He who was still a knight would force the Senate to make him consul.
His opinion of the Senate grew progressively lower, and his liking for that body remained nonexistent. The members of it could be bought as easily as cakes from a bakery, and its inertia was so monumental that it could hardly move out of the way of its own downfall. When he had begun to march his men from Tarentum to Rome in order to force Sulla to give him a triumph, Sulla had backed down! At the time he hadn’t seen it that way—such was Sulla’s effect on people—but he now understood that indeed the affair had been a victory for Magnus, not for Sulla. And Sulla had been a far more formidable foe than ever the Senate could be.
During his last year in the west he had followed the news about the successes of Spartacus with sheer disbelief; even though he owned the consuls Gellius and Clodianus, still he found it impossible to credit the degree of their incompetence in the field—and all they could do to excuse themselves was to harp about the poor quality of their soldiers! It had been on the tip of his pen to write and tell them that he could have generaled an army of eunuchs better, but he had refrained; there was no point in antagonizing men one had paid a long price for.
The two further items he had learned about in Narbo only served to reinforce his incredulity. The first item came in letters from Gellius and Clodianus: the Senate had stripped them of the command in the war against Spartacus. The second item came from Philippus: after blackmailing the Senate into procuring a law from the Assembly of the People, Marcus Licinius Crassus had deigned to accept the command, together with eight legions and a good amount of cavalry. Having campaigned with Crassus, Pompey deemed him mediocre in the extreme, and his troops mediocre too. So Philippus’s news only served to make him shake his head in a quiet despair. Crassus wouldn’t defeat Spartacus either.
Just as he left Narbo there arrived the final verification of his impression of the war against Spartacus—so poor was the quality of Crassus’s troops that he had decimated them! And that, as every commander knew from history and his manuals of military method, was a last measure doomed to failure—it utterly destroyed morale. Nothing could stiffen the backbones of men so cowardly that they had earned the punishment of decimation. Yet wasn’t it just like big, lumbering Crassus to believe decimation could cure his army’s ailments?
He began to toy with the thought of arriving back in Italy in time to clean up Spartacus, and out of that like a thunderclap had burst THE IDEA. Of course the Senate would beg him on bended knee to accept yet another special commission—the extirpation of the Spartacani. But this time he would insist that he be made consul before he took on the job. If Crassus could blackmail the Conscript Fathers into a command legalized by the People, then what hope did the Conscript Fathers have of withstanding Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus? Proconsul (non pro consule, sed pro consulibus) was just not good enough anymore! Was he to become the Senate’s perpetual workhorse perpetually palmed off with an imperium outside of true senatorial power? No! Never again! He didn’t at all mind the idea of entering the Senate if he could do so as consul. To the best of his recollection, no one had ever managed to do that. It was a first, a mighty big first—and it would demonstrate to the whole world that he was the First Man in Rome.
Right across the miles of the Via Domitia he had indulged in one fantasy after another, so happy and affable that Varro (to name only one) couldn’t understand what was going through his mind. At times Pompey had been tempted to say something, then would sheer away, resolve to hug this delicious scheme to himself. Varro and the rest would find out soon enough.
The mood of joyous anticipation continued to prevail after the new pass had been surveyed and paved and the army descended the Vale of the Salassi into Italian Gaul. Down the Via Aemilia, and still Pompey whistled and chirped blithely. Then at the little town of Forum Popillii, well inside Italy, the awful blow fell. He and his six legions literally ran into a jostling mob of draggled men armed in a nonissue manner which betrayed that they were Spartacani. To round them up and kill them all was easy; what came hard was to learn that Marcus Crassus had annihilated the army of Spartacus in a battle fought less than a month before. The war against Spartacus was over.
His chagrin was obvious to every last one of his legates, who all assumed that he had whistled and chirped his way down the Via Aemilia because he had expected to go straight into another campaign. That he had planned to demand to be made consul because of this campaign occurred to no one. For several days he gloomed; even Varro avoided his company.
