And he knew exactly what. It might take months, but he would win the Senate around. Scores of politicians owed him favours, money or both. He just needed some more influential allies. With their support, he could achieve a majority in the Senate. The consuls would be forced to relinquish command of their legions to someone else. To me, he thought happily. I, Crassus, will lead the legions in pursuit of Spartacus, wherever he may be. I will save the Republic. How the plebs will love me!
His litter creaked to a halt and his slaves set it down gently. Crassus waited as one of them hammered on the front door, demanding entry for their master. Rather than the hulking doorman he expected, the portal was opened by Saenius, his effeminate major domo. Alighting, Crassus lifted his eyebrows. ‘You’re back. I hadn’t expected you so soon.’
‘My business in the south took less time than I thought.’ Saenius stepped on to the street, deferentially ushering his master inside.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Crassus was careful to place his right foot over the threshold first. His belly grumbled as the smell of frying garlic reached his nostrils from the kitchen. He could eat later, however. Weeks before, he had sent Saenius on a mission. ‘Tell me what you discovered.’
Saenius looked up and down the corridor. Two household slaves were approaching.
Crassus had no wish for anyone else to hear either. ‘Later.’
Saenius relaxed. ‘I am not the only surprise for you today. You have a visitor.’
‘Who?’
‘The Pontifex Maximus.’
Crassus blinked in surprise. ‘Gaius Julius Caesar?’
‘The same.’
‘What in the name of all the gods does the “Queen of Bithynia” want with me?’
‘He wouldn’t say.’ Saenius snickered. Everyone in Rome knew the rumours. Since Caesar’s sojourn a few years before at the court of Nicomedes, the elderly ruler of Bithynia, he had been dogged by the rumour that he had been intimate with his host. ‘He’s not dressed in fine purple robes. Nor is he reclining on a golden couch as he waits for you.’
The image made Crassus smile. ‘Caesar might have done that for Nicomedes, but I think he knows better than to try it on with me.’
Caesar was the highest-ranking priest in Rome. While his post had real importance, membership of the priesthood was also a stepping-stone for those young nobles with a promising career in politics. Caesar was already one of the rising stars on that scene. This won’t just be a social visit, that’s for sure.
They entered the atrium, the grand, airy room that led off the entrance hall. Beautifully painted scenes decorated the stucco walls: the exposure of the infants Romulus and Remus on the banks of the River Tiber, the consecration of Rhea Silvia as Vestal Virgin and the founding of the ancient city of Alba Longa. The death masks of Crassus’ ancestors adorned the rear wall, which also contained the lararium, an alcove set aside as a shrine to the household gods. Crassus bent his head in respect as he passed.
‘Where is he then?’
‘Don’t you wish to change, or to eat something first?’
‘Come now, Saenius,’ chuckled Crassus. ‘I ought to see him at once.’ He brushed a speck of imaginary dirt from the front of his own still immaculate toga. ‘Caesar may be a dandy, but my appearance will suffice.’
‘Of course. He’s waiting in the reception room off the courtyard.’
It was his most imposing office, decorated only the week before. It could not fail to impress. Pleased by Saenius’ shrewdness, Crassus followed his major domo through the tablinum, the large chamber that led on to the colonnaded garden beyond. Staying under the portico, they skirted the rows of vines and lemon trees, and the carefully placed colourful Greek statues. Saenius tapped on the open door of the first room they reached. ‘Marcus Licinius Crassus.’
Crassus glided past, smiling a welcome at the clean-shaven, thin man seated within. ‘Pontifex! I am honoured by your presence.’ He made a shallow obeisance, enough to show respect, but not enough to indicate any real inferiority.
‘Crassus,’ said Caesar, standing and returning the bow. As ever, his well-cut dark red robe had barely a crease. ‘How wonderful to see you.’
Crassus hid his delight at the deference just shown him. Family connections might have won Caesar the position of Pontifex, but there was still no need for him to rise for Crassus. The fact that he had done so showed that he recognised Crassus’ importance. It wasn’t that surprising. I am, after all, richer, more powerful and better connected. What Crassus did not like to admit was that he possessed little of Caesar’s elan.
Few other men — apart from Pompey — could win the love of the public as Caesar had. Winning a corona civica, Rome’s highest award for bravery, at nineteen. Choosing to become an advocate in the courts and robustly prosecuting Dolabella, a former consul, at twenty-three. Gaining notoriety as a lover of numerous men’s wives. However, the plebs’ favourite story about Caesar — if Crassus had heard it being told on a street corner once, he’d heard it a hundred times — involved his capture by pirates and imprisonment on the island of Pharmacussa off the coast of Asia Minor. Crassus hated the tale. Not only had Caesar laughed at the pirates’ ransom demand of twenty talents of silver, telling them that they should ask instead for fifty, but he had repeatedly told them that when he was freed, he would crucify them all. Some weeks later, when the larger amount had been paid, Caesar had indeed been released. Despite the fact that he was a civilian, he had persuaded the provincials who had paid his ransom to give him the command of several warships. True to his word, he had captured the pirates and, soon afterwards, crucified every single one of them. This display of Roman virtus, or manliness, had given Caesar an enduring appeal with the Roman public. Crassus longed for such recognition. He smiled at his guest. Prick. ‘Some wine?’
‘Thank you, that would be welcome.’
‘My throat’s dry too.’ Crassus glanced at Saenius, but the Latin was already on his way out of the door.
‘A long day in the Senate?’
‘Yes. Hours of talking about shit.’
Caesar’s eyebrows arched.
‘New sewers are planned for the Aventine Hill.’
‘I see. It sounds a reasonable suggestion.’
‘So you’d think. It’s never that easy in the Senate, though, is it? But you didn’t come here to talk about sanitation.’
‘No.’ Caesar paused as Saenius returned with a flask of wine.
‘You may speak freely. My major domo has been with me for more than twenty years. I trust him as I do my own son.’
‘Very well,’ said Caesar with obvious reluctance. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, the costs of living in the capital, of maintaining appearances when in high office, can be prohibitive.’
I knew it, Crassus gloated silently. He’s here for a loan. Aren’t they all? ‘They can be. Public entertainment of any kind can be expensive.’
‘A number of my friends have mentioned that you can be most accommodating when it comes to securing more… funds.’
‘I have been known to lend money on occasion.’ Crassus paused, savouring his power. ‘Is that why you are here?’
Caesar hesitated for a heartbeat. ‘In a word, yes.’
‘I see.’ Crassus rolled some wine around his mouth, enjoying the taste, and the awkward expression on Caesar’s face. ‘How much money do you need?’
‘Three million denarii.’
Saenius let out a tiny gasp, which he quickly converted to a cough.
The pup has balls, thought Crassus. No mincing around when it comes to it. ‘That’s quite a sum.’
Caesar’s shoulders rose and fell in an eloquent shrug. ‘I want to hold a munus in the next few months. That alone will cost me five hundred thousand at least. Then there are the costs of running a household-’
‘You don’t have to justify your spending to me. How precisely would you pay me back?’
‘From the booty I will take on campaign.’
‘Campaign?’ asked Crassus, frowning. ‘Where? Pontus?’
‘Perhaps. Or somewhere else,’ replied Caesar with his typical confidence.
