Crassus longed to finish the campaign not just because he wanted to crush Spartacus, but so that he could go home. In the capital, he could bask in the winter sun and the adulation of the Roman public, who would rightfully revere him. He could finish the account of his campaign and the superb generalship that had given him victory over the slaves. He would be the talk of the bath houses and the markets, cheered wherever he went. Crassus glanced at the letter he had begun composing, and the momentary improvement in his mood vanished. Would he have time to end the affair before that golden-tongued, arrogant little shit Pompey arrived? When he’d first heard the news that the Roman assembly had recalled his biggest rival from Iberia, Crassus hadn’t believed it. The effrontery of it! Fucking plebeians.
Yet the senators, unhappy as they must have been at the thought of such a prominent general returning to Italy with his legions at his back, had approved the order. That wouldn’t have happened if I had been there, Crassus thought furiously. Like all sycophants, however, his supporters in the Senate wouldn’t have been organised or vocal enough to prevent the decree from being carried. They’re a shower of pompous, self-serving whoresons! Couldn’t they and the rest just leave a man to do a job properly? He had only been in command of the Republic’s armies for a few months.
In the biggest clash since, his troops had proved their mettle by standing up to the slaves. Yes, there had been the inglorious rout of Mummius’ legions, but he had dealt with that in the most vigorous fashion possible. The practice of decimation had not been used for more than a hundred years, and its effect had been dramatically successful. Subsequent to that, he had cornered Spartacus in the toe and denied him the chance of escape to Sicily! Best of all, his soldiers had yesterday thrown back the slaves’ attempt to break through his fortifications on the ridge. Caepio had reported enemy losses of more than ten thousand men, which was a sizeable chunk of Spartacus’ forces. The end was surely nigh.
Not that the Thracian would admit it! Remembering the filthy legionary who had been brought to him the night before, Crassus felt his face purple. He hadn’t wanted to believe the soldier’s story, but he had definitely been a prisoner of the enemy.
‘How dare he? How dare he ask for such a thing? Fides, for a savage such as he?’ Crassus ranted at the bronze mirror which stood to one side of his desk. ‘The fucking cheek of it!’
Calm yourself, he thought. This is just what the whoreson wanted. The request had been designed to goad him — and it had worked admirably. Crassus took a deep breath, remembering how through a supreme effort, he had not ordered the immediate execution of the unfortunate legionary who had carried the message. Let it go, as you did the soldier. After a moment, he felt more composed.
A tiny, devilish part of him couldn’t help wondering what it might be like to lead a combined force of over one hundred thousand men against Pompey, to seize control of Italy once and for all. The Republic was weak, and so too were most senators. As in the days of Sulla, a strong leader was needed. Crassus knew that he was the right man for the job. He had been born for it. Regrettably, this was not the time. The Roman people would never stand by and let an army of slaves help to take control of their destiny. Crassus’ lips twisted. He could never trust a man like Spartacus — a Thracian, a former gladiator? — anyway. It was beneath his dignity even to think of replying. The stony silence would tell Spartacus all that he wanted to say.
Crassus returned his attention to the campaign, and his frustration mounted. Pompey, it came back to fucking Pompey, and whether he could engineer total victory before the prick arrived with his legions. To end the rebellion, he would need to force a pitched battle with Spartacus’ army within days. Tactically, though, it would be foolish to do anything other than wait. His men were secure behind their defences; javelins and ammunition for the catapults had been stockpiled by the wall. The legions had plenty of grain and meat; fresh supplies arrived daily down the Via Annii. This while Spartacus’ followers were slowly starving on the bare ground that led down to Cape Caenys, the southernmost point of Italy. All he had to do was sit tight until Spartacus and his men had rallied their courage enough to essay another attempt at breaking the blockade. Weakened by hunger, demoralised by their previous failure, the slaves would be slaughtered. The matter could be ended in one fell stroke.
What, however, if that battle didn’t take place for another month or more? The messengers recalling Pompey had been sent ten days before. They would have already reached him. With a curse, Crassus stabbed his stylus on to the desk so hard that the tip broke. Pompey could appear at the head of his army inside the next six to eight weeks.
There was nothing for it, he decided. He would have to move first. Force the slaves into open battle. Yet doing that wouldn’t be easy. Spartacus was a wily general, not a man prone to making mistakes. At last, a slow smile spread across Crassus’ face. A night attack might do it. The Thracian’s major strength was his cavalry. Crassus had fewer horsemen and, although he hated to admit it, they were of inferior quality to those of the enemy. A cohort of legionaries, whose sole mission was to panic and injure Spartacus’ horses, might succeed. It would be good to use the same trick on the Thracian as the dog had used on Glaber’s troops, thought Crassus with glee. He knew the men to use too. Some of Mummius’ disgraced soldiers would leap at the chance to redeem their honour. They wouldn’t have to shinny down a cliff on vine ropes, just make their way unseen to where the enemy’s horses were tethered. If they succeeded, the prospect of a pitched battle would be something to anticipate. After their recent losses, the slaves would be wary; spurred on by the threat of decimation, his legionaries were eager to fight. Without the advantage of their cavalry, victory would be there for the taking. Crassus could picture the scene already. Pompey would arrive too late.
The glory would all be his.
His gaze returned to his letter. Was it even worth finishing? He was on the verge of consigning it to his brazier, to erase even the idea of what he had been asking for. Then his more prudent side took control. The message had to be sent. By the time it had reached Rome and been acted upon, he would have crushed Spartacus as a man stamps on a scorpion. Crassus placed the letter back on the desk, smoothed it down and found another stylus before reading what he’d written.
‘To the Senate of Rome. I, Marcus Licinius Crassus, commander of the Republic’s armies, send loyal greetings.’ His lip curled. Given half a chance, he’d put the names of more than half of the senators on a proscription list. Instead, he had to pretend that he respected their decision to recall Pompey. He read on:
Word has reached me that the illustrious general Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus is to return with his legions to Italy, his mission to assist me with the prompt quelling of Spartacus’ uprising. As ever, I submit to the Senate’s wishes. I shall be honoured to serve the Republic alongside another of its faithful servants.
Crassus mouthed a curse. He loathed every word on the parchment — yet he had to keep up the pretence. I will have the last laugh.
He dipped the stylus point into the glass pot that sat by his right hand, gently shook off the excess ink and prepared to write. His lips twitched with sardonic amusement. Pompey would hate what he was about to ask as much as he hated the idea of Pompey returning to Italy.
While recent days have seen Spartacus suffer a major setback at the hands of my troops, the outrages committed by his followers have continued for too long. His uprising must be crushed with all haste and with no effort spared. I therefore ask that the Senate recall not just Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus, but also Marcus Terentius Varro Lucullus, the governor of Macedonia. His recent successes against the Thracian Bessi have marked him out as a general of note. His skills and his experienced legions would add immeasurable strength to my forces, but also to those of Pompey. Spartacus and the vermin who follow him will have nowhere to turn, no sewer in which they can hide. Faced by the dedicated leadership of three of the Republic’s most able servants, this shameful uprising will soon be nothing but a distant, unpleasant memory. Rome’s besmirched honour — and the reputation that was the envy of the Mediterranean — will have been restored.