Tarquinius barked a short, angry laugh. 'Not much point, is there?'
'I might be wrong about the soldiers,' the shopkeeper offered lamely. 'It was only rumour after all.'
'Those whoresons wouldn't march all the way up here with mules for nothing,' snarled Tarquinius. 'Would they?'
'I suppose not.' He dared not argue further. The stranger was too confident, and the double-headed axe poking out from under his cloak looked well used.
Tarquinius took a step towards the door, and then turned to stare at Nikolaos. 'This conversation never happened.' His dark eyes were mere pits in his battered face. 'Did it?'
'N-no,' replied the shopkeeper, swallowing. 'Of course not.'
'Good.' Without looking back, Tarquinius wove out on to the street. Which way? he wondered. Might as well visit what I came here for, he decided abruptly. See what's left, if there's anything of worth remaining in the place. Feeling more weary than he had in his entire life, the haruspex walked slowly across the Agora. In the busy crowd of shoppers, businessmen and sailors from the port, he was just another anonymous figure. Not that he cared.
Reaching the corner of the street which led to the Stoic school, Tarquinius' sandal caught on a discarded piece of clay tile. He pitched forward, badly grazing both of his knees on the rough ground. Cursing, he struggled to get up.
'Bit early to be legless, isn't it?'
Tarquinius looked up, bleary-eyed. Standing over him was a figure wearing a bronze helmet with a transverse crest of red and white feathers. Bright sunlight shining from above obscured the centurion's face. From his position, all Tarquinius could really make out were the ornate greaves protecting the officer's lower legs and his well-made caligae. 'It's a free world,' he muttered. 'And I'm not in the legions.'
'Look like you might have been one day, though.' A muscled arm reached down, offering him help. 'That's a handy-looking axe you have there.'
Tarquinius paused for a heartbeat and then accepted the grip. He wasn't going to fight what happened any more.
With a heave, the centurion pulled him to his feet. A solidly built man in middle age, he wore a long mail shirt, crossed decorative belts with a gladius and pugio, and a leather-bordered skirt. The webbing strapped to the front of his chest was covered with gold and silver phalerae.
The haruspex saw with alarm that the highly decorated officer wasn't alone. Behind him, in neat ranks, stood the soldiers he had seen earlier. At the very rear were the mules, now laden down. Contempt filled the watching faces, and Tarquinius looked down in shame. He was a proud man, unaccustomed to being laughed at by ordinary rank and filers.
The centurion was interested by this odd-looking fool with his scarred face, blond hair and single gold earring. He wasn't a run-of-the-mill Greek. 'What's your name?' he demanded.
The haruspex saw no point in lying any more. 'Tarquinius,' he muttered, anger swelling within him at what the Romans had just done.
'Where are you from?'
'Etruria.'
The centurion's eyebrows rose. The drunk was Italian. 'What brings you to Rhodes?'
Tarquinius pointed past the waiting soldiers. 'I wanted to study in the school, didn't I? You bloody lot have put paid to that, though.'
Shocked growls rose from the legionaries at his nerve, but the centurion raised a hand for silence. 'You question Caesar's orders?' he asked icily.
The Romans do what they will. They always have, thought Tarquinius wearily. I cannot change that. Looking into the other's eyes, he saw death. There were worse ways to die, he reflected. A gladius thrust can't hurt that much.
'Answer me, by Mithras!'
The words struck Tarquinius like a lightning bolt, stripping away the drink-induced fog from his brain. For some reason, he remembered the raven which had attacked the lead Indian elephant by the Hydaspes. If that hadn't been a sign from the warrior god, then he was no haruspex. This had to be another. He was not to die now. 'Of course not, sir,' Tarquinius said in a loud voice. 'Caesar can do as he pleases.' He stuck out his right hand in the gesture only a Mithraic devotee would use.
The centurion looked down in disbelief. 'You follow the warrior god?' he whispered.
'Yes,' Tarquinius replied, touching the blade-shaped scar on his left cheek. 'I received this in his service.' It wasn't so far from the truth. Again he shoved forward his hand.
With an oath, the officer grabbed it with his own and shook it hard. 'Caldus Fabricius, First Centurion, Second Cohort, Sixth Legion,' he said. 'I had you for a troublemaker.'
'Not at all,' Tarquinius smiled. 'Mithras must have guided me to you.'
'Or Bacchus!' Fabricius grinned. 'Well met, comrade. I'd love to talk, but I'm in a real hurry this morning. Will you walk with me?'
With a grateful nod, Tarquinius fell in beside the centurion. He was strangely relieved now that the threat of immediate death had gone. Of course the wine had fuelled his foolhardy bravado, he thought. Yet he'd only drunk it because of the Romans looting the school. Always expect the unexpected, he thought. Meeting the centurion was tangible evidence of Mithras' favour.
'They had the most incredible artefacts in the school,' revealed his new friend. 'Instruments and metal contraptions such as I've never seen. There's a strange-looking one in a box with dials on the front and back. You wouldn't believe it, but it has little arms which move around, showing the position of the sun, moon and the five planets. Incredible! On the other side is a face which can predict every eclipse. The old man in charge of it wept when I took it from him. Said it had been made in Syracuse, by a follower of Archimedes.' He laughed.
Tarquinius shoved down his throbbing resentment. There was little point being angry at the plundering, he thought. Fabricius was just following orders. Excitement bubbled up in him that the device Aristophanes had described was so near. Its origins were revolutionary too. Everyone knew of the amazing machines which Archimedes, the Greek mathematician, had built to defend his city against the Romans during the second Punic war. To discover that he might have influenced, or even designed, an even more incredible device was astonishing. 'Is it here?'
Fabricius jerked a thumb over his shoulder. 'It's on one of the mules. Well wrapped up, of course, so the damn thing doesn't break.'
'You're taking it all to Rome?'
'For Caesar's triumphs,' answered the other proudly. 'To show the people yet again what a leader he is.'
The last of Tarquinius' drunkenness fell away. On their own, the images of the capital under a louring sky and his nightmare about the Lupanar weren't enough to make him journey back to the capital. This was very different, though. Out of nowhere, a possible solution had appeared. He couldn't ignore it. 'Is there room on the ships for another passenger?'
'Want to get back to Italy? I would too.' Fabricius gave him a nudge. 'Be proud to have you on board.'
'Thank you.' With renewed energy, Tarquinius strode down to the harbour alongside the centurion. Mithras was guiding him to Rome, on the same ships that would carry off the contents of the Stoic school.
Who was he to argue with a god?
Chapter IX: Captivity
Pontus, northern Asia Minor Petronius could only limp after Romulus as the gloating legionaries dragged him up to their camp, over the bodies of the Pontic dead. At the fortifications, the big soldier and his companions were prevented from immediately crucifying Romulus by the lack of wood. What few trees grew on the mountain had been cut down during the camp's construction. Yet their anger was such that four of them found axes and went off in search of some. The others lolled about in the afternoon sunshine, drinking extra rations of acetum that they had wheedled from the quartermaster.
Trussed up with ropes, Romulus was left to lie in the centre of the group. The sun's rays beat down on his
