The table was lit by four candles at each corner, and by an open skylight in the roof. In the gloom Fabius could make out a dozen or so figures standing back in the shadows, including the bearded figure of Polybius, taller than the rest and some fifteen years older, attending today as their professor in order to better his understanding of Roman tactics for a special volume in the Histories that he was writing.
Scipio was leaning forward with his hands on the table, staring intently. Fabius quietly passed him the bronze greaves he had been carrying, and Scipio put them on, deftly tying them behind his legs and nodding acknowledgement to Fabius before looking at the table again, concentrating. Fabius knew the protocol. They had finished reconstructing the actual battle, and now were entering the realm of speculation. Each one in turn would come up to the table and alter a series of variables, and the next would suggest possible outcomes. It was a game of tactics and strategy to show how easily the course of history could have been altered. Scipio as leader of the group was the last player, and Polybius as the previous player had set him the challenge.
‘You’ve taken away the Celtiberians,’ Scipio muttered.
‘They’re mercenaries, remember?’ Polybius replied. ‘Almost the entire Carthaginian army is mercenary. I’ve imagined that on the eve of battle they’ve demanded their pay, and Carthage has no gold left. So they’ve melted away into the night.’
Another voice piped in. ‘Have you heard the rumour that the Carthaginians have revived the Sacred Band? An elite unit made up entirely of Carthaginian noblemen. They say it’s been resurrected in secret, for the last defence of Carthage, should we attack again.’
Scipio looked up. ‘My friend the playwright Terence told me that too. He was brought up in Carthage, so should know. But it’s irrelevant to the game. At Zama it’s the year 551 ab urbe condita, and the Sacred Band was annihilated years before.’ He turned back to the diorama. ‘So, removing the Celtiberians makes Roman victory even more assured.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Polybius replied. ‘Look at your food supplies.’
Scipio glanced at a cluster of coloured counters behind the Roman lines, and grunted. ‘You’ve depleted it by three quarters. What happened?’
‘In the lead-up to the battle the Romans ravaged the land, taking all of the crops at once instead of foraging carefully with a view to a long campaign. For three weeks before the battle the legionaries have lived on half-rations.’
‘So, morale plummets. And physical ability. An army lives on its stomach.’
‘And I’ve made another change, the third one I’m allowed. Scipio Africanus, your grandfather, has told the legionaries that there will be no looting in Carthage if they take the city. All of the treasures stolen by the Carthaginians from the Greeks in Sicily will be returned.’
‘Even worse,’ Scipio muttered. ‘No food, no loot.’
‘But there is one saving factor,’ Polybius said.
‘What’s that?’
Polybius came forward out of the shadows. ‘Another change: my fourth and final one. Five years before, Scipio Africanus has been allowed by the Senate to create a professional army. He has set up an academy for officers, the first ever in Rome, in the old Gladiator School, identical to the academy here today. As a result, when the legionaries go to war they have the pride and solidarity of a professional army. They fight for one another, for their honour, and not for loot. And the officers have simulated past battles just as we are doing, they’re always one step ahead of the enemy. So they win the battle, as we would.’
‘And then they go on to destroy Carthage,’ Scipio said, grinning at Polybius. ‘Without the interference of the Senate.’
Polybius cocked an eye at him. ‘So what do you do, then? You’ve won the battle, and the campaign. But have you won the war? When are wars ever over? Do you return to Rome for your triumph and rest on your laurels, or do you capitalize on your victory and seek out the next threat to Rome, the next region ripe for conquest?’
‘It would depend on the will of the Senate and the people of Rome,’ one of the others said.
‘And on who was consul,’ another added. ‘Consuls are in office for only one year, and if the next consuls see little in it for themselves they may order the legions to return to Rome.’
Scipio pursed his lips. ‘That’s the problem,’ he said. ‘The constitution of Rome puts a lid on any attempt at a wider strategy.’
‘Constitutions are made by men, not gods,’ a figure with a deeper voice said. He stepped up beside Polybius, and Fabius saw that it was Metellus, a man closer in age to Polybius. He was already a serving tribune, at home on leave from the Macedonian war to recover from wounds; he already bore the scars of an eagle’s talons from his youth, where a hunting bird had missed his wrist and landed on his face. ‘Rome has already changed her constitution once, when she got rid of the kings and created the Republic,’ he said. ‘She could do it again.’
‘Dangerous words, Metellus,’ Polybius said. ‘Words that smack of dictatorship and empire.’
‘If that’s what we need to keep Rome strong, then so be it.’
Polybius leaned his hands on the table, looking at the diorama pensively. ‘It will be up to those of you here, the next generation of war leaders, to navigate the best course for Rome. All I would say is this. The course of history is not a matter of chance, nor a game in which we are pieces like these wooden blocks, moved about on a whim by the gods. In the real world, you are not the gaming piece; you are the player. You follow the rules of the game, yes, but you bend them, you press against them. The rules will not win the game for you: you must do it yourselves. History is made by people, not by gods. Scipio Africanus was not a slave to some divine will, but was his own master and his own tactician.’
‘And what of empire?’ Metellus asked. ‘Could Rome have an empire?’
‘Imperialism must be built on moral responsibility for the governed. Outrageous behaviour will bring retribution. An empire must not grow beyond the capacity of its institutions to manage it.’
‘Then we have done so already,’ Metellus said. ‘We already have provinces, but we do not yet have the organization to administer them. We are an empire in all but name, yet Rome persists in behaving like a city-state. Something must change. Someone must rise above it all and see the future. As you have taught us, Polybius, history is made by individuals, and it is they and not institutions that cause change. That is what this academy is about. It’s about creating future emperors.’
‘I don’t think that was exactly what my grandfather intended,’ Scipio said, looking at Metellus coldly.