Total War Rome: Destroy Carthage (9 page)

In the academy the gladiators were used as sparring partners for the boys, all of whom bore scars from the hours they had spent in the afternoons moving from one opponent to another, testing their skills and weapons against enemies of Rome who had been taken prisoner in wars of conquest: Iberians and Celtiberians, Gauls and Germans from the north, Balearic slingers and Cretan bowmen, and swordsmen from all of the regions of the east encompassed by the former empire of Alexander the Great. Brutus' opponent today was a giant Thracian named Brasis who had been captured as a mercenary in Macedonia some ten years before, but his fighting skills had meant that he was spared by a Roman commander with an eye to bringing back a prisoner who could excel as a gladiator to increase his popularity among the
plebs.
Brasis had won enough contests to secure his freedom but had remained in the Gladiator School, and still fought lions with his bare hands and his vicious Thracian knife when he was sober enough to do so. Fabius had seen slyness behind the glazed-over eyes, and wondered whether Brasis was truly still here because he had nowhere else to go, as he claimed, or whether he was in the pay of the faction in the Senate who opposed the academy and wanted an insider strongman for when the time came to clear it out. All that was certain was that the man was an extraordinary sword fighter who had honed Brutus' skills to the point where they were evenly matched, evidenced by the clashing blades and shuffling movements that could go on for hours, with neither man giving quarter, only to be broken up when the ringmaster called the contest to a halt and sent Brutus reluctantly on to his next class.

Fabius turned back to the room. That lunchtime he had heard rumours in the Scipio household about events in Macedonia, and everyone was tense with excitement. They all prayed that Aemilius Paullus had not defeated the army of King Perseus, a triumph for Rome but the death-knell for their chances of seeing active service any time soon. The rumours were that a final battle was imminent, but that Aemilius Paullus was stalling until he had a fresh draft of legionaries as well as the tribunes needed to lead them. Metellus had already left that afternoon on horseback to rejoin his legion, and would be followed by the other young officers who had been on leave in Rome during the lull in the fighting over the past months. But to put those men in charge of newly raised troops would be to spread them too thinly, and Fabius knew that Scipio and the other boys would be crossing their fingers that they were next in line; apart from Metellus, who was ten years older and only visiting the academy, none of them had yet reached the age of eighteen, so they could not be given official appointments as tribunes within a legion, but a general could make temporary appointments on his staff and attach them to the maniples on an emergency basis.

Their numbers in the academy were already depleted, Ptolemy and Demetrius having left for Egypt and Syria in the last month, with Gulussa and Hippolyta due to return to their homelands as well. Everyone left would therefore stand a good chance of an appointment if the call to arms came. Fabius was already eighteen, a year older than Scipio and old enough to be recruited as a legionary, and had undertaken basic training on the Field of Mars; if the call to arms came, he was sworn to protect Scipio and would remain his bodyguard, but he knew that Scipio himself would not countenance him going simply as an officer's servant and would insist on his appointment as a legionary in the front line, a demand that Petraeus would also support.

For now, the talk was just rumours and his main focus was on the academy and the needs of the day. He had heard Scipio warning Gaius Paullus that as the newest of the boys he still must not put a foot wrong, despite passing the test with the
gladius
that morning. But Fabius had a sinking feeling as he saw Gaius Paullus detach himself from the group and come to attention, evidently aiming to please. ‘
Strategos,
' he said loudly, saluting as he did so.

Fabius groaned inwardly, and the centurion glared at Gaius Paullus. Scipio leaned forward and nudged his cousin. ‘For Jupiter's sake, call him centurion,' he whispered.

‘But they call him
strategos
here, the slaves who led me in,' the boy whispered back. ‘And so do the Greek professors.'

‘That's exactly why he hates it,' Scipio whispered back. ‘They're
Greek.
Don't you know what the vine staff he's carrying means – the
vitis,
the centurion's badge of rank? Well, you'll know soon enough, because you're in for it now.'

‘Silence!' The centurion stepped forward, slamming his staff down on the floor in front of Gaius Paullus. The colour drained from the boy's face, but he stood his ground. In one deft movement the centurion twirled the staff and brought it down hard against the boy's shins. Gaius Paullus buckled forward, only just retaining his balance, then came to attention again, inches from the centurion's face. Fabius watched him trying to stay emotionless, to show no pain, holding back the tears. The centurion stared at him mercilessly, watching for any sign of weakness. After what seemed an eternity, he grunted, stamped his stick down and walked past Gaius Paullus towards the table. The boy's face crumpled in pain, and Scipio nudged him again, shaking his head violently. The centurion banged his stick, and they turned to follow his gaze as he pointed at the battle diorama.

