begun with sacrifices to the gods. A good omen for crossing the river was crucial.
Just before dawn, an old priest had led a large bull into the open space before Crassus' command tent. Dressed in a plain white robe and surrounded by acolytes, he had watched the unconcerned beast chew some hay. Hundreds of soldiers gradually assembled, picked from every cohort in the army to witness that the campaign had been sanctioned by the gods. Having persuaded Bassius to let them attend, Tarquinius and Romulus stood in their midst.
There was a sigh of expectation when Crassus appeared at the doorway of his tent. The guards snapped to attention, their weapons and armour polished even brighter than usual. The general was a short, grey-haired man in his early sixties with a beaked nose and piercing gaze, clad in a gilded breastplate, red cloak and horsehair-crested helmet. Studded leather straps protected Crassus' groin and upper legs and an ornate sword hung from his belt.
Unlike Pompey and Caesar, his two partners in the triumvirate, Crassus did not have vast military experience. But he was the man who had defeated Spartacus. The unprecedented slave rebellion a generation before had almost brought the Republic to its knees. Only Crassus — and to a lesser extent Pompey — had saved it from ruin.
The general was flanked by Publius and the legates commanding each of the army's seven legions, the officers dressed similarly to their leader.
Remembering Julia's scar, Romulus angrily nudged the Etruscan when he saw Publius.
Concentrating hard, Tarquinius frowned. 'Be quiet and watch.'
The priest looked at Crassus, who nodded once.
Muttering incantations, he approached the bull, which was still chewing contentedly. Two acolytes grabbed the rope around its head, while others pressed in close, preventing escape. Realising far too late that something was wrong, it bellowed angrily. Despite its huge strength, the men extended the bull's head forward, exposing the neck.
From inside his robe, the priest produced a wicked-looking blade. With a quick slash, he cut the throat, releasing a fountain of blood on to the sand. A silver bowl was swiftly placed under the stream, which filled it to the brim. The helpers let go and the bull collapsed, kicking spasmodically. Standing back, the old man peered into the red liquid.
Everyone present held their breath as the contents were studied. Even Crassus remained quiet. The Etruscan stood motionless, his lips moving faintly and Romulus felt a shiver of unease.
The soothsayer stood for a long time, muttering to himself and swirling the blood. Finally he scanned the sky.
'I call on Jupiter,
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
