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