Tarquinius sighed. This was an old argument. Sensing their chance to regain some autonomy, many of the remaining Etruscan families and clans had joined Marius' forces in the civil war nearly two decades previously. It had been a calculated gamble that had gone spectacularly wrong. Thousands of their people had died. 'Marius lost. So did we,' he whispered. 'It doesn't mean that the ancient ways need to be forgotten.'

'It was the last opportunity for us to rise up and reclaim ancient glory!'

'You're drunk. Again.'

'At least I did a full day's work,' his father replied. 'You just follow that eccentric fool, listening to ramblings and lies.'

Tarquinius lowered his voice. 'They're not lies! Olenus teaches me secret rituals and knowledge. Someone has to remember. Before it is all forgotten.'

'Do what you will. The Republic cannot be stopped now.' Sergius noisily slurped some wine. 'Nothing can stop its damned legions.'

'Go back to bed.'

His father stared at the shrine in the far corner of the courtyard. It was where he spent his sober moments. All its oil lamps had gone out. 'Even our gods have abandoned us,' he muttered.

Tarquinius pushed the unresisting figure towards the family's small, damp cell. Wine had reduced the once proud warrior to a lonely, morose drunkard. Just a few years previously his father had been secretly teaching him to use weapons. Tarquinius was now equally proficient with a gladius or an Etruscan battleaxe.

With a groan, Sergius collapsed on to the straw mattress he shared with Fulvia, Tarquinius' mother. Instantly he began to snore. The young man lay down on the other side of the room and listened to the loud noise. Tarquinius was worried about his father: at the rate Sergius was drinking, he would not live for more than a few years.

It was a long time before Tarquinius slept, and then he dreamt vividly.

He was watching Olenus sacrifice a lamb in an unfamiliar cave, cutting its belly open to read the entrails. Looking round the dark space, he could see no sign of the bronze liver or sword that Olenus had spoken about so many times.

The old man's face changed as he scanned the animal's organs. Tarquinius called out, but could not get Olenus' attention. His mentor seemed totally unaware of him, instead fearfully watching the mouth of the cave.

It was impossible to see what was scaring Olenus so much. The haruspex had placed the dark red liver on a slab of basalt and was studying it intently. Every so often he would pause and gaze outside, his fear apparently lessening each time. After what seemed an age, Olenus nodded happily and sat back against the wall, waiting.

Despite his mentor's apparent contentment, Tarquinius now felt a strong sense of impending dread which intensified until it was unbearable.

He ran to the entrance.

Peering down a steep mountain slope, he saw Caelius ascending with ten legionaries, each face fixed and grim. All the men held drawn swords.

In front of them ran a pack of large hunting dogs.

'Run, Olenus! Run!' Tarquinius cried.

At last the soothsayer turned with a look of recognition. 'Run?' He cackled. 'I'd break my neck out there.'

'Soldiers are coming to kill you! Caelius is guiding them.'

Olenus' eyes held no trace of fear.

'You must flee. Now!'

'It is my time, Tarquinius. I am going to join our ancestors. You are the last haruspex.'

'Me?' Tarquinius was shocked. Through all the years of teaching, it had never occurred to him that he was being groomed to succeed the old man.

Olenus nodded gravely.

'The liver and sword?'

'You have them both already.'

'No! I don't!' Tarquinius gesticulated frantically.

Again Olenus seemed not to hear. He stood up and began walking towards the figures at the mouth of the cave.

Tarquinius felt somebody grab his arm. The cave receded slowly from view as he swam into consciousness. He was desperate to know what had happened to Olenus, but could see no more. The young Etruscan woke with a start. His mother was standing over the bed, looking concerned.

'Tarquinius?'

'It was nothing,' he muttered, his heart racing. 'Go back to sleep, Mother. You need to rest.'

'Your shouts woke me,' she answered reproachfully. 'Father would have woken too, if he wasn't drunk.'

Tarquinius' stomach clenched. Olenus had always said never to mention anything he taught. 'What was I saying?'

'Hard to make out. Something about Olenus and a bronze liver. The last of those was lost years ago.' Fulvia frowned. 'Has the old rascal laid hands on one?'

'He's not said a thing,' Tarquinius replied smoothly. 'Go back to bed.

You have to be up at dawn.'

He helped Fulvia across the room, wincing at her stooped back and at how much effort it took to climb into the low cot. Long years of hard labour had crippled his mother's body.

'My strong, clever Arun.' Fulvia used the sacred term for youngest son. 'You are destined for greatness. I feel it in my bones.'

'Hush now.' Tarquinius glanced around uneasily. Caelius did not like ancient, non-Roman terms being used. 'Get some sleep.'

But Fulvia was undeterred. 'I've known it since I first saw your birthmark – the same one Tarchun bore. We could not have given you any other name but Tarquinius.'

He rubbed self-consciously at the red triangular shape on the side of his neck. It was something he had only seen occasionally in the reflection of a pool and the haruspex often commented on it.

'It was no surprise to me when Olenus took an interest in you. Teaching sacred rituals, pushing you to learn languages from the foreign slaves.' She swelled with pride. 'I kept telling your father. Once upon a time he listened. But since your brother was killed fighting Sulla, he is only interested in his next jug of wine.'

Tarquinius considered the sleeping figure sadly. 'He was once proud to be a warrior of the Rasenna.'

'Deep down he'll always be an Etruscan,' his mother whispered. 'Like you.'

'There are still many reasons to be proud of our race.' He kissed Fulvia's brow and she smiled, closing tired eyes.

The art of haruspicy is alive, Mother. The Etruscans will not be forgotten. But he did not say it out loud. While Sergius talked to no one, Fulvia was prone to gossiping. It was vital that Caelius did not know the truth about his trips to see Olenus.

Tarquinius clambered into his own bed. By the time he fell asleep, the sky was beginning to pale.

There was little chance to hunt wolves or visit Olenus in the days that followed. It was nearly harvest time, the estate 's busiest time of year. The workload for slaves and indentured families like those of Tarquinius had increased fourfold.

Rufus Caelius had returned from Rome to supervise the important task. Most had supposed his trip had been to raise capital to bolster his ailing finances. The redhead was a typical example of the Roman noble class: good at warfare, poor at commerce. Ten years earlier, when the price of grain had begun to plummet due to a large increase in imports from Sicily and Egypt, Caelius had failed to spot the trend. While shrewder neighbours converted entire latifundia to growing more lucrative grapes and olives, the bullish ex-staff officer had persisted with wheat. In only a decade, the profitable estate had been brought to the edge of ruin.

It had not taken long for the cheap foreign crops to bankrupt thousands of small farmers throughout Italy, Tarquinius' family among them. Big landowners capitalised on the opportunity, increasing their properties' sizes at others' expense. New workers were required quickly and the gap was filled by thousands of slaves, the human prizes of Rome's conquests.

Although they were citizens, Sergius and his family were fortunate enough to get low-paid contract work from Caelius. At least they were paid. Thanks to the slave population, others were not so lucky and cities swelled immeasurably from the influx of starving peasants. Even more grain was thus required for the congiaria, the free distributions to the poor.