The Grass Crown (16 page)

Mithridates. It could be no one else. And Gaius Marius did not make the mistake of thinking that the army of dead men belonged to Mithridates. No, his was the living, victorious army; the field Marius rode across was strewn with Cappadocians. Poor rock-dwellers, nomad shepherds—and probably, he told himself, his practical streak reviving, the bodies of many Syrian and Greek mercenaries as well. Where was the little King? No need to ask. He hadn’t come to Tarsus and he hadn’t answered any of the couriered letters because he was dead. So too, no doubt, were the couriers.

Perhaps another man would have turned his horse around and ridden away hoping his approach hadn’t been detected; but not Gaius Marius. He had run King Mithridates Eupator to earth at last, though not on his own earth. And he actually kicked his tired mount in its trembling sides, urging it on to the meeting.

When he realized that no one was watching—that no one had remarked his progress—that no one noticed him even when he rode through the main gate into the town, Gaius Marius was amazed. How secure the King of Pontus must feel! Pulling his sweating beast to a halt, he scanned the rising tiers of streets in search of an acropolis or citadel of some kind, and saw what he presumed to be the palace lying on the mountain flank at the rear of the city. It was evidently built of some soft or lightweight stone not fit to take the brunt of the local winter winds, for it had been plastered, and painted then in a rich deep blue, with red columns blazing, and Ionic capitals of a deeper red picked out in a glittering gold.

There! thought Marius. He’ll be there! He turned his horse up one of the sloping narrow streets, navigating his way by sight to the palace, which was hedged around by a blue-painted wall, and lay within chilly bare gardens. Spring comes late to Cappadocia, he thought, and regretted that it would never come at all for young King Ariarathes. The people of Mazaca had apparently gone into hiding, for the streets were utterly deserted, and when he arrived at the gate opening into the palace precinct, Marius found it unguarded. How secure indeed, King Mithridates!

He left his horse and attendants at the foot of the flight of steps leading up to the main door, a double affair in chased bronze adorned with reliefs depicting, in dauntingly graphic detail, the rape of Persephone by Hades; Marius had plenty of time to absorb these repellent antics as he stood there waiting for someone to answer his thunderous knock. Finally the door creaked, groaned, and one leaf came hesitantly open.

“Yes, yes, I heard you! What do you want?” asked an old, old man, in Greek.

Somewhere inside Marius a dreadful urge to laugh was growing, very difficult to suppress, so when he spoke, his voice was shaky, squeaky, unimpressive. “I am Gaius Marius, consul of Rome. Is King Mithridates about?” he asked.

“No,” said the old, old man.

“Are you expecting him?”

“Before dark, yes.”

“Good!” Marius pushed the door open and stepped into the vastness of what was obviously a throne room or main reception room, beckoning his three attendants to follow. “I need accommodation for myself and these three men. Our horses are outside and should be stabled. For myself, a hot bath. At once.”

When word came that the King was approaching, a togate Marius walked out into the portico of the palace and stood on the top step unattended. Up through the streets of the town he could see a troop of cavalry proceeding at a walk, all well mounted and well armed; their round shields were red, emblazoned with a white crescent moon embracing a white eight-pointed star, they wore red cloaks over plain silver cuirasses, and conical helmets crested not with feathers or horsehair, but with golden crescent moons embracing golden stars.

The King was not leading the troop, and was impossible to distinguish among those several hundred men. He may not care that the palace is unguarded during his absence, thought Marius, but he takes fine care of his person, so much is clear. The squadron came through the gate and pattered up to the steps with the curious sound unshod hooves in large numbers made—which told Marius that Pontus was not sufficiently endowed with smiths to shoe horses. Of course Marius was highly visible as he stood majestically enfolded in his purple-bordered toga many feet above the horsemen.

The troopers parted. King Mithridates Eupator rode out from their midst on a big bay horse. His cloak was purple and the shield borne by his squire was purple also, though it displayed the same insignia of crescent moon and star. However, the King wore no helmet; instead, his head was wrapped in the skin of a lion, its two long front fangs actually pressing into his brow, its ears standing up stiffly, the cavities where its eyes had been now dim black pools. A skirt and sleeves of gold-plated chain mail showed beneath the King’s ornate golden cuirass and pterygoid kilt, and on his feet he wore beautifully made Greek boots of lion skin laced with gold and finished with overhanging tongues in the form of golden-maned lion heads.

