The Silver Eagle

Chapter V: Discovery

Margiana, winter 53/52 BC

An entire cohort was sent out to the Mithraeum at dawn, but found only corpses. The surviving Scythians had disappeared on horseback, and their original purpose was presumed to be an attempt to assassinate Pacorus. Long-range patrols were mounted throughout the area, but found no evidence of enemy forces. Gradually the tension in the fort eased, although Vahram, now acting commander, insisted that the sentries were doubled day and night.

Nothing more was seen of the Scythians.

Weeks passed without any news of Tarquinius. There was no word of Pacorus either; complete secrecy reigned over the commander’s house and only Parthians were allowed within. The senior centurions were deeply angry at what had happened and spoke only to those they trusted: in other words, to none of the Roman prisoners. Of course, Romulus and Brennus had told their roommates about the attack; the news spread like wildfire. Rumours filled the camp on a daily basis. Only one thing was clear. Because there had been no reprisals, Pacorus was still alive. Tarquinius’ care was having at least some effect, but nobody knew more.

To ensure that they did not flee, Romulus and Brennus were closely watched at all times. No other overt threat was made, but their situation remained desperate. Vahram’s threat was no idle one, and most Parthians made sure to remind the pair of it at every opportunity. They were constantly taunted with the manner of Felix’ death as well. This sting to their pride was particularly hard to ignore: after all, their friend’s murder had not been avenged, and it might never be. With a clenched jaw, Brennus dealt with the menaces silently. Romulus kept them at bay by praying daily to Mithras. He thought of home too, and of what exactly Tarquinius might have seen. Knowing it involved returning to Rome helped immensely.

All kinds of fantasies went through his head, from discovering his mother and Fabiola to torturing Gemellus. Taking on Vahram in a duel and killing him slowly was another favourite. Romulus also had time to relive the brawl that had caused him to flee the capital. During it, he had apparently killed a nobleman with a crack to the head from his sword hilt. At the time, panicked and desperate to avoid crucifixion, Romulus had not given it much consideration. Now, the veteran of innumerable battles, he knew that unless he was no judge of his own strength, the blow had probably not been enough to kill. When he asked Brennus, the big Gaul confirmed that he had only punched the angry noble a couple of times. It was a troubling realisation, because it meant that he, Romulus, was innocent. Which meant that he had had no reason to flee in the first place. So who had killed Rufus Caelius? It was impossible to know the truth of it, yet Romulus became consumed by thoughts of what might have been if the nobleman had not been slain. Although he talked it over repeatedly with Brennus, the Gaul was less concerned about what had happened. His destiny all along had been to take a great journey, and Brennus was convinced that was why he was in Margiana. Romulus did not have that comfort.

All he had was Tarquinius’ advice to trust in Mithras, about whom he knew very little.

Unsurprisingly, none of the Parthians would talk to him about their god. Watched constantly, he had no chance of trying to visit the Mithraeum either. Then Romulus managed to procure a small statue from a wizened old man who came into the fort on a regular basis to sell knickknacks. All the ancient told him was that Mithras wore a Phrygian cap, and that the life of the bull he was sacrificing gave birth to humankind, the animals and birds of the earth, and its crops and foods. Romulus pressed him hard for more information, and discovered that there were seven stages of devotion. After this, the seller totally clammed up. ‘You look brave and honest,’ were his last words. ‘If you are, Mithras will reveal more.’

At this, the window of hope in Romulus’ heart opened a fraction.

He placed the carved figure on the special shrine which had been erected by the barracks entrance. Although it was dedicated to Aesculapius, the god of medicine, Romans were happy to worship more than one deity at the same time. Romulus spent every spare moment he had on his knees before the image of Mithras, praying for some good news about Tarquinius, and that he might discover how to return to Rome. Nothing was forthcoming, but he did not lose faith. Since childhood, life had dealt him one hard knock after another. Witnessing Gemellus rape his mother nightly. Being sold into the savagery of the ludus. The duel against Lentulus, a far more experienced fighter. A deadly mass combat in the arena. Escaping Rome after the brawl. Army life and the horrors of Carrhae. Captivity in Parthia and then the long march to Margiana. But each time death threatened, the gods had lifted him from harm’s way. Consequently, Romulus was prepared to devote all his attention to Mithras. What else could he do?

