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