Mithridates slid from his horse and stood at the foot of the steps looking up at Marius, an inferior position which clearly did not please him. Yet he was too clever to ascend the steps at once. About the size I used to be myself, thought Marius, and equally tall. A handsome man he was not, though his face was pleasant enough, large and rather square, and having a prominent round chin and a long, large, slightly bumpy nose. He was fair in coloring, glints of golden hair and side-whiskers showing beneath the lion’s head, and hazel eyes; a small mouth with full, extremely red lips suggested that the King was both short-tempered and petulant.

Now where have you seen a man in the toga praetexta before? asked Marius silently, running what he knew of the King’s history through his mind, and finding no time when the King might have seen a toga praetexta—or even a toga alba. For the King did not betray any hesitation in identifying a Roman consular, of that Marius was positive, and experience told him those who hadn’t seen the garb before were always fascinated, even if it had been well described to them. Where have you seen one of us?

King Mithridates Eupator mounted the steps in a leisurely manner, and at the top held out his right hand in the universal gesture of peaceful intent. They shook hands, each too intelligent to turn the ceremony into a duel of strength.

“Gaius Marius,” the King said, his Greek owning the same accent as Marius’s did, “this is an unexpected pleasure.”

“King Mithridates, I wish I could say the same.”

“Come in, come in!” said the King heartily, throwing an arm about Marius’s shoulders and propelling him in the direction of the door, now fully open. “I hope the staff here have made you comfortable?”

“Quite, thank you.”

A dozen of the King’s guards spilled into the throne room ahead of Marius and the King, a dozen more behind; every nook and cranny of the chamber was searched, then half of them went off to search the rest of the palace, while half remained to keep an eye on Mithridates, who walked straight to the purple-cushioned marble throne and seated himself upon it, snapping his fingers to command that a chair be set beside it for Gaius Marius.

“Have you been offered refreshments?” the King asked.

“I chose a bath instead,” said Marius.

“Shall we dine, then?”

“If you like. But why move, unless you want more company than mine? I don’t mind sitting to eat.”

So a table was placed between them, wine was brought, and then a simple meal of salad vegetables, yogurt mixed with garlic and cucumber, and some savory balls of broiled minced lamb. The King made no comment upon the meal’s simplicity, merely proceeded to eat ravenously—as indeed did Marius, hungry from his journey.

Only when the repast was finished and the dishes taken away did the two big men settle down to speak. Outside an indigo twilight lingered dreamily, but inside the throne room it had grown completely dark; terrified servants crept from lamp to lamp like shadows, and pools of illumination melted until they touched, each little tongue of flame flickering smokily because the quality of the oil was poor.

“Where is the seventh King Ariarathes?” Marius asked.

“Dead,” said Mithridates, picking his teeth with a golden wire. “Died two months ago.”

“How?”

Closer proximity than a flight of separating steps had revealed to Marius that the King’s eyes were quite green, and that the brown in them took the form of little specks, unusual enough to be judged remarkable. The eyes now glazed, slid away and then returned looking wide open and guileless; he will lie to me, thought Marius immediately.

“A terminal illness,” said the King, and heaved a sad sigh. “Died here in the palace, I believe. I wasn’t here then.”

“You fought a battle outside the city,” said Marius.

“Had to,” said Mithridates briefly.

“For what reason?”

“The throne had been claimed by a Syrian pretender—some sort of Seleucid cousin. There’s a lot of Seleucid blood in the Cappadocian royal family,” the King explained smoothly.

“How does this concern you?”

“Well, my father-in-law—one of my fathers-in-law, that is—is Cappadocian. Prince Gordius. And my sister was the mother of the dead seventh Ariarathes and his little brother, who is still very much alive. This younger son is now, of course, the rightful king, and I am pledged to see that the rightful kings rule Cappadocia,” said Mithridates.

“I wasn’t aware that the seventh Ariarathes has a younger brother, King,” said Marius mildly.

“Oh, yes. Indubitably.”

“You must tell me exactly what happened.”

