Warrior: The epic story of Caratacus, warrior Briton and enemy of the Roman Empire…

Book 0: Warrior

by Simon Scarrow, T.J. Andrews

Genres: Historical Thrillers

Synopsis

From the bestselling author of the Eagles of the Empire novels comes the epic story of Caratacus: a barbarian who united tribes to raise an army against mighty Rome . . .

The Romans invaded Britannia in AD 43 confident of victory. They swept through a divided and ill-equipped enemy, scattered across tough terrain. But one man was not prepared to surrender. Caratacus - quick-witted youngest son of a a tribal king - had been trained from birth to be a warrior of power and grit. Sent to be schooled by the Druids in his boyhood, his training meant that an already strong and cunning prince returned to his father's kingdom as a war machine . . .

With Caratacus driving them forward, the tribes prepare to repulse an enemy anticipating an easy victory. Fighting not only to stay alive but for their very way of life, these men form a mighty force. The battle is on!

The brand new series from the Sunday Times bestselling authors of Invader and Pirata: Warrior, the story of Britannia's barbarian warlord Caratacus.

(p) 2023 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: June 8, 2023

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 400

Sample

They say history is made by great men and, when they are permitted, great women. Like much of what they say, that’s complete rubbish. In truth, history is made by historians riding the toga tails of the great in the hope that some of the greatness rubs off on them. This history is no different.

It began on a warm summer evening at a banquet held to celebrate the news from Britannia. The native rebellion that had devastated three of the most important settlements in the province had been crushed. Tens of thousands of the enemy had been slain, along with their leader, some fiery harpy with a barbaric name. Banquets at the imperial palace were never as much fun as you’d think they’d be. Unless you were part of Nero’s inner circle, the dining couches were not comfortable for any length of time. Although the dishes were served in a timely manner, none of the guests were permitted to start eating before the emperor did, by which time the food was cold, sauces had congealed and appetites had dulled. Then there was the din of hundreds of voices echoing off the high walls of the banqueting hall. In order to make conversation you were obliged to speak more loudly, which forced those around you to do the same and the overall volume increased steadily until your ears were straining to catch the words of the person reclining opposite, and your voice was threatening to give out as you shouted to be heard.

The only respite from the din was when the emperor’s major-domo called for silence to announce the arrival of the next course, or the next entertainment. He had a fine voice, and so he should, being a former drill instructor of the Praetorian Guard. The man could project and I thought he was wasted here at the palace when he should be on the stage. The same could not be said for his master, whose thin, reedy voice barely carried beyond the first ten rows of seats, unless he shouted, in which case his lines were delivered in a shrill cry that set the audience’s teeth on edge.

The only thing less tolerable than the noise was the enforced silence when the emperor’s guests were subjected to one of his recent musical or poetical compositions. Some of the time he opted for what he considered to be comedy and the major-domo, standing behind his master, had to signify when the audience must laugh. Most of the time, however, Nero preferred tragedy and the tears of many in the audience were quite genuine, though not for the reason Nero assumed. Boredom mostly. Personally, I didn’t cry, not wishing to encourage him. In short, the emperor’s banquets might be considered as being the incomestible followed by the indigestible.

Then there was the question of the guests. A select few were personally invited by Nero to fill out the places closest to the gilded frame and purple cushion of the imperial couch on the dais at one end of the banquet hall. There were the usual cronies – the dapper and silver-tongued Seneca whose ludicrously fawning flattery was always taken at face value by Nero. Burrus, the commander of the Praetorian Guard who lacked Seneca’s line in soothing platitudes but made up for it with dogged loyalty. Besides them there were the emperor’s favourite actors of the moment, those senators currently in his favour and a handful of the capital’s finest poets, musicians and even a few historians. It was always a good idea to have a few of the latter on your side if you didn’t want posterity to drag your name through the sewer.

The rest of us guests were a mixed bunch. Summoned via curt invitations issued by scribes on the major-domo’s staff, we were drawn from those deemed suitable to pad out the guest list. That included senators who were not part of the inner circle and spent most of the banquet staring daggers at those who were. Their wives, looking miserable in the knowledge that their arranged marriages had ended in them backing a losing horse. Sundry junior aristocrats and politicians on the make. Then there were the lesser representatives of artistic and intellectual circles: disdainful philosophers, moderately successful poets and playwrights aspiring to the lucrative rewards of imperial patronage, painters and sculptors looking down their noses at the decor of the banquet hall, and sundry others. The last category included myself.

