Total War Rome: Destroy Carthage

3

At the appointed hour they stood waiting for the centurion to enter the room and lead them out into the arena, where Brutus had been training hard all afternoon. Scipio and Gaius Paullus were wearing the purple-hemmed tunics they had donned for the ceremony in the temple, but had removed the laurel garlands that marked them out as viris principes, young men within their gens who were nearly of age to lead the rituals themselves. Fabius looked over the balustrade and into the arena, a smaller, practice version of the oval arenas surrounded by raised wooden stands that were erected for gladiatorial contests in the Field of Mars. In the early days of Rome, fights had taken place on the Sacred Way in the Forum, even within the temple precincts — in any open space where spectators could assemble on surrounding walls and balconies. But as space in the Forum became constricted and the crowds grew larger, the contests had been held in the Circus Maximus and then in the temporary arenas on the Field of Mars, next to the military training ground. Neither venue was satisfactory, and there was even talk of building a permanent stone structure with tiered seating and underground holding pens, so the animals would no longer have to be dragged snarling though the streets and threaten the lives of spectators as much as the gladiators who fought them. But the idea had been scoffed at by the more conservative senators who controlled public works, those who thought that building a structure on that scale solely for the purpose of entertainment was a frivolous use of money and smacked of Greek effeminacy: they harked back to the time when their Etruscan and Latin ancestors had created the boundary of the arenas with their own bodies, and revelled in the sweat and blood of the contest. They said that a structure large enough to accommodate all of those who would attend the contests would destroy the majesty of Rome, dwarfing the temples of the Forum and making a mockery of the gods and the pietas and dignitas on which the city had been built.

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.

The route march had been bad enough, but it had been punctuated by an experience that was etched in Fabius’ memory. On the Appian Way a few miles outside Rome, beyond the family tomb of the Scipiones, they had come across a line of wooden crucifixes being set up on the edge of the road. There had been a slave revolt in a travertine quarry to the east of the city, and the culprits were paying the penalty. They had seen the progression of death by crucifixion as they marched alongside, from those nearest the city who had been hoisted up first to the ones being set up that day: from the grey dangling corpses to the men still struggling for breath, their eyes wide open with fear, no longer with the strength in their arms to hold their chests up and prevent themselves from drowning in their own fluids, their legs and the post below streaked with faeces and urine and blood.

Gaius Paullus had turned away and retched, and the old centurion had pounced on him, pulling him up by the collar of his tunic and snarling into his face. ‘You can fight all the wars you want in the dioramas and sandpits of the academy. But you will never fight a real war unless you learn to love the sight of death. Breathe it all in. Learn to relish it. Otherwise you may as well go back and join the spotty youths in the Forum learning oratory and social niceties. Give me a girl like Julia in my legion any day over any of them.’ He had dragged Gaius Paullus along to the front of the line of crucifixes, stripped him of his load and spoken with the centurion commanding the execution party, who had gladly handed over the hammer and nails and ropes to the boys to carry on with the job. They had spent the next several hours hoisting and nailing prisoners to the crosses, enduring their writhing attempts to break free and the screams of pain as they knocked the foot-long spikes through their wrists and feet. Fabius had been sickened and knew that Scipio felt the same too, but there was nothing they could do to ease the agony for the prisoners; many were muscular giants captured in the Macedonian wars who should have been recruited as mercenaries to fight for Rome instead of being wasted in the quarries — another failing of Roman policy that Scipio Africanus had railed against but which for now they could do nothing to change.

At the end, Scipio and Gaius Paullus had stood in front of Petraeus while he addressed them. ‘I want you to become tribunes whom I would serve under,’ he had said. ‘That’s what Scipio Africanus told me to make of the students in the academy. Make them or break them, he said. And if I break you, you’ll feel the pain and the shame for all your lives. So you’d better learn what I’m telling you now. One day you are going to have to order men to be executed, some of them superb warriors like these slaves, some of them men you have fought alongside and loved like brothers. You will have to be able to do it in front of their comrades, without flinching, and without mercy. Now get back to the road, pick up those sacks of rocks and march. You’ve got thirty seconds or you’ll feel the lick of my whip.’

