Patrick Larkin is a bestselling author specializing in historical, military, and espionage thrillers. His collaborations with Larry Bond—including Red Phoenix, Vortex, Cauldron, The Enemy Within, and Day of Wrath—have won critical acclaim for their suspense, realism, and unblinking appreciation of geopolitical and modern military realities.
Today, he's sharing an excerpt from his upcoming novel, THE STANDARD-BEARER, a Roman-era historical mystery/thriller.
BackCover Blurb:
The hero of The Tribune, the hot-tempered and
honorable Roman soldier Lucius Aurelius Valens is back—now leading the horsemen
of his Third Gallic Cavalry Regiment on what he thinks is a routine patrol east
of the Jordan River. But nothing is what it first seems, and Valens and his men
soon find themselves locked in battle against a murderous messianic conspiracy.
Ordered by the
procurator of Judea to hunt down and destroy those who are planning rebellion
against Roman rule, Valens follows the trail to Jerusalem, a city already
dancing on the edge of chaos, torn by a hidden war waged between the honest
servants of cynical high priests and fanatical assassins. Somehow, the young
Roman knows, he must pierce veil after veil of secrecy and suspicion to uncover
the truth…and he must do it without provoking the very revolt he has been
ordered to prevent.
And, as he plunges
deeper into the deadly web of deceit guarding the conspirators, Valens must
also confront the dangers lurking in his own heart—in his love for a beautiful
woman forbidden to him by Roman law, by her family, and by the dictates of her
own faith.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE STANDARD-BEARER
Prologue
Prologue
I, Lucius
Aurelius Valens, a soldier in the service of Rome and Tiberius Caesar, write
these lines in haste, eager to render an accurate account of some of the
strange and terrible events I have witnessed and in which I have played a part.
The world around me seems filled on every side with signs and wonders, with
omens and portents. And I know now that a great change is coming. The order of
all things—of powers and principalities, of gods and of men— is no longer
fixed, eternal, and enduring. An age is passing away, but what will come next
to fill the void in men’s minds and souls remains hidden from the wise and the
foolish alike.
That is a
bold prophecy. And some may argue that my words are proof of madness or folly,
or worse yet, only the idle creation of an untamed imagination.
But I tell you that my mother's father, also a soldier, gave me his ring when I came to manhood, and with it, the commandment to live out the motto inscribed within that golden circle: Honor and Truth.
It is in this spirit that I write.
But I tell you that my mother's father, also a soldier, gave me his ring when I came to manhood, and with it, the commandment to live out the motto inscribed within that golden circle: Honor and Truth.
It is in this spirit that I write.
It was
late May, in the sixth year since Tiberius Caesar took power. The veteran
cavalrymen under my command had been on the move since first light, riding
slowly through a labyrinth of rugged brown hills and deep ravines. Although it
was still morning, a dry searing heat already lay across this scorched country
far to the east of the Jordan River. We were well beyond the official border of
Roman-governed Judea.
A wit once
said that service on the empire’s far-flung frontiers was an endless procession
of dull and dreary routine broken by occasional moments of stark terror. In
theory, Caesar’s decrees, masked by a polite fiction as those of the Senate and
the People of Rome, preserved law and order and peace and prosperity within the
provinces and along the frontiers. Or so my boyhood tutors claimed. In
practice, our Roman peace was kept by small bands of overworked and often
exhausted soldiers expected to keep the local barbarians, bandits, and nomads
in check. Soldiers like me.
Storm, my
big gray war horse, plodded along the barren trail we were following. His head
was down and his large brown eyes were half-slits, narrowed against the glare. I
shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, feeling rivulets of sweat rolling down my
ribs and back. The armor I wore might turn an arrow or a spear thrust in a
fight, but it was like sitting inside my own private oven. My sun-cracked lips
twitched slightly at the thought. The regimental bathhouse at Caesarea was
several days’ hard ride behind us and I smelled nothing like a fresh-baked loaf
of bread.
“It’s time
we were afoot again, Lucius,” Aedan murmured. “Unless, that is, you’d rather
end up as an accidental tribune of infantry, instead of a noble prefect of
cavalry.”