Oh, Pompey was thinking, why didn’t I hear this while I was still in Gaul-across-the-Alps? I will have to use the threat of my undischarged army, but I have brought that army inside the borders of Italy contrary to Sulla’s constitution. And Crassus still has an army in the field. If I was in Gaul-across-the-Alps I could skulk there until Crassus celebrated his ovation and his troops returned to civilian life. I could have used my tame senators to block the curule elections until I made my move. As it is, I’m in Italy. So it will have to be the threat of my army.
Those several gloomy days, however, were succeeded by a new mood; Pompey led his men into their camp at Sena Gallica not whistling and chirping exactly, but not glooming either. Reflection had led him to ask himself a very important question: what were the men of Crassus’s army anyway? Answer: the scum of Italy, too craven to stand and fight. Why should the fact that Crassus had won change that? The six thousand fugitives he had encountered at Forum Popillii were pathetic. So perhaps decimation had stiffened the backbones of Crassus’s men a bit—but could it last? Could it match the splendid courage and perseverance of men who had slogged through the Spanish heat and cold for years without pay, without booty, without decent food, without thanks from the precious Senate? No. The final answer was a loud and definite NO!
And as Rome grew closer Pompey’s mood gradually soared back toward its earlier happiness.
“What exactly are you thinking?” Varro demanded as he and Pompey rode together down the middle of the road.
“That I am owed a Public Horse. The Treasury never paid me for my dear dead Snowy.”
“Isn’t that your Public Horse?” asked Varro, pointing at the chestnut gelding Pompey bestrode.
“This nag?” Pompey snorted contemptuously. “My Public Horse has to be white.”
“Actually it’s not a nag, Magnus,” said the owner of part of the rosea rura, an acknowledged expert on horseflesh. “It’s really an excellent animal.”
“Just because it belonged to Perperna?”
“Just because it belongs to itself!”
“Well, it’s not good enough for me.”
“Was that really what you were thinking about?”
“Yes. What did you think I was thinking about?”
“That’s my question! What?”
“Why don’t you hazard a guess?”
Varro wrinkled his brow. “I thought I had guessed when we ran across those Spartacani outside Forum Popillii—I thought you were planning on another special commission and were very disappointed when you discovered Spartacus was no more. Now—I just don’t know!”
“Well, Varro, wonder on. I think in this I will keep my counsel for the present,” said Pompey.
*
The cohort Pompey had chosen to escort him to Rome was one made up of men whose homes were in Rome. This kind of common sense was typical of Pompey—why haul men off to Rome who would rather be elsewhere? So after he had got them into a small camp on the Via Recta, Pompey allowed them to don civilian garb and go into the city. Afranius, Petreius, Gabinius, Sabinus and the other legates quickly drifted off in their wake, as did Varro, anxious to see his wife and children.
That left Pompey alone in command of the Campus Martius—or at least his segment of it. To his left as he looked in the direction of the city but closer to it was another small camp. The camp of Marcus Crassus. Also, it would appear, escorted by about one cohort. Like Pompey, Crassus flew a scarlet flag outside his command
tent to indicate that the general was in residence.
Unfortunate, unfortunate … Why did there have to be another army inside Italy? Even an army of cowards? It was no part of Pompey’s plans actually to fight a civil war; somehow he could never feel comfortable with that idea. It wasn’t loyalty or patriotism made him reject the idea, it was more that he did not feel inside himself the emotions men like Sulla felt. To Sulla there had been absolutely no alternative. Rome was the citadel inside which dwelt his heart, his honor, his very source of life. Whereas Pompey’s citadel always had been and always would be Picenum. No, he wouldn’t fight a civil war. But he had to make it look as if he would.
He sat down to draft his letter to the Senate.
To the Senate of Rome:
I, Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus, received a special commission from you six years ago to put down the revolt of Quintus Sertorius in Nearer Spain. As you know, in conjunction with my colleague in the Further province, Quintus Caecilius Metellus Pius, I succeeded in putting that revolt down, and in bringing about the death of Quintus Sertorius. Also of his various legates, including the vile Marcus Perperna Veiento.
