive us all. You know he even fought last year? Half a day he held the line. You should have seen the pile of Saxon dead he left on the field.’
‘Ha!’ Felicius barked a laugh, almost spitting out his bread. ‘I am not in the least bit surprised! All men should fear the name Tribune Sixtus Victorinus. I swear only God himself could strike him down.’
‘He misses you. I have been tasked with planting a kiss firmly on both your cheeks. If it’s all the same to you, I’m going to give that a wide berth. But I think we can both appreciate the sentiment of the words.’
‘That we can.’ Felicius closed his eyes a moment and allowed himself to picture his old friend the last time he had seen him. Ten years, was it? On Victorinus’s small farmstead, he and Sarai sitting by the grave of their long-departed son. The beech tree was shedding its leaves, autumn setting in. He and Lucia were readying to journey back to Italy. He had been deciding whether to retire to Britannia and be with his family. But things at court were precarious at best. It was a decision that had haunted him for many a night. ‘So, what does he want?’
‘The sword. Maximus’s sword. It is symbolic to the people of Britannia. The natives feel that if they fight for a man who holds that blade, they cannot lose.’
‘Horseshit, and you know it,’ Felicius said.
Videricus sniggered. ‘Of course. But if it helps the warriors of Britannia fight all the harder? Then perhaps it is not horseshit after all.’
Felicius drummed trembling fingers on the folding table, took another sip of wine. ‘That might not be easy. Last I heard that sword was in Ravenna. And then there is the matter of the son.’
‘I have it on good authority that the sword is in Rome. In this very palace, in fact. Which is why I presented myself at the gate, knowing full well I would be thrown in a cell.’
‘Knowing full well I would be called for and that I would free you, you mean.’
‘Rome is lost, General!’ Videricus snapped, seemingly losing patience. ‘Alaric has the city surrounded. The Huns are forcing the Germani over the Rhine. The Saxons are fleeing further west to Britannia. But the Saxons can be beaten, the Huns cannot! We both know it! And the Huns are no sailors. On an open field they are a terror with their small horses and vicious bows. But mark my words, they will never cross the Narrow Sea! In Britannia there is a chance for part of Rome to carry on. We must take it, for the West!’
‘I never knew you were such a patriot,’ Felicius said, a wispy eyebrow raised. ‘You claim to despise Rome and all she stands for. What care you if the West falls?’
‘I care that there is a future somewhere for me to exist in. Britannia is the only part of the West left that can realistically call itself Roman. Gaul is full of Goths, with more Germani knocking on the door. They wait for winter, when the Rhine will freeze, and mark my words, General, they will cross in their thousands. More Goths spill from Gaul into Hispania. Vandals roam free, their allegiance assured when Stilicho was here to claim it. For he was one of their own, as you well know. Without him they do as they please. Word reaches me they will try for Africa soon. And what happens then, old man, when the grain ships stop?’
Felicius blew air through his cheeks. ‘Still, been a good year for the grapes,’ he said, raising his wine cup and drinking deep. ‘God, where did it all go so wrong? I can still remember that day at Aquileia, you know. When Theo beat Maximus, and it seemed as though Rome had never been stronger. One man on the throne, and a good one at that. What could go wrong?’
‘He made a good fist of it, for a while,’ Videricus said, drinking from his own cup. ‘In truth, I think we both know the writing had been on the wall for some time. The East remains strong though; guess they have Theodosius to thank for that.’
‘Yes. Though I do wonder if all he achieved was to push all his problems over to the West. Certainly, that’s what Stilicho thought at the end.’
‘It had consumed him by the time of his death,’ Videricus said. He ripped off some cheese and threw it into his mouth. Refilled their wine cups whilst he chewed. ‘He did not sleep, trusted no one. How was he ever going to please everyone? That’s all he used to say. If he paid off Alaric and gave him land as he wanted, the senate would revolt. If he ignored Alaric and refused to pay tribute, then he kept the senate onside but lost the Goths. Not to mention the disarray in Gaul and other minor revolts across the empire. He was caught in a vice, and he knew it. I have wondered often in the last two years if that is why he went to his death so willingly.’
‘There was no struggle?’ Felicius asked. There had been various rumours about the end, though no one had confirmed to him exactly how it happened.
‘No fuss, no drama. Very him,’ Videricus scoffed. ‘He would not let us fight. We, who would have burned the world for him.’
‘You were all there?’
‘Of course. Me, Karl, Alexius, Abraham. And Ulrich.’ Videricus trailed off, and Felicius could feel the pain in the other man’s voice.
‘Where is Ulrich, Videricus?’ the aged general asked. His eyes drifted down to the last protectore’s knuckles. A tattoo running across them, right hand to left. BASILEUS. King, in the Greek tongue. Videricus rubbed a finger across the letters unconsciously.
‘He’s at home,’ the last protectore said, though his eyes were wet as he spoke.
‘I’m going to let you rest now. I’ll come for you in the morning; we can talk more then. Please eat and drink your fill. You won’t be locked back inside that cell; I’ll make sure of it.’ Gripping his cane once more, Felicius forced his body up, knees and ankles protesting.
