by Ben Kane
‘Better than an army barracks, eh?’ laughed Secundus. ‘It belonged to a legate, lady. One of us.’
She frowned. ‘Belonged?’
‘Poor bastard was thrown from his horse two years ago,’ he answered. ‘Left no family either.’
‘And you seized his property?’ It was not unheard of for this to happen. In the current uncertain political climate, those who acted with confidence often got away with totally illegal acts. It was how Clodius and Milo had conducted their business for years.
He regarded her sternly. ‘We’re veterans, not thieves, lady.’
‘Of course,’ Fabiola muttered. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘The domus belongs to Mithras now,’ he said simply.
‘So you live here?’
‘We have that privilege,’ Secundus answered. ‘This is the most hallowed ground in Rome. It has to be protected.’
Leaving his men and the statue of Mithras behind, Secundus took them along the corridor and around what would be the corner of the central courtyard. Beneath their feet was a simple but well-laid mosaic, its pattern the typical Roman concentric circles, waves and swirls. Few of the many rooms they passed seemed to be occupied, their open doors often revealing bare walls and floors, devoid of furniture.
Secundus finally came to a halt before a chamber which smelt strongly of vinegar, the main cleaning agent used by Roman surgeons. ‘Janus!’ he cried.
Ushering Sextus in, Fabiola entered the valetudinarium, the soldiers’ hospital. As she would learn later, it was laid out just as it would have been inside a tent in a marching camp. A low desk near the doorway formed the reception area. On a wall behind were wooden shelves covered with rolls of calfskin, pots, beakers and metal instruments. Open chests on the floor were full of rolled blankets and dressings. Neat lines of low cots lined the back of the large room. All were unoccupied. Near them stood a battered table surrounded by a number of oil lamps on crudely fashioned iron stands. Thick ropes hung from each of its legs and while clean, its surface was covered in dark, circular stains. They looked rather like old blood.
Standing up from his leather stool in the corner, a thin-faced man wearing a worn military tunic decorated with two phalerae bowed his head courteously at Fabiola. Like all the soldiers, he wore a belt and a sheathed dagger. The studs of his caligae clashed gently off the floor as he approached.
Respect filled Fabiola. Every single one of Secundus’ men might initially look like a vagrant, but they all carried themselves with a quiet dignity. ‘What’s that?’ she asked, nodding at the table.
‘The operating theatre,’ replied the brown-haired medical orderly.
Fabiola’s stomach clenched at the thought of being tied down and cut open.
Janus ushered Sextus towards it. ‘An arrow?’ His voice was low, authoritative.
‘Yes,’ muttered the slave, bending his head to allow a proper examination. ‘I pulled it out myself.’
Janus clicked his tongue disapprovingly, his fingers already probing the area for further damage.
Secundus saw Fabiola’s surprise. ‘The barbs scrape off flesh as they come out. Makes a ragged and very distinctive wound,’ he explained. ‘Knives or swords come out more cleanly.’
She winced. Romulus!
‘In the legions we see them all, lady,’ Secundus murmured. ‘War is a savage business.’
Her composure cracked even more.
Secundus grew concerned. ‘What is it?’
For some reason, Fabiola felt unable to conceal the truth. The gods had brought Secundus into her life twice in just a few days; as a veteran, he would understand. ‘My brother was at Carrhae,’ she explained.
He shot her a surprised glance. ‘How did that come to pass? Did he belong to Crassus?’
Of course, he knew her past: that she had been a slave. Fabiola peered anxiously at Janus and Sextus, but they were out of earshot. The orderly had made her slave lie down on the table and was cleaning the blood from his face with a wet cloth. ‘No. He escaped from the Ludus Magnus and joined the army.’
‘A slave in the legions?’ barked Secundus. ‘That’s forbidden, on pain of death.’
Romulus had not been discovered and executed for that reason, thought Fabiola. As crafty as she, her twin would have found a way. ‘He was with a Gaul,’ she went on. ‘A champion gladiator.’
‘I see,’ the veteran answered thoughtfully. ‘Might have joined a mercenary cohort then. They’re not as picky.’