Caius Placonius Felicitus at your service. Historian.

I was at the banquet because I had recently completed the latest in a long line of hagiographic histories of Rome’s noble families. It had been received well, not least by the senator who commissioned the history and was rich enough to ensure that copies of my work had been delivered to every single one of his peers in the Senate. Consequently, I expected to pick up a few more such commissions in the coming months. It was good work. It paid well and I could almost write such histories in my sleep. I’d invariably start with some spurious link to a legendary figure from Rome’s past. If the commission was generous enough I might even discover a link to a mythological character – a minor deity in the family tree usually brought a smile to the faces of my clients. From there it was simply a question of going through the annals and inserting more or less obscure ancestors into accounts of key moments in Roman history. You’d be surprised at how many of my clients’ forebears played a vital part in aiding Horatius’s spirited defence of the Sublician bridge against Lars Porsena’s Etruscan horde. Or those who led the charge in deposing Tarquinius the Proud. But then history tends to be written for those who can afford it.

I can’t say that I was happy about the work, other than it earned me a comfortable living. Someday I wanted to write a real history. The story of a genuine hero that did not require constant embellishment of fictions, great and small, in order to make the story more acceptable. Naturally, there were very few figures from senatorial families in Rome willing to pay for a warts-and-all account of their lives, or those of their ancestors. Standing in the Senate House in the finery of their togas they talked of honour and integrity while being as venal as the leader of any of Rome’s street gangs. There were few bribes they would not take to advocate a cause, no bribes they would not pay for political advancement for themselves, members of the family or their cronies. They’d happily stab each other in the back to achieve the same ends.

As I sat at the banquet and looked round at the faces of the aristocrats, I realised just how tired I was of telling their stories.

Then I noticed a late arrival being escorted to his place not far from me. A tall, large-framed man with long grey hair tied back by a simple leather strap. He looked to be in his mid-fifties or thereabouts. He had a full moustache that hung down either side of his chin and faded tattoos adorned his cheeks in swirls. There were more tattoos on his arms beneath the sleeves of a plain, belted tunic. A more Celtic-looking individual you could not imagine. Which meant that he stood out like a swinging dick at a eunuchs’ festival. He took his place in the seating between the senators and the lesser guests like myself which implied he enjoyed a certain social status. I stared at him because I had never seen him before. Yet most of those around him exchanged a nod or acknowledged his arrival with a dismissive glance. So he was known in society circles and was not some freeloading gatecrasher who had somehow bluffed his way past the Praetorian guardsmen on duty at the palace. From the looks of some he was not universally welcomed here.

I leaned closer to my neighbour, a Stoic philosopher of minor celebrity who had just helped himself to a large goblet of Falernian as he chewed on a fancy pasty stuffed with minced veal.

‘That man . . .’ I gestured discreetly at the recent arrival. ‘Do you know who he is?’

The Stoic turned to look and nodded. He chewed quickly and swallowed before he could speak. ‘I know him. Rather, I know of him. He’s from Britannia. Used to be the leader of the tribes who took up arms against our legions when we invaded the island during Claudius’s reign. Caused us a bit of bother for the best part of a decade before he was run to ground and brought to Rome. He was supposed to be executed in the Forum, along with his family, but he turned out to be quite the eloquent speaker and flattered old Claudius into sparing them. They were given a house and a pension to see out their days in exile. They’ll never be allowed to leave Rome.’

As he spoke, I recalled some of the details of his exploits. He did rather more than cause a bit of bother . . .

‘I can’t recall his name. Do you—?’

‘Caratacus,’ the Stoic cut in. ‘At least that’s what he’s called here. I imagine it’s something ghastly and unpronounceable in his native tongue.’

‘Caratacus,’ I mused, the first stirrings of curiosity welling up. He would surely have a decent story to tell as the man who had defied Rome for so long.

I watched him pick from the platters on the table in front of him. Two couches further along, in the direction of Nero, a muscular young aristocrat in a bright blue tunic was holding court over a small crowd of cronies of a similar age. They looked to be in their early twenties and were full of the boastful arrogance and confidence of their social class. They were loud too, and I caught a snatch of their boisterous banter as they ridiculed the appearance of the Celt reclining close by. Caratacus spared them a brief glance without betraying any feeling and turned back to his meal.

