The Death Of Kings

EPILOGUE

Pompey walked with Crassus between the rows of crosses. With Rome in sight, the line stretched for miles down the Via Appia behind them, six thousand men to serve as a warning and a proof of the victory. Forests had been felled to hold them, and when the legion carpenters ran out of nails, the slaves had simply been tied and speared, or left to die of thirst.

The two generals dismounted to walk the last mile into the city. Crassus would not be shamed, Pompey had promised him. Ending the rebellion erased the disasters that had gone before, and Pompey was willing to let him have his moment of glory. He had nothing to fear from Crassus and there was always his wealth to be considered. He would need wealthy men to finance his time as consul. Perhaps, he thought, it would be fruitful to urge Crassus to take the second consular post when the elections came. They could share the expenses then and Crassus would always be grateful.

In the distance, the generals could hear the tinny sounds of a cheering crowd, catching sight of them on the road. They smiled at each other, enjoying the moment.

“I wonder if we should ask for a Triumph?” Crassus said, breathing quickly at the thought. “There hasn't been one since Marius.”

“I remember it,” Pompey said, thinking of the young man who had stood at Marius's shoulder on the ride to the forum.

As if guessing his thoughts, Crassus glanced at him.

“It's a shame Julius isn't here to see this. He fought hard enough for us.”

Pompey frowned. He would not admit it to Crassus, but when he'd seen the Greek legions stand for Julius in the mud and rain, it had frightened him. All the great men were dead, but that one stood with the blood of Marius in him, general of the Tenth and with a growing fame that could be deadly if he ever chose to use it. No, he did not want Julius in his city or his precious legion. He'd signed the orders sending them to Spain without a moment's hesitation.

“Spain will temper him, Crassus. I have no doubt.”

Crassus looked questioningly at him, but chose not to reply, and Pompey nodded in satisfaction as the roar of the waiting crowd grew. Spain was far enough away for Marius's nephew, and when his five years there were up, the people would have forgotten him.