During his time at the shrine, Romulus was touched by the devotion shown by his comrades. In normal circumstances, the Romans would have been pleased if Pacorus died, but now prayers for his recovery were offered up by the dozen. Almost all the men in the century stopped by the altar each day. Word of the threat to Tarquinius’ life spread fast and there were visits from countless other soldiers as well. Soon the simple stone top was dotted with sestertii, denarii and even lucky amulets: offerings that men would not part with lightly. Everything that had been minted or made in Italy was now priceless. It proved to Romulus and Brennus how important Tarquinius was to the Forgotten Legion’s sense of wellbeing.

One cold afternoon, Romulus was performing his devotions as usual. Deep in prayer and with his eyes closed, he became aware of loud muttering behind him. Presuming it was other soldiers asking for divine help, he ignored the noise. But when they started sniggering, he looked around. Five legionaries were standing just outside the door, peering in at him. Romulus recognised them; they were from a contubernium in his century. All had served in the legions for many years. Tellingly, he had seen none make any offerings at the altar.

‘Praying for the soothsayer?’ asked Caius, a tall, thin man with few teeth and bad breath. ‘Our centurion.’

Romulus did not like Caius’ tone. ‘Yes,’ he snapped. ‘Why aren’t you?’

‘Been gone a while, hasn’t he?’ sneered Optatus, leaning against the doorpost. A strongly built figure almost as large as Brennus, he had a permanently unfriendly manner.

Romulus felt a tickle of unease. All five had been out on the training ground. They were in chain mail and were fully armed, whereas he was clad in just his tunic, with only a dagger for protection. ‘I suppose so,’ he said slowly, gazing from one to the other.

‘Treacherous bastard,’ said Novius, the smallest of the five. Despite his stature, he was an expert swordsman. Romulus had seen him in action before. ‘Be conniving with Pacorus, won’t he?’

‘Coming up with more ways to have us slaughtered,’ added Caius. ‘Like he did at Carrhae.’

Romulus could scarcely believe his ears, but the others’ heads were nodding angrily. ‘What did you say?’ he spat.

‘You heard.’ Caius’ lips lifted, revealing red, inflamed gums. ‘Crassus didn’t lose the battle. He was a good general.’

‘So how did it happen?’ Romulus retorted hotly.

‘That treacherous Nabataean didn’t help, but it was more likely your Etruscan friend, meddling with evil spirits.’ Novius rubbed at the phallus amulet hanging from his neck. ‘He’s always bringing bad luck on us.’

His companions muttered in agreement.

Absolutely astonished that men could think like this, Romulus realised it was best not to respond. The discontented legionaries were looking for a scapegoat. With his long blond hair, single gold earring and odd manner, Tarquinius was an obvious target. Arguing would make things worse. Turning his back on them, he leaned forward, bowing to the small stone figure of Aesculapius on the altar.

There was a sharp intake of breath from Optatus. ‘Where did you get that?’

Romulus looked down and his heart banged in his chest. The sleeve of his tunic had ridden up his right arm, revealing the thick scar where his slave brand had been. After slicing the damning mark off, Brennus had cobbled the wound together with crude stitches. There had been a few questions about it when they had joined the army, but Romulus had managed to laugh them off, saying he had received the cut in a skirmish with outlaws. None in the Gaulish mercenary cohort had cared where he came from anyway. Already upset by the accusations against Tarquinius, he was disconcerted by the question. ‘I can’t remember,’ he faltered.

‘What?’ Optatus laughed incredulously. ‘Happened in your sleep, did it?’

Although his comrades sniggered, their expressions changed. Now they looked like a pack of hounds that have cornered a wild boar. Romulus cursed to himself. Who would ever forget how or when he was injured in a fight?

