Pompey smiled at the other consul’s discomfort. ‘I will trust the people. One hundred gold on Dacius.’
The slave didn’t even blink at an amount greater than his own price at sale.
‘Certainly, master. I will fetch you the token.’ He paused for a moment in silent enquiry, but Crassus only glared at him.
‘Quickly, the race is about to start,’ Pompey added, sending the slave off at a run. Pompey had seen two flag-bearers approach the long bronze horn at the edge of the track. The crowd cheered as the note sounded and the gates to the stables opened.
First out was the Roman, Dacius, his light chariot pulled by dark geldings. Crassus fidgeted as he noted the arrogant poise and balance of the man as he brought his team around in a smooth turn to line up at the start. The man was short and stocky and the crowd cheered wildly for him. He saluted towards the consular box, and Pompey rose to return the gesture. Crassus copied the action, but Dacius had already turned away to complete his preparation.
‘He looks hungry today, Crassus. His horses are fighting the bit,’ Pompey told his colleague cheerfully.
Crassus ignored him, watching the next team onto the sand. It was the Thracian entry, marked out in green. The bearded driver was inexperienced and few of the crowd had put money on him. Nevertheless, they cheered dutifully, though many were already craning to see the last two come out of the gloom of the stables.
Paulus flicked the long looping reins over his Spanish horses as they thundered out into the light. Crassus thumped the rail with his fist at the sight of them.
‘Dacius will have to work hard to beat these. Look at their condition, Pompey. Glorious.’
Paulus did look confident as he saluted the consuls. Even at a distance, Crassus saw the flash of white teeth against his dark skin and some of his worry eased. The team took its place with the others and the last Spanish competitor rode out to join them.
Crassus had seen nothing wrong with the horses in his first visit, but now he studied them for signs of weakness. Despite his assertions to Pompey, he was suddenly convinced the stallions looked ill at ease compared to the others. Crassus took his seat reluctantly as the horn sounded again and the betting ceased. The slave returned to hand Pompey his token and the consul played idly with it while they waited.
Silence fell across the mass of people. Dacius’ team took fright at something and sidestepped into the Thracian, forcing both men to crack their whips over their heads. A good driver could snap the tip of his whip inches away from any one of his horses at full gallop and order was quickly restored. Crassus noted the Thracian’s calm and wondered if a chance had been missed. The little man didn’t seem at all out of place amongst the more experienced charioteers.
The silence held as the horses pawed and snorted in place for a moment, then the horn was blown a third time, its wail lost in the roar as the teams lunged forward and the race began.
‘You have done well, Crassus,’ Pompey said, looking over the heads of the crowd. ‘I doubt there’s a man in Rome who doesn’t know your generosity.’
Crassus glanced sharply at him, looking for mockery. Pompey was impassive and didn’t seem to feel the gaze.
Below them, the thundering horses reached the first corner. The light chariots scored long sliding arcs in the sand as they were pulled around by the plunging horses. The riders leaned over to balance themselves, held in place by nothing more than their skill and strength. It was an impressive display and Dacius slid neatly between two teams to take an early lead. Crassus frowned at the development.
‘Have you decided whom you will support for consul at the end of the year?’ he said, forcing a neutral tone.
Pompey smiled. ‘It’s a little early to be thinking of it, my friend. I am enjoying being consul myself at the moment.’
Crassus snorted at the blatant falsehood. He knew Pompey too well to believe his denials. Under the pressure of his stare, Pompey shrugged.
‘I believe Senator Prandus can be persuaded to put his name on the lists,’ he said.
Crassus watched the racing teams, considering what he knew of the man.
‘There are worse choices,’ he said at last. ‘Would he accept your … guidance?’
Pompey’s eyes were bright with excitement as Dacius continued to lead the field. Crassus wondered if he was feigning the interest merely to annoy him.
‘Pompey?’ he prompted.
‘He would not be troublesome,’ Pompey replied.
Crassus hid his pleasure. Neither Prandus nor his son Suetonius were men of influence in the Senate, but having weak men as consuls would mean he and Pompey could continue to guide the city, merely exchanging the public aspect for the private. Returning to the anonymity of the back benches after leading Rome was an unpleasant prospect for both of them. Crassus wondered if Pompey knew he held debts on the family and would have his own form of control if Prandus was elected.
‘I could accept Prandus, if you are sure of him,’ he said over the noise of the crowd. Pompey turned an amused expression to him.
‘Excellent. Do you know if Cinna will stand?’
Crassus shook his head. ‘He’s all but retired since the death of his daughter. Have you heard something?’
In his eagerness, Crassus reached out to hold Pompey’s arm and Pompey grimaced at the touch. Crassus felt a spike of hatred for the man. What right did he have to assume such airs, when Crassus paid the bills of his great houses?
‘I have heard nothing yet, Crassus. If not Cinna, though, we must find another to stand for the second post. Perhaps it is not too soon to begin cultivating a new name.’
As the fourth lap began, Dacius led by a full length, with the Thracian holding position behind him. Paulus was third, with the sea-sick Spanish horses bringing up the rear. The crowd bellowed their approval and every eye was on the teams as they rounded the far corner and galloped through the start for the fifth lap. The wooden egg was removed and the bawling voices were becoming hoarse.
