The Silver Eagle

Chapter III: Vahram

Eastern Margiana, winter 53/52 BC

Screaming wild battle cries, the Scythians charged headlong at the two friends.

Using the dead Parthian guard’s bow, Brennus had already taken down four, including the archers who had injured Pacorus.

They were still outnumbered by more than nine to one. It’s hopeless, Romulus thought dully. There are far too many. He steeled himself, preparing for the inevitable.

Trying to use as many shafts as possible, Brennus loosed another arrow. Then, with a curse, he threw down his bow and drew his gladius.

They moved shoulder to shoulder.

Surprising Romulus utterly, first one and then another bright ball of fire came flying over his head, illuminating the scene wonderfully. The first landed and smashed apart in a great burst of flame, right in front of the Scythians, who looked suitably terrified. The second struck one of the enemy on the arm, setting light to his felt clothing. The blaze spread upwards with terrible speed, burning his neck and face. The man shrieked in agony. A number of his comrades tried to help, but their efforts were hampered by a further pair of burning missiles. The Scythians’ charge came to an abrupt halt.

‘They’re oil lamps,’ cried Romulus, suddenly understanding.

‘It’s Tarquinius,’ replied Brennus, fitting another shaft to his bowstring.

Delighted, Romulus turned to find the haruspex only a few steps away. ‘What took you so long?’

‘I had a vision of Rome,’ Tarquinius revealed. ‘If we can get out of here, there is hope.’

Romulus’ heart soared, and Brennus laughed out loud.

‘What did you see?’ Romulus asked.

Tarquinius ignored the question. ‘Pick up Pacorus,’ he said. ‘Quickly.’

‘Why?’ Romulus demanded in a low voice. ‘The bastard’s going to die anyway. Let’s run for it.’

‘No,’ Tarquinius answered, hurling two more oil lamps. ‘The journey south would kill us in this weather. We must stay in the fort.’

Screams of terror rose from the enemy warriors as the lamps landed.

‘Those are the last ones.’

They had to move. Cursing under his breath, Romulus took hold of Pacorus’ feet. Brennus did likewise with his arms. Lifting him as gently as they could, they slung him over Brennus’ shoulder. Pacorus lolled like a child’s toy, the blood from his wounds soaking into the Gaul’s cloak. By far the strongest of the three, only Brennus would be able to run for any distance with such a load.

‘Which way?’ shouted Romulus, peering around. The cliff face was to their back, so they could only go north, south or east.

Tarquinius pointed.

North. Their trust in the haruspex still strong, neither Romulus nor Brennus argued. They trotted into the darkness, leaving utter confusion in their wake.

Fortunately, the weather aided their escape. Dense flurries of snow began to fall, severely reducing the visibility and covering their trail. There was no pursuit, and Romulus presumed that the Scythians knew how close their camp was. Although he did too, his keen sense of direction soon went awry; he was very glad that Tarquinius seemed to know exactly which way to go. The temperature was dropping even further as the snow began to collect on the ground. If they strayed even a small distance off course, there was little chance of ever reaching the Roman fort. It and the clusters of mud-brick huts nearby were the only dwellings for many miles. Parthia’s population was not large, with less than a tenth of it living on its far eastern borders. Few chose to dwell here other than the garrisons of soldiers, and captives who had no choice.

They marched in silence, stopping occasionally to listen out for the Scythians. At last a familiar rectangular shape appeared out of the gloom. It was the fort.

A tiny sigh of relief escaped Romulus’ lips. He was colder than he could ever remember being. But once they were inside and warmed through again, Tarquinius might reveal what he had seen. The desire to know more was the only thing that had kept him going.

Brennus grinned. Even he was looking forward to a break.

On either side of the massive front gates sat a wooden guard tower. They were matched by similar ones on the corners and smaller observation posts in between. The walls had been constructed from closely packed earth, a useful by-product from the construction of the three deep ditches which surrounded the fort. Filled with spiked iron caltrops, the fossae were also within range of missiles thrown or fired from the timber walkway that ran along the inside of the ramparts. The only passage through them was the beaten-down dirt track to the entrance in the middle of each side.

They tramped down it, expecting to be challenged at any moment.

