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.’