Seleucia, capital of the Parthian Empire, summer 53 BC
Life in the circular stockade where Romulus and hundreds of soldiers were incarcerated had become almost routine. Positioned near a great brick archway leading into the city, the prison of thick logs was twice Brennus' height. The men sat miserably on hard dirt inside, packed so tightly they were barely able to stretch out their legs. Rumour had it that the other captives were being held in many similar locations around Seleucia. Even unarmed, the Parthians did not trust the Romans in very large groups.
Replaced by new suffering, Carrhae and the terrible march south had already become a distant memory. Freezing nights followed the searing hot days, increasing the hardship for wounded and whole alike. There was no shelter in the compound. The Roman soldiers shivered together in the dark and burned in the sun. All known officers had been taken elsewhere, leaving only a few low-rankers to rally spirits.
Tarquinius seemed content to wait, making few comments about wind or weather. No one else knew what their fate would be. They had been spared so far, but it still seemed likely the Parthians would execute them all. Thousands of comrades had been left to rot in the desert, a shame each man felt keenly. It was Roman custom to inter the dead with pomp and ceremony. Normally only criminals were left in the open and Romulus could vividly recall the putrid smell from corpses littering the pits on the eastern slopes of the Esquiline. Only the gods knew what Carrhae would have been like.
The prisoners were fed barely enough to survive. Chaos descended each time the guards shoved inside to leave provisions on the ground. Men were reduced to beasts, fighting over stale crusts and brackish water. It was thanks to Tarquinius' increasing stature that the friends ate and drank at all. Helped by Romulus, the Etruscan moved tirelessly among the wounded every day, cleaning wounds and administering herbs from a small leather pouch that he had miraculously saved from their captors. As soldiers became aware of his mystical ability, respect for the Etruscan soared even higher and food was kept back for him. It was through someone like the haruspex that a way might be found out of the hell they were in.
Many of the injured succumbed to dehydration and the bloated corpses were only hauled away by the Parthians if the prisoners carried them to the gate. To prevent disease spreading to the nearby city, the guards had constructed a huge pyre, constantly ablaze to cope with the number of dead. At night its ghostly light revealed thin, hungry faces. The smell of burning flesh was all-pervading, its acrid odour adding to the men's distress.
'Bastards should have executed us,' raged Romulus at dawn on the twelfth day. 'A few weeks and we'll all end up like them.'
More than twenty legionaries lay dead nearby.
'Patience,' counselled Tarquinius. 'The air is moving. Soon we will know more.'
Romulus nodded reluctantly but Felix was enraged at the sight of his comrades' corpses. 'What I'd give for a weapon,' he said, thumping the timbers with frustration.
The little Gaul's action caught the eye of a guard, who waved his spear in a clear gesture to stand back.
'Quiet!' hissed Brennus. He would wait as long as Tarquinius was happy to. 'You don't want to die like that legionary.'
The decomposing figure hanging from the T-shaped wooden structure outside was a brutal example of Parthian discipline. Two days before, a burly veteran of the Sixth had spat at the feet of a guard. He had been dragged outside immediately and fastened to a cross.
With thick iron nails driven through his feet, the soldier had been unable to stand for long. Nor could he hang from his transfixed hands. Shifting from one agonising position to another, the victim was soon screaming. The cruel spectacle had carried on for half the morning. Satisfied that the prisoners had seen enough, the guard had abruptly ended the man's suffering with a spear thrust and had left his body in place to serve as a reminder.
Felix sat down.
The Parthian resumed his patrol around the perimeter.
'We are still alive and that means they have something planned,' said the Etruscan.
'Public execution,' growled Felix. 'That's what the Gauls would do.'
'Not for us ordinary soldiers.'
Romulus remained unconvinced. 'In Rome we'd end up in the arena. Are these savages any different?'
'They have no gladiators, no beast hunts. This is not Italy.' Tarquinius was emphatic. 'Listen!'
The Parthian bells and drums had not stopped since dawn. Since their arrival in Seleucia there had been triumphant noises most days, but this was different. Growing ever louder, the clamour had an ominous feel to it. The temperature had been climbing steadily as the sun rose into the clear blue sky and the sweating soldiers were beginning to feel uneasy.
