mansions of the rich. Despite the early hour, it was already packed with people. Every foodstuff under the sun was on sale.
There were stands groaning under the weight of cabbages, onions, carrots, chicory and cucumbers. Huge bunches of sage, coriander, fennel and parsley were laid carefully out on low tables. Scores of wasps hung over the arrangements of ripe pears, apples and plums. There were even some peaches on offer. The insects were attracted to these nearly as much as the sealed pots of honey nearby. Rounds of cheese, covered in cloth to keep them fresh, were piled one on top of the other. Bakers hawked flat loaves of bread that were still warm from the oven. Small children greedily eyed the sweet pastries on offer. Butchers stood by their massive wooden blocks, wielding cleavers and extolling the quality of their freshly killed meat. Cattle, sheep and pigs roared their unhappiness from the pens close by.
Attracted by the smell, Carbo and Navio descended on a stall where a stout woman was frying sausages. They bought two each. Carbo lingered, chatting to the woman as he ate. Mention of Spartacus’ men raiding a neighbour’s farm elicited a tirade of cursing, but no mention of soldiers.
It was the same story all over the market. Buying a selection of bread and fruit, Carbo chatted idly to the vendors, mentioning Spartacus to all and sundry. Unsurprisingly, none had a good word to say about his leader, but, to Carbo’s pleasure, none mentioned any punitive force from Rome either.
Within an hour, he was happy enough to leave. He’d drunk several cups of fruit juice, and his head was feeling much better. Navio looked brighter too. ‘Still prepared to come with me?’ Carbo asked.
‘Of course,’ said Navio with a lopsided grin. ‘As I said, I’m only a simple soldier. On my own, I’ll get nowhere. So if your leader will lead me against Rome, I’ll follow him to Hades.’
Carbo smiled confidently. Falsely. He had no doubt that if Spartacus was unhappy with what he had done, they’d both be on crosses by the day’s end. Let’s hope he sees the same thing in Navio that I did.
Chapter XIV
Half turning so the senators opposite would not notice, Crassus tugged at his toga, ensuring that it hung over his bent left arm just so. When the time came to speak, he had to look the part, and in the Senate having one’s toga correctly in place was imperative. Here everyone had to be the embodiment of Roman virtus. Crassus was sitting with six hundred-odd other senators in the Curia, the hallowed oblong building that had housed the Republic’s government for half a millennium. Perhaps sixty paces wide by four score long, it was simply built of brick-faced concrete with a stucco frontage. High on the walls, glass windows — a rare commodity — let in plenty of light. A triangular facade over the entrance featured a centrepiece of skilfully painted carvings of the triad of Jupiter, Minerva and Juno. On either side were depictions of Romulus and Remus, Rome’s founders, and Mars, the god of war.
Inside, the Curia’s sole furnishings were the three low marble benches that ran the length of the room on each side, and the two rosewood chairs that sat on a low dais at the end. There, protected by their lictores, sat the two consuls — the men elected to rule Rome every twelve months. Crassus studied Marcus Terentius Varro and Gaius Cassius Longinus sidelong. Despite the grandeur of their positions, it was hard not to regard them with contempt. Both were ‘yes’ men, figures who were easy to manipulate and who had been chosen by a more powerful politician. Pompey Magnus had put Varro forward and Marcus Tullius Cicero was Longinus’ main backer. Crassus’ lips twitched. It could just as easily have been me. And to be fair, the pair are only a sign of the times.
The Republic was a weakened beast now compared to its heyday centuries before. The ancient law that no man should hold the consulship more than once in ten years had been discarded by leaders such as Marius, Cinna and Sulla. It wasn’t about to return any time soon. The wishes that Sulla had expressed when he’d relinquished power had been utterly ignored. His plan would never have worked anyway, thought Crassus. Not when senatorial juries are so often guilty of flagrant corruption. Not when upstarts like Pompey refuse to disband their armies, and use them to browbeat the Senate. Rome needs men like me, who are strong enough to stand up to fraudsters and bullies.
The hammering of fasces on the mosaic floor ended the host of muted conversations and attracted Crassus’ attention. So to the matter in hand. Spartacus and his band of cutthroats, and the praetors who are being sent to annihilate them. In the process they will erase from the record books the humiliation suffered by Glaber. Of course, the fool Glaber was long dead, ordered to fall on his sword in penance for his abject failure. His property had been seized by the state and his family exiled. The senior officers who had served under him had been demoted to the ranks. But that did not mean that the matter could be forgotten. Far from it.
‘Silence!’ thundered the senior lictor, an imposing figure with a dozen phalerae decorating his chest. ‘All stand for the consul of the day, Marcus Terentius Varro.’
Six hundred senators rose to their feet.
Varro, a squat individual with an unfashionable square beard, nodded at Longinus, his co-consul, before glancing down the room at the massed ranks of senators. ‘Honourable friends, you all know why we are here today. I do not need to remind you of the disgraceful events at Vesuvius some months ago. They have been discussed in detail, and those responsible have been punished.’
An angry rumble of agreement rose to the vaulted ceiling.
‘Two of the Senate’s most worthy praetors have been appointed to wipe the renegade Spartacus and his followers from the face of the earth. Publius Varinius is to command the mission. He will be ably assisted by his colleague Lucius Cossinius, and the legate Lucius Furius.’ Varro paused long enough for the senators to nod approvingly at the three men in full uniform who stood together near the consuls’ chairs. ‘Sacrifices have been made, and the omens declared favourable. The force is to set out tomorrow. Varinius will take with him six thousand legionaries-’
‘Veterans?’ interjected Crassus.
As Varro’s eyes bulged with surprise, shocked whispers rippled through the senators.
To Hades with etiquette, thought Crassus impatiently. Everyone knows the answer, but the question needs to be asked. To be placed on the record. ‘Are they veterans, consul?’ he repeated.
‘N-no. I don’t know what that has to do with it, praetor,’ replied Varro in an irritated tone. ‘Even the newest recruit to the legions is worth ten escaped gladiators.’
‘Damn right!’ shouted a voice.
‘The lowlifes will shit themselves when they see our soldiers coming,’ cried another.
Varro looked pleased. ‘Just so.’
‘According to those figures, Spartacus must have attacked Glaber’s camp with, let me see, thirty thousand men,’ said Crassus loudly.
An awkward silence fell.
‘Yet we are told that he had not six legions of followers, but a paltry one hundred.’
‘Come now, Crassus,’ said Varro, boldly trying to take control. ‘Glaber was attacked in a cowardly manner, in the middle of the night. That won’t happen again, you can be sure of it.’ He eyed Varinius, who nodded his head vigorously. ‘This time, we are sending six thousand men. What slave rabble will stand against more than a legion, eh? It will be a massacre!’
Spontaneous cheering broke out among the senators, and Varro’s face relaxed.
Crassus waited carefully until the noise had died down. ‘What you say is in all likelihood correct. Let me be clear: I am not doubting the quality of the soldiers who are to be sent to Vesuvius, nor the skill of Varinius and his colleagues.’
‘What in Jupiter’s name are you getting at then?’ demanded Varro.
‘All I am saying is that this Spartacus is not a mindless slave, with no idea how to fight. He should not be underestimated. I have seen him in action.’
A shocked silence fell.
‘Where?’ demanded Varro.
‘At the ludus in Capua. I paid for a mortal bout there. Spartacus was one of the two men selected by the lanista. He won, obviously. I spoke with him afterwards. The man’s a savage, but he’s intelligent.’
‘Thank you for your advice,’ snapped Varro. ‘But Publius Varinius is no callow youth. He is more than capable
