by C K Ruppelt
They must think me extremely funny, maybe even insane. They will see. He resolved to stay quiet and aloof through his captivity, reinforcing their thought of him as a half-wit.
“Get him back to the others!” the pirate leader shouted through the commotion. The same two men from earlier took him by his arms and led him away. “Let’s celebrate a good day. Wine. Bring wine!” he heard the man demand from the midst of his troupe of ruffians.
679 AUC (75 BC), summer
Miletus, Roman Province of Asia
He paused to smile at his close friend Quintus Tullius Cicero and his two servants that had suffered through captivity with him, while they were escorted the last stretch from the camp to the galley waiting at the beach.
He heard the pirate leader’s voice shouting at him from the direction of the camp. “I still can’t believe your friends came through for you, after only thirty-eight days. I never thought we’d get a full fifty talents!”
Caesar’s smile dropped, his eyes filling with loathing for the man. He did not want to acknowledge him. As they approached the galley, he heard loud applause from the camp, and only then did he pause to look back. The few pirates left to guard the camp had all gathered to send them off. He had never stopped joking with them, even joining their exercises or games to pass the time. One night he had ordered some of them to shut up and stop drinking so he could sleep in peace, which had ended in the opposite, with the pirates laughing the night away. He smiled when he thought of what Quintus had jokingly told him several times. “Your behavior will stick. You’ll always be a pompous ass from now on.”
They boarded the galley, which was pushed off and rowed out to open sea. Once out of the bay he saw the second pirate vessel tied to a small ship that must be his friend’s.
The moment the galley docked with the smaller vessel, Quintus, Caesar, and his servants climbed down over the side. “Friends!” Caesar shouted amid relieved laughter. He clasped arms all around. “Thank you all for my freedom.” He moved back a step to enjoy their friendly faces. Then his face drew pensive before he asked, “you have to tell me right now - which cities did you solicit for help with the ransom, and which of them contributed?”
“We asked at many, including Athenae, Pergamum, and even Miletus, which is just ten miles from here. Those three were the ones willing to help,” his long-time friend Gaius Oppius answered.
Caesar turned to the sailing ship’s stern to shout at the sailor manning the tiller. “Sail straight to Miletus!” The crew got busy with turning the ship and hoisting the sails.
***
They headed into a gigantic bay, the sailors tacking at a slow pace around a hill at the end of a land spit. As they turned south, Miletus became visible. It looked to be a couple of miles wide, its harbor facing away from the open ocean.
“The birthplace of the great Greek philosophical and scientific traditions,” Caesar said to fifteen-year-old Aulus Hirtius. They both stood at the ship’s starboard side.
“I know, Gaius Oppius told me all about that this morning,” Hirtius explained.
Caesar smiled at the boy. How eager he is to prove his worth.
They watched as their ship made it into the harbor to dock at one of the many piers. Caesar jumped off-board before anybody had time to lay a gangplank, rushing up to the unmistakable harbor master who wore a big golden chain around his neck as a symbol of his ultimate power over the harbor fees and tariffs to be paid for goods.
“My name is Gaius Julius Caesar, I represent one of the oldest families of Rome. Please tell me if there are any Roman officials here in Miletus.”
“Yes sir, a Roman procurator arrived yesterday from Pergamum. You should ask at the town magistrate’s office where he is to be found. Congratulations on your freedom, I saw your group leave this morning to ransom you.”
“Thank you.” He shook the man’s hand in gratitude for his friendly demeanor, then turned to greet his friends as they joined him. “Who knows where the city magistrate’s office is? We need to hurry.”
“I know the office location, we were there just yesterday. Though maybe Gaius Oppius should lead?” Hirtius answered, looking at Oppius, who nodded and started walking. Hirtius was the bright son of a long-time family friend, which was the main reason Caesar had brought him along for the trip to the school to learn rhetoric and eloquent oratory. It seemed he also had initiative, making him a young man after Caesar’s own heart.
He followed Oppius and Hirtius up the main street, inclining to the top of the city’s main hill. After pushing through throngs of traders and shoppers, they arrived at a very old and official looking building sporting a massive colonnade of Doric pillars. In the middle of the row of columns, a wide and open doorway became visible, guarded by two Greek Hoplites.
Gaius Oppius rushed ahead to the guards, whose bronze armor glinted in the sun, to inquire about the Roman procurator. The rest caught up to him. “He is in the building, meeting with the magistrate of Miletus. His office is at the end of this hallway,” Oppius said. Caesar pushed inside to take the lead, rushing down the hall and through the office door without so much as a knock. As he saw the men look up in shock at his rude entry, his lips parted into wide grin. Here was Publius Servilius Vatia, a good friend and fellow staff member from when they had served together under Propraetor Thermus. “You came back to Asia as procurator for governor Junius Silvanus? How wonderful to see you, old friend! Your timing is impeccable.” Caesar beamed and clasped arms.
“Gaius, I am so glad you are free. I came to Miletus to see if I could help with the ransom, though from what I just heard, your friends had things well in hand.”
