Colleen McCullough - 3. Fortune's Favorites

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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?