Novius stuck his left leg forward and jabbed a finger at the shiny marks on either side of his muscular calf. Their length and breadth meant that they had probably been made by a spear. ‘I’ve no idea who did this,’ he crowed. ‘Didn’t even feel the blade go in.’

Loud laughter met his remark. All had scars from their time in the army.

‘It was a long time ago,’ said Romulus defensively, knowing his answer sounded weak.

Caius’ response was immediate. ‘You’re only a damn boy. You’ve not campaigned in a dozen wars or been in the legions half your life.’

‘Like us,’ snarled Optatus. ‘And we remember every sword cut like it was yesterday.’

Romulus flushed, unable to mention his two years as a secutor. The agony of Lentulus’ knife plunging into his right thigh was as vivid now as the moment it happened. But he could not mention it. Gladiators were nearly all slaves, criminals or prisoners of war; they were the lowest of the low.

‘They say that for the right price, there are men who’ll cut off a brand and stitch you up,’ said Caius spitefully. ‘Get rid of the evidence.’

Novius frowned.

Optatus swelled with outrage. ‘Been to one of those, have you?’

‘Of course not,’ blustered Romulus. ‘Slaves aren’t allowed in the army.’

‘On pain of death,’ added Novius with a leer.

Caius stepped over the threshold. ‘Where is it you’re from again?’

‘Transalpine Gaul.’ Romulus didn’t like the way this was going. He got to his feet, wondering where Brennus was. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘Served there for three years,’ said Novius, his eyes mere slits. ‘Didn’t we, lads?’

Optatus grinned at the memory.

Romulus felt nauseous. It was Brennus who came from that part of Gaul; he himself was a city dweller through and through. The lie had just been a way to get them into the army. At the time, Bassius, their old centurion, was happy enough to get two men who could obviously fight. He had not asked too many questions. To Bassius, bravery was all that had mattered. Then, as mercenaries in Crassus’ army, they had not mixed with Roman legionaries until after their capture. And on the long march east, few had asked questions of other prisoners. Survival had been more important. Until now. ‘So did half the army,’ Romulus said truculently. ‘Did you catch the pox there too?’

Novius did not respond to the jibe. ‘Where exactly did you live?’ The malevolent little legionary had everyone’s attention.

‘In a village, high up in the mountains,’ replied Romulus vaguely. ‘It was quite remote.’

But there was no end to his interrogation. Now Novius and Optatus moved inside, while the last two blocked the doorway. There was nowhere to go, other than further into the barracks, where it was even more confined. The young soldier swallowed, resisting the urge to draw his dagger. In this tight space, he had little chance against three men with swords. His only hope was to brazen it out.

‘What was the nearest town?’

Frantically Romulus racked his brains, trying to recall if Brennus had ever mentioned such a place. Nowhere came to mind. A prayer to Mithras, followed by another to Jupiter, made no difference. His mouth opened and closed.

Novius’ sword slid from the scabbard as he stepped closer. ‘Can’t remember that either?’ he said softly.

‘We come from near Lugdunum,’ growled Brennus from the entrance to the corridor.

Romulus had never been so relieved.

‘Allobroge territory, eh?’ sneered Novius.

‘Yes.’ Brennus stepped into the room, forcing Caius to move backwards. ‘It was.’

Optatus grinned. ‘I remember that campaign well. Your villages burned easily.’

‘Some of the women we raped were passably good-looking,’ added Novius, forcing two fingers in and out of a ring made of his right forefinger and thumb.

The others laughed cruelly and Romulus burned with anger and shame for his friend.

The Gaul’s face went purple with rage but he did not react.

Novius was not to be put off. ‘Why is your accent different to his then?’ He jerked a dismissive thumb at Brennus.

Brennus did not give Romulus time to answer. ‘Because his father was a Roman soldier, like you shitbags,’ he snapped. ‘Explains his name too. Happy?’

Ammias, Primitivus and Optatus glowered but did not reply. They were bullies rather than ringleaders.

‘And the mark?’ persisted Novius.

‘It’s from a gladius,’ answered the Gaul with a show of reluctance. ‘The lad could barely lift a sword, but he tried to fight back when you fuckers were attacking our settlement. Naturally he didn’t want to tell you.’