“Thank you for that, my friend.” Caesar turned to the other man in the room. “You must be the magistrate. I apologize for barging in like this,” he introduced himself to the small man.
“Anaxidamus, at your service. I am the representative of the city council of Miletus. Congratulations on your freedom! I am so glad our city could be of help to you.”
Young Hirtius spoke up. “Miletus indeed gave graciously towards the ransom. The council here knew of your fair service under Thermus, and it seems that news of some of your court cases against abusive governors have made it here as well, garnering good-will among the council members. The fact that consul Marcus Aurelius Cotta is your uncle might have clinched the deal,” he said grinning ear to ear. Caesar clapped the boy on his back, grinning right back. He stepped back to lean against the wall while observing the assembled men and raised his hand to get their full attention.
“I need your help, urgently. The pirates are very close by, camping at the end of a small bay on Pharmacusa. I believe they will celebrate their payment today rather than moving on as they should.”
He looked at the city magistrate. “I will forever be in your debt for your help, but I hope I can pay back your gracious loan by the end of today. How many armed men and galleys can you raise on short notice? I’ll pay whatever the men ask, as long as they can be ready soon after noon.”
***
It was only early afternoon when the small fleet of galleys set out from Miletus. Caesar watched the four smaller biremes and one massive trireme in satisfaction. They followed behind his flagship, with a small army of several hundred fighting men spread across all vessels.
As they neared Pharmacusa the pirate galleys remained conspicuously absent. They think they are safe in their hiding spot.
He had memorized the landmarks well. “This is the opening, right here!” he told the navigator, pointing at a small inconspicuous channel leading into the pirate’s bay.
The pirates’ two galleys had been drawn up on land, and the attacking ships beached on either side, the city’s soldiers eagerly jumping off the sides. By the time Caesar walked down the plank from his trireme, most of the pirates were rounded up. With the many soldiers coming for them, they must have realized that a fight was pointless.
Caesar ran down the beach and on to the camp, searching the faces of th
e captured pirates he encountered. There he is!
The old pirate leader was quite drunk. “You son of a Roman whore!” he swore at Caesar in defiance.
“You should have left right after you had the money. I told you again and again that I would come for you. All of this”—he gestured at the pirates being led to the ships—”is on you for not believing me.”
He walked away to talk to the captains of his ragtag fleet about getting the pirates to Pergamum. I should ask the governor for permission for what I have in mind.
683 AUC (71 BC), late summer
Via Appia, 60 miles south of Rome, Italia
Marcus Licinius Crassus stood below a tree in the growing dark as he watched one of the wagon drivers handing out food to the slaves in his charge. The driver’s wagon was close to the front line of their long trek now, the man would likely be free of his charges within a couple of days. The driver was one of his many hundreds of clients, all working for him in exchange for his patronage and support as was tradition in Roman high society. He knew he was a demanding employer, changing their work focus on the fly to whatever he thought most useful. In return, his workers made good money as long as they helped him make profit. He turned to look down upon the many other wagons parked to the side of the road, all with fires close by for food and warmth. Their long line had started in Capua, moving excruciatingly slow ever since. They were only two-thirds to Rome, so it would be a few more weeks before the last cross was built and the last slave crucified.
Crassus wandered back towards the front of the convoy until he came to a fire with two of his better-known helpers. Fraucus was the brother of Luctatus, his closest confidant, and usually never far from the brothers’ friend Postumus. They had both worked for him for some time; the rise of his own fortunes had meant the rise of both of theirs. Crassus decided to stay hidden in the shadows to listen in on their lively conversation.
“I am still not sure I believe you, Fraucus. I get that Crassus is crucifying these six thousand poor souls along the Via Appia to appease the Senate. It makes a public statement for the slaves not to run away or incite rebellion again, additionally it shows the foreigners that Rome is back in control, but is this”—he moved his hand wide to indicate everything around them—”enough of a distraction to keep the Senate from figuring out what we did in Calabria?” Postumus asked.
“Just think how well everything worked out for him since Sulla. He’s going to get away with this too, you’ll see.”
After Spartacus wiped out two Roman legions last year, he had wanted to flee across the alps. I sent Fraucus’ own brother Luctacus to meet with him. Luctatus was the one who miraculously talked him into turning south, feeding him lies about passage on pirate ships for all his revolting slaves, from Calabria all the way back to Spartacus’ homeland in Thracia. I need to give him another reward for that once I sell my new tens of thousands of slaves to agents of Parthia in the east. It had been so easy to make the Senate agree to give him overall command. All he had to do was spend his own funds to raise six legions.
“I’m wondering how much money all those slaves we caught down in Calabria last fall are worth,” Postumus replied.
Fraucus laughed out loud, while Crassus smiled to himself.