Fabius followed Scipio and Gaius Paullus down the rocky path into the crater, followed by Petraeus. Somewhere ahead of them in the smoke lay the Sibyl’s cave, and near that the crack in the earth that was said to lead to the underworld. As they reached the bottom of the slope they passed fissures stained yellow that reeked of sulphur, just like Ennius’ concoction in the academy. The base of the crater was an expanse of glassy rock as flat as a lake, wreathed in smoke that swirled up and obscured the sun, making the way ahead seem dark and forbidding. At the edge of the crater the rock bulged up in forms that looked like half-finished giants, borne of the earth but trapped in the rock before they could fully emerge. Polybius had told Fabius how he had been high up the volcano in Sicily and seen bulbous shapes like these as they were being formed, solidified from rivers of molten rock. He had said that the Phlegraean Fields truly were an entrance to the underworld, a place where the rock they stood on was a mere crust over the fiery chaos within, but that it was an entrance to Hades only inasmuch as those who lingered too long near the smoke or slipped into the molten streams were certain to die. Out of earshot of Petraeus he had said that those who came here were deluded, people whose desperation to know the future or to meet the shade of a loved one had tricked them into seeing visions, their minds fogged by the fumes and by the intoxicating leaf that the servants of the Sibyl burned on her fire; it was a leaf that Polybius himself knew was not some special gift of the gods but had been shipped from India by way of Alexandria, along with the drug known as lachryma papaveris, poppy tears. It was said that the priests of the Sibyl gave out these drugs freely to any of those who came to see her, and that those who brought gold were given especially large doses and were the ones who kept coming back for more, some of them wealthy aristocrats who had moved their homes from Rome to Neapolis and nearby Cumae just to be close to the source of the drugs that had begun to consume their minds.

Fabius caught sight of human forms huddled behind the rocks, staring at them. These were not aristocrats but were people who had fallen away from society, emaciated forms with faces and hands blackened by the smoke. It was said that they included a sect of Jews who believed that one day their god would come to them in this place; most, though, were escaped slaves and other fugitives from the law, those at the end of their tether who had come to spend their final days here before the fumes overcame them, hoping for some kind of salvation. One of them scurried up now, a filthy wretch clothed only in a loincloth, his eyes glazed over as if drunk, gesticulating wildly and pointing down a line of rocks laid across the floor of the crater. Scipio tossed him a coin and he scurried away, and then stopped and looked back at Petraeus for confirmation. He nodded, pointing forward, and they turned and made their way along the line of rocks, their feet crunching on the glassy surface of the crater. Fabius could feel the heat underneath and was glad for the thickness of his sandals, but Gaius Paullus was hopping and grimacing, the leather of his sandals smouldering. After what seemed an age they came to the other side of the crater and a tumble of rock that had fallen from the rim, in the middle of which was a jagged black hole the size of a temple entrance; in front was a hearth, tended by two black-robed forms who disappeared among the rocks as soon as they came close.

They had reached the cave of the Sibyl. They made their way up a well-worn path towards the hearth, the rocks smoothed by the countless supplicants who had clambered this way before. A few paces from the hearth they stopped, smelling the sweet odour that rose from the embers, and stared into the yawning blackness beyond. ‘They say she’s three hundred generations old,’ Gaius Paullus whispered, staring in awe. ‘They say she was old before Aeneas stood here, and is now so shrunken and wizened that she hangs in a little cage in the darkness, fed and tended by her priests like a pet monkey.’

‘Be careful what you say,’ Petraeus growled. ‘The god Apollo himself will hear you, and mete out his punishment.’ He turned to Scipio. ‘Her attendants have seen you, and she knows you are here. You must go forward alone into the cave.’

Scipio gave Fabius a wry look, took a deep breath and strode forward, walking around the hearth and disappearing out of sight into the blackness beyond. For a few minutes there was silence, and Fabius tensed, hating to see Scipio go out of his sight. And then a strange noise issued from the cave, indiscernible, like the muffled sound of a priest’s incantation in the back cella of a temple. A few moments later Scipio reappeared, stumbling towards them, his face flushed and running with sweat. He passed the hearth and then turned back to peer at the cave, breathing heavily.

‘Did you see her?’ Gaius Paullus whispered, his voice tremulous.

‘I don’t know.’ Scipio’s voice was hoarse with the smoke, and he passed his hand over his face, leaning with the other on Fabius for support. ‘The fumes from the hearth were very strong, a sweetness that made me feel light-headed. It must be the weed that Polybius warned of. I’m not sure what I saw, but there might have been something in the darkness, hanging there, and I felt an exhalation that wafted the leaves over the fire, making them crackle and burn. When that happened there was a voice, a deep voice but that of a woman, ancient and cackling. I nearly fainted when I heard it.’

‘Well,’ Gaius Paullus asked, his voice hushed, ‘what did she say?’

