by Ben Kane
‘Who?’
‘The Pontifex Maximus.’
Crassus blinked in surprise. ‘Gaius Julius Caesar?’
‘The same.’
‘What in the name of all the gods does the “Queen of Bithynia” want with me?’
‘He wouldn’t say.’ Saenius snickered. Everyone in Rome knew the rumours. Since Caesar’s sojourn a few years before at the court of Nicomedes, the elderly ruler of Bithynia, he had been dogged by the rumour that he had been intimate with his host. ‘He’s not dressed in fine purple robes. Nor is he reclining on a golden couch as he waits for you.’
The image made Crassus smile. ‘Caesar might have done that for Nicomedes, but I think he knows better than to try it on with me.’
Caesar was the highest-ranking priest in Rome. While his post had real importance, membership of the priesthood was also a stepping-stone for those young nobles with a promising career in politics. Caesar was already one of the rising stars on that scene. This won’t just be a social visit, that’s for sure.
They entered the atrium, the grand, airy room that led off the entrance hall. Beautifully painted scenes decorated the stucco walls: the exposure of the infants Romulus and Remus on the banks of the River Tiber, the consecration of Rhea Silvia as Vestal Virgin and the founding of the ancient city of Alba Longa. The death masks of Crassus’ ancestors adorned the rear wall, which also contained the lararium, an alcove set aside as a shrine to the household gods. Crassus bent his head in respect as he passed.
‘Where is he then?’
‘Don’t you wish to change, or to eat something first?’
‘Come now, Saenius,’ chuckled Crassus. ‘I ought to see him at once.’ He brushed a speck of imaginary dirt from the front of his own still immaculate toga. ‘Caesar may be a dandy, but my appearance will suffice.’
‘Of course. He’s waiting in the reception room off the courtyard.’
It was his most imposing office, decorated only the week before. It could not fail to impress. Pleased by Saenius’ shrewdness, Crassus followed his major domo through the tablinum, the large chamber that led on to the colonnaded garden beyond. Staying under the portico, they skirted the rows of vines and lemon trees, and the carefully placed colourful Greek statues. Saenius tapped on the open door of the first room they reached. ‘Marcus Licinius Crassus.’
Crassus glided past, smiling a welcome at the clean-shaven, thin man seated within. ‘Pontifex! I am honoured by your presence.’ He made a shallow obeisance, enough to show respect, but not enough to indicate any real inferiority.
‘Crassus,’ said Caesar, standing and returning the bow. As ever, his well-cut dark red robe had barely a crease. ‘How wonderful to see you.’
Crassus hid his delight at the deference just shown him. Family connections might have won Caesar the position of Pontifex, but there was still no need for him to rise for Crassus. The fact that he had done so showed that he recognised Crassus’ importance. It wasn’t that surprising. I am, after all, richer, more powerful and better connected. What Crassus did not like to admit was that he possessed little of Caesar’s élan.
Few other men – apart from Pompey – could win the love of the public as Caesar had. Winning a corona civica, Rome’s highest award for bravery, at nineteen. Choosing to become an advocate in the courts and robustly prosecuting Dolabella, a former consul, at twenty-three. Gaining notoriety as a lover of numerous men’s wives. However, the plebs’ favourite story about Caesar – if Crassus had heard it being told on a street corner once, he’d heard it a hundred times – involved his capture by pirates and imprisonment on the island of Pharmacussa off the coast of Asia Minor. Crassus hated the tale. Not only had Caesar laughed at the pirates’ ransom demand of twenty talents of silver, telling them that they should ask instead for fifty, but he had repeatedly told them that when he was freed, he would crucify them all. Some weeks later, when the larger amount had been paid, Caesar had indeed been released. Despite the fact that he was a civilian, he had persuaded the provincials who had paid his ransom to give him the command of several warships. True to his word, he had captured the pirates and, soon afterwards, crucified every single one of them. This display of Roman virtus, or manliness, had given Caesar an enduring appeal with the Roman public. Crassus longed for such recognition. He smiled at his guest. Prick. ‘Some wine?’
‘Thank you, that would be welcome.’
‘My throat’s dry too.’ Crassus glanced at Saenius, but the Latin was already on his way out of the door.