It was Novius’ turn to look confused. Quickly he did the maths, calculating if Romulus’ age as a boy tallied with the Allobroges’ rebellion nine years before.

It did.

‘We fled south. Worked here and there,’ Brennus went on. ‘Ended up in Crassus’ army. With all our tribe gone, it didn’t matter where in Hades we went.’

It was commonplace for the warriors of defeated tribes to seek employ in the service of Rome. Iberians, Gauls, Greeks and Libyans were among the host of nationalities in its armies. Even Carthaginians joined up these days.

The little legionary was visibly disappointed.

Romulus used the silence to shuffle closer to Brennus. Side by side, they were an imposing pair: the huge Gaul with bulging muscles and his young protege, slightly smaller but just as solidly built. Although Romulus had no more than a dagger, they would account for themselves very well if it came to a fight. The pair glared at the five veterans.

Novius lowered his sword. ‘Only citizens are supposed to serve in the legions,’ he said resentfully. ‘Not tribal vermin like you two.’

‘That’s right,’ agreed Caius.

The fact that they had served in a mercenary cohort under Crassus was not mentioned. That Romulus was apparently half-Italian. Or the fact that the Forgotten Legion was not a Roman army unit, but a Parthian one.

‘That’s a different matter,’ Brennus replied smoothly. ‘Here we’re all brothers-in-arms. It’s us against the Parthians, miserable scumbags that they are.’

His words seemed to have the right effect on the veterans; they turned to go, Novius taking up the rear.

Grinning at the Gaul, Romulus began to relax. It was the wrong thing to do.

The little legionary turned at the door. Brennus gave him an evil look, but Novius stood his ground. ‘Odd,’ he said in a strange voice. ‘Very odd.’

With a sinking feeling, Romulus saw that Novius was staring at Brennus’ left calf, which had a prominent purple oval of scar tissue.

‘What is it?’ called Caius from outside the barracks.

‘Instead of branding them on the shoulder, Governor Pomptinus made us mark the captives’ calves on that campaign.’

‘I remember,’ came the response. ‘So what?’

Although he had never asked, Romulus had always wondered why Brennus’ mark was different to other slaves.

‘It was to show they were his property,’ crowed Novius.

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ Caius sounded bored.

‘This brute has a scar just where his brand should be,’ announced Novius delightedly, lifting his sword again. ‘He’s a damn slave too!’

Before he could do more, Brennus lunged forward and shoved the little legionary in the chest. Novius flew out of the door, landing flat on his back. His four friends scattered, their faces alarmed.

‘Piss off, you son of a whore,’ the Gaul said from between clenched teeth. ‘Or I’ll kill you.’

‘Scum!’ Novius wheezed, his face twisted with rage. ‘You’re both escaped slaves.’

Romulus and Brennus did not reply.

‘Felix probably was too,’ the little legionary added as the others reached for their swords.

‘There’s only one punishment for that,’ snarled Caius.

‘Crucifixion,’ finished Optatus.

Primitivus and Ammias, their companions, raised their gladii in unison at that prospect. Five faces filled with hatred ringed the doorway.

Romulus’ stomach constricted into a knot. He had seen the brutal method of execution carried out many times. It was a slow, agonising death.

‘Just try it,’ Brennus bellowed. His temper was fully up, and he stood in the door like a raging bull. Only one man could attack him at a time. ‘Who’s first?’

None of the veterans moved. They were no fools.

Romulus pelted back to their room, scooping up his scutum and sword. There was no chance to don his chain mail, but armed like this, he felt more of a match for their new enemies. When he got to the entrance, Brennus had come back inside.

‘Bastards,’ he growled. ‘They’re gone. For now.’

‘They’ll tell everyone,’ said Romulus, struggling not to panic. The Parthian officers didn’t care about their history, but it would not be popular among the others in their century. Or, for that matter, the whole legion.

‘I know.’

‘What can we do?’

‘Not much.’ The Gaul sighed heavily. ‘Stay alert. Watch each other’s backs.’

