Fortune's Favorites by Colleen McCullough Read Free Book Online Page B

naturally.
    “Quintus Scaptius.”
    “Might you have enlisted?”
    “All Hannibal's elephants couldn't stop me!”
    “Might you be a veteran?”
    “Joined his daddy's army when I was seventeen. That was eight years ago, but I've already served in twelve campaigns, so I don't have to join up anymore unless I might want to,” said Quintus Scaptius.
    “But you did want to.”
    “Hannibal's elephants, Marcus Terentius, Hannibal's elephants!”
    “Might you be of centurion rank?”
    “I might be for this campaign.”
    While they talked, Varro and Scaptius kept their eyes on Pompey, who stood just in front of the middle table joyfully hailing this man or that among the throng.
    “He says he'll march before this moon has run her course,” Varro observed, “but I fail to see how. I admit none of these men here today will need much if any training, but where's he going to get enough arms and armor? Or pack animals? Or wagons and oxen? Or food? And what will he do for money to keep his great enterprise going?”
    Scaptius grunted, apparently an indication of amusement. “He does not need to worry about any of that! His daddy gave each of us our arms and armor at the start of the war against the Italians; then after his daddy died, the boy told us to hang on to them. We each got a mule, and the centurions got the carts and oxen. So we'd be ready against the day. You'll never catch the Pompeii napping! There's wheat enough in our granaries and lots of other food in our storehouses. Our women and children won't go hungry because we're eating well on campaign.”
    “And what about money?” asked Varro gently.
    “Money?” Scaptius dismissed this necessity with a sniff of contempt. “We served his daddy without seeing much of it, and that's the truth. Wasn't any to be had in those days. When he's got it, he'll give it to us. When he hasn't got it, we'll do without. He's a good master.”
    “So I see.”
    Lapsing into silence, Varro studied Pompey with fresh interest. Everyone told tales about the legendary independence of Pompey Strabo during the Italian War: how he had kept his legions together long after he was ordered to disband them, and how he had directly altered the course of events in Rome because he had not disbanded them. No massive wage bills had ever turned up on the Treasury's books when Cinna had them audited after the death of Gaius Marius; now Varro knew why. Pompey Strabo hadn't bothered to pay his troops. Why should he, when he virtually owned them?
    At this moment Pompey left his post to stroll across to Picus's temple steps.
    “I'm off to find a campsite,” he said to Varro, then gave the Hercules sitting next to Varro a huge grin. “Got in early, I see, Scaptius.”
    Scaptius lumbered to his feet. “Yes, Magnus. I'd best be getting home to dig out my gear, eh?”
    So everyone called him Magnus! Varro too rose. “I'll ride with you, Magnus.”
    The crowd was dwindling, and women were beginning to come back into the marketplace; a few merchants, hitherto thwarted, were busy putting up their booths, slaves rushing to stock them. Loads of dirty washing were dropped on the paving around the big fountain in front of the local shrine to the Lares, and one or two girls hitched up their skirts to climb into the shallow water. How typical this town is, thought Varro, walking a little behind Pompey: sunshine and dust, a few good shady trees, the purr of insects, a sense of timeless purpose, wrinkled winter apples, busy folk who all know far too much about each other. There are no secrets here in Auximum!
    “These men are a fierce lot,” he said to Pompey as they left the marketplace to find their horses.
    “They're Sabines, Varro, just like you,” said Pompey, “even if they did come east of the Apennines centuries ago.”
    “Not quite like me!” Varro allowed himself to be tossed into the saddle by one of Pompey's grooms. “I may be a Sabine, but I'm not by nature or training a soldier.”
    “You