Romulus looked at the stage and shivered. The campaign had been damned from the start and only a fool would have disregarded the plethora of bad omens. But Crassus had ignored every last one, his monumental arrogance leading thousands of men to their deaths. He was still revolted by what was about to happen to their general. But there was nothing he could do. The young soldier breathed deeply to calm himself.
At last the bearded priest finished, content the audience understood the impending ritual. Only moans from the crucified officers and prostitutes now broke the eerie silence.
Every legionary's gaze was fixed on Crassus and the unfortunate women. A faint smile played across the priest's lips as he drew a long dagger from his belt. Moving to stand behind the first whore, he spoke a few more words.
Loud cheers rose up.
She twisted round to see, crying in anticipation and terror. Brutally her head was wrenched back to face the mob. With a smooth movement, he slashed the woman's throat.
Abruptly, the screams stopped.
Arms and legs jerked spasmodically as a fountain of blood sprayed from the gaping neck wound, covering guards and prisoners alike. The Parthian released his grip and a warrior propelled the corpse off the stage with a huge kick. Roman soldiers scattered to avoid the mutilated body landing on them.
One by one, the prostitutes suffered the same fate. Soon only Crassus remained alive. The platform ran with blood, bodies lay heaped in front, but still the crowd bayed for more.
Parthia wanted its revenge.
'Savages,' growled Brennus.
Romulus was thinking of Fabiola. For all he knew, she might have been one of the women killed. His hard-won calm was gone: he was seething. Suddenly all he wanted was to be free. To call no man master. Not Gemellus. Not Memor, Crassus or any Parthian. He glanced at the nearest guards, wondering how fast they would react if attacked. He could choose his own fate.
'You will return to Rome,' hissed Tarquinius. 'I have seen your destiny. It does not end here.'
They locked eyes as a deafening roll of drums announced the end of the ritual.
Stay strong. Like Fabiola. I will survive.
'Look.' The Gaul gestured at the stage.
The guards did not bother to untie the last prisoner. Instead they picked up the frame and placed it on the platform. A deep, almost primeval roar greeted the action.
It was time for Crassus to pay.
Sensing the end, he screamed and kicked his legs futilely. The ropes binding him were thick and strong and soon Crassus sagged against the rough timbers, his face grey with exhaustion and fear. During the struggle, his wreath had tipped sideways over one eye and the warriors pointed, smirking.
Again the priest began to speak, a tirade of fury against the man who had invaded Parthia. As spittle flew from his lips, the spectators howled with anger and surged against the guards' crossed spears once more. Tarquinius considered translating the words, but the soldiers around him needed little explanation of what was going on. And only a handful looked sorry for Crassus.
When the Parthian had finished his oration, he waited for silence to fall. Finally the mob fell back.
The general looked up and focused on the mass of ragged prisoners. By their uniforms, he would know they could only be Roman soldiers.
All that greeted him were insults.
Crassus' head slumped as the certainty of his fate began to sink in. Even his own men would not save him.
Anger still burned within Romulus. He could have happily killed Crassus in combat, but a public display like this went totally against his nature. It was as brutal as the worst depravities of the arena. He glanced at Brennus and could tell the Gaul felt the same way.
As always, Tarquinius seemed completely calm.
A smith leaned over the fire and dipped a ladle into the cauldron. Fat white globules of molten gold spilled from the lip as it emerged, narrowly missing his feet. With arms outstretched, he walked slowly towards the stage.
The crowd shrieked with anticipation and Romulus looked away.
Two guards bent Crassus' head backwards, forcing his chin up on to an angled wooden crossbar. Using loops of rope, it was bound to face the sky. The priest moved alongside and inserted a small metal vice between the prisoner's jaws. He cranked it open, baring teeth and tongue.
Crassus screamed as he realised what was about to happen. He continued wailing as the smith ascended the steps, his burning load held at arm's length.
The priest gestured impatiently.
'Gold cools fast,' said Tarquinius.
Crassus' eyes flicked from side to side as the heat approached and the frame jerked as he tried frantically to get away.
The ladle rose high above his head and paused.
To shouts of approval, the bearded Parthian chanted a deep, resonant series of words.
'He is calling on the gods to receive the offering,' muttered Tarquinius. 'It symbolises victory over the Republic. Shows Parthia is not to be trifled with.'
The smith's hand began to tremble from holding the heavy weight. Suddenly a fat bead of gold tipped out, falling into one of Crassus' eyes. The globe ruptured, and a bellow of pain like Romulus had never heard split the air. A mixture of clear fluid and blood spurted on to the general's cheek.
Crassus' other eye held a look of utter terror. Urine formed in a puddle between his feet.
The priest intoned a last prayer and made an abrupt motion with his right hand.
An inarticulate moan escaped Crassus' lips as the gold poured down in a stream of molten fire. With a sizzling noise audible to all, the boiling liquid emptied into his gaping mouth, silencing the general for ever. His body shuddered and spasmed with the unbelievable agony of the ordeal. Steam rose in little spirals as flesh reached cooking point. Only the tightness of the bonds prevented Crassus from breaking free. At last the precious metal reached heart and lungs, burning the vital organs into stasis.
He slumped and hung limply from the frame.
Crassus was dead.
The watching Parthians went into a frenzy. Nothing could be heard except the clamouring shouts, clanging bells and thudding drumbeats.
Many soldiers vomited at the sight. Others had closed their eyes rather than witness the savage execution. A few shed tears. Romulus swore silently that whatever the cost, he would escape.
When the crowd had quietened, the priest stabbed a finger at Crassus' body, yelling at the prisoners. At his words, there was again silence.
The spectacle was not over.
Tarquinius leaned forward. 'He is offering us a choice.'
The soldiers nearby pricked their ears.
'What kind of choice?' growled Brennus.
'A cross each.' The Etruscan indicated the officers. 'Or the fire, if we prefer.'