Fabricius jerked a thumb over his shoulder. 'It's on one of the mules. Well wrapped up, of course, so the damn thing doesn't break.'

'You're taking it all to Rome?'

'For Caesar's triumphs,' answered the other proudly. 'To show the people yet again what a leader he is.'

The last of Tarquinius' drunkenness fell away. On their own, the images of the capital under a louring sky and his nightmare about the Lupanar weren't enough to make him journey back to the capital. This was very different, though. Out of nowhere, a possible solution had appeared. He couldn't ignore it. 'Is there room on the ships for another passenger?'

'Want to get back to Italy? I would too.' Fabricius gave him a nudge. 'Be proud to have you on board.'

'Thank you.' With renewed energy, Tarquinius strode down to the harbour alongside the centurion. Mithras was guiding him to Rome, on the same ships that would carry off the contents of the Stoic school.

Who was he to argue with a god?

Pontus, northern Asia Minor Petronius could only limp after Romulus as the gloating legionaries dragged him up to their camp, over the bodies of the Pontic dead. At the fortifications, the big soldier and his companions were prevented from immediately crucifying Romulus by the lack of wood. What few trees grew on the mountain had been cut down during the camp's construction. Yet their anger was such that four of them found axes and went off in search of some. The others lolled about in the afternoon sunshine, drinking extra rations of acetum that they had wheedled from the quartermaster.

Trussed up with ropes, Romulus was left to lie in the centre of the group. The sun's rays beat down on his wound, turning his head into a throbbing mass of agony. His throat was parched, but of course no one gave him any water. He was barely aware of Petronius' presence, and only reminded of the others by the occasional kick that they gave him. The irony of the situation was not totally lost on him, however. To have endured so much just to end up a candidate for crucifixion in a remote location like Zela seemed farcical. But that was the nature of fate, Romulus thought numbly. The gods could do whatever they liked.

Tarquinius had been wrong. There would be no return to Rome.

Soon afterwards, Romulus lapsed into unconsciousness.

He was woken by angry shouting, and, confused by his concussion, took a few moments to work out what was going on. Standing on one side of him were the black-haired brute and his companions, their arms full of freshly chopped timber. On the other were Petronius, their optio from the Twenty-Eighth and an unfamiliar centurion. Threats and counter-threats filled the air between the veterans and Petronius, who still appeared to be on his own. Romulus' heart filled to see his friend defend him against such odds.

The optio did not seem inclined to intervene, but at length the centurion raised his hands for silence. At once the veterans obeyed. Senior officers could, and did, call down the harshest of punishment for any infraction of discipline.

The centurion looked briefly satisfied. 'I want to hear, from one man at a time, what in the name of Hades is going on here.' He aimed his vine cane at Petronius. 'You came crying to your optio about this, so you can start.'

Quickly Petronius recounted how they had gone to wash in the river after the battle, and how the veterans had struck up a conversation over Romulus' wound. 'It's all a mistake, sir. Look at him – he's half-stunned. Probably wouldn't know who he just fought, never mind where he got an old scar on his leg from. Silly bastard never fought a Goth.'

Studying Romulus' bloody, dazed appearance, the centurion smiled. 'That sounds plausible, but the accusation of slavery is a serious one all the same.' He looked at the black-haired legionary. 'What have you got to say?'

'The dog's not that badly hurt,' he said furiously. 'And he admitted that the wound had been made by a Goth, sir. In a ludus! How much evidence does a man need?'

Angry mutters of agreement rose from his companions, but none dared to challenge their superior officer directly.

With a frown, the centurion turned to the optio, a squint-eyed Campanian whom Romulus had never taken to. 'Is he any kind of soldier?'

'He is, sir. A good one,' replied the optio, raising Romulus' spirits for a moment. 'But he did join the legion in strange circumstances.'

Interested, the centurion indicated he should continue.

'It was during the night battle in Alexandria, sir. Me and my section were guarding the Heptastadion when he and another dodgy-looking type appeared from nowhere. They were Italian and well armed, so I press-ganged the pair of them on the spot.'

He got an approving nod for that. 'Where had they come from?'

'Said they'd been working for a bestiarius, in the south of Egypt, sir.'

'And is this the other one?' demanded the centurion, pointing at Petronius.

The optio scowled. 'No, sir. He disappeared the same night. Unfortunately, I didn't notice the whoreson was gone until the battle was over. Couldn't find a trace of him anywhere.'

'Suspicious,' muttered the centurion. 'Very suspicious.' He nudged Romulus with his foot. 'Are you an escaped slave?'

Romulus focused on his accuser with difficulty. After a moment, his gaze flickered around the other watching faces. All but Petronius' were filled with hatred or indifference. Utter weariness filled him. What was the point of carrying on? 'Yes, sir,' he said slowly. 'But Petronius, my comrade, had no idea.'

Despite Romulus' get-out clause for him, Petronius looked devastated.

'See, sir?' cried the black-haired soldier, his outrage resurgent. 'I was right. Can we crucify the bastard now?'

'No. I've a better idea,' snapped the centurion. 'Caesar intends to hold massive celebratory games when he returns to Rome. There'll be a need for more bodies than the schools or the prisons hold. This scum might have escaped the arena once, but he won't manage it twice. Clap them in chains. Both can be used as noxii.'

Mollified by this, the veterans grinned.

Scarcely believing his ears, Petronius' fists bunched. Being condemned to die fighting wild beasts or criminals and murderers was a degrading fate. Then he saw their captors' gloating faces. If he tried to fight, he'd be dead in a heartbeat. Life was still precious. Petronius unclenched his hands, and he did not resist when two legionaries tied him up with a length of rope.

'No, sir,' croaked Romulus, struggling against his own bonds. 'Petronius has done nothing wrong!'

'What?' sneered the centurion. 'The fool made a comrade of a slave. He deserves the same miserable death as you.'

'How was he supposed to know?' shouted Romulus. 'Leave him be!'

The centurion's response was to stamp down on his head with the studded sole of one of his caligae.

Darkness took Romulus.

Probing fingers in his wound woke him. Romulus opened his eyes, finding himself in the camp's valetudinarium, a series of large tents near the headquarters. It was near sunset, he was still tied up, and a sallow-skinned surgeon in a bloody apron was examining him. There was no sign of Petronius, just a bored-looking legionary standing guard nearby. Despairing, Romulus closed his eyes again.

Soon the Greek pronounced the absence of a fracture. He cleaned the wound with acetum and placed a neat line of metal clamps in the skin to close it. Each one delivered a stabbing pain as it was inserted. After this, a rough linen bandage was wrapped around Romulus' head. Dressed in an old tunic, he was discharged from the valetudinarium. There were countless other casualties who needed the surgeon's care more than he did. Pulling Romulus to his feet, the legionary frogmarched him to the camp gaol, a wooden stockade by the main entrance. There he was flung inside. As he sprawled to the floor, the door slammed shut. Romulus lay motionless for a moment, letting the misery of what had happened wash over him.