Surprisingly the huge fort was not a fighting structure: legionaries did not hide behind the protection of walls by choice. The impressive defences were to be used only in the case of unexpected attack. If an enemy presented itself, the officers would marshal the men together on the intervallum, the flat area that ran around the inside of the walls, before marching out to do battle. On open ground, the legionary was the master of all other infantry. And with Tarquinius’ tactics and training, thought Romulus proudly, they could withstand the charge of any force, mounted or on foot.

Man for man, the Forgotten Legion could defeat any enemy.

‘Stop.’ Moving to Brennus’ side, Tarquinius checked Pacorus’ pulse.

‘Is he still alive?’ asked the Gaul.

‘Barely,’ answered Tarquinius, frowning. ‘We must hurry.’

Reality struck as Romulus took in Pacorus’ ashen features. Enough time had passed for the scythicon to do its deadly work. The commander would surely die soon and, as the sole survivors, they would be held responsible. No senior Parthian officer worth his salt would fail to punish the men who had allowed this to happen. They had escaped the Scythians to face certain execution.

Yet Tarquinius had wanted to save Pacorus. And Mithras had revealed a road back to Rome.

As a drowning man clings to a log, Romulus held on to those thoughts.

They were now less than thirty paces from the gate and within range of the sentries’ pila. Still no challenge had been issued to check their progress, which was most irregular. No one was allowed to approach the fort without identifying themselves.

‘The lazy dogs will be huddling around the fire,’ Romulus muttered. Sentinels were only supposed to stay in the warm guardroom at the base of each tower for short periods; just enough to thaw out numb fingers and toes. In practice, they did it as long as the junior officer in charge allowed.

‘Time to wake them up then.’ Raising his axe, Tarquinius stepped forward and repeatedly hammered the butt on the gate’s thick timbers. It made a deep thumping noise.

They waited in silence.

The Etruscan had raised his weapon to demand entrance again when suddenly the distinctive sound of hobnailed sandals clattering off wood reached them from above. As expected, the sentry had not been at his post in the tower. A few moments later, a pale face appeared over the ramparts.

‘Who goes there?’ Fear filled the man’s voice as he peered down at the small group. Visitors to the fort were rare, let alone in the middle of the night. ‘Identify yourselves!’

‘Open up, you fool!’ shouted Romulus impatiently. ‘Pacorus has been injured.’

There was a disbelieving pause.

‘You piece of shit!’ cried Tarquinius. ‘Move!’

The sentry’s shock was palpable. ‘Yes, sir! At once!’ He turned and fled down the staircase to the rooms below, roaring at his comrades.

Moments later the heavy locking bar was being lifted. One of the doors creaked open, revealing several legionaries and an anxious optio. The delay in responding would surely result in some kind of punishment.

But Tarquinius pushed past without a word. Romulus and Brennus followed. Confusion filled the sentries’ faces as they took in the prone shape on the Gaul’s shoulder.

‘Shut the gate!’ Tarquinius bellowed.

‘Where are Pacorus’ warriors, sir?’ asked the optio.

‘Dead,’ snapped Tarquinius. ‘We were ambushed by Scythians at the Mithraeum.’

Shocked gasps met this comment.

Tarquinius was in no mood to reveal more. ‘Advise the duty centurion and then get back to your posts. Keep your eyes peeled.’

The optio and his men hastened to obey. Tarquinius was also a centurion and could have punished them as severely as Pacorus. They would have to find out what had happened later.

Tarquinius hurried down the fort’s main street, the Via Praetoria. Romulus and Brennus followed. On both sides lay parallel rows of long, low wooden barracks, each housing a century of eighty soldiers. Their interiors were identical: large rooms for the centurion, smaller ones for the junior officers and more cramped quarters for the men. Ten contubernia, each of eight soldiers, shared just enough space to fit bunk beds, their equipment and food. Like gladiators, legionaries lived, slept, trained and fought with each other.

‘Romulus!’

Hearing the low shout, he half turned. In the shadows between two of the barrack buildings, Romulus picked out the features of Felix, one of his original unit. ‘What are you doing up?’ he demanded.

‘Couldn’t sleep,’ Felix replied with a grin. He was already dressed and armed. ‘I was worried about you. What’s going on?’

‘Nothing. Go back to bed,’ replied Romulus curtly. The less anyone else had to do with this, the better.

Instead, Felix darted to Brennus’ side, gasping when he saw the arrows jutting from Pacorus’ flesh. ‘Gods above,’ he breathed. ‘What happened?’