Brennus got to his feet, looking towards the maze of streets that led into the city. 'It's getting nearer.'
Silence hung over the stockade as the din approached. Dirty, bandaged and sunburnt, the survivors of the Sixth got to their feet one by one as the guards chattered excitedly outside.
'What is it, Tarquinius?' Like many, Felix had realised the Etruscan had knowledge of the Parthians.
Eager for any information, a cluster of men formed around him.
Tarquinius rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'There has been no formal celebration yet.'
'What about Crassus?' asked Romulus. Since the battle, there had been no sign of their general. No doubt he would play an important part.
The Etruscan was about to answer when a group of fifty unusually tall warriors emerged from the brick archway into the open area before the compound. Clad in chain mail and wearing polished spiked helmets, each bore a heavy spear and round shield. They were followed closely by dozens of Parthians in robes, playing instruments. The procession came to an orderly halt, but the harsh music carried on relentlessly.
More than one man made the sign against evil.
'Elite bodyguards,' muttered Tarquinius. 'King Orodes has decided our fate.'
'You know.' Romulus glanced at the Etruscan, who smiled enigmatically.
He ground his teeth.
'Have you seen something else?' said Brennus.
'I told you before. We are going on a long march to the east.'
Alarmed by the revelation, the soldiers stared fearfully at the haruspex.
'Where Alexander led the greatest army ever seen.' By now, Tarquinius had told many stories of the Greek's legendary march into the unknown, three centuries before.
Most faces dropped even further but Romulus had found the tales fascinating. Anticipation coursed through his veins.
'We may be glad that they passed east.' Tarquinius patted the tiny leather pouch hidden in his waistband which contained the herbs and the ancient map they had seen only once before. Along with his scarab ring and the lituus, it was the only personal possession he had managed to retain after capture. 'One of Alexander's soldiers made this. And it passed into my hands for a reason,' he whispered.
They were interrupted as the newcomers' leader began loudly addressing the guards. Heavy ropes were immediately picked up, the same ones that had been used on the prisoners after the battle. Fear, ever present among the prisoners, rose. When one of the gates was half opened, the legionaries' frightened muttering grew even louder. There had been some security in the confined space. What now?
Flanked by several burly warriors with lowered spears, the captain in charge entered the compound and directed those nearest to walk outside. With great reluctance the soldiers obeyed. As they emerged, ropes were tied around their necks. Soon a long file had formed. Counting carefully, the Parthians inside the stockade gestured at more captives to follow.
One man had endured enough. Clad in the distinctive breastplate of an optio, he had been missed when the officers were removed. As the guard pointed with his spear, the optio deliberately shoved him in the chest.
'What's the fool doing?' hissed Romulus. 'He must know what they'll do.'
Tarquinius regarded him steadily. 'Choosing his own fate. It is something we can all do.'
Romulus remembered Bassius' mercy killings and the two mercenaries who had stayed behind at Carrhae. Self-determination was a powerful concept and he struggled to comprehend it.
A swift order rang out and the sentry drove his spear point deep into the man's belly. He doubled over with a scream, hands clutching the shaft. They watched as the guard knelt and drew a thin-bladed dagger. Two others held the optio's arms. As shrieks of agony rent the air, the Parthian captain glared at the remaining soldiers.
The sentry stood up and swung his arm, throwing something through the air. Two glistening eyeballs, their nerves still dangling, landed nearby and Romulus recoiled in disgust, still astonished that anyone could choose such suffering.
Nobody resisted when the officer motioned again for them to walk outside. Romulus shuffled silently past the optio. Inevitably he found his gaze drawn to the mutilated writhing creature, hands clutching its bloody sockets. The low moans filled him with pity, and he clenched his fists.
'No man should have to endure a fate such as that,' he whispered.
'Do not presume to judge another,' replied Tarquinius. 'That optio could have walked outside with us. He chose not to.'
'No one can decide another's path,' agreed the Gaul, his tone sombre. Bright in his mind was the image of his uncle, choosing to die to save another. Brennus.
Romulus looked at his friends in turn. Their words resounded inside him.
When fifty soldiers had been assembled, the Parthian commander signalled his guards to stop. As with the sacrifice of the bull, only a few were required as witnesses. Word would spread fast to the remainder.
