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.

It was time.

An all-too-familiar feeling took hold. Recognising it as fear, Tarquinius gritted his teeth. This could not go on. He inhaled deeply, then again. Feeling calmer, he reached down for a poker and tapped the piece of timber with it. His action released a torrent of sparks. They wafted up the chimney in lazy streams, singly and in groups. The smallest went out very quickly, but bigger ones continued to glow as they were carried upwards by the hot air. The haruspex’ pupils constricted as he studied their pattern, counting his pulse to judge the time each took to disappear.

At last, an image of Romulus.

Tarquinius’ breath caught in his chest.

The young soldier looked troubled and unsure. Brennus was by his side, his normally jovial expression absent. Both were wearing their crested bronze helmets and dressed in full chain mail; their scuta were raised and a javelin was ready in each man’s right fist. Plainly they were nowhere near the security of the fort. Around them, the scenery was unclear, any distinctive features covered in snow. There were other legionaries present too, at least one or two centuries.

Tarquinius frowned.

A fast-moving flash of red contrasted against the white landscape. Then another.

The shapes were gone before he could decide what they were. Battle standards? Horsemen? Or just his imagination? The haruspex was left with a lingering sense of unease. He leaned closer to the fire, concentrating hard.

And jerked back, repulsed.

A barrack-room floor awash with blood.

What did it mean?

The image disappeared as the log broke in half. Gentle crackling sounds rose as the two pieces fell. The fire’s heart flared brighter as it seized control of the new fuel, and a new wave of sparks was released.

Tarquinius had long ago learned to let unclear, disturbing scenes go. Often they could not be interpreted at all, so there was little point in remaining anxious. He relaxed, pleased by the movement in the fireplace. There would be something useful in this. Lips moving silently, he focused his entire attention on what he was seeing.

A Parthian warrior sat astride a horse, which was panicking as an enraged elephant charged it. The man’s face was turned away, so he could not be recognised. Behind him a battle raged between Roman legionaries and a dark-skinned enemy armed with all manner of strange weapons.

The haruspex was intrigued by the rider and the host’s alien appearance. Intent on gaining an understanding of what was being shown, he did not hear the door open behind him.

‘Vahram?’ he muttered. ‘Is it Vahram?’

‘What sorcery are you up to?’

Tarquinius froze at the sound of the primus pilus’ voice. The realisation that he had not locked the door crashed down on him. Complacency can kill, he thought grimly. It was something he had taught Romulus, yet here he was, doing the same himself. Without looking back, Tarquinius shoved the poker hard against the chunks of wood, pushing them down into the ash at the bottom of the fireplace. Starved of air, they would go out fast. No more sparks. ‘I was just tending the fire,’ he replied.

‘Liar!’ Vahram hissed. ‘You said my name.’

Tarquinius stood and turned to face the primus pilus, who was accompanied by a trio of muscular warriors carrying spears. And ropes. Tonight, Vahram meant business. ‘Pacorus will wake,’ he said loudly, cursing the fact that he had not kept his thoughts silent.

‘Leave him be.’ Vahram smiled, but there was no humour in his face. ‘We don’t want to trouble him unnecessarily.’

He’s making his move, thought the haruspex with alarm. And my comment has given him more ammunition. ‘It’s been a long day,’ he said, raising his voice even further. ‘Hasn’t it, sir?’