‘You! Barbarian fellow!’ the ringleader called out. ‘Don’t you know it’s bad manners to arrive late to a banquet? Well?’

The Briton did not respond, nor even react, but chewed as he stared into the mid-distance.

‘I’m talking to you!’ The ringleader sat up and stabbed a finger at the Celt. ‘Look at me when I’m speaking to you!’

His voice had risen enough for nearby guests to stop their conversation and turn towards the disturbance. Like a wave, the quiet rippled out to each end of the banquet hall. Aware that he now commanded the attention of all, the young man stood up on his couch and put his hands on his hips as he drew a deep breath.

‘I call you out, barbarian. How dare you try to ignore me! Do you know who I am, damn you?’

Now the Celt glanced to his side and I swear I saw the faintest flicker of a smile on his lips before he replied in a clear voice with only the slightest of accents, ‘Why, my friend? Have you forgotten?’

Perhaps it was the drink, or perhaps it was the innate stupidity of so many of his class. The young man puffed out his chest and stabbed his thumb at his breast. ‘Marcus Lucretius! Son of Senator Marcus Lucretius Saper. And I am calling you out for showing a lack of respect for our emperor. You barbarian scum need to learn some manners.’

His cronies raised a cheer, but I saw the glint in the Briton’s eyes as he stopped eating and calmly turned to face the young man. ‘You would fight me?’

Lucretius laughed. ‘Yes. I would fight you and crush you. If you had the balls to face me.’

‘That,’ said Caratacus, ‘is a step too far, my Roman friend.’

Easing himself off the couch, he stood and drew himself up to his full height as he announced, ‘I accept your challenge.’

At the end of the hall I could see the emperor and his major-domo regarding the confrontation and engaging in earnest conversation. Then the latter rapped the metal end of his staff on the marble floor.

‘Hear me!’ he bellowed. ‘Hear me, all! His imperial majesty instructs Marcus Lucretius to teach a lesson to the exile. Clear the floor!’

The major-domo pointed to the space in front of the dais where some acrobats were just setting up for their act. At once they retreated to the sides, heads bowed. A Praetorian optio led a section of his men forward to mark out the combat area while Lucretius jumped down from his couch and strode towards the dais. I watched as Caratacus sighed and followed him. At once the other guests rose from their couches and made their way towards the dais for a better view. The senators, being closest, had the best view, but I was keen not to miss the action and so I climbed onto the table and used the side of my sandal to sweep some platters away to ensure safe footing while I watched the contest. A few others followed my example.

Lucretius shouldered his way through the senators and entered the open space, approaching the dais respectfully as he bowed his head to Nero. Caratacus eased a passage through the largely hostile throng, ignoring the hissed insults and even the elderly aristocrat who spat at him. Wiping the spittle away with the back of his hand, he moved through into the makeshift arena and stood alongside Lucretius before nodding his head in greeting. I saw Nero regard him with a smile as he rose to address the crowd.

‘Romans! Friends! We have an unexpected addition to the entertainment programme this night.’

There were smiles and laughter, and Nero indulged them a moment before raising his hands for quiet and continuing. ‘Young Lucretius has bravely stepped forward to defend Roman honour, impugned by the tardy arrival of this barbarian exile. It is time that we reminded this Briton of the value of civilised manners now that he has accepted Lucretius’s challenge. I have decided that this fight shall be settled with bare fists, the winner to be determined by the submission of his opponent. To your places, gentleman and barbarian!’

There was an excitable hubbub as Lucretius stepped to the right of the emperor and flexed his shoulders, rolled his head and bunched his hands into fists. I could see now how powerful his physique was. One of those vain aristocrats who prize brawn over brains, I surmised. They fancy themselves as tough as gladiators, with the privilege of never having to face the dangers of entering the arena. His forearms were thick with muscle and his neck angled out from a line level with his jaw to his shoulders. By contrast, Caratacus was slender and sinewy and was twice the age of his opponent. I felt sorry for him. Having lost his kingdom and been captured and dragged to Rome to spend the rest of his days here, his misery would now be compounded by a beating. From the slight stoop of his demeanour and the world-weary expression on his face I feared that he had already resigned himself to defeat.

