hundred thousand men against Pompey, to seize control of Italy once and for all. The Republic was weak, and so too were most senators. As in the days of Sulla, a strong leader was needed. Crassus knew that he was the right man for the job. He had been born for it. Regrettably, this was not the time. The Roman people would never stand by and let an army of slaves help to take control of their destiny. Crassus’ lips twisted. He could never trust a man like Spartacus — a Thracian, a former gladiator? — anyway. It was beneath his dignity even to think of replying. The stony silence would tell Spartacus all that he wanted to say.
Crassus returned his attention to the campaign, and his frustration mounted. Pompey, it came back to fucking Pompey, and whether he could engineer total victory before the prick arrived with his legions. To end the rebellion, he would need to force a pitched battle with Spartacus’ army within days. Tactically, though, it would be foolish to do anything other than wait. His men were secure behind their defences; javelins and ammunition for the catapults had been stockpiled by the wall. The legions had plenty of grain and meat; fresh supplies arrived daily down the Via Annii. This while Spartacus’ followers were slowly starving on the bare ground that led down to Cape Caenys, the southernmost point of Italy. All he had to do was sit tight until Spartacus and his men had rallied their courage enough to essay another attempt at breaking the blockade. Weakened by hunger, demoralised by their previous failure, the slaves would be slaughtered. The matter could be ended in one fell stroke.
What, however, if that battle didn’t take place for another month or more? The messengers recalling Pompey had been sent ten days before. They would have already reached him. With a curse, Crassus stabbed his stylus on to the desk so hard that the tip broke. Pompey could appear at the head of his army inside the next six to eight weeks.
There was nothing for it, he decided. He would have to move first. Force the slaves into open battle. Yet doing that wouldn’t be easy. Spartacus was a wily general, not a man prone to making mistakes. At last, a slow smile spread across Crassus’ face. A night attack might do it. The Thracian’s major strength was his cavalry. Crassus had fewer horsemen and, although he hated to admit it, they were of inferior quality to those of the enemy. A cohort of legionaries, whose sole mission was to panic and injure Spartacus’ horses, might succeed. It would be good to use the same trick on the Thracian as the dog had used on Glaber’s troops, thought Crassus with glee. He knew the men to use too. Some of Mummius’ disgraced soldiers would leap at the chance to redeem their honour. They wouldn’t have to shinny down a cliff on vine ropes, just make their way unseen to where the enemy’s horses were tethered. If they succeeded, the prospect of a pitched battle would be something to anticipate. After their recent losses, the slaves would be wary; spurred on by the threat of decimation, his legionaries were eager to fight. Without the advantage of their cavalry, victory would be there for the taking. Crassus could picture the scene already. Pompey would arrive too late.
The glory would all be his.
His gaze returned to his letter. Was it even worth finishing? He was on the verge of consigning it to his brazier, to erase even the idea of what he had been asking for. Then his more prudent side took control. The message had to be sent. By the time it had reached Rome and been acted upon, he would have crushed Spartacus as a man stamps on a scorpion. Crassus placed the letter back on the desk, smoothed it down and found another stylus before reading what he’d written.
‘To the Senate of Rome. I, Marcus Licinius Crassus, commander of the Republic’s armies, send loyal greetings.’ His lip curled. Given half a chance, he’d put the names of more than half of the senators on a proscription list. Instead, he had to pretend that he respected their decision to recall Pompey. He read on:
Word has reached me that the illustrious general Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus is to return with his legions to Italy, his mission to assist me with the prompt quelling of Spartacus’ uprising. As ever, I submit to the Senate’s wishes. I shall be honoured to serve the Republic alongside another of its faithful servants.
Crassus mouthed a curse. He loathed every word on the parchment — yet he had to keep up the pretence. I will have the last laugh.
He dipped the stylus point into the glass pot that sat by his right hand, gently shook off the excess ink and prepared to write. His lips twitched with sardonic amusement. Pompey would hate what he was about to ask as much as he hated the idea of Pompey returning to Italy.
While recent days have seen Spartacus suffer a major setback at the hands of my troops, the outrages committed by his followers have continued for too long. His uprising must be crushed with all haste and with no effort spared. I therefore ask that the Senate recall not just Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus, but also Marcus Terentius Varro Lucullus, the governor of Macedonia. His recent successes against the Thracian Bessi have marked him out as a general of note. His skills and his experienced legions would add immeasurable strength to my forces, but also to those of Pompey. Spartacus and the vermin who follow him will have nowhere to turn, no sewer in which they can hide. Faced by the dedicated leadership of three of the Republic’s most able servants, this shameful uprising will soon be nothing but a distant, unpleasant memory. Rome’s besmirched honour — and the reputation that was the envy of the Mediterranean — will have been restored.
I ask the gods that you see fit to agree to my request. Rest assured that as I humbly await your response, the campaign against Spartacus is being prosecuted with all the vigour and courage that Rome’s finest soldiers can bring to the conflict.
With filial piety, I remain your servant, Marcus Licinius Crassus
He reread the letter carefully, and was pleased with his efforts. His words contained just the right mix of humility, cajolery and flattery to win over most senators. They would no more be able to resist the idea of Lucullus also returning than a man with dysentery could stop himself from shitting. When Pompey found out, he would be incandescent. But he would be unable to do a thing about it.
Not that it mattered, thought Crassus in triumph as he rolled up the parchment and sealed it with wax. Before either Pompey and Lucullus had come upon the scene, he would have ended the rebellion. With a little bit of luck, he would be able to invite both of his fellow generals to his victory feast, the highlight of which would be to display the Thracian’s head on a silver platter.
A discreet cough brought him back to the present. Crassus turned his head. One of his guards stood in the doorway.
‘A centurion is here to see you, sir. He’s come from the ridge.’
A finger of unease tickled Crassus’ spine. ‘What does he want?’
‘He didn’t say, sir. Just that Caepio sent him,’ replied the soldier awkwardly. He wouldn’t have dared to ask such a senior officer his business, but he couldn’t say that to Crassus.
‘Send him in.’ It’s probably Caepio asking again for blankets, he thought irritably. The veteran had already mentioned that his soldiers on the ridge were suffering from exposure. Crassus had meant to do something about it, but it had slipped his mind. Damn Caepio for being impatient! A night or two in the cold would do the men good. It’d sharpen them up.
A middle-aged centurion with a sharply pointed nose and close-cut beard entered. He approached the desk and came to attention. ‘Sir!’
‘At ease.’ Crassus noted the spatters of mud that covered the officer’s legs and the pteryges protecting his groin. This wasn’t about blankets, he thought in surprise. The man had come in a hurry. ‘You’ve come from Caepio? From the ridge?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well?’ snapped Crassus. ‘Why are you here?’
‘There’s been another attack, sir.’
Scorn twisted Crassus’ face. ‘What, a morale-building exercise for Spartacus’ men after yesterday’s humiliation? One of our patrols ambushed, is it, or have the ditches been filled with burning branches again?’
‘It’s worse than that, sir.’ The centurion’s eyes flickered towards him, and then darted away.
‘Explain yourself, centurion,’ said Crassus in a wintry tone. ‘Quickly.’
‘It started before dawn, sir. At first we thought it was just a probing attack, something to keep us on our toes, but it soon became apparent that it was a full-scale assault.’
There had been no word from the spy about this, mused Crassus. ‘So soon? They must be even shorter of grain than I thought. It was fortunate that I ordered more ammunition to be carried up there after yesterday’s skirmish, eh?’
An unhappy grimace. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘What is it, man? The ditches were cleared by last night, weren’t they?’
‘They were, sir, but Spartacus’ men filled them in a number of places.’