Scipio shook his head. ‘I’m not sure. It was a verse, a riddle. All that I heard was this: The eagle and the sun shall unite, and in their union shall lie the future of Rome.’

‘What on earth can that mean?’

Fabius led Scipio back down a few steps to where Petraeus had been waiting for them, and thought hard. ‘If the eagle means Metellus and the sun represents the Scipiones, then your joint destiny is to take Rome forward.’

‘Metellus in the east, Scipio in the west,’ Petraeus growled. ‘That’s what the Sibyl foretold when Scipio Africanus and I came here all those years ago. She said that one with the name Scipio would conquer Carthage and have the world at his feet.’

‘It cannot be me, then,’ Scipio said, pushing Fabius away, stumbling against the rocks and then standing without assistance, blinking in a shaft of sunlight that came through the smoke. ‘The Senate is too cautious to declare war, and Carthage will remain unfinished business.’

‘Maybe for now, but war with Carthage is possible within our lifetimes,’ Gaius Paullus said cautiously.

Scipio took a swig of water from the skin that Fabius had offered him. ‘How can you know this?’

‘The day that we left Rome I spent the morning in the Forum. It began as a rumour among the people, and then became a murmur in the Senate, and then a clamour that drowned out all debate, until the consuls ordered the guard to unsheathe their swords to shut everybody up. And then Cato stood up to the rostrum and said the words that had been on everyone’s lips.’

The centurion stared at him. ‘Out with it, man.’

Gaius Paullus swallowed hard. ‘Carthago delenda est.’

In the silence that followed, Fabius looked up and saw a crow flying high across the sky, just as his father had told him he had twice seen before sailing to war. Scipio turned to Gaius Paullus and repeated the words, his voice hoarse now with emotion. ‘Carthago delenda est. Carthage must be destroyed.’

The centurion fixed Scipio in his gaze, his eyes gleaming with a fire that Fabius had not seen in them before. ‘Almost fifty years ago I stood with your adoptive grandfather at this very spot, when war was in the offing. Eighteen years later we stood before the walls of Carthage, battle-hardened, watching Hannibal crawl before us, pleading for peace. Then, the Senate baulked at issuing the final order. Now, you are a new breed of men, and when those of you who live to see the day stand in front of those walls yourselves, there will be no appeasement, no mercy to the vanquished. That much I have taught you in the academy. There will be much preparation, and much hardship, and I myself will not live to see it. But I will die happy, knowing that the job will at last be finished.’

Gaius Paullus stood at attention, staring straight ahead, the toll of the last few days showing on his face. Scipio straightened and slapped his right hand on his chest, his voice still clenched with emotion. ‘You can depend on us, centurion.’

Just as they were about to turn and leave, the sound of a horse’s hooves came clattering from the crater, and a rider wearing an official messenger’s gold-rimmed tunic and neck gorget came into view. He dismounted, holding the horse’s bridle as it stomped and snorted in the fumes, and came up to them. ‘Gnaeus Petraeus Atinus, holder of the corona obsidionalis, I have news from the Senate. The war against King Perseus of Macedon is heading for a decisive battle. Lucius Aemilius Paullus has requested a further call to arms. The Senate has authorized the raising of another legion.’

Fabius’ heart began to pound. He looked towards Scipio, seeing his eyes suddenly gleam. The messenger turned to Scipio. ‘Publius Cornelius Scipio Aemilianus, your father requests that you be appointed a temporary military tribune on his staff. Gaius Aemilius Paullus, you are appointed temporary tribune to be second in command of the third maniple of the new legion. And Fabius Petronius Secundus, as your eighteenth birthday has passed, you are to be a legionary and standard-bearer of the first cohort of the first legion, on the special recommendation of primipilus Gnaeus Petraeus Atinus.’

Fabius felt a surge of excitement and glanced at the centurion, who nodded curtly. Petraeus must have put in a word for him in Rome before they left. He must have known that the call to arms would come before their journey was over. That was what this trip had really been about, preparing them for this moment. Scipio stood up and spoke. ‘So this is it. Our time in the academy is finished.’

The centurion placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Now you must prove yourselves in blood. You must learn to kill like legionaries, winning the respect of the toughest soldiers the world has ever known. I do not know what the words of the Sibyl mean. But I do know this. Your right to order legionaries into battle must be earned. Then, you can heed the call of Cato and lead a Roman army back to Carthage.’

‘And today, centurion?’

‘Today, you march to war.’