‘Romulus was a brave man,’ Fabiola snapped, bridling at his words. ‘As good as any damn legionary.’
‘My words were hasty,’ he admitted, colouring. ‘If he is like you, he must have had the heart of a lion.’
Unwilling to let it go, Fabiola pointed at Sextus. ‘Look! He’s a slave. Yet he fought for me when badly wounded. So did the others, before they were killed.’
Secundus lifted his hands in a placating gesture. ‘I am not what you think.’ He looked her in the eyes. ‘Slaves are permitted to worship Mithras. With us, as equals.’
It was Fabiola’s turn to feel embarrassed. Secundus was not then like the majority of citizens, who regarded slaves as little better than animals. Even manumission did not completely remove the stain: by now, she was well used to the patronising stares given her by many nobles who knew her past. Fabiola sincerely hoped that any children the gods might grant her would not suffer the same discrimination. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Our religion’s main tenets are truth, honour and courage. Those are qualities anyone can possess, whether they are a consul or a low-born slave. Mithras sees all men in the same light, as brothers.’
It was an alien and incredible concept; one Fabiola had never heard of. Naturally, it appealed to her immensely. In Rome, slaves were permitted to worship the gods, but the idea of recognising them as equals to their masters was unthinkable. Their position in society remained the same: the very bottom. The only people who could perhaps have changed that, the well-fed priests and acolytes in the city’s temples, were no more than mouthpieces of the state: they never expressed such revolutionary thoughts. That might upset the status quo, which allowed an elite class of tens of thousands, as well as the ordinary citizens, to rule over hundreds of times that number of slaves. To hear that a god – a warrior god – could see past the stigma of slavery was truly amazing.
Fabiola’s gaze lifted to that of Secundus. ‘What about women?’ she asked. ‘Can we join?’
‘No,’ he answered. ‘It is not permitted.’
‘Why not?’
Secundus’ jaw hardened at her audacity. ‘We are soldiers. Women are not.’
‘I fought today,’ she said hotly.
‘It’s not the same, lady,’ he snapped. ‘Do not presume too much on our hospitality.’
Chapter IX: Omens
Margiana, winter 53/52 BC
Illness had aged Pacorus considerably. The normal healthy colour of his brown skin had still not returned. In its place was a pale waxy sheen, which accentuated his sunken cheeks and the new grey streaks in his hair. The Parthian had lost a huge amount of weight, and clothes which had fitted him well now hung loosely on his bony frame. But, remarkably, he was alive. It was a minor miracle. Despite the high fevers that had racked his body and the foul, yellow poisonous liquids which had repeatedly erupted from his wounds, Pacorus had not succumbed. Scythicon did not kill every man, it seemed. But it was not just his tough nature: all of the haruspex’ skill and another dose of the precious mantar had gone into his recovery.
And the help of Mithras, thought Tarquinius, eyeing the little statue on the altar in the corner. He had spent many hours on his knees before it, making sure when possible that the commander saw him. Half-delirious still, Pacorus had been susceptible to his muttered words and consequently overcome by devotion to his god. With little prompting, he rambled about some of the secret rituals practised by the Parthians in their Mithraeum. The haruspex listened eagerly, picking up valuable pieces of information. He
knew now that the statue depicted Mithras in the cave of his birth, slaying the primeval bull. By performing the tauroctony, the god released its life force for the benefit of mankind. Like all killings, the sacred rite did not come without a price, which explained why Mithras was looking away from the bull’s head as he plunged his knife into its throat.
Tarquinius had discovered that among the stages of initiation were those of raven, soldier, lion, sun-runner and the most senior, the father. Pacorus had hinted that interpretation of the stars was critically important, as was self-knowledge and improvement. Mithras was symbolised in the sky by the Perseus constellation and the bull by that of Taurus. Frustrating Tarquinius, the Parthian had said little else. Even severe illness was not enough to make him reveal any meaningful Mithraic secrets.
Tarquinius knew that there might be few chances to learn more. Although the commander had come back from the brink, he was by no means fully recovered. And rather than subsiding, Vahram’s threats had sharply increased. He could see what was being done for Pacorus, and because of it the squat primus pilus had formed a personal grievance against Tarquinius. There could be only one reason for this, the haruspex decided. Vahram wanted Pacorus to die, thereby relinquishing command of the Forgotten Legion to him.