‘I was there, in the front rank of the first legion,' Petraeus said gruffly, pointing at the wooden blocks representing the Roman infantry. He narrowed his eyes at Gaius Paullus, and then glanced at Scipio. ‘I was your adoptive grandfather's standard-bearer then. After ten more years in the ranks I became a centurion, and then
primipilus,
senior centurion of my legion. Three times I held that rank, three times as new legions were raised for new wars. And then I could rise no further, because my father was a mere peasant, an honest Roman who toiled with his oxen on the slopes of the Alban Hills all his life: the type of Roman the consuls love to praise, the backbone of the army, yet unable to command units larger than a century. Except that your grandfather saw otherwise. A few of us senior centurions he promoted to command auxiliary cohorts. My lot was the elephants. He glared at Ennius, who again had the job of mucking out old Hannibal that day. ‘The elephants, mark you.'

‘Centurion,' Ennius said, his voice quavering.

‘And then when he became
praetor,
general of the army, he put me in command of his personal troops, the Praetorian Guard. And then before he departed to the afterlife he chose me to look after you boys. There were so many Greeks teaching here that they started to call me
strategos.
The name stuck.'

Polybius cleared his throat. ‘It has an honourable pedigree. Think of the heroes of Thermopylae, of Marathon, of Alexander the Great and his generals, of Perseus and his Macedonian phalanx.'

The old man snorted. ‘When I am back in the village of my forefathers I am called centurion. That is what I will be called when I retire.'

‘You will only retire when the gods call you to Elysium, centurion. You were born a soldier, and you will die a soldier.'

Petraeus snorted again, but looked pleased. Polybius knew how to flatter him. And the centurion had not got where he was solely by brawn: he was a skilled tactician who could see Polybius' unusual ability as a strategist, despite the posturing that always came before they entered the arena. ‘Enough of this,' he said gruffly, as if on cue. ‘There is only one way to win a war, and that is to do what we Romans do best: killing at close quarters, with the spear, with the sword, with our bare hands. All this talk of strategy is making you soft. It is time we went below to help Brutus execute criminals.'

‘
Ave,
centurion.' They all stood loosely to attention, waiting for him to bang his staff and lead the way. But before he could do so, Scipio advanced a few steps and stood in front of him, addressing him formally. ‘Gnaeus Petraeus Atinus, tomorrow I must go to the family tomb of the Scipiones on the Appian Way to honour my ancestors. From there I march three days down the coast to Liternum, to the tomb of my adoptive grandfather Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus. You know that he chose to end his days and be buried away from Rome because he felt forsaken by the Senate, by those who were envious of his fame and refused to heed his advice. Now, fifteen years after his death, the consuls have finally allowed the full
lustratio
to be carried out at his tomb, to accord him the highest honour as a Roman.'

Petraeus snorted. ‘So they say. I do not trust the Senate. And Scipio Africanus will only rest easy once Carthage has been destroyed.'

Scipio reached into a bag he was carrying and took out a folded white garment with purple borders. ‘When my father Aemilius Paullus stood before my adoptive grandfather's deathbed, Scipio Africanus told him that there was a place for you in his tomb, that you would hold the standard for him in the afterlife just as you did in this world. My family would be honoured if you would wear this
toga praetexta
and perform the
lustratio
at his tomb, the sacrifice of purification. As a
centurio primipilus
who has won the
corona obsidionalis,
you are allowed by law to perform the rite.'

The centurion stood stock-still, but Fabius could see that his lips were quivering with emotion. He gripped his staff hard, then held out his right hand stiffly, taking the toga. He cleared his throat. ‘Publius Cornelius Scipio Aemilianus, I accept this honour. I served your grandfather, in this world, and will do so in the next.' He held the toga against his breastplate, then eyed Scipio. ‘Liternum is only an hour's march from the Phlegraean Fields, where Aeneas visited the underworld. You know who lives there.'

There was silence, a sudden uneasy tension. The centurion banged his staff. ‘Come on, out with it, one of you. She's just an old hag in a cave.'