A lot. Enough that it’s time for me to stop simply meddling in politics. I need to raise the stakes instead and play for keeps. He had several candidates in mind he could support for elections, in return for later help to further his own agenda. Young Caesar sprang to mind. The boy might be a long shot, impoverished and full of mistrust towards Crassus as he was. Doesn’t help that we were on opposing sides under Sulla, but he might be worth it seeing how obsessed he is with keeping his word. What a rare and refreshing thing these days, and how predictable. He switched his focus back to the conversation.
“I’ve always said Crassus is a genius, ever since he signed on with Sulla. No wonder he’s now the richest man in Rome.” Fraucus stoked the fire before continuing. “What do you say about that pompous ass Pompeius? He came back from Hispania just in time to catch five thousand fleeing slaves himself.”
“Well, I would say that must have made the boss unhappy,” Postumus replied.
Crassus smiled. He liked men that were smart enough to see things clearly, but he had heard enough. Clearing his throat, he walked up and stepped into the light. He just stood there for a moment, enjoying the saucer-like eyes on both men’s faces after they realized who had walked into their conversation. He sat down on the ground next to Faustus. “You two have to learn to keep things behind closed doors. Out here, you never know who might be listening,” Crassus said in a casual tone. He noticed with satisfaction that their faces had drained of all blood. Good, fear was the reaction he had wanted to see. Time to bring these two into his inner circle. “You both have done good work, it’s time for you to move up. Once your load is done, I want you to be my personal servants until we get back to Rome.” He grinned. “Of course, that includes a raise.”
Both men exhaled in relief. “Thank you, sir. We will not disappoint you,” Fraucus said, his voice breaking.
Crassus looked at the other man, who was unable to speak. Postumus’ nodded; his body trembled and tears ran freely. Crassus stood up. “Welcome to the club. I will expect more of you, but the rewards are also much higher.” He nodded to them and walked away. Having you two close also means that I can keep an eye on you.
***
Crassus sat at a small folding table at the side of the road. Done with his correspondence for the day, his boredom had returned with a vengeance. At least they were close to Rome now and his triumphant return to the Senate. He decided to write one more personal letter until a light rain started. He mounted his horse, letting the two new servants Fraucus and Postumus pack his belongings. He rode up to the next chosen spot, where he observed the few remaining wagons. Good, Litaviccus was next, a Numidian man of Spartacus’ inner circle. The slave army’s leadership had been saved for this last stretch of the road. He scrutinized the man as he was walked over. Several legion specialists had the lumber ready to proceed, one stepping up to untie the man’s hands while another held a pilum ready just in case.
“Take your tunic off,” the first soldier commanded. The resigned Numidian did as he was bid, before getting pushed on top of two rough logs, both notched in the middle and tied securely together to form the letter X. Crassus had to admire the efficiency of his engineers in streamlining the process. He was especially grateful they had avoided the use of expensive iron nails. The wrists and ankles of the man were now painfully tied to more notches hewn into the logs to secure the ropes in place, keeping their victim from sliding the rope to relieve the pull on his arms.
The next step was the breaking of the man’s legs. Crassus briefly looked away. Though he knew this would shorten the man’s suffering, he did not enjoy watching. The Numidian endured in silence, until the men raised the cross up and he couldn’t hold back his screams any longer. When the contraption was just shy of standing fully upright, a third man secured it by attaching a simple third log to the back, which rested in another notch at the center of the X.
Crassus looked up again. Litaviccus stared at the city walls of the Roman capital in the distance shining brightly in the late morning sun despite the cold rain. The man spat as hard and as far as he could. Crassus had to chuckle. A nice, albeit final display of defiance.
Spartacus and his people had earned his respect, but not made his job easy. He watched the soldiers clean up their tools before storing them for the next crucifixion. His men walked on without so much as a glance back.
685 AUC (69 BC), spring
Clusium, Etruria, Italia
Little Velia chased her brother Numerius through their father’s small bakery, between shelves for cooling fresh bread and the hot oven. She heard her father let out a long line of swear words in frustration. Next, she felt his hands as he grabbed his six-year-old daughter by her arm.
“Children, I know you are b
ored. Having to be with me this early is no fun, I understand that, but I can’t have you run into things here. Every one of these loaves sells for half a sesterce, that’s two asses. Any we lose means less money for me to buy grain next week and feed you. Or worse, I might not be able to pay the rent,” he chided her and her brother.
Velia looked at her brother Numerius, one year older than her, to avoid her father’s gaze. She was ashamed for having been careless. She knew their father struggled to provide for them. There was no extra money to go around.
She started to cry, turning to him. “I am sorry!” She wept. She moved in to hug him hard. She relaxed when he hugged her right back.
“Hush, little one, hush. It’s alright. I did not mean to scold you two. Numerius, come here,” her father whispered, now opening his right arm to let her brother close as well. “I shouldn’t worry about a loaf or two. You children are the most important thing in my life.”
Her father had been a kitchen slave in the household of a wealthy and childless widower. She remembered the stories well, about them all being freed by the man from his deathbed in appreciation of their father’s long service and loyalty. She had been too young to remember their mother, who had had been sold some time before they were all freed.