Romulus filled him in while they marched. Felix nodded, grimacing as he heard the details. Though smaller than Romulus and weaker than Brennus, the little Gaul was a fine soldier. Truly stubborn too. When their mercenary cohort had been cut off during the battle at Carrhae, Felix had stayed by their side. Completely surrounded by Parthian archers, just a score of men chose to remain with the three friends and Bassius, their centurion. Felix was one of them. He’s his own master, thought Romulus, glad to have him along.

No one else halted the small party. It was still dark, and most men were asleep. Besides, only a more senior officer would dare question Tarquinius, and none of those were to be seen. At this time of night, they were also in bed. Soon they reached the principia, the headquarters. This was at the intersection of the Via Praetoria with the Via Principia, the road that ran from the east wall to the west, dividing the camp into four equal parts. Here also were Pacorus’ luxurious house and more modest ones for the senior centurions, the Parthian officers who each commanded a cohort. There was a valetudinarium, a hospital, as well as workshops for carpenters, cobblers, potters and a multitude of other professions.

Tradesmen and engineers as well as soldiers, the Romans were almost self-sufficient. It was one of many things that made them so formidable, thought Romulus. Yet Crassus had managed to expose the Republican army’s sole weakness. It retained almost no cavalry, while Parthia’s forces consisted of little else. Tarquinius had spotted this long before Carrhae, followed soon after by Romulus. But ordinary soldiers had no say in tactics, he reflected angrily. Crassus had marched arrogantly into disaster, unwilling or unable to see what might happen to his men.

Which explained why the Forgotten Legion had new masters. Cruel ones.

Romulus sighed. Apart from Darius, his own cohort commander, the majority of the Parthian senior officers were utterly ruthless. What would happen when they saw Pacorus, only the gods knew. But it would not be good.

From the principia, it was not far to the high walls of Pacorus’ house. Copying a Roman villa, it was built in the shape of a hollow square. Just inside the front gates were the atrium, the entrance hall, and the tablinum, the reception area. These led on to the central courtyard, which was bordered by a covered walkway giving access to a banqueting hall, bedrooms, bathrooms and offices. Having seen Seleucia, Romulus knew that his captors were not a nation of architects and engineers like the Romans. Apart from the city’s great entrance arch and Orodes’ magnificent palace, the houses there were small and simply built of mud bricks. He could still remember his commander’s amazed reaction when he had first entered the finished structure. Pacorus had been like a child with a new toy. Now, however, he barely stirred as they reached the gates, which were guarded by a dozen Parthians armed with bows and spears. Legionaries were never trusted with this duty.

‘Halt!’ cried the swarthy officer in charge. He peered suspiciously at the body hanging over Brennus’ shoulder. ‘Who have you got there?’

Tarquinius’ gaze did not waver. ‘Pacorus,’ he said quietly.

‘Is he unwell?’

The haruspex nodded. ‘Badly wounded.’

The Parthian darted forward, gasping as he took in Pacorus’ grey features. ‘What evil is this?’ he cried, barking an order. At once his men fanned out, surrounding the party with levelled spears.

Romulus and his friends were careful not to react. Relations with their captors were strained at the best of times, let alone when they were carrying a critically injured Pacorus.

Drawing a dagger, the officer stepped close to Tarquinius. He laid the blade flat against his neck. ‘Tell me what happened,’ he hissed, his teeth bared. ‘Fast.’

There was no immediate reply and the Parthian’s eyes bulged with anger. He moved the razor-sharp metal slightly and cut Tarquinius’ skin, drawing a thin line of blood.

His men gasped at his courage. Most Parthians were terrified of the haruspex.

Keeping silent underlines my power, thought Tarquinius. And this is not my time to die.

Felix stiffened but Romulus jerked his head to stop any reaction. Their friend knew what he was doing. To his relief, the little Gaul relaxed. ‘We were ambushed by Scythians, sir,’ said Romulus loudly. ‘Check his wounds for yourself.’

No one spoke as the officer paced back to Brennus. Close up, no one could miss the distinctive Scythian arrows. But he was not yet satisfied. ‘Where are the rest of the men?’ he demanded.

‘All dead, sir.’

His eyes widened. ‘Why are none of you hurt?’

Romulus kept his composure. ‘They fired volleys of arrows from nowhere, sir. We had shields. We were lucky.’