This felt all too familiar. Neither spoke for a moment as they considered their options.

There were none. Escape was out of the question: it was deepest winter. Where would they go anyway? And Tarquinius, the one man who might be able to help, was still incarcerated with Pacorus. They were alone.

Glumly, Romulus studied the burnished iron of his gladius. He was going to be sleeping with it from now on.

It took Novius little more than an hour to tell every man in their century what had happened. He didn’t stop there. The little legionary seemed possessed as he moved between the low-roofed barrack buildings, spreading his gossip. Caius, Optatus and the others were just as busy. Informing over nine thousand men took time, but gossip travelled fast and by nightfall, Romulus felt sure that their secret was well and truly public news.

The hardest thing to take was the reaction of his comrades in the barracks. Eighty of them ate and slept cheek by jowl, sharing their equipment, food and lice. Although the unit had been formed after Carrhae, there was a real sense of camaraderie. Felix had been part of it too. Far from Rome, they only had each other.

That no longer applied to Romulus and Brennus.

Or Tarquinius.

Men tarred them all with the same brush and the altar to Aesculapius and Mithras was dismantled the same day, its offerings taken back. Who would pray for a man with slaves as friends? Yet when the legionaries had nothing to pray for, they had nothing to hope for either — so they needed something to fill the void. Unfortunately, that turned out to be distrust of the two friends.

Suddenly Romulus and Brennus were responsible for all the men’s misfortune.

Crucifixion was not that likely. To earn that punishment, Romulus or Brennus would have to fall foul of a Parthian officer. But there were countless other ways a man could be killed. Petty arguments were commonplace and with every man in the Forgotten Legion a trained soldier, they could be ended quite easily. Poisoning food, the norm in Rome, was not as popular as the use of weapons. Because men dropped their guard when in the latrines or bathhouse, being jumped in those locations was common. The narrow gaps between the rows of barracks were also dangerous places. More than once Romulus had come across bodies covered in stab wounds just a few steps from their quarters.

But the most immediate danger was where they slept. Eight men had to share a small, cramped space and when one quarter of those were being ostracised, it made life very difficult. On hearing the news, a pair of legionaries had instantly moved to another contubernium that was two short. Their disgusted faces upset Romulus hugely. That left Gordianus, a balding veteran, and three soldiers on one side of the room, the friends on the other. Gordianus, the obvious leader now, had not said much in response to Novius’ revelation.

This kept his companions quiet, for which Romulus was grateful. He could take silent resentment. While it was doubtful that any of their own contubernium would try to kill them, they could not be trusted. Like a viper sliding through the grass, Novius was forever appearing unexpectedly, muttering in men’s ears and poisoning their minds. The little legionary had taken to hanging around in the barracks corridor, idly picking his nails with his dagger. When he wasn’t there, Caius or Optatus were. While none made any overt signs of violence, it was most disconcerting. If Romulus and Brennus responded by killing any of their enemies, they would be severely punished. And there were too many of them to risk a night attack. Cutting five men’s throats quietly was an impossible task.

So Romulus and Brennus cooked together every day and stood outside the latrines with a ready sword while the other went inside. They went on sentry duty simultaneously, and only one slept at a time. It was exhausting and demoralising.

‘This is worse than the ludus,’ muttered Brennus on the second night. ‘Remember?’

Romulus nodded bitterly.

‘There we could at least bolt the door on my cell.’

‘And Figulus and Gallus had few friends,’ Romulus added.

‘Not thousands!’ The Gaul gave a short, sarcastic laugh.

And so it went on. Romulus’ prayers to Mithras grew ever more frantic, but their situation did not change. The days stretched into a week, and the pair grew haggard and irritable. There was one occasion when Novius and his friends attempted to jump them in the alleyway outside the barracks, but Romulus’ quick knife throw stopped the attack in its tracks. Caius’ left thigh was now heavily bandaged, and the veterans’ relentless hounding slackened somewhat. But the respite would merely be temporary. They would not be able to keep up their guard for ever.