Led by the cataphracts and musicians, the column got under way. The legionaries shuffled miserably together, urged on by kicks and spear butts.
They passed under the immense archway, which was as big as any Romulus had seen in Italy. But it was the exception rather than the rule. Lined by single-storey mud huts, Seleucia's streets were narrow. Constructed of sun-hardened bricks, the tiny dwellings made up the majority of structures. Just an occasional, plain temple was taller. As in Rome, everything was built very close together, the alleyways between filled with rubbish and human waste. Romulus saw no signs of aqueducts or public toilets. It was a simply built city; the Parthians were clearly not a nation of engineers. They were nomadic desert warriors.
Only the arch and the structure of what must have been King Orodes' residence were impressive enough to exist in Rome. Bare ground extended for some distance around the high, fortified walls of the palace. Towers sat on each corner, with archers patrolling the battlements between. A troop of cataphracts sat on horses beside ornate metal gates, staring impassively as the legionaries filed by. Few could look at the mailed warriors without a shudder of fear.
As he passed, Tarquinius peered through gaps in the metalwork.
'Don't draw their attention!' hissed Brennus.
'They don't care,' replied the Etruscan casually, craning his neck. 'I want a glimpse of the gold Crassus was after. The place is supposed to be dripping with it.'
But one cataphract had seen enough: dropping his lance tip towards Tarquinius, he then forcefully jerked it away.
To Romulus' relief, the haruspex ducked his head and shuffled on.
There was little space for the captives to pass through the waiting crowds. Everyone in Seleucia wanted to revel in the Romans' humiliation. Jeers and shrieks of scorn rang in their ears as they stumbled along. Romulus kept his gaze firmly on the rutted mud beneath his feet. One glance at the brown hate-filled faces had been enough. What was to come would be bad enough without drawing more attention to himself.
Sharp-edged stones and pebbles flew in low arcs, cutting and bruising their bodies. Rotten vegetables — even the contents of chamber pots — rained down. Snot-nosed children in dirty rags darted in and out of the press to kick at the men. One soldier had his cheek raked open by the nails of a thin woman who stepped into his path. When he tried to stop her, a guard clubbed him unconscious. The crone crowed in triumph, spitting on the limp figure. Legionaries in front and behind were forced to carry their comrade.
The filth-covered prisoners were driven through the streets for what seemed an eternity, allowing the stunning victory over Crassus' huge army to be savoured by all. At last they reached a large open area, similar in size to Rome's Campus Martius. The temperature soared as the small amount of shade was left behind. Few dared look up as they were forced towards the centre, away from the jeers and missiles. Guards led the way, viciously beating back those foolish enough to block their path.
Beside a great fire, dozens of Parthians were toiling busily, feeding the hungry flames with logs. An empty stage sat close by. Blows and kicks urged the confused soldiers to stand before it. They formed in weary, beaten lines, wondering, dreading, what was to come. As time passed, more groups arrived, brought from other compounds around the city. Soon there were hundreds of Romans watching — the representatives of ten thousand.
Romulus had decided no one would see him look beaten. If he was about to be executed, it would be a proud end. Brennus seemed content that Tarquinius was not alarmed. Thus he and his mentors were relatively at ease with their fate, in contrast to the half-starved, sunburnt legionaries waiting for death beside them. The awful defeat at Carrhae had shattered their confidence. Heads hung low; quiet sobs racked the weakest. There was even a faint smell of urine as the tension of the situation grew too great for some.
Gradually the mob's abuse died away. Even the drums and bells fell silent. A new sound filled the air, one that instinctively drew attention. Moans of agony were coming from beyond the surrounding crowd.
Dozens of wooden crosses had been erected around the area. From the vertical section of each hung an officer, suspended by ropes holding his forearms to the horizontal crossbar. Periodically the victims pushed up on nailed feet to relieve the pressure on their upper bodies. Then the pain grew too great and they slumped down again, groaning. It was a vicious cycle that would end in total dehydration or suffocation. Death could take days, especially if the victim was physically strong.
The crowd shouted and laughed, their focus drawn away from the other prisoners. Stones flew at the crucified men. Fresh screams rang out when they found targets. Guards prodded the helpless officers with spears, laughing when blood was drawn. Cries of glee filled the air. The brutal spectacle continued in this fashion for some time. The ordinary soldiers watched appalled, each imagining his own fate.