The Parthian’s gaze darted to Brennus and Felix, but the Gauls were nodding in unison. The officer stared last at Tarquinius, whose dark eyes revealed little. He turned back to Romulus.

‘The commander and Tarquinius survived because they were in the Mithraeum,’ Romulus went on. ‘Brennus and I fought our way to the entrance to try and rescue them.’

The officer waited in stony silence.

‘Pacorus was hit as we were about to escape,’ said Romulus, guiltily remembering his delay in handing over his scutum. If Pacorus lived, he would remember that. But that particular bridge would have to be crossed if it appeared. At least he wasn’t the one with three poison arrows in his flesh. ‘And Brennus carried him back anyway.’

‘Why?’ The Parthian sneered. ‘Scythicon kills everyone. What do you care if the commander dies?’

Unsure what to say, Romulus tensed.

‘He is our leader,’ protested Tarquinius. ‘Without him, the Forgotten Legion is nothing.’

Disbelief flared in the other’s eyes. ‘Expect me to swallow that?’ he growled. There was little reason for any of the Romans to care about the health of their captors. Especially Pacorus. Every man present knew it.

‘I can help Pacorus. Delay me any longer,’ Tarquinius announced, ‘and you risk being the cause of his death.’

Outwitted, the officer stepped back. Having witnessed the extent of his superior’s injuries, he did not want to be accused later of slowing Pacorus’ treatment. However odd the situation might seem, there was only one man in the fort capable of saving their commander.

Tarquinius.

‘Let them pass!’ the Parthian ordered.

His men raised their weapons and one quickly opened the heavy gate, allowing Tarquinius and the others inside. The atrium was simply built, with a baked brick floor rather than the ornate mosaic it would have had in Rome. Unsurprisingly, nobody was to be seen. An austere man for all his cruelty, Pacorus needed few servants.

‘Bring my leather bag from the valetudinarium,’ the haruspex cried, leading the way through the tablinum and into the courtyard. ‘Fast!’

Shouted commands followed them as the officer sent men running to obey.

Word was also being rushed to the senior centurions, thought Romulus sourly. If they weren’t already on their way. He swallowed, offering a fervent prayer to Mithras, a deity he knew little of. And although worshipped by the Parthians, the god had apparently shown Tarquinius a way out of here. There had to be a solution to their increasingly desperate situation. But Romulus could not see it. Help us, Mithras, he prayed. Guide us.

In Pacorus’ large bedroom, they found a fire already burning. Its flames lit up thick wall carpets and embroidered cushions scattered on the floor. Apart from some iron-bound storage chests, a bed covered in animal skins was the only piece of furniture. Startled by their sudden arrival, two servants, local peasants, jumped up guiltily from the floor in front of the brick fireplace. Warming themselves in their master’s quarters would be rewarded with a severe flogging at the least. Their mouths opened with shock and a little relief when they saw Pacorus lying over Brennus’ shoulder. There would be no punishment today.

‘Make light,’ snapped Tarquinius. ‘Bring clean blankets and sheets. And plenty of boiling water.’

The fearful men did not dare answer. One scurried off while the other lit a taper and touched it to each of the bronze oil lamps positioned around the walls. The illumination revealed a wooden shrine in one corner. It was covered with the stubs of candles: like anyone else, Pacorus needed the gods sometimes. Sitting on it was a small statue of a cloaked man in a blunt-peaked Phrygian hat, twisting the head of a kneeling bull upwards towards the knife gripped in his free hand. The god was unfamiliar to Romulus, yet he somehow knew who it was. ‘Mithras?’ he breathed.

Tarquinius nodded.

Romulus bent his head in respect, praying hard.

Aided by Felix, Brennus moved towards the bed.

Tarquinius eyed the figurine curiously. Before entering the Mithraeum, he had only seen an image of Mithras once, in Rome. It had belonged to a one-armed veteran who helped him to search for the killer of Olenus, his mentor. Secundus, had that been the cripple’s name? A good man, the haruspex remembered, but secretive about his religion. Ever since, Tarquinius had longed to know more about Mithraicism. Now, in one night, he had been inside a temple and had a vision from the god himself. And if Pacorus lived, yet more might be revealed. Through him, Tarquinius might also discover information about the Etruscans’ origins. A stream of orange-yellow sparks rose as a log noisily cracked in two. Tarquinius’ eyes narrowed and he studied the tiny points of fire as they turned in graceful spirals and twists before disappearing up the chimney. It was a good sign.

