Vahram’s lips curved upwards in triumph. ‘Everything,’ he replied. ‘About my future.’
‘Your future?’ Tarquinius croaked. ‘And that of Pacorus?’
Nodding, the primus pilus grew bolder. ‘Who should lead the Forgotten Legion now?’ he murmured. ‘Surely not that cripple in the bed?’
In that instant it was all clear. The haruspex swallowed, his mouth bone dry. With the increasing possibility that Pacorus might survive, Vahram’s hopes were beginning to disappear. His hand was being forced and now the ambitious primus pilus wanted a sign so he could seize command of the Forgotten Legion. If Tarquinius gave it to him, Pacorus would die. And if he did not.
Behind the squat Parthian, the blaze was coming back to life. With new logs to consume, flames darted back and forth, searching for the best place to climb upwards.
Following the haruspex’ gaze, Vahram’s face grew eager. Neither spoke for some moments.
In the white light, the rider whom Tarquinius had seen before reappeared. This time, he got a clear look at his visage. It was definitely Vahram. Missing his right hand, he looked terrified. With huge effort, the haruspex kept his expression blank. He could not reveal this without losing his own life. Vahram’s temper was ferocious.
‘Well?’
His sensed dulled by the pain, Tarquinius could not think of a good response. He shook his head.
Snarling with rage, the primus pilus smashed him full across the face with a clenched fist.
The haruspex felt his nose break. Blood filled his mouth and he coughed up a great gobbet on to the carpet. ‘It is unclear,’ he muttered, his teeth stained red. ‘Lately I have been able to see nothing.’
Disbelief twisted Vahram’s face.
In his bed just a few steps away, Pacorus slept on.
‘Take him outside again.’
The warriors hurried to obey. Hauling Tarquinius upright, they dragged him towards the door.
‘Wait!’ They heard the distinctive noise of a dagger being unsheathed.
There was a long pause.
Looking over his shoulder at what Vahram was doing, one of the guards laughed.
Nausea filled Tarquinius. The primus pilus’ cruelty knew no bounds. Measured steps came closer. When the heated blade touched the deepest of the cuts on his back, the haruspex could help himself no longer. A moan ripped free of his mouth.
Pacorus stirred and Vahram realised that he had gone too far inside the chamber. Taking his hand away, he ushered his guards and their burden through the door. Tarquinius was tied to the iron ring once more.
And the red-hot tip was pressed into his flesh over and over again. Vahram leaned in constantly, whispering in the haruspex’ ear. ‘Tell me, and I’ll stop.’
Desperate to end his own suffering, Tarquinius could not. Except for two details, his normally acute mind had gone blank. Previously he had seen that Pacorus’ role in his and his friends’ future was vital, and tonight the fire had shown that the primus pilus’ life might be in danger. Revealing either of these to Vahram was foolish in the extreme, and he could come up with nothing else. So the torture would go on.
Thankfully the freezing temperature cooled the dagger quickly.
But the primus pilus went straight back inside to the fire.
Weakness overcame Tarquinius and he sagged down, unable to hold himself upright any longer. The rope binding his wrists tightened cruelly, but by now he didn’t even feel that. The pain from the whipping and his burns was threatening to overwhelm him.
Content to wait until their master returned, the guards lounged nearby, chatting idly.
The haruspex’ eyes opened, unfocused. He could feel his strength departing with each heartbeat.
A gust of cold wind hit his face, and he looked upwards.
The night sky of earlier had changed: any sign of the moon and stars had disappeared. Great threatening banks of cloud were building. Deep inside them, flashes of vivid light flared, portents of the storm to come. Loud rumbles could already be heard and the air was heavy with expectation.
A rush of adrenalin coursed through the haruspex’ veins.
Witnessing thunder and lightning was one of the best ways to see the future. The ancient Etruscan books that he had studied so many years before dedicated many volumes to just this type of natural phenomenon. Perhaps he would see something that would pacify the vengeful primus pilus. And save his own life.
Faster than the eye could see, a blinding bolt of light shot out of a cloud bank directly overhead.
His eyes opened wide with shock as a succession of images shot before them.
Scythian riders annihilating a much smaller Roman force.
Five legionaries with raised swords in a circle around Romulus and Brennus.
A corpse hanging from a cross.
A pair of men rolling and tussling beside the dim glow of a fire. In one’s hand was an arrow with a hooked point. Their unknowing companions slept on alongside. The second struggling figure was Romulus.
Light spilled from the bedroom as Vahram emerged, the heated knife clutched in his right hand. He swaggered closer, knowing that Tarquinius could not take much more.
‘Ready to talk?’ he asked softly.
Deep in a trance, Tarquinius did not answer.
Vahram’s lips peeled back with fury and he laid the blade against Tarquinius’ left cheek.
The smell of burning flesh filled the air.
Tarquinius’ lungs filled with air and he screamed. Using the last of his energy, he soared upwards towards the lightning, which was now flashing from the clouds every few moments. Before the end, he had to know.
The arrow threatening Romulus was Scythian. It was covered with scythicon.
The voice came from a long way away. ‘I’ll give you one more chance,’ he said. ‘Should Pacorus die?’primus pilus’
Romulus’ face contorted with effort, but the other man was stronger. Slowly, the hooked point was pushed down towards his unprotected neck.
His energy utterly spent, Tarquinius plummeted down to earth.
It was over. All his predictions had been wrong. Romulus would not return to Rome.
Vahram had had enough. Lifting his dagger to the haruspex’ throat, he moved in until only a finger’s breadth separated their faces.
Bizarrely, Tarquinius smiled. Olenus had been wrong also. His journey would end here too, in Margiana.
The primus pilus lifted an enquiring eyebrow. Tarquinius’ response was to spit in his face. ‘Die, then,’ snarled Vahram, drawing back the blade.
Chapter X: Defeat
Margiana, winter 53/52 BC
‘Scum,’ hissed Optatus, his teeth clenched. ‘How dare you join the army?’
Romulus could not take his eyes off the arrow tip. If it even scratched his skin, he would die in screaming agony.
‘Death’s too good for you,’ whispered Optatus. ‘But at least this way will be painful.’
The burly veteran was using his right hand to push towards Romulus’ jugular, which meant that the young soldier’s weaker left arm had to try to prevent him. Stopping him from crying out, Optatus’ other hand was clamped over Romulus’ mouth. Even his sword arm could not remove it. And his enemy’s greater strength meant that the arrow’s hooked point was moving towards his neck with a slow, dreadful inevitability. Romulus struggled not to panic. If he did that, his life would be over. Faced with certain death, his desire to survive suddenly became overwhelming.
Bending his right leg with a jerk, he tried to knee Optatus in the groin.
‘Got to do better than that, boy,’ sneered the veteran, twisting his hips and avoiding injury.
Frantic, Romulus turned his head from side to side. His sword was just out of reach, as was the fire.