2. The Grass Crown

by Colleen McCullough

  And so Gaius Marius rode off, accompanied only by two of his own slaves and a guide furnished by Morsimus, who looked as if he would rather have been traveling with Marius than staying behind. As far as Marius could gather, these inland valley bottoms and the occasional wider uplands he rode across lay at about five and a half thousand feet not quite high enough to cause dizziness and headache, but quite high enough to make staying in the saddle hard work. They still had a long way to go to reach Eusebeia Mazaca, which, his guide told him, was the only urban settlement of any kind within Cappadocia. The sun had gone in the moment he crested the watershed between those rivers which flowed down to Pedian Cilicia and those rivers which contributed to the enormous length and volume of the Halys, and he found himself riding through sleet-showers, fog, and occasional rain. Cold, saddlesore, aching with fatigue, he endured the long hours of jogging along with his legs dangling uselessly, and could only be thankful that the skin of his inner thighs was tough enough not to break down under the constant chafing. On the third day the sun came out again. The ever-widening plains looked a perfect place for sheep and cattle, as they were grassy, relatively free of forests; Cappadocia, his guide told him, did not have the right kind of soil or climate for extensive woodlands, but it grew excellent wheat when the soil was tilled. "Why isn't it tilled, then?" asked Marius. The guide shrugged. "Not enough people. They grow what they need, plus a little to sell along the Halys, where some barges come to buy. But they cannot sell produce in Cilicia, the road is too difficult. And why should they bother? They eat well. They are content." That was almost the only conversation between Marius and his guide while they rode; even when they sought shelter at night within the brown leather tents of nomad shepherds, or within a mud-brick house belonging to some tiny village, they talked little. The mountains marched, now closer, now further away, but never seemed to grow smaller, or less green, or less snowy. And then, when the guide announced that Mazaca was only four hundred stades away (and Marius had translated this into fifty Roman miles), they entered a region so bizarre that Marius wished Julia could see it. The rolling plains persisted, but were broken up by twisting ravines filled with rounded, tapering towers which looked as if they had been carefully shaped out of multicolored clays, a vast toyland built by some demented giant child; in some areas the towers were all topped by huge flat rocks Marius fancied swayed, so precariously were they perched on the skinny necks of these round towers. And wonder of wonders! his eyes began to distinguish windows and doors in some of these unnatural natural structures. "That's why you don't see any more villages," said the guide. "It's cold up here, and the season is short. So the people of this area cut themselves dwellings inside the rock towers. In the summer they are cool. In the winter they are warm. Why should they build houses, when the Great Goddess Ma has already done so?" "How long have they been living inside the rocks?" asked Marius, fascinated. But the guide didn't know. "Since men were," he said vaguely. "At least that long. In Cilicia we say that the very first men came from Cappadocia, and lived then in the same way." They were still riding round these ravines of clay towers when Marius began to notice the mountain; it stood almost alone, the mightiest mountain he had ever seen, higher than Mount Olympus in Greece, higher even than the massifs hedging Italian Gaul around. Its main bulk was cone-shaped, but there were smaller cones on its flanks, and it was solidly white with snow, a brilliant presence against a cloudless sky. He knew which mountain it had to be, of course; Mount Argaeus, described by the Greeks, seen only by a handful of men out of the west. And at its foot, he knew, lay Eusebeia Mazaca, the only city in Cappadocia. The seat of the King. Unfortunately coming from Cilicia meant that Marius approached the mountain from the wrong direction; Mazaca lay on its north side, closest to the Halys, the great red river of central Anatolia, as the Halys represented Mazaca's best contact with the world. Thus it was just after noon when Marius saw the shapes of many buildings clustered together beneath Mount Argaeus, and was in the midst of a sigh of relief when he suddenly realized he was entering a battlefield. The most extraordinary sensation! To ride where men had fought and perished in their thousands not many days before, yet to have neither knowledge of the battle, nor a vested interest in it. For the first time in his life, he, Gaius Marius, the conqueror of Numidia and the Germans, was on a battlefield in the role of a tourist. He itched, he prickled, he burned; but on he rode toward the small city, looking about him no more than he had to. No effort of any kind had been made to tidy things up; bloated corpses denuded of armor and clothing lay decomposing everywhere, only spared flies in plague proportions by the inhospitably icy air, which also cut the stench of necrotic flesh to a bearable level. His guide was weeping, his two slaves were being sick, but Gaius Marius rode on as if he saw nothing untoward, his eyes busy searching for something far more ominous; the camp of a living, victorious army. And it was there, two miles away to the northeast, a huge collection of brown leather tents beneath a thin blue pall of smoke from many fires. 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 p
alace 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," s
aid 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." "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 o
ur 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." "Didn't Hannibal help to design Artaxata?" asked Mithridates. "So they say," said Tigranes shortly, and went back to his dreams of empire. "It is my ambition to extend Armenia southward to Egypt and westward to Cilicia. I want access to the Middle Sea, I want trade routes, I want warmer lands for growing grain, I want to hear every citizen of my kingdom speaking Greek." He stopped, wet his lips. "How does that sit with you, Mithridates?" "It sits well, Tigranes," said the King of Pontus easily. "I will guarantee to give you support and soldiers to achieve your aims if you will support me when I move westward to take the Roman province of Asia Minor away from the Romans. You may have Syria, Commagene, Osrhoene, Sophene, Gordyene, Palestina, and Nabataea. I will take all Anatolia, including Cilicia." Tigranes didn't hesitate. "When?" he asked eagerly. Mithridates smiled, sat back in his chair. "When the Romans are too busy to take much notice of us," he said. "We're young, Tigranes, we can afford to wait. I know Rome. Sooner or later Rome will become embroiled in a western war, or in Africa. And then we will move." To seal their pact Mithridates produced his eldest daughter by his dead queen, Laodice, a fifteen-year-old child named Cleopatra, and offered her to Tigranes as his wife. As yet Armenia had no queen, so he seized upon the match avidly; Cleopatra would become Queen of Armenia, a pledge of great significance, as
it meant a grandson of Mithridates would fall heir to the throne of Armenia. When the golden-haired, golden-eyed child set eyes upon her husband-to-be, she wept in terror at his alien appearance; Tigranes made an enormous concession for one brought up in a claustrophobic oriental court of beards real and artificial and of curls real and artificial by shaving off his beard and cutting his long hair. His bride discovered that he was after all a handsome fellow, and put her hand in his, and smiled. Dazzled by so much fairness, Tigranes thought himself very lucky; it was perhaps the last time in his life he was to feel anything akin to humility.