Imperium - Харрис Роберт - Страница 15

“So this is why he dragged me out of Rome,” murmured Cicero, “to intimidate me by showing me these poor wretches.” He had gone very white, for he was squeamish about pain and death, even when inflicted on animals, and for that reason tried to avoid attending the games. I suppose this also explains his aversion to all matters military. He had done the bare minimum of army service in his youth, and he was quite incapable of wielding a sword or hurling a javelin; throughout his career he had to put up with the taunt of being a draft dodger.

At the eighteenth milestone, surrounded by a ditch and ramparts, we found the bulk of Crassus’s legions encamped beside the road, giving off that dusty smell of sweat and leather which always lingers over an army field. Standards fluttered over the gate and Crassus’s own son, Publius, then a brisk young junior officer, conducted us to the general’s tent. A couple of other senators were being shown out as we arrived, and there was Crassus himself at the entrance, instantly recognizable-“Old Baldhead,” as his soldiers called him-wearing the scarlet cloak of a commander, despite the heat. He was all affability, waving good-bye to his previous visitors, wishing them a safe journey, and greeting us equally heartily-even me, shaking my hand as warmly as if I were a senator myself, rather than a slave who in other circumstances might have been howling from one of his crosses. Looking back on it, and trying to fix precisely what it was that made him so disconcerting, I think it was this: his indiscriminate and detached friendliness, which you knew would never waver or diminish even if he had just decided to have you killed. Cicero had told me he was worth at least two hundred million, but Crassus talked as easily to any man as a farmer leaning on a gate, and his army tent-like his house in Rome -was modest and unadorned.

He led us inside-me as well, he insisted-apologizing for the gruesome spectacle along the Appian Way, but he felt it was necessary. He seemed particularly proud of the logistics which had enabled him to crucify six thousand men along three hundred and fifty miles of road, from the victorious battlefield to the gates of Rome, without, as he put it, “any scenes of violence.” That was seventeen crucifixions to the mile, which meant one hundred and seventeen paces between each cross-he had a wonderful head for figures-and the trick was not to cause a panic among the prisoners, or else one would have had another battle on one’s hands. So, after every mile-or sometimes two or three, varying it to avoid arousing suspicion-the requisite number of recaptured slaves would be halted by the roadside as the rest of the column marched on, and not until their comrades were out of sight did the executions begin. In this way the job had been done with the minimum amount of disruption for the maximum deterrent effect-the Appian Way being the busiest road in Italy.

“I doubt whether many slaves, once they hear of this, will rise against Rome in the future,” said Crassus with a smile. “Would you, for example?” he said to me, and when I replied very fervently that I most certainly would not, he pinched my cheek and ruffled my hair. The touch of his hand made my flesh shrivel. “Is he for sale?” he asked Cicero. “I like him. I’d give you a good price for him. Let us see-” He named an amount that was at least ten times what I was worth, and for a terrible moment I thought Cicero might accept the offer and I would lose my place in his life-a banishment I could not have borne.

“He is not for sale, at any price,” said Cicero. The journey had upset him; there was a hoarseness to his voice. “And to avoid any misunderstanding, Imperator, I believe I should tell you right away that I have pledged my support to Pompey the Great.”

“Pompey the who?” mocked Crassus. “Pompey the Great? As great as what?”

“I would rather not say,” replied Cicero. “Comparisons can be odious.” At which even Crassus, for all his ironclad bonhomie, drew back his head a little.

There are certain politicians who cannot stand to be in the same room as one another, even if mutual self-interest dictates that they should try to get along, and it quickly became apparent to me that Cicero and Crassus were two such men. This is what the Stoics fail to grasp when they assert that reason rather than emotion should play the dominant part in human affairs: I am afraid the reverse is true, and always will be, even-perhaps especially-in the supposedly calculating world of politics. And if reason cannot rule in politics, what hope is there for it in another sphere? Crassus had summoned Cicero in order to seek his friendship. Cicero had come determined to keep Crassus’s goodwill. Yet neither man could quite conceal his distaste for the other, and the meeting was a disaster.

“Let us get to the point, shall we?” said Crassus after he had invited Cicero to sit down. He took off his cloak and handed it to his son, then settled on the couch. “There are two things I would like to ask of you, Cicero. One is your support for my candidacy for the consulship. I am forty-four, so I am more than old enough, and I believe this ought to be my year. The other is a triumph. For both I am willing to pay whatever is your current market rate. Normally, as you know, I insist on an exclusive contract, but, given your prior commitments, I suppose I shall have to settle for half of you. Half of Cicero,” he added with a slight bow of his head, “being worth twice as much as the entirety of most men.”

“That is flattering, Imperator,” responded Cicero, bridling at the implication. “Thank you. My slave cannot be bought, but I can, is that it? Perhaps you will allow me to think about it.”

“What is there to think about? Every citizen has two votes for the consulship. Give one to me and one to whomever else you please. Just make sure your friends all follow your example. Tell them Crassus never forgets those who oblige him. Or those who disoblige him, for that matter.”

“I would still have to think about it, I am afraid.”

Some shadow moved across Crassus’s friendly face, like a pike in clear water. “And my triumph?”

“Personally, I absolutely believe you have earned the honor. But, as you know, to qualify for a triumph it is necessary for the military action concerned to have extended the dominion of the state. The Senate has consulted the precedents. Apparently it is not enough merely to regain territory that has been previously lost. For example, when Fulvius won back Capua after its defection to Hannibal, he was not allowed a triumph.” Cicero explained all this with what seemed genuine regret.

“But this is a technicality, surely? If Pompey can be a consul without meeting any of the necessary requirements, why cannot I at least have a triumph? I know you are unfamiliar with the difficulties of military command, or even,” he added sinuously, “with military service, but surely you would agree that I have met all the other requirements-killed five thousand in battle, fought under the auspices, been saluted imperator by the legions, brought peace to the province, withdrawn my troops? If someone of influence such as yourself were to put down a motion in the Senate, he would find me very generous.”

There was a long pause, and I wondered how Cicero would escape from his dilemma.

“There is your triumph, Imperator!” he said suddenly, pointing in the direction of the Appian Way. “That is the monument to the kind of man you are! For as long as Romans have tongues to speak, they will remember the name of Crassus as the man who crucified six thousand slaves over three hundred and fifty miles, with one hundred and seventeen paces between the crosses. None of our other great generals would ever have done such a thing. Scipio Africanus, Pompey, Lucullus”- Cicero flicked them away with contempt-“none of them would even have thought of it.”