them, he took solace from the fact that Pompey was similarly bound. Rome would not allow another Marius to stand as consul over and over. Those wild days had gone with the shade of Sulla and the civil war. Still, there was nothing to prevent Pompey grooming his own favourites to succeed him.
Crassus wished he could shake the sense of inadequacy that assailed him whenever he and Pompey were together. Unlike his own sharp features, Pompey looked as a consul was expected to look, with a broad, strong face, and gently greying hair. Privately, Crassus wondered if the dignified image was helped along with a little white powder at the temples. Even sitting next to him, he couldn’t be sure.
As if the gods hadn’t given him enough, Pompey seemed to have their blessing with his military enterprises. He had promised the people to rid the seas of pirates and in only a few months the Roman fleet had swept the Mare Internum clean of the scavengers. Trade had boomed as Pompey had promised. No one in the city thanked Crassus for financing the venture, or for bearing the loss of the ships that didn’t survive. Instead, he was forced to throw even more gold at the people in case they forgot him, while Pompey could rest easy in their adoration.
Crassus tapped the fingers of one hand on the other as he thought. The citizens of Rome respected only what they could see. If he raised a legion of his own to patrol the streets, they would bless him every time one of his men caught a thief or broke up a fight. Without one, he knew Pompey would never treat him as an equal. It was not a new idea, but he held back from planting a new standard in the Campus Martius. Always, there was the private fear that Pompey was right in his assessment of him. What victories could Crassus claim for Rome? No matter how he clad them in shining armour, a legion had to be well led and while it seemed effortless for Pompey, the thought of risking another humiliation was more than Crassus could bear.
The campaign against Spartacus had been bad enough, he thought miserably. He was sure they still mocked him for building a wall across the toe of Italy. None of the Senate mentioned it in public, but word had filtered back from the soldiers and his spies told him it was still seen as a subject for laughter amongst the chattering masses of the city. Pompey told him there was nothing in it, but then he could afford to be complacent. No matter who was elected at the end of the year, Pompey would still be a force in the Senate. Crassus wished he could be as certain of his own position.
Both men watched as the seven wooden eggs were brought out to the central spine of the track. At the beginning of each lap, one would be removed until the last would signal the frenzy of struggle that marked the end of each contest.
As the ritual before the races approached completion, Crassus motioned behind him and a smartly dressed slave stepped forward to relay his bets. Though Pompey had disdained the opportunity, Crassus had spent a useful hour with the teams and their horses in the dark stables built under the seating. He considered himself a good judge and thought that the team of Spanish whites under Paulus were unstoppable. He hesitated as the slave waited to relay his bet to his masters. The valley between the hills was usually perfect for horses that preferred a soft track, but there had been little rain for nearly a week and he could see spirals of dust on the ground below the consular box. His mouth was similarly dry as he made up his mind. Paulus had been confident and the gods loved a gambler. This was his day, after all.
‘Three sesterces on Paulus’ team,’ he said, after a long pause. The slave nodded, but as he turned, Crassus grabbed his arm in his bony fingers. ‘No, two only. The track is quite dry.’
As the man left, Crassus sensed Pompey’s grin.
‘I really don’t know why you bet,’ Pompey said. ‘You are easily the richest man in Rome, but you wager less valiantly than half the people here. What are two sesterces to you? A cup of wine?’
Crassus sniffed at a subject he had heard before. Pompey enjoyed teasing him, but he would still come begging for gold when he needed to fund his precious legions. That was a secret pleasure for the older man, though he wondered if Pompey ever thought of it. If Crassus had been in that position, it would have been like slow poison, but Pompey never varied his cheerful manner. The man had no understanding of the dignity of wealth, none at all.
‘A horse can twist a leg or a driver fall in any race. You expect me to waste gold on simple chance?’
The betting slave returned and handed Crassus a token, which he held tightly. Pompey looked at him with his pale eyes and there was a distaste there that Crassus pretended not to notice.
‘Apart from Paulus, who else is running in the first?’ Pompey asked the slave.
‘Three others, master. A new team from Thrace, Dacius from Mutina and another team shipped over from Spain. They say the horses from Spain went through a storm that unsettled them. Most of the betting money is going on Dacius at the moment.’
Crassus fixed the man with a glare.
‘You did not mention this before,’ he snapped. ‘Paulus brought his horses over from Spain. Did they suffer in the same ship?’
‘I do not know, master,’ the slave replied, bowing his head.
Crassus reddened as he wondered whether he should withdraw his bet before the race began. No, not in front of Pompey, unless he could find a reason to excuse himself for a few moments.
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