‘The Sibyl,' Polybius said quietly.

The centurion grunted. ‘Old hag she may be, but she speaks the words of Apollo in her riddles. Fifty years ago I went there with Scipio Africanus, when he was a boy like you and I was his bodyguard. The Sibyl foretold of a day when the god would reveal himself to another Scipio, on the Ides of March, 585 years
ab urbe condita.
That is four days from now, and on that day Scipio must await her in the cave.'

It was Scipio's turn to stare. ‘You mean me?'

‘It was foretold.' He paused. ‘One other will have been there before you, stopping off on his ride south towards Brundisium, he who bears the mark of the eagle.'

Scipio stared at him. ‘You mean Metellus?'

‘The Sibyl foretold it, of the one who would bear the mark of the sun, the symbol of the Scipiones, and the other the eagle. She said that you were to be two young warriors of Rome, and Metellus is the only one among you who bears such a mark.'

‘And what else did she foretell?'

‘In some way your future is bound up together, but in a way that only the Sibyl will tell.'

Scipio looked away pensively. His future was already bound up with Metellus through Julia, and he knew too well that he was the one who was going to lose out. Fabius knew that he would not want to travel all the way to the Phlegraean Fields to hear an old hag speak an obscure riddle that would be interpreted by some as evidence that he had no future with Julia, a fact that the Sibyl could easily have surmised from her network of spies in Rome, feeding her with information that she used to convince the gullible that she had some kind of clairvoyance. But then Fabius looked at the old centurion and remembered Polybius that morning, telling them that soldiers should be allowed their superstitions. Petraeus knew better than any of them that wars were won by strategy and tactics, not by divine oracles, but like many who had survived battle, he had come to believe that there was more to it than chance and skill, that luck was divinely bestowed. And for Scipio to visit the Sibyl would mean more than that to Petraeus; it would be part of a pilgrimage to honour the memory of the revered Africanus. It was Scipio who had invited Petraeus to Liternum, and now he was going to have to indulge him.

Ennius spoke up. ‘Can the rest of us come? To the tomb of Scipio Africanus, to the rite of purification?'

The centurion glared at him, and then sniffed exaggeratedly. The distinctive odour of elephant dung had been wafting over them from the window for some time now. ‘After what you're about to do this evening for old Hannibal, there'll be no chance of purification for you, Ennius, in this world or the next.' His face cracked into a rare grin, and the others laughed, the tension eased. He put a hand on Ennius' shoulder. ‘Your time will come. It will come for all of you. You will know your destiny soon enough. There is war in the air.'

A clanking sound of chains came up from the arena, the swoosh of whips and cries of pain as the prisoners were brought in. The centurion leaned his staff against his chest, held up his hands and examined them theatrically, his eyes gleaming. ‘But meanwhile there is work to do. Look, the blood on my hands from that slave this morning has dried. It's time I got them wet again.' He slapped Polybius on the shoulder, clasped the pommel of his sword and took up his staff again, banging it down. ‘Are we ready?' he bellowed.

They all answered as one. ‘
Parati sumus,
centurion. We are ready.'

*   *   *

Four days later Fabius stood among the steaming fumeroles of the Phlegraean Fields near Neapolis, tasting the tang of sulphur and wishing he were in the fresh air a few miles away below Mount Vesuvius in the town of Pompeii, where he had cousins. He and Scipio had been accompanied from Rome by Gaius Paullus, who as a distant scion of the
gens
Cornelia had been sent to represent his family at the
lustratio
for Scipio Africanus; he was with them now, looking pale and exhausted. It had been rough going for him from the outset. The old centurion had made up for his show of sentiment on being invited by Scipio to Liternum by treating the trip south as an army route march, making them each carry a sack of rocks on their backs equivalent to a legionary's pack. Gaius Paullus was only sixteen and small for his age and had suffered the most, with Petraeus hounding him mercilessly and frequently flicking his whip across the back of the boy's legs. By the time they reached Liternum after three days and nights on the road, stopping only for the odd hour of sleep before Petraeus roused them again, the boy could barely stand. During the ceremony at the tomb Fabius and Scipio had wedged him between them to stop him from collapsing and dishonouring both his family and Petraeus, who had been resplendent in
toga praetexta
as officiating priest in a ceremony to perpetuate the memory of a man he regarded as something akin to a god.