The thought of seeing his estate brought a mixture of grief and excitement to him. He would see how his daughter had grown and walk by the river his father had dammed to flow through the estate. Julius’s smile faded as he thought of his father. The family tomb was on the road into the city, and before anything else, he had to see the graves of those he had left behind.

CHAPTER 8

Crassus breathed in the steam from the pool as he eased himself in up to his waist. The marble sill was icy against his shoulders as he sat on the inner step, and the contrast was exquisite. He felt the knots of tension in his neck and waved a hand to summon a bath slave to massage them away while he talked.

The other men in the pool were all his clients and loyal beyond the monthly stipend they received.

Crassus closed his eyes as the slave’s hard thumbs began to worry at his muscles and sighed with pleasure before speaking.

“My term as consul has made little mark on the city, gentlemen.” He smiled wryly as the men with him shifted in consternation. Before they could protest, he continued. “I thought I would have done more in my time. There are too few things I can point to and say ‘That was mine, alone.’ It seems renegotiated trade agreements are not what stirs the blood of our citizens.”

His expression became tinged with bitterness as he looked at them and traced a swirl in the surface of the water with a finger.

“Oh, I gave them bread when they said they had none. But when the loaves were gone, nothing had changed. They have had a few race days from my purse and seen a temple restored in the forum. I wonder, though, if they will remember this year, or ever think of me when I was consul.”

“We are for you,” one of the men said, the sentiment quickly echoed by the others.

Crassus nodded, breathing his cynicism into the steam. “I have won no wars for them, you see. Instead, they fawn on Pompey and old Crassus is forgotten.”

The clients did not dare to meet each other’s faces and see the truth of the words reflected there.

Crassus raised his eyes at their embarrassment before going on, his voice firming with purpose.

“I do not want my year to be forgotten, gentlemen. I have bought another day at the racetrack for them, which is a start. I want those who rent from me to be given first choice of tickets, and try to get families.”

He paused to reach behind his head for a cup of cool water, and the slave interrupted his kneading to pass it into the bony fingers. Crassus smiled at the lad before continuing.

“The new sesterces with my head on them are ready. I will need you all to manage the distribution, gentlemen. They are to go only to the poorest of homes and no more than one to each man and woman.

You will have to employ guards and take only small amounts with you at a time.”

“May I mention an idea, Consul?” a man asked.

“Of course, Pareus,” Crassus replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Hire men to clean the streets,” he said, the words spilling out too quickly under the consul’s gaze.

“Much of the city is stinking and the people would thank you for it.”

Crassus laughed. “If I do as you say, will they stop throwing their filth on the roads? No, they will say, let fly, for old Crassus will come after us with buckets to clean it up again. No, my friend, if they want clean streets, they should get water and cloths and clean them up themselves. If the stench grows too bad in summer, they may be forced to, and that will teach them to be clean.” Crassus saw the man’s disappointment and said kindly, “I admire a man who thinks the best of our people, but there are too many who lack the sense not to foul their own steps. There is no sense in courting the goodwill of such as they.”

Crassus chuckled at the thought for a moment, then fell silent.

“On the other hand, if it was popular… no. I will not be known as Crassus the cleaner of shit. No.”

“The street gangs, then?” Pareus went on stubbornly. “They are out of control in some areas. A few hundred men with permission to break the gangs would do more for the city than-”

“You want another gang to control the others? And who would keep them in control? Would you ask for a still larger group to handle the first?” Crassus tutted to himself, amused by the man’s persistence.

“A legion century could…” the man stammered.

Crassus sat up, sending a ripple out over the pool. He held up a hand for silence and his clients shifted nervously.

“Yes, Pareus, a legion could do many things, but I do not have one at my call, as you should perhaps have remembered. Would you have me beg more soldiers from Pompey to patrol the poor areas? He asks for fortunes just to have guards at the races, and I have had my fill of bolstering his reputation with my gold.”

Crassus swung his hand out and knocked the metal cup spinning over the tiles of the bathhouse.

“Enough for now, gentlemen. You have your tasks for the moment and I will have more for you tomorrow. Leave me.”

The men climbed out of the pool without a word, hurrying away from their irascible master.

Julius was pleased to leave the noise of the port behind him as he and Octavian took the road to the city. With Brutus overseeing the unloading of men and equipment, the work would be quickly finished. The centurions had been chosen personally and they could be trusted to keep the men on a tight rein until the first groups were allowed to take their leave.

He glanced at Octavian and noted how well he sat his horse. Training with the extraordinarii had schooled his wildness, and he rode now as if he had been born in the saddle, not as a street urchin who hadn’t seen a horse until he was nine years old.

They walked the mounts on the worn stones of the road into the city, guiding them around the carts and slaves who hurried along it on unknown errands. Grain and wine, precious stones, leather hides, tools of iron and bronze, a thousand other things that were destined for the hungry maw of the city ahead. The drivers flicked their whips with skill over oxen and asses, and Julius knew the caravans would extend all the way from the sea to the heart of the markets.

The gentle clopping of the hooves was lulling, but Julius was gripped by a tension that made his shoulders ache. The family tomb was outside the city and he was looking ahead for it, waiting for the first glimpse.

The sun was rising toward the noon point when he felt he was ready and dug his heels into the gelding’s flanks. Octavian matched his pace instantly and the two men cantered over the stone, followed by appreciative shouts and whistles from the traders that dwindled behind them.

The tomb was a simple one of dark marble, a rectangular block of heavy stone that crouched at the side of the road with the great gates of the city less than a mile farther on. Julius was sweating as he dismounted, leading the horse to the grass between the tombs, made lush by Roman dead.

“This is the one,” Julius whispered, letting the reins fall from his hands. He read the names cut into the dark stone and closed his eyes for a moment as he came to his mother’s. Part of him had expected it, but the reality of knowing her ashes were there brought a pain that surprised him, rimming his eyes in tears.

His father’s name was still sharp after more than a decade, and Julius bowed his head as he touched the characters with the tips of his fingers, tracing the lines.

The third name was still as fresh-cut as the pain he felt to look at it. Cornelia. Hidden from the sun and his embrace. He could not hold her again.

“Do you have the wine, Octavian?” Julius said after a long time. He tried to stand straight, but the hands he laid on the stone seemed to have been fastened there and he could not let them go. He heard Octavian rummage in the bags and felt the cool clay of the amphora that had cost him more than a month’s pay for one of his men. There was no better wine than Falernian, but Julius had wanted the finest to honor those he loved the most.