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.