Eastern Margiana, winter 53/52 BC

A good mile from the fort, the Parthians finally came to a halt. When the steady crunch of boots and sandals on frosty ground ceased, an overwhelming silence descended. Quiet coughs and the jingle of mail fell away, absorbed by the freezing air. Darkness had not quite fallen, allowing Romulus to take in their destination: a nondescript cliff face of weathered, grey-brown rocks which formed the end of a range of low hills. Peering into the gathering gloom, the powerfully built young soldier tried to see what had brought the warriors here. There were no buildings or structures in sight, and the winding path they had been following appeared to come to a dead end at the cliff’s foot. Raising an eyebrow, he turned to Brennus, his friend and surrogate father. ‘What in Jupiter’s name are we doing here?’

‘Tarquinius knows something,’ grunted Brennus, hunching his great shoulders under his thick military cloak. ‘As usual.’

‘But he won’t tell us!’ Romulus cupped his hands and blew on them, trying to prevent his fingers and face from going completely numb. His aquiline nose already was.

‘It’ll come out eventually,’ the pigtailed Gaul replied, chuckling.

Romulus’ protest died away. His eagerness would not speed things up. Patience, he thought.

Against their skin, the two men wore cloth jerkins. Over these, standard issue mail shirts. While affording good protection against blades, the heavy iron rings constantly drained away their body heat. Woollen cloaks and scarves and the felt liners under their bronze bowl crested helmets helped a little, but their calf-length russet trousers and heavy studded caligae, or sandals, exposed too much flesh to allow any comfort.

‘Go and ask him,’ urged Brennus with a grin. ‘Before our balls drop off.’