Felix pointed. 'There 's Bassius. Poor bastard.'
Romulus and Brennus stared at the veteran who was hanging nearby, his eyes closed. Despite the agonising ordeal, not a sound was passing the centurion's lips. Never had Bassius' courage been more evident.
Brennus tugged at the cord around his neck. 'I'm going to put him out of his misery.'
'And end up on a cross yourself?' responded Tarquinius.
Romulus swore. The same idea had been in his mind but they could never reach Bassius without being killed first.
'He won't last long,' interjected Felix. 'Crucifixion saps a wounded man's strength very quickly.'
'The Romans taught them how to crucify,' said the Etruscan.
Romulus had no answer. He felt shame and disgust that his own people could have passed on such a barbaric torture. But while slaves and criminals were routinely killed this way in Italy, he had never seen it in such numbers. Then he remembered how Crassus had killed the survivors of Spartacus' army. Rome was as cruel as Parthia.
Brennus spat angrily, preparing to snap his bindings. Images of Conall dying beneath a dozen gladii filled his mind again. Now another valiant man needed to be saved. He had journeyed far enough.
'Your choice, Brennus.' Tarquinius' voice cut in. 'We still have a long road before us.'
The big warrior turned, real anguish in his eyes. 'Bassius is a brave soldier. He saved our lives! And he doesn't deserve to die like an animal.'
'Help him then.'
There was a pause before Brennus sighed heavily. 'Ultan foretold a very long journey. So have you.'
'Bassius will die anyway,' said Tarquinius gently. 'Conall and Brac would have too. There is nothing you could have done to change any of it.'
Brennus' eyes widened. 'You know about my family?'
The Etruscan nodded.
'I have not spoken their names for eight years.'
'Brac was a brave warrior, just like his father. But their time had come.'
The hairs on Romulus' neck rose. He had only ever gleaned hints of the Gaul's past before.
Brennus looked distraught.
'There will be a day when your friends need you.' The Etruscan's voice was deep. 'A time for Brennus to stand and fight. Against terrible odds.'
There was a long silence.
'No one could win such a battle. Except Brennus.'
'It will happen far from here?' His tone was urgent, almost frantic.
'At the very edge of the world.'
Brennus smiled slowly and released the rope. 'Ultan was a mighty druid. As are you, Tarquinius. The gods will take our centurion straight to Elysium.'
'Be sure of it.'
Romulus could still remember the glance Tarquinius had given the Gaul as they retreated towards Carrhae. Concern for Brennus filled the young soldier's heart as he pieced the comments together, but then he saw Tarquinius eyeing the fire.
'What is it for?'
The Etruscan nodded at a squat iron cauldron perched in the middle of the blaze. Sweating men in leather aprons were labouring to keep the flames burning hotly beneath it. Every so often one would lean over and stir the contents with a long-handled ladle.
'A while ago they dropped in a gold ingot.'
Romulus felt a shiver run down his spine.
The drums began again, but this time the din did not last for long. A flat-bed wagon arrived, pulled by mules and surrounded by heavy cavalry, magnificent in their chain mail. On either side strode a number of guards masquerading as lictores. Each held a fasces, the Roman symbol of justice. But unlike those used in Italy, the bundles of rods they carried were decorated with money bags and their axes with officers' heads.
'This has all been planned,' he muttered.
'It's a parody of a military triumph,' explained the Etruscan. 'And it mocks Crassus' greed for riches.'
There was a collective gasp when the soldiers saw Crassus standing in the cart, tied to a wooden frame by the neck and arms. On his head rested a laurel wreath while his lips and cheeks had been painted with ochre and white lead. A brightly coloured woman's robe completed the indignity, its fabric soaked with human waste and rotten vegetables. The general's eyes were closed, his face resigned. It had been a long journey.
The prostitutes who had accompanied the senior officers were also present. Stripped naked, cut and bruised, they wailed and clung to each other. During the campaign, Romulus had seen many rapes. And every time he had, awful images of Gemellus grunting on top of his mother had flooded back. It was part of war, but Romulus shuddered at what the women must have endured since Carrhae.
When the mules came to a halt, screams of fear rang out.