Romulus saw the haruspex watching the blaze and took hope.

Great Mithras, Tarquinius prayed reverently. Although this wounded man is my enemy, he is your disciple. Grant me the ability to save him. Without your help, he will surely die.

Felix and Brennus laid the unconscious Parthian on to his bed.

The remaining servant gaped as Tarquinius drew his dagger.

His response provoked a chuckle. ‘As if I’d kill him now.’ The haruspex leaned over and began slicing open Pacorus’ blood-soaked clothing, leaving the wooden shafts in place. A few moments later, the Parthian was as naked as the day he was born. His normally brown skin had gone a grey, unhealthy-looking colour, and it was hard to see the shallow movements of his chest.

Romulus closed his eyes at their commander’s horrifying injuries. Around each, the flesh had already turned bright red — the first sign that the scythicon was having an effect. But the worst area was his chest wound. It was a miracle that Pacorus had not been killed outright by the arrow, which had punched between two ribs to lie very close to the heart.

‘That means death,’ said Brennus quietly.

Tarquinius lifted his eyebrows, silently contemplating his task.

Felix sucked in a long, slow breath. ‘Why did you bother carrying him back?’

‘He has to survive,’ answered Tarquinius. ‘If he doesn’t, we’re all dead men.’

His trust in the haruspex absolute, Brennus waited. This was the man who had known — incredibly — what his druid had predicted, before his whole tribe had been massacred.

But the little Gaul looked worried.

Romulus knew how he felt. Yet Tarquinius was right. The extremely cold weather meant that any long journeys were far too dangerous without proper supplies. They had had little choice but to return here. Now their fates rested with the nearly dead man lying before them. Or rather, in Tarquinius’ ability to save him. Looking at Pacorus’ injuries, it seemed an impossible peak to climb. Automatically, Romulus’ gaze flickered to the statue on the altar. Mithras, we need your help!

It was then that a group of excited, upset servants arrived, led by the peasant who had fled on their arrival. Bearing blankets, linen sheets and steaming bronze bowls of water, they laid down their loads near the bed. At once they were urged from the room by Romulus. Only the two original men remained, to hold up more lamps by the bed, in turn providing the haruspex with light. Moments later a guard arrived, carrying Tarquinius’ medicine bag. He blanched at Pacorus’ appearance. Muttering a prayer, he backed away hastily and took up a position by the door.

Delving into the pack, Tarquinius produced a set of iron surgical instruments, a selection of which he dropped into the scalding liquid. The remainder were placed neatly alongside in case they were needed. There were scalpels, forceps and hooks. Strange-looking probes and spatulas lay beside different types of saws. A roll of brown, fibrous stitching material appeared, made from the outer lining of sheep’s gut. Trimmed off, dried and then stretched into tough thread, it could be used to hold together most tissues using round-bodied or triangular cutting needles. Romulus had seen the haruspex use many of the metal tools before, operating on the injuries of soldiers with great success. Although skilful in their own right, the legion’s few surviving surgeons had been amazed.

Beneath Tarquinius’ healing hands, men who would normally have died had not. Torn arteries were tied off, preventing death through blood loss. Tendons were carefully repaired, restoring function to useless limbs and toes. After the scalp had been lifted, even a man’s skull could be sawn open to allow the removal of a blood clot on the brain’s surface. According to Tarquinius, the keys to success were an expert knowledge of anatomy, and absolute cleanliness. Such surgery fascinated Romulus and he moved closer to watch. This challenge would surely test his friend’s abilities to the limit. Compared to the relatively clean wounds inflicted by the razor-sharp blades of spears and gladii, those made by the arrows were ragged and contaminated with scythicon.

Pacorus was already halfway to Hades.

Fully aware of the mountainous task facing him, Tarquinius looked at the figure on the altar and bent his head, once. Mithras, help me once more!

The significance of the gesture was not lost on Romulus.

Felix’ face changed as Tarquinius prepared to begin. ‘Time to get warm,’ the little Gaul muttered, sitting down by the fire with a sigh. Few men chose to witness such gory work.

Romulus and Brennus did not move.

‘Hold his arms,’ said Tarquinius briskly. ‘He might wake up. This really stings.’ Pulling the cork stopper from a small flask with his teeth, he poured some strong-smelling liquid on to a piece of clean cloth.

‘Acetum?’ asked Romulus.

