That night, in the glim of a shared bedroom, they kept the lantern burning low as they talked of the Sybil, the cave, the smells, the acolytes, but mostly of the prophecy. What did it portend? Each word they examined and repeated over and over again, searching for meaning. “One shall tame a mighty foe, the other strike to save Rome’s fame.” How could they do that and not achieve their aim?

‘What is our aim?’ asked Aulus.

‘Glory for us, our families, and the Republic.’

There was no boast in Lucius’s words, just the ambition of every well-born Roman boy. ‘The Sybil must be wrong,’ he whispered, his soft brown eyes fixing his friend, as if by doing so they would make fact of speculation.

‘Can an oracle be wrong?’ Aulus was desperately hoping that Lucius, so much wiser in the ways of the world than he, would say yes, but his companion did not oblige, he merely repeated the last part of the Sybil’s prophecy. ‘Look aloft if you dare, though what you fear cannot fly, both will face it before you die.’

‘Does that mean we will die together?’

‘It might,’ Lucius said in an uncertain tone.

‘All I ask is a noble death.’

A platitude to an adult, it was a truism to any twelve-year-old. ‘We can face no other, Aulus, we are Romans.’

As the night wore on, Lucius recovered his poise, that air of certainty which, however questionable, he carried off with a composure beyond his years. He suggested that they use a knife to exchange blood and to swear eternal friendship that would surely act as a talisman to ward off any evil spirits.