Parthian warriors swarmed on to the cart and the prostitutes were dragged by the hair on to the stage and shoved down on their knees. Whimpers were met with blows and kicks. Soon only the occasional sob escaped them.
A tall bearded man in a black robe climbed into view and gestured for silence. The crowd obeyed and the priest began speaking in a low, deep voice. Palpable anger could be heard in every word. His speech drove watching Parthians into a frenzy and they swarmed forward at the prisoners. Guards had to use real force to drive them back, wounding many with their spears.
'Rabble-rousing,' said Brennus. 'So the real entertainment can begin.'
'He is talking about what happens to any who threaten Parthia.' The Etruscan translated quickly. 'Crassus was the aggressor. But their mighty gods helped them defeat the Roman invaders. Now they require a reward.'
Romulus looked at the stage and shivered. The campaign had been damned from the start and only a fool would have disregarded the plethora of bad omens. But Crassus had ignored every last one, his monumental arrogance leading thousands of men to their deaths. He was still revolted by what was about to happen to their general. But there was nothing he could do. The young soldier breathed deeply to calm himself.
At last the bearded priest finished, content the audience understood the impending ritual. Only moans from the crucified officers and prostitutes now broke the eerie silence.
Every legionary's gaze was fixed on Crassus and the unfortunate women. A faint smile played across the priest's lips as he drew a long dagger from his belt. Moving to stand behind the first whore, he spoke a few more words.
Loud cheers rose up.
She twisted round to see, crying in anticipation and terror. Brutally her head was wrenched back to face the mob. With a smooth movement, he slashed the woman's throat.
Abruptly, the screams stopped.
Arms and legs jerked spasmodically as a fountain of blood sprayed from the gaping neck wound, covering guards and prisoners alike. The Parthian released his grip and a warrior propelled the corpse off the stage with a huge kick. Roman soldiers scattered to avoid the mutilated body landing on them.
One by one, the prostitutes suffered the same fate. Soon only Crassus remained alive. The platform ran with blood, bodies lay heaped in front, but still the crowd bayed for more.
Parthia wanted its revenge.
'Savages,' growled Brennus.
Romulus was thinking of Fabiola. For all he knew, she might have been one of the women killed. His hard-won calm was gone: he was seething. Suddenly all he wanted was to be free. To call no man master. Not Gemellus. Not Memor, Crassus or any Parthian. He glanced at the nearest guards, wondering how fast they would react if attacked. He could choose his own fate.
'You will return to Rome,' hissed Tarquinius. 'I have seen your destiny. It does not end here.'
They locked eyes as a deafening roll of drums announced the end of the ritual.
Stay strong. Like Fabiola. I will survive.
'Look.' The Gaul gestured at the stage.
The guards did not bother to untie the last prisoner. Instead they picked up the frame and placed it on the platform. A deep, almost primeval roar greeted the action.
It was time for Crassus to pay.
Sensing the end, he screamed and kicked his legs futilely. The ropes binding him were thick and strong and soon Crassus sagged against the rough timbers, his face grey with exhaustion and fear. During the struggle, his wreath had tipped sideways over one eye and the warriors pointed, smirking.
Again the priest began to speak, a tirade of fury against the man who had invaded Parthia. As spittle flew from his lips, the spectators howled with anger and surged against the guards' crossed spears once more. Tarquinius considered translating the words, but the soldiers around him needed little explanation of what was going on. And only a handful looked sorry for Crassus.
When the Parthian had finished his oration, he waited for silence to fall. Finally the mob fell back.
The general looked up and focused on the mass of ragged prisoners. By their uniforms, he would know they could only be Roman soldiers.
All that greeted him were insults.
Crassus' head slumped as the certainty of his fate began to sink in. Even his own men would not save him.
Anger still burned within Romulus. He could have happily killed Crassus in combat, but a public display like this went totally against his nature. It was as brutal as the worst depravities of the arena. He glanced at Brennus and could tell the Gaul felt the same way.
As always, Tarquinius seemed completely calm.
A smith leaned over the fire and dipped a ladle into the cauldron. Fat white globules of molten gold spilled from the lip as it emerged, narrowly missing his feet. With arms outstretched, he walked slowly towards the stage.
The crowd shrieked with anticipation and Romulus looked away.
