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action. Much as the prince, and his father, King Gotarzes, desire peace, they will be forced to wage war on Rome. Such a war would cost Rome dearly. Many more of your countrymen would share the fate of Crassus and his legions. Those are the words of my master,’ the emissary concluded. ‘You have heard our warning, my lord, and there is no more to be said.’
    The Parthian prince made one last comment to his emissary and then gestured to his companion carrying the wicker basket on his saddle. The man unlooped the handles from his saddle horn and let the basket drop heavily to the ground beside his horse. Then the Parthians wheeled their horses round and the emissary spoke to the Romans one last time.
    ‘My master bids you accept a gift. A gift plucked from the banks of the Euphrates. Consider it a token of the future should you choose to defy the kingdom of Parthia.’
    The Parthians spurred their horses into a gallop and pounded back towards the distant line of their comrades who were already breaking formation to turn away from Antioch and disappear back into the ravine. For a moment the Romans watched them depart through the dust kicked up by their horses. Then Longinus turned his gaze to the wicker basket lying on the rocky soil. He gestured towards it.
    ‘Centurion Cato.’
    ‘Sir?’
    ‘See what’s in there.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’ Cato slipped his leg over the saddle horns and dropped to the ground. He approached the basket cautiously, as if it might be filled with snakes or scorpions. Swallowing, he reached down and pulled the handles apart. Inside there was a plain earthen jar, the size of a large watermelon. The bottom had cracked when the basket hit the ground and the odour of olive oil reached Cato’s nose as it slowly drained through the fibres of the basket. A dark tangled mass glistened in the top of the jar, and as the oil continued to drain it settled and gleamed on the domed surface beneath.
    ‘What is it?’ Amatius snapped. ‘Show us, man!’
    Cato felt the bile rising in his throat as he leaned forward and grasped the oily dark tendrils. With gritted teeth he drew the heavy burden from the jar and raised it aloft. Oil ran down the ashen skin of the severed head and dripped from its parted lips on to the parched soil below.
    Legate Amatius grimaced as he stared at the grisly spectacle. ‘Centurion Castor.’

CHAPTER FIVE
    ‘Gentlemen.’ Cassius Longinus stared solemnly round the banqueting hall of his headquarters. He stood on a podium and surveyed the expressions of the centurions, tribunes and legates assembled before him.’War with Parthia has come.’
    The officers exchanged glances and an excited murmur rippled across the hall before it died away and every face turned to the governor of Syria with an eager expression. News of the party of Parthian horsemen that had appeared before the very walls of Antioch the previous day had swept through the camp and the streets of the city. The rumour-mongers had been tirelessly at work, until the event portended everything from an historic alliance between Rome and Parthia to the mortal terror of the prospect of a vast Parthian army no more than a day’s march away intent on the slaughter of every man, woman and child in Antioch. Longinus’ first words had eliminated some of the more fanciful notions and now his officers listened in tense anticipation for more detail.The governor waited until there was complete silence before he continued.
    ‘Some days ago, the Parthians surprised one of our outposts and slaughtered the garrison. Our visitors presented us with the head of its commander, Centurion Castor of the Tenth Legion.’
    The men standing around Cato and Macro grumbled angrily and Macro nudged his companion and muttered, ‘Pity the Parthians that come up against our lot.This has the makings of some good fighting.’
    ‘Good fighting?’ Cato frowned.’I’m not sure I share your enthusiasm for this particular campaign. The Parthians are not