‘You can’t just leave me here! I’ve come such a long way! And I need to get back. If I could just get the—’
‘Yes, yes. The sword. Not as easy as that, I’m afraid. Rest, Videricus. Honestly, we sit here and speak of the dead, though half of their corpses would still look better than you, I think. Sleep, I will see you again come the dawn.’ With that he turned and dragged himself back over to the iron-barred door, which opened for him as he approached. He turned on the threshold, casting one look back at the stricken figure within. One of the most fearsome men Felicius had ever seen grace a battlefield. Not that anyone would know that now to see him. Just another tired, beaten man the empire had swallowed up then spat back out.
Click. Clack. Click. He limped off back down the corridor, hoping the stairs would be easier to get down than they were to ascend. He knew deep down they wouldn’t be.
*
He was stood on the northern wall come daybreak. August, yet a chill southerly breeze brought goosebumps to his skin. The firm stone of the Porta Salaria beneath his feet brought him comfort. The sight before him though was one of nightmares. A barbarian army stretched as far as the eye could see. To the north, east and west they surrounded the city. Cookfires dotted the landscape, smoke curling lazily into a clear sky. He breathed in deep, revelling in the smells of baking bread and cooking meat. Such smells were getting sparser in a city that had been on rations for a long time now.
‘How much longer can we hold out for?’ he muttered to himself, pulling the folds of his cloak tighter around his shrivelling body. In years past, he had been a sight to behold, in or out of armour. Healthy slabs of muscle had coated his body. Not so healthy slabs of fat had accompanied it. But the two together had made the magister militum an imposing figure, and a fine swordsman too. He still had the blade that had served him thirty years and more in the army. It stood next to his bed in the small cell he slept in within the Lateran Palace. He could have demanded he be given suites; his demands would have been met happily. But he had no real need of them. Especially after Lucia passed.
He had a bed, and he had his sword, though he could not grip the thing any more. The tremors made sure of that. But it remained a comfort to the old man. And what was the point of old age without a little comfort?
‘Salve, Protectore. You are looking more like yourself,’ he said, looking to his left as three men walked towards him. Videricus did indeed look more like the man Felicius had known in the past. He was clean shaven now, his hair cut short and combed. It had lost its oily shine. The bags under the warrior’s eyes were still there, though they were not quite the encompassing purple they had been the night before.
‘Morning,’ Videricus said. ‘My thanks for the use of the barber and the bathhouse. I am feeling much recovered.’ Felicius smiled. He had given orders that the protectore was to be given access to certain privileges. It pleased him to see it done. ‘Have you thought any more about what I asked last night? I really must be off back to Britannia as soon as I can. Much depends on it.’
‘I have, and I want you to know that I have written to the emperor and asked for his counsel. We shall await his reply together.’
Videricus seemed to shrink at the news. ‘How can a messenger possibly hope to get through this lot?’ he asked.
‘Because I sent a messenger to Alaric this morning and asked him to let one through. I said it was a personal matter. We may be enemies now, but we were friends once. He was happy to oblige.’
Barking a laugh, Videricus slapped the stone barricade. ‘Gods, that old rogue. Here he is laying siege to Rome itself and still the bastard plays both sides. He is a better politician than he was ever given credit for.’
‘That he is,’ Felicius said with a nod. ‘So, it seems you are stuck with me for a few days. Did you know that I have been writing a memoir? Of what I have seen and survived over the years?’
‘I have heard of this.’ Videricus nodded. ‘I was told some time ago. It is said to be the history of histories! How goes it?’
‘Very well so far. I write for an hour or so most nights before I sleep. I’m up to around the time you and I first met. Now.’ Felicius shuffled atop the wall, trying to ease life back into stiff, vein-stricken legs. ‘How would you like to help me fill in the blanks whilst we await word from the emperor? Tell me about your youth, your time in the empire. It would help jog an old man’s memory, if nothing else.’
‘Stilicho. You wish me to speak of my lord, you mean? What care have you of my youth before the two of us met in that tent on the Danube? Rome had never heard of Videricus, son of Vithimer, and had no reason to. But I will tell you of the first time I met my lord. I had stolen bread from a market stall in Constantinople, a favourite pastime of mine as a child, and was running through the cobbled allies, being chased by the city guard. When I rounded a corner and bumped straight into none other than—’
‘No! No, dear Protectore! I do not wish to hear of your meeting with Stilicho. Not yet anyway. I would have you tell your story from the beginning. That is how I have told mine. When you catch up to me, we can tell our stories together. Until then, speak to me of your youth, of growing up outside the empire.’
The last protectore looked left and right, then back down to the massed army of Goths sprawled before them on the fields surrounding Rome. ‘Now? Here?’
‘Yes, my old friend. Why ever not?’ Felicius asked with a watery smile.
Videricus puffed air out through his cheeks. ‘If I speak, you will give me the sword?’
‘If the emperor wills it.’
Videricus sighed, throwing his hands up in a helpless gesture. ‘Well, very well. My childhood was ordinary enough. Until around a year or so before the two of us met. Things began to change when my mother fell ill…’
Has that got you excited to read the rest? I hope it has! The Shadow of Rome series should be perfect for fans of Conn Iggulden, Ben Kane, Simon Scarrow and Gordon Doherty. Available to pre-order now!
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