This was a possibility that filled Tarquinius with dread. Vahram was bull-headed and far less susceptible to his influence than many men. Yet, like most, he was swayed by superstition. Wary of Tarquinius and the reaction of his warriors, he did not yet feel secure enough to murder Pacorus out of hand. Vahram wanted a guarantee that his plans would not backfire. Every day, he badgered the haruspex for information. Busying himself with the preparation of medication and the changing of Pacorus’ dressings, Tarquinius skilfully avoided giving Vahram anything other than a polite fob-off. Their commander’s now frequent lucid moments also helped to prevent interrogations.
The anger grew steadily but he confined himself to taunts about Romulus and Brennus. Knowing that the two men were very dear to Tarquinius, Vahram used doubts about their safety as a way of intimidating the normally imperturbable haruspex. Verbal abuse rained down on his head and Tarquinius was powerless to resist. In this precarious situation, Vahram was simply too dangerous to cross.primus pilus’
Tarquinius hated having no idea how his friends were doing. All his guards had been threatened with dire punishments if they said a word. Combined with their deep-seated fear of his abilities, it meant that the haruspex lived in virtual solitude. Even the servants were too frightened to speak with him. Yet the silence was not as troubling as the isolation. Tarquinius thrived on knowledge of what was going on, and now he was being denied any.
The patch of sky over Pacorus’ courtyard rarely afforded much information: apart from the occasional snowstorm, there simply wasn’t enough to see. He had no hens or lambs to sacrifice either. Without realising it, Vahram had curtailed Tarquinius’ capacity to prophesy. Virtually the only method left was to study the fire in Pacorus’ bedroom. This was best done very late, when the commander was sleeping and the servants and guards had retired for the night. Letting the logs burn down to mere embers occasionally provided some useful snippets. Frustratingly, the haruspex could see little that referred to his friends. Or his own prospects. This was the random and infuriating nature of prophecy: to reveal little when it seemed important, and much when it did not. Sometimes it disclosed nothing at all. Tarquinius’ doubts about himself resurfaced with a vengeance.
After giving Pacorus his last medicine of the evening, it had become his ritual to hurry to the brick fireplace in the room. No chance to divine could be missed. Tarquinius was now desperate to know something – anything – about the future. It was perhaps this eagerness that caused the slip in his normal attention to detail one night. The instant that the Parthian commander’s lids closed in sleep, Tarquinius tiptoed away from the bed. But he forgot to bolt the door.
Squatting on his haunches by the fire, he sighed with anticipation. Tonight would be different. He could feel it in his bones.
There was one large log still burning. Surrounded by the charred shapes of others, it was glowing a deep red-orange colour. Tarquinius studied it carefully for a long time. The smouldering wood was dry and well-seasoned, with few knots: just the type he liked.
It was time.
An all-too-familiar feeling took hold. Recognising it as fear, Tarquinius gritted his teeth. This could not go on. He inhaled deeply, then again. Feeling calmer, he reached down for a poker and tapped the piece of timber with it. His action released a torrent of sparks. They wafted up the chimney in lazy streams, singly and in groups. The smallest went out very quickly, but bigger ones continued to glow as they were carried upwards by the hot air. The haruspex’ pupils constricted as he studied their pattern, counting his pulse to judge the time each took to disappear.
At last, an image of Romulus.
Tarquinius’ breath caught in his chest.
The young soldier looked troubled and unsure. Brennus was by his side, his normally jovial expression absent. Both were wearing their crested bronze helmets and dressed in full chain mail; their scuta were raised and a javelin was ready in each man’s right fist. Plainly they were nowhere near the security of the fort. Around them, the scenery was unclear, any distinctive features covered in snow. There were other legionaries present too, at least one or two centuries.
Tarquinius frowned.
A fast-moving flash of red contrasted against the white landscape. Then another.
The shapes were gone before he could decide what they were. Battle standards? Horsemen? Or just his imagination? The haruspex was left with a lingering sense of unease. He leaned closer to the fire, concentrating hard.
