Prologue
410 A.D. — Londinium, Augusta, Britannia
The rain had not ceased in three days.
It drummed steadily upon the tiled roofs of Londinium and ran in muddy rivulets through the once-proud streets of the city. Water gathered in the cracks of broken stone and pooled beneath the arches of abandoned forums where weeds now grew between the paving slabs.
Lucius Cassianus Varro stood motionless beneath the portico of his townhouse and stared toward the wall.
Even through the curtain of rain, he could see where repairs had recently been made. Fresh stone patches marred the older Roman work, desperate attempts to preserve what remained of imperial authority in Britannia.
It would not hold.
Everyone knew it.
The Saxons had grown bolder with every passing season. Raiders descended upon the eastern coast like wolves, while the northern tribes pressed farther south each year. The legions that once protected Britannia were gone, recalled decades before to defend a dying empire across the sea.
Rome no longer guarded Britain.
Rome scarcely guarded Rome.
Behind Lucius, the house stood silent.
Too silent.
Once, laughter had echoed through the atrium. His wife’s soft voice had mingled with the patter of little feet across the mosaic floor. Servants had hurried through the halls carrying trays of figs, wine, and lamp oil while clients waited patiently each morning for audience with the wealthy merchant whose ships carried wool, tin, and imported luxuries between Britannia and Gaul.
Now there remained only emptiness.
His wife had died over the winter before from a fever that swept through the city. His son—
Lucius closed his eyes.
His son had survived her only briefly.
Marcus had been sixteen when the coughing sickness came. The physician had called it a corruption of the lungs. Blood stained the boy’s lips within days. By the end, Marcus had been too weak even to lift his own hand.
Lucius still heard the sound of that terrible breathing in the night.
The gods had taken everything.
A sharp knock sounded at the outer gate.
Lucius turned as his steward entered the courtyard, soaked through despite his heavy cloak.
“They have begun leaving already,” Gaius said without preamble. “More wagons departed through Ludgate before dawn. The magistrate’s household among them.”
Lucius gave a bitter laugh.
“The magistrates abandoned their duties long ago. Why should they not abandon the city as well?”
Gaius hesitated. “My lord... we should depart tonight.”
Lucius looked once more toward the wall.
Beyond it lay chaos.
Beyond it lay Saxons.