‘A long day in the Senate?’
‘Yes. Hours of talking about shit.’
Caesar’s eyebrows arched.
‘New sewers are planned for the Aventine Hill.’
‘I see. It sounds a reasonable suggestion.’
‘So you’d think. It’s never that easy in the Senate, though, is it? But you didn’t come here to talk about sanitation.’
‘No.’ Caesar paused as Saenius returned with a flask of wine.
‘You may speak freely. My major domo has been with me for more than twenty years. I trust him as I do my own son.’
‘Very well,’ said Caesar with obvious reluctance. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, the costs of living in the capital, of maintaining appearances when in high office, can be prohibitive.’
I knew it, Crassus gloated silently. He’s here for a loan. Aren’t they all? ‘They can be. Public entertainment of any kind can be expensive.’
‘A number of my friends have mentioned that you can be most accommodating when it comes to securing more . . . funds.’
‘I have been known to lend money on occasion.’ Crassus paused, savouring his power. ‘Is that why you are here?’
Caesar hesitated for a heartbeat. ‘In a word, yes.’
‘I see.’ Crassus rolled some wine around his mouth, enjoying the taste, and the awkward expression on Caesar’s face. ‘How much money do you need?’
‘Three million denarii.’
Saenius let out a tiny gasp, which he quickly converted to a cough.
The pup has balls, thought Crassus. No mincing around when it comes to it. ‘That’s quite a sum.’
Caesar’s shoulders rose and fell in an eloquent shrug. ‘I want to hold a munus in the next few months. That alone will cost me five hundred thousand at least. Then there are the costs of running a household—’
‘You don’t have to justify your spending to me. How precisely would you pay me back?’
‘From the booty I will take on campaign.’
‘Campaign?’ asked Crassus, frowning. ‘Where? Pontus?’
‘Perhaps. Or somewhere else,’ replied Caesar with his typical confidence.
Crassus thought for a moment. Rome was perennially at war. Caesar could be sure of finding a conflict to fight in if he wished, but there was no guarantee that he would return with such huge wealth. That’s not why I lend men money, though, is it? It’s to have them in my power. So that when I need a favour, I know that I will receive it. He smiled. Caesar was already popular with many senators. Having him as a debtor would be advantageous. ‘Fine.’
Caesar’s composure slipped, reducing him to the young man he really was. ‘You’ll lend it to me?’ he asked eagerly.
‘Of course,’ said Crassus in an expansive tone. ‘As you may have heard, my interest rate is reasonable. Five denarii in every hundred, charged yearly. Saenius can have my scribe draw up the paperwork at once. The parchment guaranteeing you the money will be delivered to your house in the morning.’
‘Thank you.’ Caesar grinned. ‘I will offer a bull to Jupiter in gratitude later.’
‘There is one small condition.’
‘I see.’
‘Will you agree to it?’
‘Do I have to?’
‘If you want the money, yes.’
Caesar’s smile slipped a little. ‘As long as you don’t ask me to kill my mother, I imagine that I will be able to help.’
Crassus hid his delight. He’s swallowed the
hook! ‘You’ve probably been aware in recent days of my impatience with our consuls, Lentulus and Gellius.’
‘Yes,’ replied Caesar cagily.
‘I say impatient? That’s being kind. To put it simply, Lentulus is a fool. He walked into an ambush that a blind man would have seen. Marching his army into a narrow defile without checking the heights first? I ask you!’
Caesar rubbed his long, aquiline nose, wondering whether to mention the fact that the ‘all clear’ signal had apparently been given. In retrospect, it was clear Lentulus’ scouts must have been killed, allowing one of Spartacus’ men to give the signal that lulled the consul into a false sense of security. He decided not to mention it. ‘A rash decision.’
‘And Gellius? He’s nothing but an old man who thought that winning a battle against a disorganised mob of slaves led by a savage would guarantee him a victory over Spartacus.’
‘Strong words.’
‘Maybe so, but they’re true.’ Crassus stuck out his jaw belligerently.
‘Thus far I have not said so in public, but I agree with you,’ admitted Caesar.
