The Grass Crown (17 page)

“You can’t say that, you’re not in office!”

“I am a Roman consular. I can say it. And I do say it.”

The King’s anger was growing; but, Marius noticed with interest, he was also growing afraid. We can always do it to them! he thought jubilantly. They’re just like those timid animals which make a great show of aggression; call their bluff, and they run away yelping, tails clipped between their legs.

“I am needed here, and so is my army!”

“You are not. Go home, King Mithridates!”

The King jumped to his feet, hand on his sword, and the dozen guards still in the room grew nearer, waiting for orders. “I could kill you here and now, Gaius Marius! In fact, I think I will! I could kill you, and no one would ever know what had happened to you. I could send your ashes home in a great golden jar with a letter of apology explaining that you died of a terminal illness here in the palace of Mazaca.”

“Like the seventh King Ariarathes?” asked Marius gently, sitting upright in his chair, unafraid, unruffled. He leaned forward. “Calm down, King! Sit down and be sensible. You know perfectly well you cannot kill Gaius Marius! If you did, there would be Roman legions in Pontus and Cappadocia as fast as ships could fetch them here.” He cleared his throat and went on conversationally. “You know, we haven’t had a really decent war to sink our teeth into since we defeated three quarters of a million German barbarians. Now there was an enemy! But not nearly as rich an enemy as Pontus. The spoils we’d carry home from this part of the world would make a war highly desirable. So why provoke it, King Mithridates? Go home!”

And suddenly Marius was alone; the King was gone, his guards with him. Thoughtfully Gaius Marius rose to his feet and strolled out of the room, making for his quarters, his belly full of good plain food, just as he liked, and his head full of interesting questions. That Mithridates would take his army home, he had no doubt; but where had he seen togate Romans? And where had he seen a Roman in a purple-bordered toga? The King’s assumption that he was Gaius Marius might have been because the old, old man sent word to him; but Marius doubted it. No, the King had received both the letters sent to Amaseia, and had been trying ever since to avoid this confrontation. Which meant that Battaces the archigallos of Pessinus was a Mithridatid spy.

Up early though he was the next morning, anxious to be on his way back to Cilicia as soon as possible, he was still too late to catch the King of Pontus. The King of Pontus, said the old, old man, had left to take his army back to his own country.

“And little Ariarathes Eusebes Philopator? Did he go with King Mithridates, or is he still here?”

“He is here, Gaius Marius. His father has made him the King of Cappadocia, so here he must stay.”

“His father?” asked Marius sharply.

“King Mithridates,” said the old, old man innocently.

So that was it! No son of the sixth Ariarathes at all, but a son of Mithridates. Clever. But not clever enough.

Gordius saw him off the premises, all smiles and bows; of the boy king there was no sign.

“So you’ll be acting as regent,” said Marius, standing by a new horse, much grander than the beast which had carried him all the way from Tarsus; his servants too were now better mounted.

“Until King Ariarathes Eusebes Philopator becomes old enough to rule alone, Gaius Marius.”

“Philopator,” said Marius in musing tones. “It means father-loving. Will he miss his father, do you think?”

Gordius opened his eyes wide. “Miss his father? His poor father has been dead since he was a baby.”

“No, the sixth Ariarathes has been dead too long to have fathered this boy,” said Marius. “I am not a fool, Prince Gordius. Relay that message to your master, Mithridates, as well. Tell him I know whose son the new King of Cappadocia is. And that I will be watching.” He accepted a leg up onto his horse. “You, I imagine, are the boy’s actual grandfather, rather than grandfather to the world. The only reason I decided to leave matters as they are is because the boy’s mother at least is a Cappadocian—your daughter, I presume.”

Even this creature belonging utterly to Mithridates could see no point in further dissimulation; instead, he nodded. “My daughter is the Queen of Pontus, and her oldest son will succeed King Mithridates. So it pleases me that this boy will rule my own land. He is the last of the line—or rather, his mother is.”

“You’re not a royal prince, Gordius,” said Marius scornfully. “Cappadocian you might be, but I imagine you gave yourself the title of prince. Which doesn’t make your daughter the last of the line. Relay my message to King Mithridates.”

“I will, Gaius Marius,” said Gordius, betraying no offense.