Two guards bent Crassus' head backwards, forcing his chin up on to an angled wooden crossbar. Using loops of rope, it was bound to face the sky. The priest moved alongside and inserted a small metal vice between the prisoner's jaws. He cranked it open, baring teeth and tongue.
Crassus screamed as he realised what was about to happen. He continued wailing as the smith ascended the steps, his burning load held at arm's length.
The priest gestured impatiently.
'Gold cools fast,' said Tarquinius.
Crassus' eyes flicked from side to side as the heat approached and the frame jerked as he tried frantically to get away.
The ladle rose high above his head and paused.
To shouts of approval, the bearded Parthian chanted a deep, resonant series of words.
'He is calling on the gods to receive the offering,' muttered Tarquinius. 'It symbolises victory over the Republic. Shows Parthia is not to be trifled with.'
The smith's hand began to tremble from holding the heavy weight. Suddenly a fat bead of gold tipped out, falling into one of Crassus' eyes. The globe ruptured, and a bellow of pain like Romulus had never heard split the air. A mixture of clear fluid and blood spurted on to the general's cheek.
Crassus' other eye held a look of utter terror. Urine formed in a puddle between his feet.
The priest intoned a last prayer and made an abrupt motion with his right hand.
An inarticulate moan escaped Crassus' lips as the gold poured down in a stream of molten fire. With a sizzling noise audible to all, the boiling liquid emptied into his gaping mouth, silencing the general for ever. His body shuddered and spasmed with the unbelievable agony of the ordeal. Steam rose in little spirals as flesh reached cooking point. Only the tightness of the bonds prevented Crassus from breaking free. At last the precious metal reached heart and lungs, burning the vital organs into stasis.
He slumped and hung limply from the frame.
Crassus was dead.
The watching Parthians went into a frenzy. Nothing could be heard except the clamouring shouts, clanging bells and thudding drumbeats.
Many soldiers vomited at the sight. Others had closed their eyes rather than witness the savage execution. A few shed tears. Romulus swore silently that whatever the cost, he would escape.
When the crowd had quietened, the priest stabbed a finger at Crassus' body, yelling at the prisoners. At his words, there was again silence.
The spectacle was not over.
Tarquinius leaned forward. 'He is offering us a choice.'
The soldiers nearby pricked their ears.
'What kind of choice?' growled Brennus.
'A cross each.' The Etruscan indicated the officers. 'Or the fire, if we prefer.'
'Is that it?' spat Felix. 'I'd sooner die fighting.' He tugged at his neck rope.
Angry shouts of agreement rang out.
'There is another option.'
Seeing Tarquinius translating his words, the priest smiled and pointed eastwards with his dagger.
Everyone turned to the Etruscan.
'We can join the Parthian army and fight their enemies.'
'Wage war for them?' Felix was incredulous.
'Same job. Different masters,' said Brennus. After the horror of the executions, he had recovered his poise. 'Where?'
'The far borders of their empire.'
'To the east,' the big Gaul added calmly.
Tarquinius nodded.
Romulus was also unperturbed but the legionaries were terrified.
'Can we trust them?' Felix scowled as guards prodded Crassus' limp body with spears.
'Make your own choice.' Tarquinius raised his eyebrows. 'They have left us alive this long and shown us Crassus' death as an example.' He turned to face the men behind and shouted out their choices.
When Tarquinius had finished, the bearded priest called to him again.
'We must choose now!' cried the Etruscan. 'If you want crucifixion, raise your right hand!'
Not one hand went up.
'Do you want to die like Crassus?'
No reaction.
Tarquinius paused. Sweat was rolling down his face, but he was utterly controlled as he delivered the ultimatum.
Romulus frowned. The Etruscan was almost too calm.
'Join the Parthian army?'
Silence filled the air. Even the crucified officers' groans were inaudible. The crowd watched with bated breath.
Romulus raised his eyebrows at Brennus.
The Gaul raised his right hand. 'It is the only sensible choice,' he said. 'This way we stay alive.' And I will meet my destiny.
He lifted an arm in the air and Tarquinius did the same.
Around them a sea of hands rose as the other prisoners slowly accepted their fate. It was unlikely that their comrades in the stockades would argue with their decision.
The priest nodded with satisfaction.
Ten thousand legionaries would march east.