‘Typical rubbish.’ Fronto snapped, earning a hard look from Antonius.
‘And who are the wolves and the bull?’ the officer said quietly.
The seer appeared not to have heard him, for his eyes narrowed. ‘But the bull will not find the snake, for the snake slithers into burrows.’
‘Someone has been listening to too many animal stories,’ muttered Fronto.
‘Will you kindly shut up and listen?’ Antonius snapped.
‘Well, when he tells you that the horse gets humped by the hedgepig, what are you going to divine from that?’
‘Quiet!’
Fronto lapsed into silence, glowering at them.
‘While the bull does not find the snake, the eagle will bring death to the serpent.’
Fronto grunted as the seer turned at this last to stare pointedly at him. ‘Don’t look at me, you old fruit. I’m no snake, and I only serve the eagle.’
‘Fronto, do be quiet.’ Antonius sighed.
‘It’s all guesswork and deceptive vagaries.’
‘I will argue the authenticity of omens with you another time, Marcus, but right now I want to try and pick apart those phrases, in case they are of use.
‘The final thread snaps!’ the Gaul suddenly barked.
‘See?’ Fronto laughed. ‘He’s getting unhinged.’
‘In the baked sand, the Parthian shot takes the last.’
Antonius frowned and leaned down to the man. ‘What in the name of Olympus do you know of the Parthians?’
Fronto was staring at the two men. Antonius, of course, had served out in the east recently, and would likely have come into contact with the Parthians. This Gaul, though, should never even have heard of that eastern empire, let alone the ‘Parthian shot’. His blood suddenly chilled.
‘Socrates’ root.’
Antonius’ head jerked round to Fronto. ‘What?’
‘Socrates’ root. Vulcan’s Fury. The arrival of the Son. The Parthian shot.’
‘Marcus, what are you babbling about?’
Fronto took a couple of steps back and leaned against the wall.
‘Marcus, you’ve gone white as an aedile’s toga. What is it?’
Fronto pulled himself together with some difficulty. The hairs were standing proud on the nape of his neck. ‘Nothing. I’ll tell you later. Let’s get out of here.’
‘But there could be more.’
‘You’ve got what you want. Two wolves won’t be attending the feast. Doesn’t take a druid to translate that. Come on.’
Leaving Antonius to finish up with the priest, Fronto strode outside, where he stopped in the slightly damp, chilly air and took a number of deep breaths. The last part of Catullus’ prophecy! It had been so long since Julia’s death that he’d almost forgotten about it. Catullus, then Aurelia Cotta, and then Julia. Now the Parthian shot for the fourth. It was hard not to take a guess at that one.
Antonius appeared from the doorway, a frown of curiosity creasing his brow.
‘Talk to me.’
‘Not right now. Now I need to get back to the camp and get ready to go hunt Ambiorix. I think great and terrible things are hovering on the horizon, Antonius, and we need to put our current problems to rest. They’ll pale into insignificance against what’s coming, I fear.’
Antonius’ frown deepened as he watched the rattled soldier turn and almost jog back towards the camp.
* * * * *
Marcus Licinius Crassus, the richest man in Rome, commander of the eastern armies and invader of Parthia stood on the dais, his arms stretched tight and lashed to the wooden frame that kept him in position, head tilted back so that the sun seared his face. Only his legs had any real freedom of movement, and even that minimal. The only relief he felt was that this restrictive position meant he could no longer see the head of his eldest son Publius dancing around atop a Parthian lance among their officers, a prize taken in the mid-phase of the dreadful, appalling, decisive battle.
All he’d wanted was the military glory due to him. Pompey had stolen his credit for the Spartacus campaign, and Caesar was busy racking up the victories in Gaul. Wealth was important, but no man could control Rome without the respect of its people. Was he so disfavoured by the Gods that he must die out here, in the unforgiving sands, never seeing Rome again?
Perhaps the enemy general Surena would ransom him back to Rome? He was, after all, famed for his extraordinary wealth. And though he would never recover from the sight of Publius’ severed head, at least he could be there for his younger son, currently out in Gaul with Caesar. He had to be worth the ransom. He could afford to buy the Parthian King of Kings a second empire!
Something metal clamped around his head, digging painfully into his temples, holding his cranium in precise position with no fraction of movement. As he opened his mouth to shout in alarm, something else metal slipped in from either side and then opened like a vice, driving his jaws painfully apart.
What had the cruel monster in mind?
Crassus watched, immobile and totally helpless, as a large iron bowl at the end of a long staff appeared to one side, lifted above him. Thick steam poured from the top and the contents made unpleasant noises.
Blop. Gurgle. Pop.
His eyes widened in terror and his voice came out in a high-pitched, feminine shriek as he saw the pot of molten gold hover above his open mouth and begin to tip. The scream continued for a moment, before it drowned in the liquid metal that burned its way through him in scant moments.
The corpse of the third master of Rome sagged in the frame.
Chapter Nine
Fronto performed a quick headcount and, noting eighteen occupants, nodded to Masgava to close the tent flap and tie it shut. The men of his singulares unit sat around on the various small stools and seats or on the thick rug on the floor, interest showing in their faces.
‘Masgava and Palmatus you all know. Some of you might have believed when you were plucked from the drab everyday of your legion or cavalry life that you’d just been handed an easy ride. Now that you’re getting used to your two officers, you’ll probably have abandoned that notion. I am not a sit-back-and-watch staff officer. I like to put palm to hilt and bloody myself up to the elbows in battle, so your job as a bodyguard unit is likely to be somewhat perilous.’
He grinned. ‘Think on that for a few heartbeats, because this is your last chance to back out and request a transfer. I’ll grant it, because I only want committed soldiers here.’
He paused for only a moment before gesturing to a pale, willowy figure, seemingly odd-fitting in a military tunic and boots. ‘Damionis there is a capsarius that comes highly recommended by my former training centurion, Atenos, and therefore has my utmost confidence and support. If he tells you to do something, you do it. Capsarii are paid well for a reason.’
‘At the back over there is Biorix. He will remember me, won’t you?’
The big blond engineer from the Thirteenth, still noticeably Gallic in appearance despite having Romanised as much as one could expect, nodded his recognition.
‘Biorix was instrumental in the success of the battle of the Aisne river up in Belgae lands a few years back. He’s an intuitive engineer and a man of Gaul, to boot.’
He leaned back. ‘So that’s four of you I know of old, and who know me. The rest of you will probably know of me by reputation anyway if you’ve been with us for more than a year, and, of course, some of you were with me when we took Asadunon. I don’t have an excellent memory for names, and it’ll be weeks before I stop calling you ‘you there’ or ‘big nose’ or ‘lop-eye’ or some such. Don’t take offence. I’ve been called worse, and it just means I’m trying to remember who you are. See, there’s only nineteen of us altogether, and we lost too many at Asadunon. I want each of these faces still looking up at me from a briefing by the time the army settles into winter quarters later in the year. Alright?’
There was a murmur of agreement, and Fronto poured himself a watered wine, three parts to one in favour of inebriety. ‘Very well. The rest of you introduce yourselves. You all need to know who you are and what you do. We’ll start with the native levy.