‘Have you considered Julius? His term in Spain is almost over,’ Crassus said.
Pompey glanced over at him, suddenly wary. He still suspected Crassus of a loyalty to the young Caesar that he did not share. Had the man not waived the debts of the Tenth shortly after Julius took control? Pompey shook his head.
‘Not him, Crassus. That dog has teeth. I’m sure you don’t want … disruption any more than I.’
Dacius had increased his lead and Crassus continued to speak, pleased to be able to ruffle the smooth placidity of his colleague.
‘They say Caesar has done very well in Spain. New lands under our control, new cities. I believe there has even been talk of a Triumph for him.’
Pompey looked sharply at Crassus, his brow furrowing.
‘I’ve heard nothing of Triumphs and I have made myself clear. When his posting is over, I will send him somewhere else. Greece, perhaps. Whatever you are planning should be forgotten, Crassus. I witnessed my own men standing in the rain for that one when they saw his oak wreath. My own men, honouring a stranger! You remember Marius well enough. We don’t want another one in the city, especially as consul.’
Crassus didn’t reply for a long moment and Pompey chose to interpret the silence as assent.
Below them on the track, Dacius came up behind the Spanish team and moved to lap them. The faltering driver swerved violently as Dacius passed him, losing control for a split second. It was long enough. With a crash that could be heard over the appalled howl of the crowd, both teams were fouled and the neat lines of horses became screaming chaos in an instant.
The Thracian heaved his reins over to clear the wreckage. His whip snapped at the inner horses, forcing them to shorten their stride for a turn that nearly had him over. The crowd watched in agony as the little man guided them around, but then they were through and clear and many in the circus rose to their feet to applaud his skill.
Pompey swore under his breath as he saw Dacius lying still on the sand. One of his legs was twist
ed peculiarly. His knee had clearly been shattered and though he still lived, he would not race again.
‘Signal the guards I gave you, Crassus. There will be fighting once they recover from the shock.’
Crassus set his jaw in anger, catching the eye of a centurion and holding up a clenched fist. They moved down amongst the benches and it was not a moment too soon. After the excitement at the destruction of the horses and chariots, the crowd had become aware of their lost bets and howled as one in an orgy of frustration. The final laps went without incident, the Thracian first across the line to general indifference. Fights had already broken out and the legionaries acted swiftly, using the flats of their swords to separate struggling men from each other.
Pompey signalled his personal guard that he was ready to leave and they cleared a path for him. He exchanged a glance with Crassus as he left and saw the man’s dislike, for once unmasked. As he reached the street, Pompey was lost in thought, barely hearing the growing disruption behind him.
Julius dismounted at the edge of the village, his horse gently snickering as it cropped at grass between the stones of an ancient road. He and Servilia had ridden far inland and there was no sign of life in the hills around them. It was a beautiful country, with vast swathes of forest and chalky cliffs that dropped into green valleys. The sun had moved past the noon point before they came to this place. They had seen mottled red deer and boars that ran squealing from their horses.
Julius had taken long, looping trails to avoid all signs of people on their ride. He seemed content to be alone with her and Servilia was flattered. At times, it seemed as if they were the only ones alive. The forests were full of shadows and silence and they passed through the gloom almost as ghosts themselves. Then the trees would give way to bright sunlight and a grassy plain and they would gallop recklessly away from the dark until they were panting and laughing together. Servilia could not remember a more perfect day.
The village Julius led her into was a strange place at the foot of a valley. A river ran close by, but as in the forests, there were no voices to break the stillness. The houses were slumping with age and wild ferns and ivy grew out of windows from within. Everywhere there were signs of decay. Doors that had been hung on stiff leather hinges yawned open at them and wild animals scuttled out of their sight as they led their horses along a street towards the centre. The quiet of the empty village made speech difficult, as if it was an intrusion. Servilia was reminded of the echoing vaults of a temple and wondered why Julius had brought her to it.
‘Why did they leave?’ she asked him.
He shrugged. ‘It could be anything: invasion, disease. Perhaps they just wanted to find a new home somewhere else. I spent days here when I first came, but the houses were looted long ago and there’s little left to show how they lived. It is a strange place, though – I love it. If we ever reach this valley with our bridges and new streets, I will be sad to see it go.’
A faded piece of pottery that could once have been a sign jarred his foot and he knelt to look at it, blowing away the dust. It was blank and so thin that he could snap it in his hands.
‘I suppose it looked like Valentia, once. A market and crops to sell, children running around with chickens. Difficult to imagine now.’
Servilia looked around her and tried to conjure up the image of a place full of bustling people. A lizard ran along a wall near her, catching her eye for a second before it vanished under a sagging eave. There was something eerie in walking through such a place, as if at any moment the streets would fill with life and noise again, the interruption to their lives forgotten.
‘Why do you come here?’ she asked.
He looked sideways at her, smiling strangely. ‘I’ll show you,’ he said, turning a corner into a wider road.