Marius turned his horse, then stopped and looked back. “Oh, one final matter! Clean up the battlefield, Gordius! If you easterners want to earn the respect of civilized men, conduct yourselves like civilized men. You don’t leave several thousand corpses lying around to rot after a fight, even if they are the enemy, and you despise them. It’s not good military technique, it’s the mark of barbarians. And as far as I can see, that’s precisely what your master Mithridates is—a barbarian. Good day to you.” And off he trotted, followed by his attendants.

It was not in Gordius to admire Marius’s audacity, but nor did he truly admire Mithridates. So it was with considerable pleasure that he ordered his own horse brought round, and set off to catch the King before he left Mazaca. Every word would he report! And watch the sting of them sink in. His daughter was indeed the new Queen of Pontus, his grandson Pharnaces the heir to the throne of Pontus. Yes, the times were good for Gordius, who, as Marius had shrewdly guessed, was not a prince of the old Cappadocian royal house. When the boy king who was the son of Mithridates asserted his right to rule alone—no doubt supported by his father—Gordius intended to make sure that he was given the temple kingdom of Ma at that Comana in a Cappadocian valley between the upper Sarus and the upper Pyramus Rivers. There, priest and king in one, he would be safe, secure, prosperous and exceedingly powerful.

He found Mithridates the next day, encamped on the banks of the Halys River not far from Mazaca. And reported what Gaius Marius had said—but not word for word. Gordius limited his tale to cleaning up the battlefield—the rest, he had decided, was too risky to his own person to mention. The King was very angry, but made no comment, only stared with his eyes slightly bulging, his hands clenching and unclenching.

“And have you cleaned up the battlefield?” the King demanded.

Gordius swallowed, not knowing which answer the King wanted to hear, and so guessed wrongly. “Of course not, Great One.”

“Then what are you doing here? Clean it up!”

“Great King, Divine Majesty—he called you a barbarian!”

“According to his lights, I see that I am,” said the King, voice hard. “He will not get the chance again. If it is the mark of civilized men to waste their energies on such things when the time of year does not make it necessary, then so be it. We too will waste our energies. No one deeming himself a civilized man will find anything in my conduct to deem me a barbarian!”

Until your temper flies away with you, thought Gordius, but did not say it aloud; Gaius Marius is right, O Great One. You are a barbarian.

And so the battlefield outside Eusebeia Mazaca was attended to, the piles of bodies burned, and the ashes buried beneath a huge tumulus mound which dwindled to insignificance when seen against the bulk of Mount Argaeus, its backdrop. But King Mithridates did not remain to see his orders carried out; he sent his army home to Pontus, while he himself set out for Armenia, traveling in unusual state. Almost the whole of his court went with him, including ten wives, thirty concubines, and half a dozen of his eldest children, and his entourage extended for a full mile of horses, ox-drawn wagons, litters, carriages and pack mules. He moved at a relative snail’s pace, covering no more than ten or fifteen miles in a day, but he moved constantly, deaf to all the pleadings of some of his frailer women for a day or two of rest. A thousand picked cavalry troops escorted him, exactly the right number for a kingly embassage.

For this was indeed an embassage; Armenia had a new king. The news had reached Mithridates just as he had begun his campaign in Cappadocia, and he responded quickly, sending to Dasteira for stipulated women and children, stipulated barons, stipulated gifts, stipulated clothing and baggage. It had taken almost two months for the caravan to reach the Halys near Mazaca, and it had arrived at almost the same moment as Gaius Marius; when Marius had found the King absent, the King was visiting his traveling court beside the Halys to make sure all had been done as he wanted it.

As yet, Mithridates knew no more about the new King of Armenia than that he was young, a legitimate son of the old king, Artavasdes, that his name was Tigranes, and that he had been held as a hostage by the King of the Parthians since his early boyhood. A ruler of my own age! thought Mithridates exultantly, a ruler of a powerful eastern realm with no commitments whatsoever to Rome, a ruler who might join Pontus against Rome!

Armenia lay amid the vast mountains around Ararat and stretched eastward to the Caspian or Hyrcanian Sea; it was closely bound by tradition and geography to the Kingdom of the Parthians, whose rulers had never evinced interest in what lay to the west of the Euphrates River.