Tarquinius inclined his head. ‘Vinegar is excellent at preventing blood poisoning.’

They watched him gently clean the wounds; Pacorus did not even stir.

The haruspex tackled Pacorus’ arm first. Slicing either side of the wooden shaft, he used a metal probe to free the barbed arrow head. Any bleeding was stopped with special clamps and then tied off with gut. Following this, the muscles were closed in layers. Pacorus’ leg was treated similarly. It was the chest wound that took the most effort, however. Gripping special retractors, Tarquinius pried apart two ribs to allow withdrawal of the arrow. Closing this wound was an urgent process, he explained. If too much air leaked into Pacorus’ chest cavity he would die. As Romulus watched, his understanding grew. Keen to learn more, he questioned Tarquinius closely about his techniques.

‘You should have seen enough by now,’ the haruspex pronounced with a sigh. ‘The next test will be for you to operate on an injured soldier.’

Romulus flinched at the prospect. To dress a wound in the midst of combat was one thing, but this was another.

‘There’ll be plenty of casualties in the future,’ said Tarquinius shrewdly. ‘I can never treat them all.’

Romulus nodded in acknowledgement. It was brutal but true. As Romulus had witnessed himself, the haruspex treated only those whom he had a chance of saving. Very seriously wounded legionaries were often left to die. If they were lucky, they received a draught of mandrake or the painkilling papaverum to help them on their way, but most died screaming in agony. Any attempt to save their lives by him, however inexperienced, would be better than the lingering hell they currently endured. Determination filled Romulus to soak up all the medical information he could.

At last the prolonged surgery finished. Muttering under his breath, Tarquinius produced a tiny bag, allowing a faint dusting of powder from it to fall over the Parthian’s wounds. The falling particles smelt strong and musty.

‘I haven’t seen you use that before,’ commented Romulus curiously.

‘Some call it mantar,’ the haruspex answered, tying up the pouch. ‘Few even know of it; I’ve only come across it once, in Egypt.’ He weighed the bag carefully in his hand. It looked as light as a feather. ‘This cost me three talents.’

‘How much was there?’ asked Romulus.

Tarquinius looked amused. ‘When I bought it? About three small spoonfuls.’

They all stared at him with amazement. That amount of gold would let a man live comfortably for the rest of his life.

Tarquinius was in a talkative mood. ‘It’s excellent at killing infection.’ The pouch disappeared inside his tunic again.

‘Even that caused by scythicon?’ Romulus could not conceal the strain in his voice.

‘We will see,’ answered Tarquinius, eyeing the figure of Mithras. ‘I’ve saved a man’s life with it before.’

‘Where does it come from?’

The haruspex grinned. ‘It’s made by grinding up a particular type of blue-green fungus.’

Brennus was incredulous. ‘Like the stuff that grows on bread?’

‘Perhaps. Or on some varieties of over-ripe fruit. I have never been able to tell,’ sighed Tarquinius. ‘Many moulds are poisonous, so it’s difficult to experiment with them.’

Romulus was intrigued by the incredible concept that something growing on rotting matter might prevent the inevitable, fatal illness that followed belly wounds or animal bites.

Resentment bubbled up in Brennus. ‘It’d be better saved for our comrades.’

‘Indeed.’ Tarquinius’ dark eyes regarded him steadily. ‘However our lives depend on Pacorus recovering.’

The Gaul sighed. He was not worried about himself, but Romulus’ survival was vital to him. And Tarquinius held the key to that, he was sure of it. Which meant that Pacorus had to pull through as well.

During the whole experience, the Parthian had not even opened his eyes. Only his faint breathing showed that he was still alive.

Sitting back, Tarquinius considered his handiwork. He went very quiet.

Romulus looked at him questioningly. It was the same way the haruspex behaved when he was studying the winds or cloud formations in the sky.

‘He has a small chance,’ pronounced Tarquinius at length. ‘His aura has strengthened a little.’ Thank you, great Mithras.

Romulus breathed a small sigh of relief. They might survive yet.

‘Sit him up so I can place the bandages.’

As the servants obeyed, the Etruscan ripped several sheets into suitable sizes. He was about to begin wrapping Pacorus’ midriff when the door suddenly slammed open. As the sentry snapped to attention, eight brown-skinned men barged into the room, their dark eyes angry and concerned. Dressed in fine cloth tunics and richly embroidered tightly fitting trousers, they wore sheathed swords and daggers on belts inlaid with gold wire. Most had neatly trimmed short beards and black, coiffed hair. ‘What’s going on?’ shouted one.