I am not the bearer of great spoils. There were no great spoils to be had in a country devastated by a long series of catastrophes. The war in Spain has been one war Rome has had to fight at a loss. Nevertheless I ask for a triumph, secure in the knowledge that I did as you commanded, and that many thousands of Rome’s enemies are dead through me. I ask for this triumph to be awarded to me without any delay so that I can put myself up as a candidate for the consulship in the curule elections to be held in Quinctilis.
He had intended to draft the letter so that Varro could look it over and compose something fairer, more diplomatic. But after reading this very short note through several times, Pompey came to the conclusion that it could not be bettered. Hit ‘em hard!
Philippus arrived just as he was sitting back, satisfied.
“Good!” cried Pompey, rising to his feet and shaking Philippus by the hand (a limp and sweaty exercise). “I have a letter for you to read. You can take it to the Senate for me.”
“Requesting your well-deserved triumph?” Philippus asked, sitting down with a sigh; he had walked out to the Via Recta because litters were so slow, but he had forgotten how far it was and how hot a June day could be, even if by the seasons it was still spring.
“A little more than that,” said Pompey, handing over his wax tablet with a grin.
“Something to drink first, my dear fellow, please?”
It took Philippus some time to decipher Pompey’s dreadful schoolboy writing; he got the gist of the last sentence at exactly the same moment as he took his first big, thirsty gulp of well-watered wine, and choked. He was coughing and spluttering so badly that Pompey had to get up and thump him on the back, and it was some time before Philippus could compose himself sufficiently to comment.
But he didn’t comment. Instead he looked at Pompey as if he had never seen him before. It was a genuinely exploratory gaze that took in the muscular frame still clad in cuirass and kilt, the fair and faintly freckled skin, the enormously attractive face with its dented chin and thatch of bright gold Alexandrian hair. And the eyes—wide, candid, eager, such a vivid blue! Pompeius Magnus, the New Alexander. Where did it come from, the gall which must have fueled this demand? The father had been a very strange man, yet the son always contrived to convince people that he was not strange at all. Oh, but the son was far stranger than the father! Few things came as a surprise to Lucius Marcius Philippus. But this was more than a mere surprise. This was the kind of shock could carry a man off!
“You’re surely not serious?” he asked faintly.
“Why shouldn’t I be serious?”
“Magnus, what you ask cannot be done! It—is—just—not—possible! It goes against every law, written and unwritten! No one can be consul without being in the Senate! Even Young Marius and Scipio Aemilianus were not elected consul until after they were in the Senate! You could I suppose argue that Scipio Aemilianus set a precedent by being consul before he was praetor, and Young Marius had never been so much as quaestor. But he was put into the Senate well ahead of the elections! And Sulla has absolutely eliminated all such precedents! Magnus, I beg of you, don’t send that letter!”
“I want to be consul!” said Pompey, his small mouth growing thin and ringed with white.
“The gale of laughter it will provoke will waft your letter straight back to you! It cannot be done!”
Pompey sat down, swung one shapely leg over the arm of his chair and jiggled its booted foot. “Of course it can be done, Philippus!” he said sweetly. “I have six legions of the best and toughest troops in the world to say it can be done.”
The breath went out of Philippus with an audible whoof! He began to shake. “You wouldn’t!” he cried.
“I would, you know.”
“But Crassus has eight legions sitting in Capua! It would be another civil war!”
“Pah!” said Pompey, still jiggling his foot. “Eight legions of cowards. I’d eat them for dinner.”
“That’s what you said about Quintus Sertorius.”
The foot stopped. Pompey went pale, stiffened. “Don’t ever say that to me again, Philippus.”
