The question had to be repeated.

‘They said a few thousand, sir,’ said the fearful sentry at last.

All the colour left Pacorus’ face. ‘Mithras above,’ he muttered, wishing he were fully recovered.

‘It’s the middle of winter,’ Vahram ranted. ‘The mountain passes to Scythia are blocked with snow!’

‘Where are they?’ Pacorus demanded. ‘These survivors?’

‘The duty optio sent them to the valetudinarium, sir,’ replied the sentry. ‘They’re suffering from exposure and frostbite.’

‘I don’t give a damn!’ screamed the commander, his face going puce. ‘Bring them here at once!’

The sentry and the Parthian warrior scuttled from sight, grateful not to have been punished.

‘This cannot go unanswered,’ Pacorus growled, waving Vahram and Ishkan into his chamber. Almost as an afterthought, he looked back at Tarquinius. ‘Cut those ropes,’ he ordered Ishkan’s men. ‘Carry him in here.’

The haruspex gritted his teeth as he was borne none too gently inside and laid by the fire for the second time. While his body was torn and bruised, and his mind exhausted, he was anxious to hear all the news from the returned legionaries. Yet every breath, shallow or deep, hurt. Using all his powers of concentration, Tarquinius managed to keep himself alert while the Parthians waited. Pacorus quickly sat down on his bed, while Ishkan and Vahram took their places on stools alongside. Their low muttering filled the air. Some response would have to be made to the Scythian incursion. And fast. Although it was not campaigning weather, the tribesmen could not be left to ravage the area unchecked.

Tarquinius only cared about whether his friends had been on the ill-fated patrol or not. Everything else, even his own life, paled into insignificance.

After what seemed an age, there was a heavy knock at the door.

‘Enter!’ cried Pacorus.

A trio of legionaries shuffled in, their faces chapped and feet still blue with cold. They looked distinctly intimidated at being in the presence of the Forgotten Legion’s commander. Most low-rankers never came face to face with Pacorus, except to be punished. And unless their story was plausible, that was a distinct possibility. Pushed forward by a number of warriors, the men reluctantly moved to stand before the Parthian officers. They did not notice the bloodied man lying in a heap by the fire.

Tarquinius recognised them at once, and his heart sank. Novius, Optatus and Ammias were from his own century, which meant that Romulus and Brennus were dead. He lay back, rare tears welling in his eyes. After years of protection, Tinia had utterly forsaken him and those whom he loved. And Mithras, the god whom he had begun to trust, was no different.

‘Make your report,’ ordered Pacorus.

Naturally it was Novius who spoke. He related the story of the patrol with minimal emotion. Like many legionaries, he spoke little Parthian, so Ishkan translated. After Darius, he was the senior centurion who spoke most Latin. Apart from an occasional interruption from Pacorus or Vahram, the story was delivered to a silent, horrified audience. The final battle was particularly emotive for Tarquinius, who could almost see his friends dying beneath the showers of poisoned Scythian arrows.

Having related the two centuries’ fate, the little legionary paused. His life and that of his comrades hinged upon what transpired next. Cowardice was not tolerated in either the Roman or Parthian armies. Soldiers who ran from a battle were liable to be executed out of hand. Their reasons for surviving had to convince their commander.

And Tarquinius.

Pacorus knew exactly why Novius was uneasy. ‘How is it,’ he said, picking his words very carefully, ‘that you three escaped without any wounds?’

Ishkan translated.

‘The gods were smiling on us, sir,’ Novius replied at once. ‘It wasn’t as if we were the only ones not to be hit. When the testudo collapsed at the end, two other lads broke free with us, but they were struck by arrows as we ran.’

Optatus and Ammias grimaced in unison.

‘Then they both stayed to fight a rearguard action, sir,’ said Novius, bowing his head. ‘Saved our lives.’

Tarquinius studied the little legionary’s face intently, searching for evidence of lies. So far, his story sounded genuine. But he had noticed that Novius’ eyes kept flicking up and to the left. And malice oozed from him like bile from a cut gall bladder. The injured haruspex was unsure why, but he did not like Novius. Or trust him.

‘I see.’ Pacorus said nothing for a few moments. ‘And there were no more survivors?’

Novius glanced uneasily at his companions.

Vahram seized upon the look like a cat on a mouse. ‘There were!’

Ammias gave Novius the faintest of signals, as did Optatus.

The haruspex frowned at their move, which seemed rehearsed. Perhaps because they did not speak fluent Latin, the Parthians appeared not to notice. Had the trio fled the patrol before the final encounter, and watched from a hidden vantage point as their comrades were massacred? Tarquinius waited.

‘We were obviously done for, sir,’ the little legionary admitted. ‘Some men ran. It happens.’

‘Yet you did not,’ said Pacorus.

Novius was shocked. ‘Of course not, sir.’

Partially satisfied, Pacorus looked at Ishkan and the primus pilus. They briefly convened in a huddle to decide if they believed Novius’ account.

It appeared they did, thought Tarquinius bitterly. He did not.

‘I need the names and ranks of any men who fled,’ said Pacorus at length.

Silence.

‘Unless you want a cross each.’

The commander’s threat hung in the air.

‘Forgive us, sir,’ grovelled Novius, genuinely afraid now. ‘We’re loyal soldiers.’

‘Names,’ said Pacorus. ‘Now.’

Novius swallowed hard. ‘I only got a good look at two, sir. Both plain legionaries, but not Romans.’

The commander glared. To him, the nationality of the men under his command was irrelevant.

‘Romulus, sir,’ said Novius hurriedly. ‘And a big Gaulish brute by the name of Brennus.’

Tarquinius bit back the retort which sprang to his lips. He would have given Novius the benefit of the doubt about any other men in the century. Now, though, it was certain that he was a liar. My friends would never run!

Pacorus swelled with anger. How could he forget the young soldier who had refused to give him his shield? It was the last thing he remembered before being struck by the Scythian arrows. ‘Cowardly scum,’ he growled.

‘I know those men too, sir,’ Vahram hissed. His gaze strayed to Tarquinius, who instantly pretended to be unconscious. ‘They’re treacherous bastards. Friends of his.’ He jerked a thumb at the haruspex.

Novius understood enough Parthian to turn his head and see the figure lying by the fire. He smiled in malevolent recognition. It was their own non-Roman centurion, who had been left behind while they went on the patrol. Tarquinius’ battered appearance told its own story. ‘That’s right, sir,’ he said viciously. ‘And the centurion was always showing them extra favours.’

‘Did they escape?’ asked Pacorus.

‘Not sure, sir,’ answered the little legionary. ‘It was right in the middle of the fight, you see.’

Optatus and Ammias shook their heads in agreement.

The commander bared his misshapen, yellow teeth. ‘Let’s hope that the Scythians find the mangy dogs. Or that the gods deliver them to us once more.’

Novius bobbed his head ingratiatingly, concealing the gleam of triumph in his eyes.

The haruspex’ intuition told him the true story. It was the three ragged soldiers who had run from the massacre. Then, at the end, they had seen Romulus and Brennus fight their way free. He did not know whether to rejoice or to cry. His friends might be alive, but they were alone in the frozen wilderness with no supplies. Even if they managed to escape the Scythians, certain death now awaited them if they reached the fort.