Crassus had been irritated by Pompey from the very time that his star had begun its meteoric rise to prominence. His initial reason was simple. Crassus had had a much harder climb to the top. His ancestors might have included those who had served as censor, consul, and pontifex maximus, the highest-ranking priest in Rome, but that hadn’t stopped Crassus’ family fortunes from plummeting during the reign of first Marius, and then Cinna. Times for those who had supported Sulla were bitterly hard for several years. Not for you to lose your father and a brother in the proscriptions, thought Crassus, eyeing Pompey sourly. Not for you to flee Italy with a handful of followers and slaves, there to live in a cave for eight months, like skulking beasts. No, you somehow escaped the Marian bastards’ attentions. Yet for all the way you raised three legions when Sulla returned, and your victories in Africa since, you weren’t the man whose forces won the battle at the Colline Gate; who, with one masterstroke, restored Sulla to power. I was!
Crassus flashed a practised, false smile at Pompey, who responded similarly. Like the misery of autumn rain, both of them had to accept the other’s presence on centre stage. That didn’t mean they had to like each other but it was important to remain decorous. To appear friendly, even when the direct opposite was the truth. Such is the way of politics, thought Crassus. It’s a way of life that I was born into, Pompey Magnus, while you’re nothing but an upstart provincial. He cast a jaundiced eye at the handful of army veterans who’d been waiting for Pompey to emerge. Raucous cheering broke out when they noticed him. It stung Crassus to see it. Few ex-soldiers of his sought him out to praise him to the skies, yet it happened for Pompey all the time.
‘Look at the scumbag! For all his vaunted military credentials, Pompey has made a dog’s dinner of sorting out Sertorius in Iberia. Three damn years it’s taken him so far,’ said a high-pitched voice in his ear.
Startled, Crassus looked around. Recognising Saenius, his major domo, he relaxed. Not many people knew his mind as Saenius did. Twenty years of faithful service meant Crassus trusted the thin, effeminate Latin as no other. ‘Yes, it’s been an overly long campaign,’ he replied acidly.
‘It only looks like ending now because Perperna recently assassinated Sertorius and assumed control of the Marian forces. Everyone knows that Perperna couldn’t organise a hunting party, let alone an army. If it hadn’t been for that piece of good luck, the fool Pompey would have been in Iberia for the rest of his life,’ Saenius hissed. ‘You would’ve finished it long since.’
‘I’d like to think so,’ said Crassus modestly, before adding, ‘I should have been given the command in the first place.’
‘Of course you should.’
The discreet major domo didn’t mention the reason that the Senate had passed his master over, but Crassus brooded over it anyway. I didn’t have the standing army that Pompey had back then. The Senate could hardly deny the prick his demand to be sent to Iberia. Crassus wouldn’t admit it to a soul, not even Saenius, but when the next opportunity for serious military advancement presented itself, he needed to seize it. To be utterly ruthless.
Romans liked smooth politicians, who were friends to all. They honoured those who kept an open house, who feasted the people, and who donated a tenth of all they had to Hercules. Crassus knew that he fitted the bill well for all of those qualities, but he had not yet been the recipient, as Pompey had, of the greatest accolade that Rome could award to one of its citizens.
A triumph.
And the public adoration that, like the spring after winter, inevitably followed.
Crassus couldn’t help but feel jealous as he watched the veterans proudly salute Pompey, who responded with gracious nods. Ordering Saenius to follow, he prepared to stalk off into the Forum.
It was then that a man on a lathered horse came clattering across the cobblestones. Indignant cries rose into the air as people scattered to avoid being trampled. Crassus’ gaze fixed on the new arrival like that of a hawk. What in Hades’ name is going on? Dragging on the reins, the rider halted on the Graecostasis, the waiting area reserved for dignitaries who wished to address the Senate. Abandoning his mount, he darted forward towards the Curia. ‘Where are the consuls?’ he shouted. ‘Are they still within?’
The crowd of senators recoiled from the man, who was unshaven and wearing a sweat-soaked tunic. A corridor opened before the messenger and, with a curse, he sprinted up the steps. He looked exhausted, thought Crassus. And frightened. He must be carrying urgent news. Crassus stepped into the man’s path, forcing him to come to a juddering halt. ‘They are still inside, I believe,’ he said smoothly.
It took a heartbeat for his words to register. Then the other’s faded blue eyes took him in. ‘My thanks, sir,’ he said, and made to move past.
Turning nimbly, Crassus fell in with him. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Capua.’
‘And you bring important news from there?’
‘Yes, sir,’ came the terse reply.
‘What is it?’
The faded blue eyes regarded him again. ‘I don’t suppose it matters if you hear it first. A band of gladiators has broken out of the ludus in Capua.’
Crassus’ interest soared. ‘The ludus? I know it well. Did many escape?’
‘Only about seventy.’
‘That’s of little consequence,’ declared Crassus in a bluff voice. ‘Hardly a matter to trouble the consuls of Rome with, is it?’
The man gave him a nervous glance, but then his chin firmed. ‘I’d argue the opposite, sir. Within the day, we, the townspeople of Capua, sent a force of more than two hundred men after the bastards. A simple matter to deal with, you’d think. Yet our lads were virtually annihilated. Less than a quarter of them made it home.’
Crassus sucked in his surprise. ‘That’s remarkable,’ he said casually.
Looking vindicated, the messenger made to go.
A finger of recognition tickled at Crassus’ memory. ‘Wait. Do you by any chance know any of the renegades’ names?’
The man turned. He made the sign against evil. ‘Apparently, the leader is called Spartacus.’
‘Spartacus?’ echoed Crassus in real shock.
‘Yes, sir. He’s from Thrace.’
‘Who cares what the whoreson is called?’ growled a senator who’d overheard. ‘Get in there and tell the consuls. They’ll soon organise enough troops to go down there and butcher the lot of them.’
‘They will,’ purred Crassus. ‘Capua need not worry. Rome will seek vengeance for its troubles.’
With a grateful nod, the man hurried off.
The gladiator whom I saw fight has even more balls than I thought. A pity I did not order his death when I had the chance. Crassus put the matter from his mind. A few hundred legionaries under the command of one of the other praetors would sort it out. He had far bigger fish to fry.
Standing on the very lip of the cliff, Spartacus looked over the edge. He squinted into the brightness of the abyss, spotting a number of eagles and vultures hanging in the air at roughly the same dizzying height. Above was a turquoise sky, filled by a warm spring sun. Below, the view was stupendous. A dense carpet of holm oak, turpentine, beech and strawberry trees spilled down Vesuvius’ slopes from Spartacus’ fastness on the summit. He let out a long breath. No one lives up here but birds of prey, wild beasts — and us. I am truly a latro now, Phortis.