of long spears forged, weapons which could keep any cavalry at bay. It was thanks to him that the massive Sogdian war band devastating towns in Margiana upon their arrival had been annihilated. In addition, his medical expertise had saved the lives of numerous injured soldiers. His promotion to centurion was a tacit acknowledgement of this, and of Tarquinius’ esteemed status among the ranks. Yet still he dared not answer back.
Pacorus held all of their lives in the palm of his hand. Until now what had protected Tarquinius, and to an extent his friends, from torture or death was the commander’s dread of his prophetic abilities. And, for the first time in the Etruscan’s life, these had deserted him.
Fear – a new emotion – became Tarquinius’ daily companion.
For months, he had existed on his wits, while seeing nothing of real significance. Tarquinius studied every cloud, every gust of wind and every bird and animal he saw. Nothing. Sacrifices of hens and lambs, normally an excellent method of divining, had repeatedly proved fruitless. Their purple livers, the richest source of information in all of haruspicy, yielded no clues to him. Tarquinius could not understand it. I have been a haruspex for nearly twenty years, he thought sourly. Never has there been such a drought of visions. The gods must truly be angry with me. Charon, the Etruscan demon of the underworld, came to mind, emerging from the earth to swallow them all. Blue-skinned and red-haired, he walked in Pacorus’ shadow, his mouth full of slavering teeth ready to tear Tarquinius apart when the commander’s patience reached its limit. Which would not take long. One did not need to be a haruspex to read Pacorus’ body language, reflected Tarquinius wearily. He was like a length of wire stretched so taut it would break any moment.
‘By all that is sacred,’ Pacorus snapped, ‘let me show you.’ Grabbing a torch from a guard, he led the way. The whole party followed. Just twenty steps on, he stopped. ‘Look,’ he ordered, jabbing forward the flame.
Tarquinius’ eyes opened wide. Directly in front lay a neat area of evenly cut paving stones. In the centre was a large, man-made opening in the ground. Heavy slabs of rock had been laid down to form a square hole. Their weathered surfaces were covered with inscriptions and etchings. Tarquinius stepped closer to see, recognising the shapes of a raven, a crouching bull and an ornate seven-rayed crown. Was that outline a Phrygian cap? It was similar to the blunt-peaked hats worn by haruspices since the dawn of time, he thought with a thrill of excitement. This tiny detail was intriguing, because it was a possible link to the uncertain origins of Tarquinius’ people.
Before they had colonised central Italy many centuries previously, the Etruscans had journeyed from the east. Traces of their civilisation existed in Asia Minor, but legend had it that they came from much further away. As did Mithras. Few things excited Tarquinius, but this did. Years of his life had been spent searching for evidence of the Etruscans’ past, with little success. Perhaps now, here in the east, the impenetrable mist of time was beginning to thin. Olenus had been correct – again. The old man had predicted he might find out more by journeying to Parthia and beyond.
‘Normally, only believers may enter a Mithraeum,’ Pacorus announced. ‘The penalty for trespassing is death.’
His pleasure quickly dissipating, Tarquinius grimaced. Any information about Mithraicism came second to surviving.
‘You are being allowed inside in order to foretell my future and that of the Forgotten Legion,’ said Pacorus. ‘If your words are unconvincing, you will die.’
Controlling his emotions, Tarquinius regarded him steadily. There was more.
‘But before that,’ muttered Pacorus, his gaze moving to Romulus and Brennus. ‘Your friends will be killed, slowly and painfully. In front of you.’
Full of rage, Tarquinius’ gaze bored into Pacorus. After a few moments, it was the Parthian who looked down. I still have some power, the haruspex thought, but the knowledge was like ash in his dry mouth. Pacorus had the whip hand here, not him. If the gods did not grant him some kind of meaningful vision in the Mithraeum, they would all be slain out of hand. Why had he insisted that his two friends came along tonight? It had been only the smallest of hunches to ask them. Tarquinius was unconcerned about himself, but guilt suffused his heart that big, brave Brennus and Romulus, the young man he had come to love as