Encouraged, Crassus continued: ‘The praetors who went before the consuls were no better. Glaber, Varinius and Cossinius were supposed to be high-ranking magistrates. Pah! The legate Furius was another idiot!’
‘You could have done better yourself.’
Crassus paused, eyeing Caesar with suspicion. ‘Eh?’
‘As the man whose victory in a desperate battle at the Colline Gate won the day for Sulla, you would have undoubtedly cleared up the whole affair by now.’
‘With the gods’ help, perhaps,’ said Crassus modestly. He wasn’t going to admit that such thoughts had occupied his every waking moment. In reality, however, things were not quite so black and white. The mistake made by Glaber of not having enough sentries could have happened to anyone. Who in their right mind could have imagined that seventy-odd gladiators would make a bold night-time attack on three thousand men? If Furius’ account of what had happened to him was to be believed, he too had been cleverly ambushed. So had Cossinius, caught naked as he bathed in a swimming pool. It was Varinius alone who had made repeated poor judgements, the last of which had culminated in his complete defeat by Spartacus at the city of Thurii. Crassus remembered how upon Varinius’ return to Rome, the disgraced praetor had pleaded with him to help. Naturally, he had refused. Varinius had brought his destruction upon his own head, he thought harshly. To have allied himself with such an abject failure would have been tantamount to political suicide. He’d been decent enough to Varinius – hadn’t he offered to lend the praetor’s family money at lower than normal rates after Varinius was dead? ‘But I was not chosen by the Senate,’ he added.
‘You did not put yourself forward as a candidate.’
‘Why would I ask to lead soldiers against a raggle-taggle of runaway gladiators?’ Crassus couldn’t keep his irritation from showing. ‘Besides, Glaber would suffer the job to no other.’
‘That’s true,’ replied Caesar mildly. ‘But now it has become something far more. We’re talking about a full-scale rebellion.’
‘Indeed we are! And the two consuls have failed us. Failed the Republic. Can you imagine what they are saying about Rome in Pontus? In Iberia? We must be the laughing stock of the Mediterranean. An army of slaves marches up and down Italy, thrashing every force of troops sent against it? It’s an absolute scandal! Now we are depending on the proconsul of Cisalpine Gaul, to succeed where no one else has been able to. With but two legions, I do not envy Gaius Cassius Longinus. It’s an insurmountable task.’
‘Quite so.’
‘I therefore intend to gain the support of the majority of the senators in the Curia. When I have done that, I will force the consuls to resign or, more likely, to surrender the command of their legions to me.’
Despite the magnitude of what he was hearing, Caesar’s eyebrows rose only a fraction. ‘Pompey Magnus will not be pleased if you do that.’ A thin smile traced his lips. ‘But that’s a good thing. He loves power too much as it is.’
‘The windbag has his hands full in Iberia anyway. He might have defeated Perperna, but there are plenty of tribes who still fancy a fight with Rome.’
‘As always. Assuming that you succeed, what will you do next?’
‘I will raise more legions in addition to the four consular ones, before taking the war to Spartacus. Aggressively. If he is still in Italy, so much the better. If he has left it, I will pursue him by land or by sea. I will not rest until he and his rabble have been trampled into the mud, and the stain on the Republic’s honour has been washed away for ever.’ Crassus fixed his eyes on Caesar. ‘Will you join me?’
Caesar did not answer immediately, which angered Crassus. ‘If you do not, there can be no question of lending you the money,’ he reiterated curtly.
‘I would be honoured to help.’
‘Excellent. Saenius, tell the scribe to draw up the usual credit agreement. For three million denarii.’ Crassus poured more wine for them himself. ‘To a long-lasting friendship.’
Caesar echoed the toast, and they both drank.
‘I have another request to make,’ said Caesar a moment later.
What else can he want? ‘Really?’
‘When you are in charge of the legions, I would very much like to be one of your tribunes.’
Crassus’ ego swelled. ‘It would be a good opportunity for you to gain military experience.’
‘Will you have me?’
‘Any man who has won the corona civica would be welcome on my staff.’ Crassus raised his glass in salute.
A more companionable silence fell. Outside in the courtyard, the scratch of the scribe’s stylus mixed with the sound of Saenius’ voice dictating the terms of the loan.