The houses here were little more than heaps of rubble and Servilia could see a square beyond them. The sunlight made the air warm and light as they approached it and Julius quickened his step in anticipation as they reached the open ground.
The heavy stones of the square were cracked and lined with creeping grass and wild flowers, but Julius walked across them without looking, his eyes fastened on a broken pedestal and a statue that lay beside it in pieces. The features were almost completely worn away and the white stone was chipped and battered, yet Julius approached it with reverence. He tied their horses to a sapling that had sprung up through the stone of the square and leaned against the statue, tracing the features with his hand. An arm had gone, but she could see the statue had been a powerful figure once. Servilia saw where words had been cut into the heavy plinth and she traced the strange characters with her finger.
‘Who is it?’ she whispered.
‘One of the local scholars told me it says “Alexander the King”.’
Julius’ voice was rough with emotion and she felt again the desire to touch him, to share his thoughts. To her astonishment, she saw tears form in his eyes as he gazed at the stone face.
‘What is it? I don’t understand,’ she said, reaching out to him without a thought. His skin felt hot against her hand and he didn’t move away.
‘Seeing him …’ he said softly, wiping his eyes. For a moment, he pressed her hand against him with his own before letting it fall. After another long look at the stone figure, he shrugged, having found control once more.
‘By the time he was my age, he had conquered the world. They said he was a god. Compared to that, I have wasted my life.’
Servilia sat on the ledge next to him, their thighs touching lightly, though she felt every part of the contact. Julius spoke again after a while, his voice distant with memory.
‘When I was a boy, I used to listen to the stories of his battles and his life. He was … astonishing. He had the world in his hand when he was little more than a child. I used to imagine myself … I used to see his path once.’
Again, Servilia reached up to his face, smoothing the skin. He seemed to feel it for the first time and raised his head to look at her as she spoke.
‘It is here for you, if you want it,’ she said, unsure as she spoke whether she was offering more than just a hope of glory, or something more personal. He seemed to hear both meanings in her words and took her hand again. This time, his eyes searched hers at the touch, asking a silent question.
‘I want it all,’ he whispered and she could not have said which of them moved to kiss the other. It simply happened, and they felt the strength of it as they sat at the feet of Alexander.
CHAPTER FIVE
In the days that followed, time seemed to pass more slowly when Servilia could not find an excuse to take the horses out again. The Golden Hand was running well and she had brought two men from Rome large enough to quieten the wildest reveller. Instead of taking pleasure from the success, she found her thoughts constantly drifting back to the strange young man who could be vulnerable and frightening in the same moment. She had forced herself not to ask for him again and then waited for his invitation. When it had come, she had laughed aloud, amused at herself, yet unable to resist the excitement it brought.
She stopped to add another stem to the circlet she was weaving as they walked through a field of swaying corn. Julius paused with her, more relaxed than he had felt for a long time. The depression that had crushed him seemed to vanish in her company and it was strange to think that their first ride into the wilderness had been only a few weeks before. She had seen the parts of his life that mattered most to him and he felt as if he had always known Servilia.
With her, the nightmares he tried to drown like pups in heavy wine had lifted, though he felt them circling still. She was the blessing of Alexander over him, a ward against the shadows that pressed him into despair. He could forget who he had become, dropping the mantle of his authority. An hour or two each day in sunshine that warmed more than his skin.
He looked at her as she straightened, wondering at the force of the feelings she engendered. In one moment she could reveal a knowledge of the city and the senators
that would leave him breathless, and in another she could be almost childlike as she laughed or chose another bloom to weave with the rest.
Brutus had encouraged the friendship after that first trip to the village of the broken statue. He saw that Servilia was like a balm to his friend’s troubled spirit, beginning to heal wounds that had festered for too long.
‘Pompey was wrong to have the slaves crucified,’ Julius said, remembering the line of crosses and the weeping, tortured figures on them, waiting for death. The images of the great slave rebellion were still painfully fresh in his mind, even after four years. Crows had gorged until they were too fat to fly and cawed in anger at his men as they kicked out at the staggering birds. Julius shuddered slightly.
‘After the beginning, we didn’t offer the slaves anything but death. They knew we’d never let them run. They were badly led and Pompey had them tied and nailed all the way up the Via from the south. It was not greatness in him, then, responding to the terror of the mob.’
‘You would not have done it?’ Servilia asked.
‘Spartacus and his gladiators had to die, but there were brave men in the ranks who had faced legions and beaten them. No, I would have formed a new legion and salted it with the hardest bastard centurions from all the others. Six thousand brave men, Servilia, all wasted for his ambition. It would have been a better example than putting them all on crosses, but Pompey can see no further than his petty rules and traditions. He holds his line while the rest of the world moves past him.’
‘The people cheered them into the city, Julius. Pompey was the one they really wanted as consul. Crassus took the second seat in his shadow.’
‘Better if they had turned the slaves on their own,’ Julius muttered. ‘They would stand tall then, rather than rushing to kiss the feet of Pompey. Better to grow your crops rather than cry out for men like Pompey to give you food. It’s a sickness in us, you know. We always raise unworthy men to rule us.’
The Emperor Series: Books 1-5 Page 92
