The soothsayer stood for a long time, muttering to himself and swirling the blood. Finally he scanned the sky.
'I call on Jupiter, Optimus Maximus! I call on Mars Ultor, bringer of war!' The priest paused. 'To witness the omens from this sacred beast.' Again he waited, gazing intently.
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.
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.
Terraced fields filled the landscape, irrigated by channels from the Euphrates. Peasants working in the crops stared fearfully at the host. Few dared wave or speak. They held their breath as thirty-five thousand armed men tramped by in an enormous cloud of dust. The noise drowned out every other sound.