A few moments later, the illusion was gone as the smoke dissipated, and the passengers lined up to board the train cars. Alexandros noticed one car with only a few people boarding. He asked Hektor about it.
“That’s the Imperial Car. Only patricians, imperial household family, or staff are allowed to ride in there.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “I hear they get free food.”
The boys laughed as they handed the crisply uniformed conductor their tickets. The heavy card was stamped once. It would be stamped again when they left the train.
Manhandling their two bags on board, plus his own light one, Hektor secured them a small compartment with large windows. The two pairs of seats faced each other, with a small table between them. Two sets of flickering wall lamps lit the room, shedding light on the maroon fabric of the worn seat cushions, the wooden wall panels, and the smooth surface of the table.
“Excellent!” Gordanus exclaimed as he hopped onto the seat and moved as close to the window as possible, staring out at all the people still crowding the platform. Alexandros closed the sliding door behind him, shutting out the noise of the crowded hallway.
A few minutes later, the steam whistle blew and the train slowly pulled out of the station. Gordanus cracked open the window to let a bit of fresh air into the car as the train moved south out of Rome. They passed what seemed like miles of urban buildings, multi-story apartments, and soaring monuments. As they traveled farther from Rome, Alexandros saw the gradual shift from the more affluent to the run-down areas of the city. Streets were no longer paved, and the ramshackle buildings replaced the elegant stone and marble edifices. As the train slowed to make a corner, a group of children in dirty clothes waved to it from their perch on an old, rusted flatbed train car. Alexandros waved back, smiling for a moment at their excitement about seeing the train. And with that, the steam engine turned the corner, and Rome was behind them.
Chapter 4: Junior Officer
“Welcome, gentlemen, to the last year of Officer’s Academia. You’ve been here for two years, and now you are almost ready to join our illustrious airfleet. I remember when I was in your shoes, many years ago.”
The Maester of the academia, Admiral Octavius Flaminius, looked out over the assembled officer trainees. Even from his spot ten rows back, Alexandros could see the distinctive pointed nose that made the Maester resemble a bird of prey.
“I am pleased to announce that this class has the lowest rate of student withdrawal since our inception over fifty years ago. You all must be studying pretty hard to get such good grades!” he joked. At least, Alexandros thought it was a joke, as he knew that many, if not most of his classmates around him received help from tutors paid for by their family’s wealth.
“So, now for the last step. As we all know, Julius Caesar told us ‘to allow politics into the military is to allow a man to poison himself.’ The academias were created precisely to ensure we never again allow people with insufficient training to lead our brave men into combat. To this end, you shall be assigned to your training airships for the next three months, where you will work, sleep, learn, and understand every position of the airship. As officers, you must be know your ship like you know yourself, know the intricacies, the problems, the strengths of every compartment, weapon, and man under your command. On these cruises, your true skill will be tested. Assignments have been posted to your personal mailboxes. Pack you bags and assemble by first bell tomorrow morning. Dismissed!”
The mass of fourteen and fifteen year olds broke apart quickly, talking and laughing. The excitement over their maiden cruise in an airship was palpable. As the students split up and walked through the corridors back to the dormitories, Alexandros overheard bits and pieces from different conversations.
“… hope we get Linutis, he’s supposed to be easy…”
“… wonder if the schedules are done alphabetically…”
“I’d have my father pull strings if I’m in the poor crew…”
That last comment stopped Alexandros cold. He paused and craned his neck to find the source of the insulting words.
But of course.
His old nemesis (if you could call him that), Kretarus, was walking slowly with his cronies, blocking most of the hallway as they sauntered along. Groups of students were stuck behind this obstacle as they tried to get to their own rooms. The students Kretarus referred to, of course, were those who did not have the ample family backing that he and his friends from patrician families had. Alexandros was deemed one of those “poor” students, although his family was generally considered well to do.
“Kretarus, you know your father has no pull here,” another student scoffed at his comment, echoing how Alexandros felt. One of his cronies pushed the kid back.
“Oh really, Fart-is? Well, I would think that your father must have murdered someone to get you into the academia. Isn’t he a mechanica driver?” Kretarus jeered.
The boy pushed back, and Alexandros could see the scuffle about to start. Sighing, he stepped up.
“Kretarus, are you insulting everyone again? Did you not eat breakfast this morning? It’s bad to let that body go to waste.” The other boys in the hallway laughed, and Kretarus turned and walked away haughtily.
Ignoring him, Alexandros turned to the other boy. He held out his arm. “Rufius Alexandros.”
“Furtis Ionia.”
With the blockage removed, the hallway emptied quickly.
“Watch out Furtis, Kretarus is a bad person to make an enemy of. I hope you’re on my team, for your sake,” Alexandros said.
“I can watch out for myself, thanks. But I’ll keep that in mind.” He bade Alexandros farewell and walked off.
For a moment, Alexandros was alone in the hallway, watching the beautiful seaside vista that filled the open west windows. The sparkling calm waters belied their violent history. Several bloody battles against the Carthaginians had taken place in the seas around the southwestern tip of the Roman peninsula before the Romans had come out victorious.
Of course, with our modern airfleet, there never would have been a third or even second Punic War.
Musings done with, Alexandros gathered his thoughts and returned to his room. Gordanus was there waiting for him. His friend had half of his belongings strewn across the floor.
“Do you think we’ll need our officers uniform? What about our books?” he asked hurriedly. Alexandros waved his arm in a placating way.
“Gordanus, did you see the recommended list they handed out to us? One set of cold-weather gear, one set warm-weather gear, three standard crew uniforms, extra socks, gloves, over jacket, soft helmet, sword, hand repeater, plus our own mess kit.” He shuffled through the papers on his spartan desk, finding the appropriate one and handing it over to Gordanus. “Everything is under control. You still have two hours.”
Alexandros went to his own dresser, removing the tunics and breaches he would need. He packed his two duffel bags carefully, the utilitarian canvas of the bags scratchy on his skin. After organizing his gear, he added in several additional personal mementos. A small sketch of his family, an award from the Roma Aeronautica Academia for his second place finish in the Winnowing Race, plus a small journal he saved various letters and other odds and ends in. All were packed and ready.
Alexandros turned to look at Gordanus. The other boy was still struggling to fold his trousers properly.
“Gah, I swear, Gord, I’m going to give up on you some day,” he said as he bent down to help.
Gordanus looked sourly up at Alexandros. “If only they pressed these pants with less starch, they would be easier to fold.” Alexandros gave him a look. “I’m just saying what we all think,” Gordanus protested.