Crassus anxiously watched his men. It was vital that they thought the campaign would be successful. A slight soldier with blond hair and single gold earring caught his attention. Carrying a large battleaxe, he was dressed like an irregular. The man stared back without fear or deference, apparently ignoring the ceremony.
Crassus felt goose bumps rising on both arms and suddenly remembered the Etruscan bronze liver he had tried to buy many years previously. The soldiers he had sent on that mission had all died shortly afterwards. Terror constricted his throat and he turned away. The mercenary was regarding him as he imagined the ferryman might.
No one else had noticed.
'The omens are good!'
A great sigh of relief swept through the gathering.
'I see a mighty victory for Rome! Parthia will be crushed!'
Wild cheering broke out.
Crassus turned to his legates with a smile.
'Liar,' hissed Tarquinius. 'The blood showed something else altogether.'
Romulus' face fell.
'I'll tell you later. The ceremony's not over yet.'
They watched as the priest cut open the animal's belly with a sharp knife. More favourable predictions followed as shiny loops of gut came spilling on to the sand, followed by the liver. The climax came once the diaphragm had been cut, allowing access to the chest cavity. Reaching deep into the steaming carcass with his blade, the soothsayer cut and pulled for a few moments. At last he stood and faced the officers, robes saturated with blood, his arms red to the shoulder. In both hands sat the bull's heart, glistening in the rays of the rising sun.
'It beats still! A sign of the power of Crassus' legions!' he yelled.
All the legionaries roared approval.
All except Tarquinius and Romulus.
Arms outstretched, the old man approached Crassus, who waited with an expectant smile. The omens had been good. Soldiers would hear the news from those watching, spreading it through the entire army faster than he ever could.
'Great Crassus, receive the heart. A symbol of your bravery. A sign of victory!' the priest shouted.
Reaching out eagerly, Crassus stepped forwards. This was his moment. But as he took the bloody organ, it slipped from his grasp, landed on the ground and rolled away from him.
There was a sharp intake of breath from Tarquinius. 'Nobody can deny what that means.'
Crassus moaned. The heart was no longer red. Thousands of grains of sand now coated its surface, turning it yellow.
The colour of the desert.
He stared at the priest, whose features were ashen. Everyone watching had gone rigid with shock.
'Say something!'
The old man cleared his throat. 'The omens stand!' he cried. 'In the blood, I saw a mighty victory from the gods!'
The men glanced at each other, many quickly making the sign against evil, others rubbing the lucky amulets that hung from their necks. They had not seen the bowl's contents. What they had seen was Crassus dropping the bull's heart, an ultimate symbol of courage. Hands grew clammy and feet shuffled on the sand. Instead of cheers, an uneasy silence hung in the air.
Looking up, Crassus saw a group of twelve vultures floating on the thermals. He was not the only one to notice. There was no time to lose.
'Soldiers of Rome! Do not be troubled,' he shouted. 'The priest's hands are slippery — just as yours will be with Parthian blood!'
Romulus turned nervously to Tarquinius.
'He is a fraud,' the Etruscan said quietly. 'But do not fear. We may yet survive.'
His comment was hardly reassuring. It seemed impossible that Crassus' army could be defeated, but the sand-covered heart was still lying on the ground before them all.
Gory evidence.
Romulus found himself wanting to believe in Tarquinius. The alternative did not bear thinking about.
Around them, the legionaries were less than convinced. The general tried to rally their spirits, to no avail. With a savage gesture, he dismissed them, retreating into the tent with his officers. Even Crassus had to admit silently that his effort to inspire the troops had been a total failure. And the news would spread fast. It was nothing to worry about, he tried to convince himself.
But the gods were angry.
Romulus looked back at the wide river snaking off into the south. Soon the army's fate would be as clear as the deep waters flowing swiftly past. Having marched into this vast land, Crassus' men were about to enter more unknown, oriental territory.
Fat tendrils of dawn mist hung low over the waterway, concealing clusters of reeds on the banks. It would not be long before the sun burned off the grey veil, revealing the shore. Reaching the river after many days' march had been a huge relief for the thirsty army, but Romulus and thousands of soldiers waiting in silence would not be able to linger or relax. Crassus and his son Publius were leading them southeast.
The Roman host had travelled hundreds of miles from its beachhead on the western corner of Asia Minor. Every major city in its path had paid large sums of money to avoid attack by such a massive force. Jerusalem in particular had yielded a king's ransom, its elders desperate to preserve its ancient wealth. Once winter had passed, Crassus' legions had crossed Syria to the Euphrates, arriving thirteen months after disembarking from the triremes. By this time, Romulus and Brennus were firm friends with Tarquinius.
The Etruscan had an enormous knowledge of medicine, astrology, history and the mystic arts. Having spent years on campaign with the general Lucullus in Armenia, he was also an experienced fighter. Bassius had quickly noticed his talents and promoted him straight to optio so he could help train the recruits. Tarquinius' sharp sense of humour had blended with Brennus' earthy one and his soothsaying ability complemented the Gaul's huge skill with weapons. Under their tuition Romulus had bloomed, improving not just his fitness and swordsmanship, but learning to read and write as well.
The rumours in the ranks were that they were heading for Seleucia on the Tigris. Romulus knew more about the region now from Tarquinius' stories about the Land of the Two Rivers and the kingdoms that had existed there. He had enjoyed many nights of history lessons, hearing about Babylonians, Persians and other exotic races. Romulus' favourite tale was that of Alexander the Great, a man who had marched from Greece to India and back, conquering half the world in the process.
Now the mighty Parthians ruled the deserts. Originally a small but warlike tribe, the fierce warriors had been absorbing defeated kingdoms for generations, growing until Parthia was rivalled in size only by Rome. It was a sparsely populated empire, peopled by nomads. Parthia's wealth came from taxing valuable goods such as silk, jewels and spices carried by traders returning on caravan routes from India and the far east. Aware of Rome's greed, the Parthians guarded this trade jealously.
But it had attracted the attention of Crassus. And, eager for a rapid victory, he was marching into the desert, in a straight line towards Seleucia.
Cursing the strident trumpet calls, the seven legions, five thousand mercenaries and two thousand cavalry had risen well before dawn. Word was still spreading about Crassus' fumble with the heart, so the legionaries had taken down their tents with typical Roman efficiency, packing them swiftly on to pack mules. The regulars were an excellent example of the Republic's ability to organise, but Bassius' men were less used to the job. Cajoled and threatened by turn, eventually the mercenaries were ready to leave.
The tall earthen ramparts thrown up the previous day outside the town of Zeugma were left in place. Dozens of similar camps marked the army's trail way back into Asia Minor, and would prove useful when returning from the conquest of Parthia.