Crassus reflected on the day’s end with some satisfaction. He had barely come up with his plan to gain control of the legions in Italy when Caesar had fallen into his lap. In gaining the Pontifex’s support, he had also recruited a valuable staff officer. And he hadn’t even heard Saenius’ news yet.
Chapter III
Two weeks later . . .
Cisalpine Gaul, near the town of Mutina
THE SUN HAD just risen, and Spartacus was standing a short distance from the perimeter of his camp. Apart from the sentries on the earthen rampart, he was the only figure in sight. It was a good time to be alone, and one that he often took advantage of to collect his thoughts. He breathed in deeply, enjoying the cool air. Summer was around the corner, and each day it was growing hotter. By midday, marching would have become an unpleasant slog. It wasn’t surprising that the army’s progress since defeating Gellius had been even slower than usual. Buoyed up by their incredible successes, his men had spent much of the time drunk, or ransacking local farms for food, women and, of course, more wine. He hadn’t tried to stop them. After what they’d achieved, they deserved to celebrate. A leader who prevented his men from doing such things became unpopular, and he couldn’t risk that, not with the Alps drawing near. Spartacus knew he’d done well to get the army on the move a week or so previously. It had travelled at a snail’s pace of five miles a day since, however, which was immensely frustrating.
Yet at the best of times it was hard to organise fifty thousand soldiers and the straggling baggage train that accompanied them. He had long since given up trying to control the thousands of hangers-on – women, children, the wounded, whores, traders – who swelled the host’s size to ridiculous proportions. The damn column stretched for more than twenty miles. When journeying from the south, he had kept his followers in the mountains, where it was easy to avoid confrontation. Just the day before, they had left the protection of the Apennines and marched out on to the river plain of the mighty Padus. They were now permanently in the open, and vulnerable to attack. They may have driven off both consuls but Spartacus had learned over the years never to let his guard down. Squadrons of his cavalry rode at regular intervals along the column’s flanks. Other units
had also ranged far afield, locating enemy troops. So far it appeared that the garrison of Mutina was staying firmly behind the town’s walls.
Spartacus climbed on to a nearby rock and peered north. Cloud cover meant that he couldn’t see the Alps this morning, but his memory of seeing them on the far horizon as they had descended from the Apennines was crystal clear. Less than seventy miles away, the influence of the Roman Republic came to an abrupt end. The sight had made Ariadne happier than he’d ever seen; it had had a similar effect on Atheas, Taxacis and the surviving Thracians. Everyone else’s reaction had been more muted, however. Gannicus had smiled and said he was looking forward to screwing a free Gaulish woman, but Castus had barely said a word. Concerned by the first real hints of resentment, Spartacus had taken to wandering through the army’s camp each night, his face obscured by the throw of a cloak. Many of the conversations he had eavesdropped on were not what he would have wished to hear. Yes, there was some talk of leaving Italy behind for ever, but there was also a great deal of grumbling and complaining.
‘Why does he want to leave? Everything we want is here. Undefended towns. Grain. Wine. Women. Money. All ours for the taking!’
‘We’ve defeated every damn force sent against us. What is there to fear by staying?’
‘Both consuls had to flee for their lives after we thrashed their legions. The Romans have learned their lesson. They won’t come near us again in a hurry.’
Biting his tongue, Spartacus hadn’t challenged this dissent. He couldn’t talk to every tent group in the army. They don’t understand the Romans. They are uneducated slaves. What do they know of history? Talk of Pyrrhus, who had defeated Rome more than once, and Hannibal, who had massacred almost their entire army in one day, and the Gaulish tribes who had threatened Italy on occasions, would mean nothing to the vast majority. Yet part of him couldn’t help exulting at the level of their confidence. Why would they want to leave? What might we do if we were a hundred thousand strong? Two hundred thousand strong? The Romans would truly fear us then.
He dragged his thoughts back to Thrace, and how he wanted to rid it of the legions for ever. The men will listen to me when the time is right, he told himself. They love and trust in me. Not all will follow me north, but most will. He glanced at the sky. Let it be so, Great Rider. Let their reverence for you and Ariadne, your faithful servant, remain, O Dionysus.