slaves and criminals to fight and die in the arena. Men’s lives meant nothing to him. At that memory, Romulus spat. To survive in the ludus, he had been forced to end a man’s life. More than once. Kill or be killed: Brennus’ mantra rang in his ears.
Romulus checked that his short, double-edged gladius was loose in its scabbard, that the bone-handled dagger on the other side of his belt was ready for use. The actions were second nature to him now. A grin creased his face as he caught Brennus doing the same. Like all Roman soldiers, they also carried two iron-headed javelins, or pila. Their companions, a score of Pacorus’ best warriors, stood in marked contrast to them. Clad in simpler versions of their senior’s clothing, and with slit-sided woollen cloaks rather than a thick fur one, each man was armed with a long knife and a slim case which hung from his right hip. This was large enough to carry his recurved composite bow and a supply of arrows. Proficient with many weapons, the Parthians were first and foremost a nation of highly skilled archers. It was fortunate that he had met none of them in the arena, thought Romulus. All were able to loose half a dozen shafts in the time a man could run a hundred paces. And every one accurate enough to kill.
Fortunately, the ludus was also where he had met Brennus. Romulus threw him a grateful look. Without the Gaul’s friendship, he would have soon succumbed to the savage life. Instead, over two years had passed with only a single life-threatening injury. Then, late one night, a street brawl had gone horribly wrong and the friends had had to flee Rome together. Joining the army as mercenaries, the general Crassus had become their new master. Politician, millionaire and member of Rome’s ruling triumvirate, he was desperate for the military recognition possessed by his two colleagues, Julius Caesar and Pompey Magnus. Arrogant fool, thought Romulus. If he’d been more like Caesar, we’d all be home by now. Instead of fame and glory, Crassus led thirty-five thousand men to a bloody, ignominious defeat at Carrhae. The survivors – about one-third of the army – had been taken prisoner by the Parthians, whose brutality outstripped even that of Memor. Given the stark choices of having molten gold poured down their throats, being crucified or serving in a border force on Parthia’s unsettled eastern frontier, Romulus and his comrades had naturally chosen the last.
Romulus sighed, no longer so sure that their choice had been correct. It seemed they would spend the rest of their lives fighting their captors’ historical enemies: savage nomadic tribes from Sogdia, Bactria, and Scythia.
He was here to find out if that miserable fate could be avoided.
Tarquinius’ dark eyes scanned the rock face.
Not a sign.
Differing in appearance to all the others, Tarquinius had long, blond locks held in place by a cloth band, which revealed a thin face, high cheekbones and a single gold earring in his right ear. The Etruscan wore a hide breastplate covered with tiny interlinked bronze rings; a centurion’s short leather-bordered skirt completed his attire. From his back hung a small, worn pack. Over his left shoulder, a double-headed battleaxe dangled from a strap. Unlike his companions, the haruspex had scorned a cloak. He wanted his senses to be on full alert.
‘Well?’ demanded Pacorus. ‘Can you see the entrance?’
A slight frown creased Tarquinius’ brow, but he did not reply. Long years of training under Olenus, his mentor, had taught him great patience. To others, it often looked like smugness.
The commander’s eyes flickered off to the right.
Tarquinius deliberately glanced the other way. Mithras, he thought, Great One. Show me your temple.
Pacorus could no longer contain himself. ‘It’s not even thirty paces away,’ he taunted.
Several of his warriors sniggered.
Casually, Tarquinius let his gaze slide over to where the commander had looked a moment before. He stared long and hard at the cliff, but could see nothing.
‘You’re a charlatan. I always knew it,’ snarled Pacorus. ‘It was a complete mistake to let you become a centurion.’
It was as if the Parthian had forgotten how he, Tarquinius, had provided the Forgotten Legion with its secret weapon, thought the haruspex bitterly. A ruby gifted to him years ago by Olenus had bought the silk which even now covered more than five thousand men’s scuta, giving them the ability to withstand arrows from the previously all-powerful recurved bows. It had been his idea to have thousands