He dropped the liver into the open cavity in shock and had to hurriedly retrieve it while his audience were squinting in the bright sun to see what was going on. The liver was talking to him in ways he’d always imagined a real haruspex would experience. Suddenly he could see things in the patterns on it. He could picture the shape of things to come. His eyes were drawn inexorably over the top of the palace roof and to the great Temple of Solomon beyond. Why him? Why now?
He swallowed again. No, it had not been an easy morning.
Straightening, he thrust his blood-coated arms up and fixed Lucius Pontius Pilatus, Prefect of Judaea, square in the eye as he lied through his teeth.
“The omens are good, my lord. Jupiter smiles on your rule here, Juno will grant peace to this corner of the empire, and Minerva will grant you the wisdom to follow the most noble of paths.”
Pontius Pilatus, his expression suggesting that he was less than convinced with the performance, turned to his adjutant.
“Very well. Tell the Sanhedrin that I’ll authorise it. Nail him up in the morning and I’ll have nothing more to do with the whole affair.”
As a functionary dropped a small pouch of coins into Spurius’ hand, Pilatus turned to his friends and ushered them away to prepare for the noon meal.
Leaving everything for the slaves to tidy away, Spurius, shaken to the core, grasped his knife and tools and hurried from the palace, down the steps and the hell away from this place.
Haruspicy gave him the creeps.
Time to make a living from gambling… or maybe sheep farming.
On the way across the square to collect Fuscus, he paused to throw the abominable conical hat into the fountain in disgust.
Exploratores
Tiberius Claudius Maximus reined in his horse and sat on the low ridge, scanning the horizon. Flies buzzed around him in the summer heat and his mail shirt sat uncomfortably warm and heavy, made all the more so by the large oval shield hanging on his back.
The ridge was low; less than two hundred feet above the level of the valleys on either side. To his left; the west, a huge plain stretched out, hemmed in distantly by hazy grey mountains that shimmered in the heat, marching away toward Sarmizegethusa and the camp of the emperor Trajan and the four legions that had crossed the Danubius at the summer’s beginning. To the other side, a long valley less than a mile wide stretched off to the north and into the hazy distance.
“Quiet!” he said, his voice low, but carrying a gravitas that silenced the four troopers who sat astride their own mounts ten yards back, sunning themselves.
“Sir? You see something?”
Maximus frowned, ignoring the question, his eyes focusing on tiny movements along the valley. One of dozens of carefully-selected scout riders sent out with patrols, he was sharp-eyed, battle-hardened, an experienced veteran and, above all, capable of thinking on his feet and controlling any situation with instinctive command.
Something was clearly wrong. None of his men seemed to have noticed, but Maximus could see it clear as a vexillum. The collection of rude huts with straw roofs that constituted the Dacian village was quiet; too quiet and yet not quiet enough. It would be entirely understandable if the village were empty and deserted. The Roman army had smashed the forces of the Dacian king, Decebalus, at most a day’s march from here. It was a simple consequence of war. The poor country dwellers fled the conflict.
Or, given the fact that no Roman forces had yet come this far east, if would be equally reasonable to find the village living its normal life, farmers tending the fields, dogs barking in the enclosures and children playing in the stream.
But no.
There were three figures only that he had seen in the last ten minutes. Three figures; all burly men. They could easily be farmers, but they wandered in and out of the huts, performing no normal tasks. They were a sham. They were there to give the impression of an occupied village, and a sharp-eyed man had to wonder why.
“There’s trouble afoot, Statilius. This valley is waiting for something.”
“Sir?” the other riders walked their horses forward to the commander’s position.
“That village is not what it seems. It may be a trap.”
Statilius shared a look with one of the other riders and then shrugged.
“Then hadn’t we best get back to the camp and inform the officers, sir? Come back with the entire Seventh and flood the valley with men?”
Maximus shook his head slowly.
“No. There can’t be too many of them or they’d have defences prepared. If we leave them long enough, they might get reinforcements. Remember that Decebalus is still out there with the rest of his army. Prepare for action.”
One of the other men, Anakreon, a Greek by birth and a bloodthirsty bastard, nodded and unslung his shield. The other three shared another uncertain glance.
“Sir, if it’s a trap, the five of us charging them could be bloody suicidal! We don’t know what to expect.”
Maximus smiled wryly. “I’m just as happy as you at the thought of riding into a possible ambush, Statilius, but the fact remains that we’re the only unit within at least eight or nine miles of here. If we run back to the camp the Dacians could move on and disappear into the mountains; then we’d never find them.”
Perhaps two thousand of the defenders had managed to flee the brutal siege of Sarmizegethusa two days ago and Trajan, ever pro-active and forceful, had immediately organised scouting units to track down the survivors. To leave enemies alive, particularly with their leader still free, could lead to endless difficulty in the smooth annexation of the territory. The emperor had made it clear. After the first war, when the Dacians broke the terms of the peace, Trajan had stated his intention to invade their land and not to stop until the mountains of Dacia bowed to Rome and stayed that way.
Tracking the survivors from Sarmizegethusa had been all but impossible. The summer had been warm and dry and these mountains and plains were grassy and easy terrain. No mud or undergrowth would betray the passage of a large group of men. After two days of scouring the hills and valleys, this was the first sign of anything out of the ordinary. How could they leave now?
“We have to check it out.”
“Sir? Perhaps we should just shadow them as they move on.”
Maximus sighed. He could understand their reluctance, but any moment he was going to have to lay down the law.
“We can’t shadow them” he explained patiently. “We’re sat in bright sunlight on a hilltop, Orosius. If I can see them moving about in the village, you can be damn sure they’ve seen us. We need to check it out, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
He glanced around at the four riders. Anakreon was a born fighter; a huge, bearded man who looked more like a bear; far too large for the horse that bore him, really. Statilius was argumentative, but far from mutinous. He would do exactly as ordered and knew well how to handle himself in a fight. Orosius may not be the sharpest pugio in the armoury, but he was a solid trooper with a good sword arm. That just left Senna. Young, thoughtful and quiet, the lanky trooper had carried himself well at Sarmizegethusa, but was largely untried otherwise. No competition, really.
“Senna? I want you to stay here on the hilltop, but get back among those trees so you can’t be seen. Watch what happens and if there’s real trouble, ride hard for camp and let the emperor know what occurred.”
The young man nodded respectfully.
“That means it’s down to the four of us. There are about a dozen huts down there, several barns, and four copses of trees. That means absolutely anything could be waiting for us. There could be three of them or three hundred. Opinions? Concerted front or scattered skirmish?”
