‘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.