Ben Kane: Spartacus: Rebellion

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.

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.