‘Fifty sestertii on our Roman lad!’ yelled the Stoic who had just climbed up beside me. ‘Any takers?’

Although faces turned towards him no one accepted the wager, so certain were they of the outcome. In other circumstances I would have followed their example, but my purse was flush with silver thanks to the completion of my latest work and I had a feeling about this barbarian. There was something about Caratacus, something in the way he carried himself that indicated complete self-confidence, despite the difference in build and age. Besides, I felt a certain recklessness stir in my breast. ‘I’ll take the bet.’

We shook on it. The two men squared off on opposite sides of the open space while the Praetorians lowered their spears to the horizontal to mark out the notional line that spectators must not cross.

‘Prepare to fight!’ the major-domo bellowed and Lucretius lowered himself into a well-balanced half-crouch as he held his bunched fists out in front of him. Caratacus stood opposite with an almost insouciant air, arms by his sides.

‘For the honour of Rome!’ Nero cried out, winking at Lucretius.

That’s when it struck me. This fight had been deliberately instigated from the moment Caratacus had arrived late. Lucretius must have been given word that Nero required the humiliation of the exile, and here we were, waiting for the action to begin. Nero plucked up a napkin and held it up, waiting until he had the attention of both men. Then he flicked the cloth into the air and shrilled, ‘Begin!’

‘YAAARRRR!’ Lucretius bellowed like a wild animal as he charged towards the Briton, fists raised as if he was about to throw them at his opponent. Caratacus’s expression was coldly calculating, as he eased himself onto the balls of his feet and raised his hands to meet the onrushing aristocrat. He kept them open, palms raised, as Lucretius surged towards him. At the last moment, he stepped nimbly to one side, parried the nearest fist with his forearm and swung his right in as he pivoted on his leading foot to throw all his weight behind the blow. The punch struck the other man’s ribs, close to the armpit. The impact drove Lucretius off to the side and he stumbled a few steps as he struggled to retain his balance. There were groans from the crowd and Caratacus backed off, keeping a close eye on the other fighter. The punch would have felled a different man but Lucretius was fit and strong and he spat on the ground as he approached again, more cautiously, fists and forearms held up to protect his head.

‘That’s better, son,’ Caratacus addressed him like a teacher encouraging a young student. ‘Keep your guard up, so. And watch for any sign of an attack.’

As he spoke, Caratacus lashed out with his leading boot. Lucretius looked down and made to dodge aside the feint, thereby providing Caratacus with a free chance to strike. He swung his left fist in a hook and as Lucretius moved to block it Caratacus pulled the punch and struck with his right, a straight blow to the jaw that sent the Roman reeling back in a daze.

‘What did I say about keeping your guard up? And what about your footwork? You are behaving like a plodding tyro. Think before you move.’

He feinted again and Lucretius blocked the ruse attack and feinted back before launching a vicious undercut. Caratacus warded the blow off easily and backed off a couple of paces to give himself room. The audience was cheering their man on, some of them angrily now that his opponent had landed two blows with impunity. On the dais, I could see Nero begin to frown, his lips pressing together in a thin line.

‘One last thing,’ Caratacus smiled. ‘Timing.’

He lunged forward and aimed a blow at Lucretius’s face. Instinctively the latter thrust his forearms up and Caratacus dealt a flurry of blows to his midriff before Lucretius lowered his guard to block the attack. Whereupon, the Briton unleashed a powerful straight to his opponent’s nose, snapping Lucretius’s head back with an audible crunch. The Roman staggered back and swayed as Caratacus weaved nimbly from side to side in front of him.

‘Are you ready to fight now, boy?’

Lucretius was burning with humiliation and rage and he pushed forward, swinging his fists wildly. This time a left glanced off Caratacus’s shoulder and half spun him before he stepped back and recovered and then dealt with the barrage of blows from the other man, blocking and parrying. All the while Lucretius was using up his energy and becoming increasingly frustrated by the Briton’s evasions. He pulled back and the two regarded each other warily as Caratacus cleared his throat. ‘We’ve had our fun. Now it’s time to put an end to the lesson.’

He came forward again, wheeling his fists in small arcs to distract Lucretius. Then, closing in, he ducked down and delivered a right hook to the Roman’s knee. I saw the joint lurch to the side and the next moment Lucretius let out a howl of pain and he went down on his knees.

