The Silver Eagle

Tarquinius’ dark eyes sca

Not a sign.

Differing in appearance to all the others, Tarquinius had long, blond locks held in place by a cloth band, which revealed a thin face, high cheekbones and a single gold earring in his right ear. The Etruscan wore a hide breastplate covered with tiny interlinked bronze rings; a centurion’s short leather-bordered skirt completed his attire. From his back hung a small, worn pack. Over his left shoulder, a double-headed battleaxe dangled from a strap. Unlike his companions, the haruspex had scorned a cloak. He wanted his senses to be on full alert.

‘Well?’ demanded Pacorus. ‘Can you see the entrance?’

A slight frown creased Tarquinius’ brow, but he did not reply. Long years of training under Olenus, his mentor, had taught him great patience. To others, it often looked like smugness.

The commander’s eyes flickered off to the right.

Tarquinius deliberately glanced the other way. Mithras, he thought, Great One. Show me your temple.

Pacorus could no longer contain himself. ‘It’s not even thirty paces away,’ he taunted.

Several of his warriors sniggered.

Casually, Tarquinius let his gaze slide over to where the commander had looked a moment before. He stared long and hard at the cliff, but could see nothing.

‘You’re a charlatan. I always knew it,’ snarled Pacorus. ‘It was a complete mistake to let you become a centurion.’

It was as if the Parthian had forgotten how he, Tarquinius, had provided the Forgotten Legion with its secret weapon, thought the haruspex bitterly. A ruby gifted to him years ago by Olenus had bought the silk which even now covered more than five thousand men’s scuta, giving them the ability to withstand arrows from the previously all-powerful recurved bows. It had been his idea to have thousands of long spears forged, weapons which could keep any cavalry at bay. It was thanks to him that the massive Sogdian war band devastating towns in Margiana upon their arrival had been a

Pacorus held all of their lives in the palm of his hand. Until now what had protected Tarquinius, and to an extent his friends, from torture or death was the commander’s dread of his prophetic abilities. And, for the first time in the Etruscan’s life, these had deserted him.

Fear – a new emotion – became Tarquinius’ daily companion.

For months, he had existed on his wits, while seeing nothing of real significance. Tarquinius studied every cloud, every gust of wind and every bird and animal he saw. Nothing. Sacrifices of hens and lambs, normally an excellent method of divining, had repeatedly proved fruitless. Their purple livers, the richest source of information in all of haruspicy, yielded no clues to him. Tarquinius could not understand it. I have been a haruspex for nearly twenty years, he thought sourly. Never has there been such a drought of visions. The gods must truly be angry with me. Charon, the Etruscan demon of the underworld, came to mind, emerging from the earth to swallow them all. Blue-ski

‘By all that is sacred,’ Pacorus snapped, ‘let me show you.’ Grabbing a torch from a guard, he led the way. The whole party followed. Just twenty steps on, he stopped. ‘Look,’ he ordered, jabbing forward the flame.

Tarquinius’ eyes opened wide. Directly in front lay a neat area of evenly cut paving stones. In the centre was a large, man-made opening in the ground. Heavy slabs of rock had been laid down to form a square hole. Their weathered surfaces were covered with inscriptions and etchings. Tarquinius stepped closer to see, recognising the shapes of a raven, a crouching bull and an ornate seven-rayed crown. Was that outline a Phrygian cap? It was similar to the blunt-peaked hats worn by haruspices since the dawn of time, he thought with a thrill of excitement. This tiny detail was intriguing, because it was a possible link to the uncertain origins of Tarquinius’ people.

Before they had colonised central Italy many centuries previously, the Etruscans had journeyed from the east. Traces of their civilisation existed in Asia Minor, but legend had it that they came from much further away. As did Mithras. Few things excited Tarquinius, but this did. Years of his life had been spent searching for evidence of the Etruscans’ past, with little success. Perhaps now, here in the east, the impenetrable mist of time was begi

‘Normally, only believers may enter a Mithraeum,’ Pacorus a

His pleasure quickly dissipating, Tarquinius grimaced. Any information about Mithraicism came second to surviving.

‘You are being allowed inside in order to foretell my future and that of the Forgotten Legion,’ said Pacorus. ‘If your words are unconvincing, you will die.’

Controlling his emotions, Tarquinius regarded him steadily. There was more.

‘But before that,’ muttered Pacorus, his gaze moving to Romulus and Bre

Full of rage, Tarquinius’ gaze bored into Pacorus. After a few moments, it was the Parthian who looked down. I still have some power, the haruspex thought, but the knowledge was like ash in his dry mouth. Pacorus had the whip hand here, not him. If the gods did not grant him some kind of meaningful vision in the Mithraeum, they would all be slain out of hand. Why had he insisted that his two friends came along tonight? It had been only the smallest of hunches to ask them. Tarquinius was unconcerned about himself, but guilt suffused his heart that big, brave Bre

‘So be it,’ he cried, using his best prophetic tones. ‘Mithras will give me a sign.’

Romulus’ and Bre

Taking some solace from this, he waited.

Pacorus bared his teeth expectantly. ‘Follow me,’ he said, placing his foot on the first step.

Without the slightest pause, Tarquinius stepped after him.

Just one hulking warrior, Pacorus’ personal bodyguard, took up the rear. In his right hand was a ready dagger.

The party of guards fa