Conn Iggulden - The Field Of Swords

“Three sesterces on Paulus’s team,” he said, after a long pause. The slave nodded, but as he turned,

Crassus grabbed his arm in his bony fingers. “No, two only. The track is quite dry.”

As the man left, Crassus sensed Pompey’s grin.

“I really don’t know why you bet,” Pompey said. “You are easily the richest man in Rome, but you wager less valiantly than half the people here. What are two sesterces to you? A cup of wine?”

Crassus sniffed at a subject he had heard before. Pompey enjoyed teasing him, but he would still come begging for gold when he needed to fund his precious legions. That was a secret pleasure for the older man, though he wondered if Pompey ever thought of it. If Crassus had been in that position, it would have been like slow poison, but Pompey never varied his cheerful manner. The man had no understanding of the dignity of wealth, none at all.

“A horse can twist a leg or a driver fall in any race. You expect me to waste gold on simple chance?”

The betting slave returned and handed Crassus a token, which he held tightly. Pompey looked at him with his pale eyes and there was a distaste there which Crassus pretended not to notice.

“Apart from Paulus, who else is running in the first?” Pompey asked the slave.

“Three others, master. A new team from Thrace, Dacius from Mutina, and another team shipped over from Spain. They say the horses from Spain went through a storm that unsettled them. Most of the betting money is going on Dacius at the moment.”

Crassus fixed the man with a glare. “You did not mention this before,” he snapped. “Paulus brought his horses over from Spain. Did they suffer in the same ship?”

“I do not know, master,” the slave replied, bowing his head.

Crassus reddened as he wondered whether he should withdraw his bet before the race began. No, not in front of Pompey, unless he could find a reason to excuse himself for a few moments.

Pompey smiled at the other consul’s discomfort. “I will trust the people. One hundred gold on Dacius,” he said.

The slave didn’t even blink at an amount greater than his own price at sale.

“Certainly, master. I will fetch you the token.” He paused for a moment in silent inquiry, but Crassus only glared at him.

“Quickly, the race is about to start,” Pompey added, sending the slave off at a run. Pompey had seen two flag-bearers approach the long bronze horn at the edge of the track. The crowd cheered as the note sounded and the gates to the stables opened.

First out was the Roman, Dacius, his light chariot pulled by dark geldings. Crassus fidgeted as he noted the arrogant poise and balance of the man as he brought his team around in a smooth turn to line up at the start. The man was short and stocky and the crowd cheered wildly for him. He saluted toward the consular box, and Pompey rose to return the gesture. Crassus copied the action, but Dacius had already turned away to complete his preparation.

“He looks hungry today, Crassus. His horses are fighting the bit,” Pompey told his colleague cheerfully.

Crassus ignored him, watching the next team onto the sand. It was the Thracian entry, marked out in green. The bearded driver was inexperienced and few of the crowd had put money on him. Nevertheless, they cheered dutifully, though many were already craning to see the last two come out of the gloom of the stables.

Paulus flicked the long looping reins over his Spanish horses as they thundered out into the light.

Crassus thumped the rail with his fist at the sight of them.

“Dacius will have to work hard to beat these. Look at their condition, Pompey. Glorious.”

Paulus did look confident as he saluted the consuls. Even at a distance, Crassus saw the flash of white teeth against his dark skin, and some of his worry eased. The team took its place with the others and the last Spanish competitor rode out to join them.

Crassus had seen nothing wrong with the horses in his first visit, but now he studied them for signs of weakness. Despite his assertions to Pompey, he was suddenly convinced the stallions looked ill at ease compared to the others. Crassus took his seat reluctantly as the horn sounded again and the betting ceased. The slave returned to hand Pompey his token and the consul played idly with it while they waited.

Silence fell across the mass of people. Dacius’s team took fright at something and sidestepped into the Thracian, forcing both men to crack their whips over their heads. A good driver could snap the tip of his whip inches away from any one of his horses at full gallop, and order was quickly restored. Crassus noted the Thracian’s calm and wondered if a chance had been missed. The little man didn’t seem at all out of place amongst the more experienced charioteers.

The silence held as the horses pawed and snorted in place for a moment, then the horn was blown a third time, its wail lost in the roar as the teams lunged forward and the race began.

“You have done well, Crassus,” Pompey said, looking over the heads of the crowd. “I doubt there’s a man in Rome who doesn’t know your generosity.”

Crassus glanced sharply at him, looking for mockery. Pompey was impassive and didn’t seem to feel the gaze.

Below them, the thundering horses reached the first corner. The light chariots scored long sliding arcs in the sand as they were pulled around by the plunging horses. The riders leaned over to balance themselves, held in place by nothing more than their skill and strength. It was an impressive display and Dacius slid neatly between two teams to take an early lead. Crassus frowned at the development.

“Have you decided whom you will support for consul at the end of the year?” he said, forcing a neutral tone.

Pompey smiled. “It’s a little early to be thinking of it, my friend. I am enjoying being consul myself at the moment.”

Crassus snorted at the blatant falsehood. He knew Pompey too well to believe his denials. Under the pressure of his stare, Pompey shrugged.

“I believe Senator Prandus can be persuaded to put his name on the lists,” he said.

Crassus watched the racing teams, considering what he knew of the man.

“There are worse choices,” he said at last. “Would he accept your… guidance?”

Pompey’s eyes were bright with excitement as Dacius continued to lead the field. Crassus wondered if he was feigning the interest merely to annoy him.

“Pompey?” he prompted.

“He would not be troublesome,” Pompey replied.

Crassus hid his pleasure. Neither Prandus nor his son Suetonius was a man of influence in the Senate, but having weak men as consuls would mean he and Pompey could continue to guide the city, merely exchanging the public aspect for the private. Returning to the anonymity of the back benches after leading Rome was an unpleasant prospect for both of them. Crassus wondered if Pompey knew he held debts on the family and would have his own form of control if Prandus was elected.

“I could accept Prandus, if you are sure of him,” he said over the noise of the crowd. Pompey turned an amused expression to him.

“Excellent. Do you know if Cinna will stand?”

Crassus shook his head. “He’s all but retired since the death of his daughter. Have you heard something?”

In his eagerness, Crassus reached out to hold Pompey’s arm, and Pompey grimaced at the touch.

Crassus felt a spike of hatred for the man. What right did he have to assume such airs, when Crassus paid the bills of his great houses?

“I have heard nothing yet, Crassus. If not Cinna, though, we must find another to stand for the second post. Perhaps it is not too soon to begin cultivating a new name.”

As the fourth lap began, Dacius led by a full length, with the Thracian holding position behind him.