“Well, a plea for help came to me at Dasteira during the month of Boedromion, so naturally I mobilized my army and marched for Eusebeia Mazaca. There was no one here, and the King was dead. His little brother had fled into the troglodyte country. I occupied the city. And then the Syrian pretender turned up with his army.”

“What was this Syrian pretender’s name?”

“Seleucus,” said Mithridates promptly.

“Well, that’s certainly a good name for a Syrian pretender!” Marius remarked.

But the blatant irony was lost on Mithridates, who definitely did not possess a Roman or Greek attitude to words, and probably hardly ever laughed. He is more alien by far than Jugurtha of Numidia, Marius thought; perhaps not as intelligent, but far more dangerous. Jugurtha killed many of his close blood relatives, but always in the knowledge that the gods might call upon him to answer for it. Whereas Mithridates deems himself a god, and knows neither shame nor guilt. I wish I knew more about him, and about the Kingdom of Pontus. The little bit Nicomedes told me is hollow; he might fancy he knows this man, but he does not.

“I gather then that you fought a battle and defeated Seleucus the Syrian pretender,” said Marius.

“I did.” The King snorted. “Poor stuff! We slaughtered them almost to the last man.”

“So I noticed,” said Marius dryly, and leaned forward in his chair. “Tell me, King Mithridates, is it not a Pontic habit to clean up a battlefield?”

The King blinked, understanding that Marius was not being complimentary. “At this time of year?” he asked. “Why? By summer they’ll have melted.”

“I see.” Spine straight because this was the posture of all Romans seated in chairs, the toga not a garment tolerating much disturbance, Marius laid his hands on the chair arms. “I would like to see the eighth King Ariarathes, if such be his title. Is that possible, King?”

“Of course, of course!” said the King genially, and clapped his hands. “Send for the King and Prince Gordius,” he ordered when the old, old man came. Then, to Marius, “I found my nephew and Prince Gordius safe with the troglodytes ten days ago.”

“How fortunate,” said Marius.

Prince Gordius came leading a child about ten years old by the hand, himself a man in his fifties; both were clad in Greek dress, and stood obediently at the foot of the dais whereon Marius and Mithridates were seated.

“Well, young man, and how are you?” asked Marius.

“Good, thank you, Gaius Marius,” said the child, so like King Mithridates that he might have posed for a portrait of Mithridates as a boy of the same age.

“Your brother is dead, I believe?”

“Yes, Gaius Marius. He died of a terminal illness here in the palace two months ago,” said the little talking bird.

“And you are now the King of Cappadocia.”

“Yes, Gaius Marius.”

“Does that please you?”

“Yes, Gaius Marius.”

“Are you old enough to rule?”

“Grandfather Gordius will help me.”

“Grandfather?”

Gordius smiled, not a pretty sight. “I am grandfather to the whole world, Gaius Marius,” he said, and sighed.

“I see. Thank you for this audience, King Ariarathes.”

Boy and elderly man exited, bowing gracefully.

“Good boy, my Ariarathes,” said Mithridates in tones of great satisfaction.

“Your Ariarathes?”

“Metaphorically, Gaius Marius.”

“He’s very like you to look at.”

“His mother was my sister.”

“And your line is much intermarried, I know.” Marius’s eyebrows wriggled, but what would have been a message plain to Lucius Cornelius Sulla was lost on King Mithridates. “Well, it seems the affairs of Cappadocia have been settled nicely,” he said jovially. “That means, of course, that you are taking your army home again to Pontus.”

The King started. “I think not, Gaius Marius. Gappadocia is still rumbling, and this boy is the last of his line. It will be better if I keep my army here.”

“It will be better if you take your army home!”

“I can’t do that.”

“You can, you know.”

The King began to swell, his cuirass to creak. “You can’t tell me what to do, Gaius Marius!”

“Oh yes, I can,” said Marius strongly, his calm preserved. “Rome isn’t terribly interested in this part of the world, but if you start keeping armies of occupation in countries which don’t belong to you, King, I can assure you Rome’s interest in this part of the world will just mushroom. Roman legions are composed of Romans, not Cappadocian peasants or Syrian mercenaries. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to see Roman legions in this part of the world! But unless you go home and take your army with you, King Mithridates, Roman legions you will see. I guarantee it.”