‘No god would command such a thing, only an evil daemon!’

‘Careful what you say, it is death to insult Ahuramazda.’ There was a fierce gleam in the eyes of the Persian.

‘Barbarian!’ Clemens spat out the word.

They were facing each other, hands on hilts. Valens knew he should act, but was frozen, captured by the drama, as if at the theatre.

It was Hairan who stepped between the irate men. ‘It is not just the Greeks who preach tolerance. Bardaisan, the wise man of Edessa, collected the customs of many peoples. All Indians, when they die, are burnt with fire, and their wives are burnt alive on the pyre. All Germans who do not fall in battle are strangled by their relatives when they get old. They regard it as a kindness. They have been living for thousands of years according to their own laws. Nothing can alter their customs.’

Clemens stopped glowering at Narses, but muttered under his breath.

‘Look!’ It was Decimus who broke the final strands of anger.

From this high place they could see for miles. Everyone looked where the horse master pointed.

To the east, a river curved through the dun landscape. Its waters flashed silver in the sun. The Tigris – half a day’s ride away.

‘Let us go,’ Valens said.

‘Gladly.’ Clemens stomped off. The rest moved to follow.

‘I will catch you up.’ Iudex was sitting cross-legged. He had a stylus and a pot of ink, and was sketching in a notebook.

Valens looked over his shoulder. The drawings were detailed and precise, catching every nuance of the dead.

Iudex glanced up. ‘I had heard that Orientals putrefy differently to westerners. Of course these are all easterners . . . a missed opportunity.’ He smiled happily. ‘Do not worry, sir. I will not be long.’ He bent back over his work.

Valens hesitated, feeling he should assert his authority, yet reluctant to intervene.

Frowning with concentration, Iudex spoke, probably to himself. ‘The unexamined death, like the unexamined life, is nothing.’

Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

Rome

IT WAS HOT. THE PAVEMENTS and the facades of buildings radiated back the heat of the day. Murena had walked down from the Caelian, through the Forum, and across the Campus Martius. It was not that far, and it was good to get away for a time from the endless reports that his secretary piled on his desk. Murena was fit, but he was out of breath and sweating hard. No wonder that most of the elite left the city in high summer. Those that remained travelled the streets in shaded litters. Murena could have hired a litter, but it would not have suited his purpose. Instead he trudged, red-faced and panting, dressed in nondescript tunic and sandals. Just another of the urban plebs making his weary way through the metropolis.