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.