Everyone except Tarquinius tensed. Romulus, Brennus and Felix jerked upright, staring straight ahead as if on parade. These were some of the Parthian senior centurions, the highest-ranking officers in the Forgotten Legion. Men who would be responsible for the legion if Pacorus died.

Still held in a sitting position by the servants, Pacorus’ head lolled forward on to his chest.

The newcomers gasped.

‘Sir?’ asked another, bending down and trying to attract Pacorus’ attention.

There was no response.

Rage filled the man’s features. ‘Is he dead?’

Romulus’ pulse quickened and his eyes darted to Pacorus. He was immensely relieved to see that the Parthian was still breathing.

‘No,’ said Tarquinius. ‘But he is near death.’

‘What have you done?’ barked Vahram, the primus pilus, or senior centurion, of the First Cohort. He was their own direct superior. A barrel-chested, powerful man in early middle age, he was also the legion’s second-in-command. ‘Explain yourself!’

Struggling not to panic, Romulus prepared to draw his gladius. Brennus and Felix did likewise. It was impossible to miss the threat in Vahram’s words. These were no mere guards to intimidate and, like Pacorus, the senior centurions held the power of life and death over them all.

His nostrils flaring, Vahram gripped his weapon.

Tarquinius lifted his hands calmly, palms facing Vahram. ‘I can clarify everything,’ he said.

‘Do so,’ replied the primus pilus. ‘Quickly.’

Romulus’ fingers slowly released his gladius hilt. He stepped back, as did Brennus and Felix. It felt as if they were all teetering on the edge of a deep chasm.

In stony silence, the Parthians convened around the bed. Vahram scanned the others’ faces suspiciously as he listened to the haruspex’ account of what had happened. Of course no mention was made of returning to Rome.

When Tarquinius finished, no one spoke for some moments. It was hard to tell if the Parthians believed his story. Romulus felt very uneasy. But the die had been cast. All they could do was wait. And pray.

‘Very well,’ said Vahram at last. ‘Things could have happened as you say.’

A slow breath escaped Romulus’ lips.

‘Just one more thing, haruspex.’ Vahram’s hand fell lightly to his sword. ‘Did you know this would happen?’

The world stopped and Romulus’ heart lurched in his chest.

Again everyone’s eyes were fixed on Tarquinius.

Vahram waited.

Incredibly, the haruspex laughed. ‘I cannot see everything,’ he said.

‘Answer the damn question,’ growled Vahram.

‘There was great danger, yes.’ Tarquinius shrugged. ‘There always is in Margiana.’

The tough primus pilus was not satisfied. ‘Speak clearly, you son of a whore!’ he shouted, drawing his sword.

‘I thought that something might happen,’ admitted the haruspex. ‘But I had no idea what.’

Romulus remembered the watching jackal and how he and Brennus had stayed away from the fire to study it. A decision which had saved their lives. Was that not proof of a god’s favour? He looked at Mithras crouching over the bull and trembled with awe.

‘That’s all?’ demanded Vahram.

‘Yes, sir.’

Romulus watched the primus pilus’ face carefully. Like that of Tarquinius, it was hard to judge. He did not know why, but suspicion filled him.

‘Very well.’ Vahram relaxed, letting his blade drop to his side. ‘How long will it be before Pacorus recovers?’

‘He may never do so,’ replied the haruspex levelly. ‘Scythicon is the most powerful poison known to man.’

The senior centurions looked anxious and a vein pulsed in Vahram’s neck.

Pacorus moaned, breaking the silence.

‘Examine him again!’ barked one of the younger officers.

Tarquinius bent over the bed, checking Pacorus’ pulse and the colour of his gums. ‘If he lives, it will take months,’ he pronounced at last.

‘How many?’ asked Ishkan, a middle-aged man with jet-black hair.

‘Two, maybe three.’

‘You will not leave this building until he is well,’ the primus pilus ordered. ‘For any reason.’

There was a growl of agreement from the others.

‘My century, sir?’ Tarquinius enquired.

‘Fuck them!’ screamed Ishkan.

‘Your optio can take charge,’ the primus pilus said curtly.

Tarquinius bowed his head in acknowledgement.