With a
quick grin, I glanced at the tall, wiry decurion riding on my left. A Celtic
tribesman by birth and a veteran cavalry officer by training, instinct, and
inclination, Aedan was my second-in-command for this patrol. He was also my
friend and trusted comrade-in-arms. Hard fighting and shared hardships over the
past year had smoothed over any doubts he might once have had about obeying a
Roman ten years his junior.
Squinting
up at the fierce blaze of the sun, already high overhead in a cloudless sky, I
saw what he meant. The day was only growing hotter and our horses needed a
breather. Horses are more fragile than are men. And cavalrymen who expect their
mounts to carry the weight of their armor and equipment from sunup to sundown
without rest are cavalrymen who come stumbling back on foot, leaving dead
horses behind them. This task was likely to be arduous and unrewarding enough. There
was no sense in making it more difficult and costly for no purpose.
I turned
in my saddle and looked back along the column. Forty troopers followed close
behind, riding in pairs. More men and beasts followed, servants leading pack
mules burdened by supplies, tents, and other gear. The troopers of my unit, the
Third Gallic Cavalry Regiment, fought for Rome and for the pay Rome provided,
but they were still high-born Celtic warriors who expected to spend their time
fighting, training to fight, or hunting. Their servants, mostly poor free men
from their own tribes, were paid to tend their horses, cook their food, and
clean their gear. And there, at the very tail end of the column, a stocky,
bearded man ambled along on his own mule, fanning himself with a battered,
broad-rimmed hat.
I bit back
an exasperated sigh. Aristides was my personal physician and the regiment’s
chief medical officer. Like Aedan, the Greek doctor was also my friend and
trusted companion. But unlike the decurion, Aristides was a born civilian,
blind and deaf to military discipline and protocol. He was also getting older,
with more and more gray streaking his black hair. And though he insisted he was
still fitter than most men, I worried about his endurance on so long and hot
and difficult a trek. Unfortunately, Aristides was also as stubborn as that
mule he rode—which explained his presence on this gods-forsaken patrol to the
back of the beyond. All of my carefully phrased suggestions that he should stay
behind in the comforts of Caesarea had bounced off him like pebbles pattering
unnoticed off a granite cliff.
“Lucius?”
Aedan asked again.
Looking
back, I nodded. “Very well. But we rest the horses, not the men. The more
ground we cover today, the sooner we finish this farce.”
. . . .
We tramped
on in a clatter of boots and horseshoes on rock and gravel and sun-baked dirt. Dust
rose in faint streamers behind us, curling skyward on a soft, searing breeze. The
trail we were on ran parallel to a boulder-strewn ravine choked by high, brown
grass, thick clumps of brambles and thorn bushes, and gnarled scrub oaks. In
the winter, the rains would turn it into a raging torrent plunging westward toward
the Jordan. For now, though, the gully looked bone-dry and dead.
Aedan trudged
along in silence at my side for some time. At last he spoke up, keeping his
voice low so that only I could hear him. Our troopers were still in good
spirits, so why depress them with the knowledge that their officers were
unhappy with their orders? “A farce you called this jaunt of ours and a farce
it truly is. The only question then, Lucius, is how long we’re expected to let
this mad, sad comedy play out.”
“Long
enough to satisfy the procurator that his orders have been obeyed,” I told him.
“Or rather, long enough to convince the merchants who are pressuring him that
we’ve done all that can reasonably be done.”
“Merchants,”
Aedan said flatly, almost spitting the word out. “We’re killing horses and
wearing our men to the bone to keep fat-bellied, coin-counting traders sweet. It’s
no fit occupation for a warrior.”
. . . .
He smiled
sourly. “We’re chasing ghosts. And to no good end.”
I nodded,
knowing the Celt was right. It would take extraordinary luck to make any
contact with one of the guilty tribes, let alone catch one in the act of
attacking a caravan.
What I had
forgotten is that the Fates —or the gods, perhaps —sometimes cast lots with
men’s lives.
Thanks so much for sharing, Pat!
3 comments:
I loved this excerpt. I could see the scene.The description is wonderful. I don't normally read this genre, but I may just go get the book.
This is definitely a lesson on how write in first person. The characters are already alive for me. Thanks so much for having such a great writer on your blog.
I agree with Thorne and would add that its also a great example of setting a scene. I could feel the dusty heat the men trudged through and afterwards had to go get a drink .. awesome! Thanks for sharing!
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