And jerked back, repulsed.
A barrack-room floor awash with blood.
What did it mean?
The image disappeared as the log broke in half. Gentle crackling sounds rose as the two pieces fell. The fire’s heart flared brighter as it seized control of the new fuel, and a new wave of sparks was released.
Tarquinius had long ago learned to let unclear, disturbing scenes go. Often they could not be interpreted at all, so there was little point in remaining anxious. He relaxed, pleased by the movement in the fireplace. There would be something useful in this. Lips moving silently, he focused his entire attention on what he was seeing.
A Parthian warrior sat astride a horse, which was panicking as an enraged elephant charged it. The man’s face was turned away, so he could not be recognised. Behind him a battle raged between Roman legionaries and a dark-skinned enemy armed with all manner of strange weapons.
The haruspex was intrigued by the rider and the host’s alien appearance. Intent on gaining an understanding of what was being shown, he did not hear the door open behind him.
‘Vahram?’ he muttered. ‘Is it Vahram?’
‘What sorcery are you up to?’
Tarquinius froze at the sound of the primus pilus’ voice. The realisation that he had not locked the door crashed down on him. Complacency can kill, he thought grimly. It was something he had taught Romulus, yet here he was, doing the same himself. Without looking back, Tarquinius shoved the poker hard against the chunks of wood, pushing them down into the ash at the bottom of the fireplace. Starved of air, they would go out fast. No more sparks. ‘I was just tending the fire,’ he replied.
‘Liar!’ Vahram hissed. ‘You said my name.’
Tarquinius stood and turned to face the primus pilus, who was accompanied by a trio of muscular warriors carrying spears. And ropes. Tonight, Vahram meant business. ‘Pacorus will wake,’ he said loudly, cursing the fact that he had not kept his thoughts silent.
‘Leave him be.’ Vahram smiled, but there was no humour in his face. ‘We don’t want to trouble him unnecessarily.’
He’s making his move, thought the haruspex with alarm. And my comment has given him more ammunition. ‘It’s been a long day,’ he said, raising his voice even further. ‘Hasn’t it, sir?’
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Their commander did not move a muscle.
Tarquinius moved towards the bed, but Vahram blocked his way.
‘Don’t play it smart with me, you arrogant son of a whore!’ The barrel-chested Parthian was incandescent with rage now. ‘What did you see?’
‘I told you,’ answered Tarquinius earnestly, keen that the primus pilus should believe him. Who knew what he was really capable of? ‘Nothing.’
Vahram went icy calm. Everyone in the whole camp knew that the haruspex was no charlatan. Pacorus and Tarquinius had both been careful not to tell anyone about the lack of results from his haruspicy. In the primus pilus’ eyes, this was obstruction, pure and simple. ‘Fine,’ he said, his anger at last outweighing his fear. He snapped his fingers at the warriors. ‘Tie him up.’
Tarquinius flinched.
Swiftly his wrists were bound together; a leather gag was wedged into his mouth and tied around the back of his head. Is this what was different about tonight? Tarquinius thought bitterly. There had been no inkling that this would happen. The thick cords tore at his flesh, breaking the skin, but he breathed into the pain, letting it wash over him. This was just the start. What was to come would be worse.
It was then that Pacorus stirred under his blankets. His eyes, heavy-lidded from the sleeping draught that Tarquinius had given him, opened.
Not totally confident in his authority, Vahram paused. His men did likewise.
The haruspex sent up a prayer to Mithras. Wake up!
Pacorus’ lids closed again and he rolled over, turning his back to them.
The primus pilus’ face twisted with pleasure and he jerked a thumb at the door.
Feeling incredibly weary, the haruspex let himself be dragged outside. Even Pacorus’ guards had disappeared from their posts. The gods were in a cruel mood. There would be no easy divination tonight: just pain, and possibly death.
Initially, Vahram didn’t even ask any questions. This was about revenge as well as information-gathering. He waited patiently as his men tied Tarquinius’ wrists to an iron ring positioned high up on a pillar in the courtyard. Then he made a simple gesture with his hand. The beating that followed lasted for a long time. The three warriors changed places when their right arms grew tired from wielding the whip.