‘Submit!’ Caratacus called out loudly. ‘Say it, say it loud!’

Instead Lucretius flailed and missed his target. ‘Stand still and fight, damn you!’

‘A fighter should know when he is defeated.’ Caratacus stepped in and delivered two jabs with his left before unleashing his right so fast I could not follow the movement. Lucretius flopped back and collapsed on his back, arms outstretched and chest heaving as he struggled to breathe. Caratacus stood over him and I saw a marked difference in his expression: a wild-eyed look of feral triumph as he regarded his beaten foe. Then he recovered his poise and his features shifted into a look of cool disdain as he raised his fists and called out defiantly to the silent audience that surrounded him.

‘I am Caratacus! King of the Catuvellaunian tribe and Warlord of Britannia! I claim my victory!’

His words echoed off the walls as the emperor and his guests stared back silently. I sensed the anger and embarrassment as clearly as if the room were filled with the stench of a tannery. Nero drew himself up and stabbed a pudgy finger at Caratacus.

‘You are a prisoner of Rome. And here you will stay, exiled from your homeland until you die. That is all you are! Never forget, barbarian.’

With that, the emperor turned away and skulked off towards the door at the rear of the hall that led to his private quarters. As he disappeared I nudged the Stoic beside me. ‘I’ll have that fifty sestertii now.’

We climbed down off the table and once he had opened his purse and counted out my winnings I nodded my thanks and turned to go in search of the Briton. He had returned to his place and finished the remains of his meal and was putting on his cloak as I reached him. For an instant we sized each other up.

‘I’ve never seen a fight like it,’ I gushed admiringly. ‘Where on earth did you learn to fight like that?’

Caratacus gave a bitter little smile. ‘Here in Rome. In the gym at the bathhouse of Attilus on the Aventine, at the end of the street where my family and I are billeted. A wise man is always willing to learn from those who best him. Now, if you don’t mind, I have outstayed my welcome here. I must go.’

Without waiting for a response he turned on his heel and strode away. I watched until he was lost from sight, my heart beating with excitement. At last I had found my real history. And I had found the hero whose story I must tell. But first, I had to persuade him to tell it to me so that I might commit it to writing and thereby prove myself as worthy of the title ‘great historian’ as Caratacus was worthy of the title ‘Warlord of Britannia’.

‘Tomorrow,’ I muttered to myself, ‘I must pay a visit to the bathhouse of Attilus.’



The following morning, after a light breakfast at my modest lodgings on the Esquiline, much of it spent listening to complaints from my wife, Aelia, about our neighbours, while our little boy, Lucius, wailed noisily about something or other, I made some enquiries and discovered that a retired gladiator called Spittara held sparring sessions at the bathhouse of Attilus at the eighth hour each day. I therefore went about my errands distractedly while I grappled with the thorny issue of how best to approach my prospective client. Caratacus, I sensed, was a difficult character. Presumably long experience had taught him not to trust Romans; he seemed to tolerate us at best, just as we tolerated the presence of a barbarian in our civilised midst. I doubted an appeal to the man’s vanity would work, and I certainly couldn’t offer him a fee in return for sharing his story with me. So how could I possibly convince the Briton to tell his tale to a citizen of Rome – the very same race that had beaten his armies and plundered his kingdom?

There was another question, of course. Who in this city would want to read about the life of an exiled British warlord, especially after the recent rebellion? But the more I considered the point, the more I realised the interest the project would arouse: Britannia, and its barbarian inhabitants, occupied a near-mythic place in the imagination of the humblest Roman. The image of the Celt as a brave and noble savage even held a certain exotic appeal among the quality who lived up on the Caelian Hill. The recent troubles in the province had done nothing to change that. Had I not seen the wife of a well-heeled aristocrat proudly displaying the golden torc around her neck to her fellow guests at a dinner party the other night? And many of the best gladiators had lately taken to covering their arms in swirling Celtic tattoos; a few adventurous souls had even started painting their torsos with woad before each contest. No. Finding an audience would not be hard. The bigger problem was how to tease the tale out of the old king.