“Oh, cacat!” groaned Philippus, wringing his hands. “Magnus, Magnus, I beg you, don’t do this! Where did you get the idea that Crassus is commanding an army of cowards? Because of the consuls’ legions, the decimation? Well, disabuse yourself! He forged himself a splendid army, as loyal to him as yours is to you. Marcus Crassus is no Gellius or Clodianus! Haven’t you heard what he did on the Via Appia between Capua and Rome?’’
“No,” said Pompey, beginning to look just the slightest bit uncertain. “What did he do?’’
“There are six thousand six hundred Spartacani hanging on six thousand six hundred crosses along the Via Appia between Capua and Rome—that’s one cross every hundred feet, Magnus! He decimated the survivors of the consuls’ legions to show them what he thought of craven troops, and he crucified the survivors of Spartacus’s army to show every slave in Italy what happens to slaves who rebel. Those are not the actions of a man you can dismiss lightly, Magnus! Those are the actions of a man who might deplore civil war—it doesn’t do his businesses any good!—but who, if the Senate so commands him, would take up arms against you. And stand a very good chance of destroying you!’’
The uncertainty passed; Pompey’s face set mulishly. “I will have my scribe make a fair copy of my letter, Philippus, and you will read it out in the House tomorrow.”
“You’ll ruin yourself!”
“I won’t.”
The interview was clearly at an end; Philippus got up. He wasn’t out of the tent before Pompey was busy writing again. This time he addressed Marcus Licinius Crassus.
Greetings and a thousand congratulations, my old friend and colleague of the days fighting Carbo. While I was pacifying Spain, I hear that you have been pacifying Italy. They tell me you have welded a fine body of fighting men out of consular cravens and taught all of us how best to deal with rebellious slaves.
Once again, a thousand congratulations. If you are planning to be in your quarters this evening, may I pop in for a nice chat?
“Now what does he want?” demanded Crassus of Caesar.
“Interesting,” said Caesar, handing Pompey’s letter back. “I don’t think much of his literary style.”
“He doesn’t have a literary style! He’s a barbarian,”
“And do you plan to be in this evening so our friend can pop in for his ‘nice chat’? I wonder is that phrase innocent, or is it full of guile?”
“Knowing Pompeius, he thinks the phrase is the correct one. And yes, I certainly plan to be in this evening,” said Crassus.
“With me or without me?” Caesar asked.
“With you. Do you know him?”
“I met him once a long time ago, but I very much doubt he’ll remember me or the occasion.”
A statement Pompey confirmed when he arrived several hours later. “Have I met you, Gaius Julius? I don’t remember.”
Caesar’s laughter was spontaneous, but not mocking. “I’m not surprised, Gnaeus Pompeius. You only had eyes for Mucia.”
Light dawned. “Oh! You were there in Julia’s house when I went to meet my wife! Of course!”
“How is she? I’ve not seen her in years.”
“I keep her in Picenum,” said Pompey, unaware that this way of putting the matter might sound odd. “We have a boy and a girl these days—and more soon, I hope. I haven’t seen her in years either, Gaius Julius.”
“Caesar. I prefer to be called Caesar.”
“That’s good, because I much prefer being called Magnus.”
“I imagine you do!”
Crassus decided it was time he got a word in. “Sit down, Magnus, please. You look very brown and fit for an old man—is it thirty-five now?”
“Not until the second—last day of September.”
“That’s to split hairs. You’ve packed more into your first thirty-five years than most men do into twice that many, so I dread to think what seventy will bring for you. Spain all tidy?”
“Beautifully tidy. But,” said Pompey magnanimously, “I had some extremely competent help, you know.”
“Yes, he surprised everyone, old Pius. Never did a thing until he went out to Spain.” Crassus got up. “A drop of wine?”
Pompey laughed. “Not unless the vintage has improved, you incurable tightpurse!”
“It never varies,” said Caesar.
“Vinegar.”
“Just as well I don’t drink wine, spending a whole campaign with him, isn’t it?” asked Caesar, smiling.
“You don’t drink wine? Ye gods!” At a loss, Pompey turned to Crassus. “Have you applied for your triumph yet?” he asked.
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