Brennus and Felix relaxed. A reprieve had been granted, but Romulus was not happy. Later he would realise, bitterly, that the feeling had been intuition.

‘We’ll leave you to it.’ Vahram turned to go, and then swiftly spun on his heel. Snarling silently, he rushed at Felix with his sword raised. The little Gaul had no time to reach for his own weapon. Nor did his friends.

Vahram ran his blade deep into Felix’ chest. The lethally sharp iron slipped between the little Gaul’s ribs to pierce muscle, lungs and heart, emerging red-tipped from his back.

Felix’ eyes widened with horror and his mouth opened. No sound came out.

The senior centurions’ faces were the picture of shock.

Tarquinius also looked stunned. He had forgotten the heavy price that gods often required. They gave nothing away free. Normally, he would have sacrificed an animal when seeking important information. Tonight, Mithras had revealed much without any obvious payment. Anguish filled the haruspex. How could he have been so stupid? Elated at seeing a vision, and at the mere possibility of returning to Rome, he had failed to consider what might follow. Was Felix’ life worth that much?

And then Tarquinius’ vision filled with the image of Romulus, standing on the deck of a ship, sailing into Ostia, Rome’s port. After the drought of the previous few months, it felt like a rainstorm. Felix had not died in vain, he thought.

But Romulus knew none of this. Grief flooded through him. Felix was completely innocent; he had not even been at the Mithraeum. In reflex, Romulus drew his weapon and took a step towards the primus pilus. Brennus was right behind, his face fixed in a rictus of rage. They were two against eight, but at that exact moment, neither cared.

Vahram extended a hand and pushed Felix backwards, letting him fall lifeless to the floor. A gush of blood accompanied the blade’s withdrawal from his thoracic cavity. It formed around the little Gaul’s body in a great red pool.

Weeping fat, angry tears, Romulus swept forward, ready to kill. It was six steps to Vahram. Two heartbeats.

Tarquinius observed in silence. Romulus would decide his own fate. So would Brennus. It was not for him to intervene. Romulus’ journey back to Rome was not his only possible path. Perhaps, like many gods, Mithras was fickle. Maybe they would all die here tonight.

But Vahram did not even lift his bloodied sword to defend himself.

Disturbed by the squat primus pilus’ calm, Romulus managed to pull himself back. As he had learned at the Mithraeum, gut reactions were not always the best. Killing Vahram now would burn all their bridges. It was also a sure way to die. But there was another option: walking out of here. If he did that, then Felix could be avenged — later. Somehow Romulus was sure of this. Quickly he held out an arm to halt Brennus’ attack as well. Remarkably, the Gaul did not protest.

This is not a battle that no one else could win, Brennus thought, remembering the haruspex prophecy. I will know when it is.

Tarquinius exhaled with relief. Thank you, Mithras!

‘You show intelligence,’ Vahram snarled. ‘Twenty archers are waiting outside.’

Romulus scowled. All of them had been outwitted — even Tarquinius.

‘If one of us calls out, they have orders to kill you all.’

Romulus lowered his weapon, followed slowly by Brennus. He glanced at the statue of Mithras and made a silent vow to himself. Gods willing, my day will come, the young soldier thought savagely. For Felix, just as it will with Gemellus.

‘Get back to barracks,’ Vahram snapped. ‘And consider yourselves lucky not to be crucified.’

Romulus’ fists clenched, but he did not protest.

Great Belenus, Brennus prayed. Take Felix straight to paradise. I will see him there.

Vahram was not finished. He pointed a stubby finger at Tarquinius. ‘If Pacorus dies, so will you.’ His eyes glinted. ‘And both of your friends here.’

Tarquinius’ face paled. The primus pilus was repeating, albeit unknowingly, Pacorus’ threat. It was the vivid vision of Romulus entering Ostia which gave him strength. He himself might not return to Rome, but his pupil could. Quite how that would happen, Tarquinius was not sure. All he could do was believe in Mithras.

Romulus’ heart sank. Judging by the haruspex’ response, the chances of Pacorus surviving were slim to none. Like mist dispersed by the rising sun, the promised path to Rome vanished again. What hope had they really?

Brennus quietly led him away from Felix’ body, but Romulus turned in the doorway and looked back.

Have faith in Mithras, mouthed the haruspex, inclining his head towards the small statue on the altar. He will guide you.

Mithras, thought Romulus numbly. Only a god could help him now.