I had a few hours to spare, so I made the short trip down to the bookshops in the Argiletum in search of reading material on Britannia. Perhaps there I would find the answer to my question. I nodded a greeting at the wizened owner at my usual haunt and made straight for the history section. Browsing the pigeon-holes, I was struck by the paucity of material available on that distant island. Apart from the odd section in the general histories, the bulk of the Britannic material took the form of military memoirs written by officers involved in the late invasion. Most were self-serving accounts of glorious victory over the ignorant natives, including one ghastly volume penned by some minor governor of Africa called Vitellius. None of these works offered any real insight into the Britons themselves.

A cursory glance through the volumes concerning Gaul revealed much the same pattern. Almost every aspect of Gallic history was told from the Roman side. The Celts, like our other great enemies over the centuries, were only visible in the annals for as long as we waged war against them. Once they had fulfilled their dramatic purpose and submitted to Roman rule, they shuffled dutifully off the stage of history. Perhaps the same thing could happen to our empire one day, I mused. For if the Celts and their vast civilisation can vanish from history, what is to stop Rome from suffering the same fate? On the other hand, one might reasonably argue that, unlike Rome, the Celts had no literature of their own, no libraries, no written record to preserve their ancient knowledge.

And then, suddenly, it hit me: I had found my argument! The Celts had been driven back to the very fringes of our world. Most of their leaders had been killed or imprisoned, the sacred groves of their Druid cult had been destroyed, and their settlements had been thoroughly Romanised. Soon enough, their whole way of life would be lost to the mists of time. But as a guest of Rome, Caratacus was uniquely placed to add a Celtic voice to the historical record. This was his chance to tell things from the other side of the hill. By committing his life to parchment, he would ensure that the story of his people would not be lost to future generations. Caratacus could preserve the world of the Britons in a small way, and perhaps even correct some of the grotesque clichés of his race that had taken hold in the collective imagination. I couldn’t offer him a statue in the Forum, but I could give him a written monument to his brave struggle against Rome.

It was a convincing argument, I assured myself, almost certain to win Caratacus over to my way of thinking, and I set off for the Aventine a short while later with renewed purpose. The streets were choked with pedestrians, livestock and handcarts and I had to watch my step as I threaded my way through the crowds, avoiding the mounds of rubbish while sellers shouted the prices of their overpriced (and over-ripe) wares from behind their rickety timber stalls. Visitors to our city marvel at the wonder and majesty of Rome: really, the only wonder is how the whole chaotic edifice hasn’t caught fire and burned to the ground yet.

The crowds thinned as I reached the streets higher up the Aventine. I have never much liked this part of town. Oh, I know the area is more fashionable these days, but it still carries the whiff of the slum. The houses are ugly, the inhabitants mostly boorish new men – merchants, warehouse owners and bankers grown fat off the profits from the trade on the nearby wharf. You know the type: hair cut in the fashion of our dear emperor, a seat near the front at the Marcellan theatre to watch the latest tragedy, tunics made from the finest silk and the gold rings to match. It is a dreary sort of place for a former king to live.

A queue had already formed by the time I reached the bathhouse of Attilus. I paid the admission fee to the pinch-faced slave and descended the marbled steps leading down to the inner courtyard. I breezed past the changing rooms and followed the younger bucks towards the exercise area in the centre of the courtyard. Nearby, a group of burly figures hefted up pairs of heavy stone weights with their huge hands. An attendant sat on a stool to the side of the yard, waiting to offer his services to the sweat-soaked competitors. He was an ugly, bald fellow with a towel draped over his shoulder and a strigil resting across his lap. He looked up at me with a disapproving expression as I approached. We both knew I did not belong in this place.

‘I’m looking for Spittara,’ I said. ‘I understand he trains here.’

The slave nodded at a small crowd of men cheering on a couple of boxers. ‘Over there,’ he replied tonelessly. ‘Spittara is the short-arsed one. Can’t miss him. Great big scar on his face. But I wouldn’t bother if I were you, Master.’

‘Oh?’

‘He doesn’t train beginners.’

He looked away, his gaze returning to the weightlifters. I left the rude fellow and strode across the yard, stepping past the crowd to catch a better view of the sparring fighters. The short, wiry man, Spittara, stood to the side of the chalk ring, bellowing instructions at the younger of the two trainers. I recognised the older fighter at once from last night’s banquet. Caratacus danced nimbly around his much younger opponent, delivering a flurry of quick jabs to the latter’s midriff while th