Both were therefore relieved when, one frosty morning, Vahram ordered two centuries — theirs and another — out on patrol. For a few days, there had been no news from one of the legion’s outposts that were positioned east of the main camp. The seven fortlets, each with a garrison of a half-century and a handful of Parthian warriors with horses, had been built in strategic positions overlooking various approach routes into Margiana from the north and east. High mountains protected the south and south-east. There was usually little news from the small forts, but twice a week riders were sent back regardless. Whatever their faults, Pacorus and Vahram kept themselves well informed of everything going on in the area. The need for this had been bloodily reinforced by the attack at the Mithraeum.

Romulus’ and Brennus’ feelings were not echoed by their comrades as they prepared for the patrol. Loud curses filled the warm, close air as yokes were dug out of the tiny storerooms behind the sleeping space for each contubernium. Their destination was only twenty miles away, but Roman soldiers always travelled prepared. Besides, Vahram had ordered rations for four days. The yokes, long, forked pieces of wood, carried everything from a cooking pot and spare equipment to sleeping blankets. Along with his armour and heavy scutum, they brought the weight carried by each man to over sixty pounds.

‘This is bloody pointless,’ Gordianus grumbled, lifting another legionary’s mail shirt over his head so he could put it on. ‘A fool’s errand.’

‘We’ll meet the messenger halfway there,’ said the man he was helping. ‘And watch the prick piss himself with laughter as he watches us walk back.’

There were vociferous mutters of agreement. Who wanted to leave the safety and warmth of the fort for no reason? It was probably all down to a couple of lame horses.

‘I don’t know,’ said a familiar voice. ‘A lot of things can happen on patrol.’

Romulus looked up to find Novius standing in the doorway. Behind him were their other main tormentors, Caius and Optatus.

Automatically the young soldier’s hand reached for his gladius; Brennus did likewise.

‘Relax.’ Novius’ smile was evil. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later.’

Romulus had had enough. Lifting his sword, he stood up and moved towards the little legionary. ‘I’ll gut you now,’ he swore.

Novius laughed and was gone, followed by his comrades.

‘Gods above,’ said Romulus wearily. ‘I can’t take this much longer.’

Brennus’ red-rimmed eyes told him the same story.

At first, little was said by anyone the next morning. It was cold and miserable, and marching while carrying full kit was not easy. While the men were well able for the task, it was necessary to get into a good rhythm. Inevitably, Gordianus began to sing. Smiles broke out as the tune was recognised, a familiar ditty involving a sex-starved legionary and every whore in a large brothel. There were endless verses and a bawdy chorus to roar at the end of each. The soldiers were happy to join in: it passed the time, which often dragged on such patrols.

Normally Romulus enjoyed singing the refrain, with its countless sexual positions and innuendos. Today, though, he was gloomily imagining what might happen during the patrol. If they encountered any trouble, Novius could use the opportunity to strike. In the midst of a pitched battle, it was all too easy to stab a man in the back without anyone noticing.

Brennus’ nudge darkened his mood even further. They had reached a crossroads five miles from the fort; the Gaul was pointing at a crucifix that stood on a small mound to one side. Pacorus had ordered it positioned so that all who passed would see it. Like those outside the front gates, the cross had just two purposes: to slowly kill condemned men, and to give graphic warning of the punishments at Parthia’s disposal.

The crucifixes were rarely empty. Falling asleep on duty, disobeying an order or angering Pacorus: all were common reasons for legionaries to die on the simple wooden structures. Even Parthian warriors who incurred his wrath were sometimes executed in this manner.

Gordianus’ voice died away, his song unfinished.

Romulus closed his eyes, trying not to imagine himself and Brennus ending their lives in such a way. With Pacorus’ life hanging in the balance, it was still a distinct possibility — if Novius and his lot didn’t do the job first.

Despite the early hour, there were carrion birds clustered all around the crucifix: on the ground, on the horizontal crossbar, even on the lifeless shoulders of their prey. Bare-headed vultures pecked irritably at each other while ravens darted in opportunistically to take what they could. Overhead, the huge wingspans of eagles could be seen, gliding serenely in anticipation of a good meal.

