Crassus had seen no reason to depart from custom. The advance had been led by Romulus' cohort and other units, rather than legion regulars. Crossing the river in hundreds of small reed boats built by the engineers had taken time, but it had been achieved with minimal problems. Only two craft had overturned, spilling their passengers into the water. Dragged under by the weight of armour and weapons, the screaming mercenaries had drowned quickly. It was a trifle compared to the massive force now waiting on the eastern bank. As with Alexander's invasion, single men's lives were unimportant.
At the front of every legion stood its standard-bearer, resplendent in his bronze cuirass and wolfskin head-dress. On a wooden pole above each was a silver eagle gripping golden lightning bolts, the legion's awards hanging below. They were potent symbols of power to every soldier and represented the valour and courage of a unit.
The outstretched wings of the eagle nearest Romulus gleamed in the rising sun. Nudging Brennus, he pointed proudly. It seemed a good omen, and judging by the pleased murmurs in the ranks, the men agreed. Something that was badly needed after what had happened earlier. By now, every man in the army knew that Crassus had dropped the bull's heart.
But Rome appeared triumphant again.
'I've seen too many bloody standards like that from the other side of a battlefield,' sniffed the Gaul, hands resting on his longsword.
Tarquinius said nothing, his eyes searching the heavens. He had not spoken since dawn.
Neither of Romulus' friends felt the same way about the eagles. They did not identify with Rome the way he did. Despite what the legions stood for, he found himself instinctively proud of them. Born a slave, now a mercenary, he was still a Roman.
Behind the standard-bearers came the four hundred and eighty legionaries of the first cohort, the most important. They were followed by nine more of equal size, taking the strength of every legion to nearly five thousand men.
Roman soldiers dressed identically. Long brown cloth tunics were covered by chain mail shirts reaching to the thighs; leather caligae with nail-studded soles clad their feet. Each carried a heavy, curved rectangular scutum. Simple helmets of bronze with wide hinged cheek flaps and a neck guard protected their heads. Every man was armed with two javelins and his gladius. Other equipment and food hung from the yoke, a long forked piece of wood carried over one shoulder.
By contrast, the units of irregulars dressed according to origin. Bassius' men were mostly Gauls, so chain mail, loose tunics and baggy trousers were common. Spears and longswords, elongated rectangular shields and daggers formed their weaponry. Cohorts of Cappadocians in leather armour stood nearby, armed with short swords and round shields. Balearic slingers, African light infantry and Iberian and Gaulish cavalry completed the tally of mercenaries.
Deliberately breaking the treaty forged by Pompey some years before, the army had crossed the Euphrates a number of times the previous autumn, plundering Parthian towns in the vicinity. Crassus was creating a casus belli. By its very nature, the campaigning had not progressed more than a few miles inland. Now an altogether different prospect faced the massed lines of legionaries and mercenaries. An unknown world lay before them.
Despite the possibility of alternative routes, they were about to leave the river behind and march into the barren wastes of Mesopotamia. The prospect filled Romulus with unease, but the friends he had grown to love showed no signs of emotion. Brennus leaned forward on his longsword, dwarfing it, while the Etruscan silently contemplated the nearby eagle standard.
Remembering Tarquinius' words, Romulus breathed deeply, looking southeast towards Crassus' first objective — Seleucia, the commercial capital of the Parthian empire. With luck, all would be well.
The bucinae sounded at last, signalling forward march. Romulus felt a push in the back. Still thinking, he did not respond immediately and the man in the rank behind shoved again with his shield boss. A Roman army moved like a machine, leaving no time for contemplation.
He noticed Tarquinius looking over his shoulder at the Sixth Legion, the regular unit immediately behind the mercenaries' position. As they watched, the standard-bearer pulled his spiked pole out of the ground, preparing to lead off the first cohort. The man had only taken one step when the wooden staff slipped in his hand, allowing the silver eagle to rotate and face backwards.
Gasps of dismay filled the air and Romulus swallowed hard.
Brennus, who hated all the eagles stood for, squared his jaw.
This was the second bad omen in as many hours.
Tarquinius was smiling faintly. Luckily, most of their comrades had not seen what had happened.
Romulus took a breath of hot desert air. Stay calm, he thought.
The veteran centurion in charge of the Sixth's first cohort instantly seized the initiative. Superstition would not stop him following his orders. 'Forward march!' he bellowed. 'Now!'
Wary of punishment, the legionaries responded quickly. But muttering continued in their midst as they moved off. There was no time to ask Tarquinius about the importance of what had just happened.
Kicking up a huge cloud of dust, the soldiers picked up speed slowly. Orders rang out as centurions and optiones fussed and bothered. Men shuffled, adjusting their loads and preparing to march as each unit got under way. The mules plodded in the rear, carrying food, gold, spare equipment and assault weapons such as catapults. The enormous column stretched for more than ten miles. Any unfortunates who had been selected to guard the baggage train cursed their luck as they swallowed the mouthfuls of choking dust left hanging in the air by the legions that had marched past.
The army advanced without incident all morning. Deep sand muffled the sounds of marching feet, creaking leather and coughing men. Temperatures rose steadily as they passed by the small settlements of the Hellenic population, a people who had been living in the area for hundreds of years.
'Alexander the Great came through here,' said Tarquinius excitedly as a larger village came into view.
Full of interest, Romulus peered at the nearby mud and brick structures. 'How can you tell?'
Tarquinius pointed. 'That temple has Doric columns and statues of Greek gods. And we crossed the river where the Lion of Macedon did. It's marked on my map.'
Romulus grinned, imagining the crack hoplites who had created history. Soldiers who had been to the end of the world and back. It seemed that under Crassus, they were being given a chance to emulate the feat.
'Crassus is no Alexander,' said Tarquinius darkly. 'Far too arrogant. And he lacks real insight.'
'Even the best general can make a mistake,' Romulus argued, recalling one of Cotta's lessons. 'Alexander came to grief against the Indian elephants.'
'But Crassus has made a fatal error before the battle even starts.' The Etruscan smiled. 'It is madness not to follow a river into the desert.'
Romulus' concern about the bad omens returned with a vengeance and he turned again to Tarquinius, who shrugged eloquently.
'The campaign's outcome is still unclear. I need some wind or cloud to know more.'
Romulus looked up at the clear blue sky. The air was completely still.
Tarquinius laughed.
So did Romulus. What else could he do? There was no going back now and despite the uncertainty of their fate, excitement was coursing through his veins.
Brennus remained silent, troubled by guilty memories of his wife and child, of Conall and Brac. If he was to die in this burning hell, it was crucial for him to know that they had not died in vain. That the Allobroges had not been wiped out for nothing. That his whole life had not been wasted.