Two men.
Alaric, a Goth, driven to avenge for his father's murder and reclaim his stolen birthright.
Promotus, a Roman general, shamed by his failure to protect the emperor from an attempt on the his life sought to regain his standing in the emperor...
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Furius Flaccus had fallen asleep. The bishop's head hung forward, lolling on his multiple chins, one folded atop the other, the largest resting on his white cassock. The emperor, Theodosius, watched his head swaying side to side with the motion of the coach and wondered if the bishop would wake with a stiff neck.
How anyone could sleep in the rumbling, jostling interior of the coach baffled Theodosius, but he was glad of it. The bishop had talked, wheedled and subtly threatened for two hours trying to convince the emperor how necessary it was to include, at the very least, one member of the clergy in the imperial consistory.
Theodosius knew what that meant. Bishop Ambrose wanted to influence, maybe even dominate, the council's decisions.
Theodosius carefully adjusted his position, stretched out his long legs diagonally, resting his heels on the seat beside the fat bishop. It felt good to raise them,to feel the swelling began to subside. He leaned forward to massage his lower legs. He ran a finger over where he had gripped his legs feeling the depressions left where he had squeezed.
As the bishop argued his case,he had eaten, bite by bite, two loaves of bread and a whole roasted chicken, flipping its gnawed bones out of the window as they rattled over the cobble stones of the Via Postumia. When he had finished he wiped grease from his fingers on a broad cloth he draped across his lap. Flaccus washed it all down with a flagon of wine,grew lethargic, his speech slowing, and finally his head sank to his breast.
What a relief. Theodosius was willing to let the bishop stay in his self induced hibernation,perhaps quiet until they reached Julia Concordia, the next station on their route to Aqueliea, the bishop's destination. Theodosius already had a cart full of problems. He did not need to be badgered by the bishop.
Theodosius had tried to pay attention, but could not; his legs ached. They felt better after the physician had bled him the night before and he had slept with his legs raised on cushions.
The first seven days of his journey he had walked beside the carriage during the heat of the day. It moved slowly enough, its speed set by the lumbering ox carts that were part of the miles long imperial caravan.
The walking helped, but the swelling still began. Theodosius had enjoyed those days of walking beside his red lacquered coach. Ahead of him the First and Second squadrons of The Shield-Bearers rode their horses, two hundred-fifty on each shoulder. White capes hung limp from their broad shoulders. Behind the imperial coaches rode the imperial bodyguard, three thousand total. Hand-picked, the very best of the Eastern Imperial Army.
Following the bodyguard was the remainder of the caravan, a line of wagons that dwindled into invisibility three miles behind his coach.
The day before he had felt like a prisoner of his failing body as he sat watching the green sea of vineyards slide past his window. He had squeezed his legs again,wishing the swelling away. His legs used to be hard, a soldier's legs, but he had been in this carriage, day after day for almost a month. In the evening his legs looked like those of an old woman,swollen, the skin stretched as tight as a drum head. His physician was powerless to bring relief. Blood letting was his principle approach. Theodosius looked out of the window at the horizon,watching the dark rumpled pale blue tops of the Alps to his north.