By now, everyone’s gaze was on the frozen corpse that sagged forward, its head hanging. Thick ropes were tied around the dead man’s arms and long iron nails pierced his feet. Everyone knew him: it was a young legionary from Ishkan’s cohort who had been caught stealing bread from the ovens two days before. Dragged on to the intervallum before the whole legion, he had first been beaten with flails until his tunic was shredded and his back a red, bleeding ruin. Then, naked except for a loincloth, the wretch was forced to carry his cross from the fort to the lonely crossroads. Ten men from every cohort had accompanied him as witnesses. By the time they had reached the desolate spot, his torn, bare feet were blue with cold. This was not enough to dull the pain of the sharp nails being driven through them.

Romulus vividly remembered the man’s thin, cracked screams.

Around him, the other legionaries’ faces were full of dull resentment — except those of Novius and his friends, who were laughing behind cupped hands.

Darius, their stout senior centurion, sensed the bad feeling and urged his men to march faster. They needed little encouragement. As the soldiers came alongside, the nearest vultures lifted their bloated bodies into the air with lazy wing beats. Others further away just waddled out of reach. In the depths of winter, food was hard to come by, and the birds were reluctant to leave this ready feast. There would be no let-up until a skeleton hung from the cross.

Romulus could not tear his gaze away from the frozen body. The only part to remain inviolate was its groin, covered by the loincloth. Empty eye sockets stared into nothingness; peck marks covered its cheeks, chest and arms. Its mouth was open in a last, silent rictus of pain and terror. Half-torn-off strips of flesh hung uneaten from its thighs, where the largest muscles were. Even its feet had been chewed, probably by a resourceful jackal standing on its hind legs. Had the man been alive when the vultures first landed? Felt the sensation of breaking bone as powerful jaws closed on his frozen toes?

It was revolting, but compelling.

Romulus blinked.

Beneath the horror, there was more.

Over the previous weeks, there had been time to study the air currents and the cloud formations over the fort. Romulus had become meticulous, noting every bird and animal, observing the pattern of snowfall and the way ice formed on the river that flowed past the fort. Having watched Tarquinius, he knew that literally everything could be important, could provide some information. It frustrated him immensely that little seemed to make sense. But by following the haruspex’ instructions, predicting the weather had at last became simple enough. Of course this was of interest but Romulus wanted to know far more than when the next storm would strike. Annoyingly, though, he had seen nothing about Tarquinius, Pacorus or Novius and the other veterans. Nothing useful.

Now perhaps, there was an opportunity.

Romulus focused again on the corpse.

A single, shocking image of Rome flashed before his eyes. Suddenly he felt a real link to Italy, as if the savagery of the crucifixion had been a form of sacrifice. Was this what happened when the haruspex killed hens or goats? Real awareness surged through Romulus for the first time.

He saw the familiar sights of the Forum Romanum: the Senate House, the basilicae, the distinctive temples and statues of the gods. Normal activities here included trading, money lending and the announcement of court judgements. Not today. Romulus frowned, scarcely believing what he was seeing. Horrifyingly, in the heart of the city, there was rioting. In front of the Senate itself, men were cutting and slashing each other to pieces. Among them, innocent civilians were being killed in their dozens. Bloody, mutilated bodies lay piled everywhere. Bizarrely, some of the combatants even looked like gladiators. Stunned, Romulus could not take it in. How could the capital of the greatest state in the world descend into such chaos? Was his mind playing tricks? Was he going mad? His need to go home had never been stronger, or seemed more unlikely.

A great arm clapped him on the back, bringing Romulus back to his senses.

‘We can’t help the poor fool now,’ said Brennus, sadly regarding the frozen corpse. ‘Forget about him.’

Romulus’ mouth opened with surprise, then he realised. The Gaul had no idea what he had seen. He was about to tell Brennus when something made him look over his shoulder.

Novius was waiting for his chance and immediately half raised both arms, mimicking the crucified man.

Miserably, Romulus turned away, the little legionary’s mocking laughter ringing in his ears. The world was going crazy.