The easiest route lay along the Halys to its sources, then across the watershed to Mithridates’s little realm called Lesser Armenia and the upper Euphrates, then across another watershed to the sources of the Araxes, and so down to Artaxata, the city on the Araxes serving as Armenia’s capital. In winter, the journey would have been impossible, so high was the lowest land, but in early summer it could not have been more pleasant, the cavalcade trundling along through valleys filled with wildflowers—the blue of chicory, the yellow of primroses and buttercups, the stunning crimson of poppies. Forests did not exist, only carefully tended plantations of trees cultivated for firewood and to serve as windbreaks; so short was the growing season that the poplars and birches were still bare of leaves, though the month was June.

There were no towns save Carana, and very few villages of any kind; even the brown tents of nomads were scanty. This meant the embassage had to carry grain with it, forage for fruit and vegetables, and rely upon encountering shepherds for meat. Mithridates, however, was wise, for he bought what he could not obtain by gathering it in the wild, and so lived in the dazzled memories of those simple people he came across as truly a god, scattering undreamed-of largesse.

In Quinctilis they reached the Araxes River and wended their way through its frowning valley, Mithridates scrupulous in his compensations to farmers for whatever damage his caravan did, all such business conducted now in sign language, for those who knew a little Greek were left behind with the Euphrates. He had sent a party ahead to Artaxata to announce his coming, and approached the city wreathed in smiles, for in his heart he knew that this long and wearisome pilgrimage would not be wasted.

Tigranes of Armenia came in person to greet Mithridates of Pontus on the road outside the walls, escorted by his guards, all clad in chain mail from head to foot and carrying long lances before them, their shields across their backs; fascinated, King Mithridates studied their big horses, which were also completely clad in chain mail. And what a sight was their King, riding standing up in a small-wheeled golden car drawn by six pairs of white oxen and shaded by a fringed parasol! A vision in tiered and tasseled skirt of embroidered flame and saffron, a short-sleeved coat upon his upper body, and on his head a towerlike tiara tied round with the white ribbon of the diadem.

Clad in golden armor and his lion skin, with his Greek boots upon his feet and his jeweled sword on its jeweled baldric flashing in the sun, Mithridates slid off his big bay horse and walked down the road toward Tigranes, his hands held out. Tigranes descended from his four-wheeled car and held out his hands. And so their hands met; dark eyes looked into green eyes, and a friendship was formed that did not entirely depend upon liking. Each recognized in the other an ally, and each immediately began to assess his needs in relation to the other. They turned together and began to walk through the dust of the road toward the city.

Tigranes was fair-skinned but dark of hair and eye, his hair and beard worn long and intricately curled, then entwined with golden threads. Mithridates had expected Tigranes to look like a Hellenized monarch; but Tigranes wasn’t Hellenized at all, he was Parthianized, hence the hair, the beard, the long dress. Fortunately, however, he spoke excellent Greek, as did two or three of his most senior nobles. The rest of the court, like the populace, spoke a Median dialect.

“Even in places as Parthian as Ecbatana and Susia, to speak Greek is the mark of a properly educated man,” said King Tigranes when they settled in two kingly chairs to one side of the golden Armenian throne. “I will not insult you by taking a seat above yours,” Tigranes had said.

“I come to seek a treaty of friendship and alliance with Armenia,” Mithridates explained.

The discussion proceeded delicately for two such arrogant and autocratic men, an indication of how necessary both men viewed a comfortable concord. Mithridates of course was the more powerful ruler, for he owned no suzerain and ruled a far larger realm—and was a great deal wealthier besides.

“My father was very like the King of the Parthians in many ways,” said Tigranes. “The sons he kept with him in Armenia he killed one by one; that I escaped was because I had been sent as hostage to the King of the Parthians when eight years old. So when my father became ill, the only son he had left was I. The Armenian council negotiated with King Mithridates of Parthia to secure my release. But the price of my release was heavy. Seventy Armenian valleys, all seventy along the boundary between Armenia and Median Atropatene, which meant that my country lost some of its most fertile land. Also, the valleys contained gold-bearing rivers, fine lapis lazuli, turquoise, and black onyx. Now I have vowed that Armenia will recover those seventy valleys, and that I will find a better place to build a better capital than this cold hole of Artaxata.”