Pessinus, however, lay at the back of an upland plain devoid of encroaching woodlands, but green with wheat when they reached it. Like most of the great religious sanctuaries of inner Anatolia, their guide explained, the temple of the Great Mother at Pessinus owned vast tracts of land and whole armies of slaves, and was rich enough and self-contained enough to function like any other state. The only difference was that the priests governed in the name of the Goddess, and preserved the sanctuary’s wealth to entrench the Goddess’s power.
Expecting a Delphi situated amid stunning mountains, they were amazed to discover that Pessinus lay below the level of its plain, down in a brilliantly white, chalky, steep-sided gulch. The precinct lay at its northern end, narrower and less fertile than the miles meandering southward, and was built athwart a spring-fed stream which eventually fed into the big river Sangarius. Town and temple and sanctuary buildings oozed antiquity, though the present structures were Greek in style and date, and the great temple, perched on a rise in the valley floor, plunged down at its front abruptly in a three-quarter circle of steps, upon which the pilgrims sat to have their congress with the priests.
“Our navel-stone you have in Rome, Gaius Marius,” said the archigallos Battaces, “given to you freely in your time of need. For that reason, when Hannibal fled to Asia Minor, he came nowhere near Pessinus.”
Remembering Publius Rutilius Rufus’s letter about the visit of Battaces and his underlings to Rome at the time when the German invasion threatened, Marius tended to view the man with some amusement, an attitude Battaces was quick to pick up.
“Is it my castrated state makes you smile?” he asked.
Marius blinked. “I didn’t think you were, archigallos.”
“One cannot serve Kubaba Cybele and remain intact, Gaius Marius. Even her consort, Attis, was required to make that great sacrifice,” said Battaces.
“I thought Attis was cut because he strayed to another woman,” said Marius, feeling he had to say something, and not willing to become enmeshed in a discussion about amputated gonads, though the priest clearly wanted to discuss his condition.
“No!” said Battaces. “That story is a Greek embroidery. Only in Phrygia do we keep our worship pure, and with it, our knowledge of the Goddess. We are her true followers, to us she came from Carchemish aeons ago.” He walked from the sunlight into the portico of the great temple, dimming the brilliance of his cloth-of-gold garments, the glitter of his many jewels.
In the Goddess’s cella they stood, it appeared so Marius could admire her statue.
“Solid gold,” said Battaces complacently.
“Sure of that?” asked Marius, remembering how the guide at Olympia had told him about the technique used to make Zeus.
“Absolutely.”
Life-sized, it stood upon a high marble plinth, and showed the Goddess seated upon a short bench; to either side of her sat a maneless lion, and her hands rested on their heads. She wore a high, crownlike hat, a thin robe which showed off the beauty of her breasts, and a girdle. Beyond the lion on the left stood two child shepherds, one blowing a set of double pipes, the other plucking a large lyre. To the right of the other lion stood Kubaba Cybele’s consort, Attis, leaning on a shepherd’s staff, his head covered by the Phrygian cap, a soft conical affair which rose to a rounded point, and flopped over to one side; he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt tied at his neck but open to display a well-muscled belly, and his long trousers were slit up the front of each leg, then held together at intervals with buttons.
“Interesting,” said Marius, who didn’t consider it at all beautiful, solid gold or not.
“You do not admire it.”
“I daresay that’s because I’m a Roman, archigallos, rather than a Phrygian.” Turning away, Marius paced back down the cella toward its great bronze doors. “Why is this Asian goddess so concerned with Rome?” he asked.
“She has been for a long time, Gaius Marius. Otherwise, she would never have consented to giving Rome her navel-stone.”
“Yes, yes, I know that! But it doesn’t answer my question,” said Marius, growing testy.
“Kubaba Cybele does not reveal her reasons, even to her priests,” said Battaces, once more a vision to hurt the eyes, for he had moved down to the three-quarter circle of steps, bathed in sun. He sat down, patting the marble slab in an invitation to Marius to be seated. “However, it would seem that she feels Rome will continue to increase in importance throughout the world, and perhaps one day have dominion over Pessinus. You have sheltered her in Rome now for over one hundred years as Magna Mater. Of all her foreign temples, it is her most favored one. The great precinct in the Piraeus of Athens—and the one in Pergamum, for that matter—do not seem to concern her half as much. I think she simply loves Rome.”
“Well, good for her!” said Marius heartily.
Battaces winced, closed his eyes. A sigh, a shrug, and then he pointed to where beyond the steps there stood the wall and coping of a round well. “Is there anything you yourself would care to ask the Goddess?”
But Marius shook his head. “What, roar down that thing and wait for some disembodied voice to answer? No.”
“It is how she answers all questions put to her.”
“No disrespect to Kubaba Cybele, archigallos, but the gods have done well by me in the matter of prophecies, and I do not think it wise to ask them more,” said Marius.
“Then let us sit here in the sun for a while, Gaius Marius, and listen to the wind,” said Battaces, concealing his acute disappointment; he had arranged some important oracular answers.
“I don’t suppose,” said Marius suddenly after several moments, “that you’d know how best I can contact the King of Pontus? In other words, do you know where he is? I’ve written to him at Amaseia, but not a sign of a reply have I had, and that was eight months ago. Nor did my second letter reach him.”
“He’s always moving about, Gaius Marius,” said the priest easily. “It’s possible he hasn’t been in Amaseia this year.”
“What, doesn’t he have his mail forwarded on?”
“Anatolia is not Rome, or Roman territory,” said Battaces. “Even King Mithridates’s courts do not know whereabouts he is unless he notifies them. He rarely does so.”
“Ye gods!” said Marius blankly. “How does he manage to hold things together?”
“His barons govern in his absence—not an arduous task, as most of the cities of Pontus are Greek states governing themselves. They simply pay Mithridates whatever he asks. As for the rural areas, they are primitive and isolated. Pontus is a land of very high mountains all running parallel to the Euxine Sea, with the result that communications are not good between one part and any other. The King has many fortresses scattered through the ranges, and at least four courts when last I heard—Amaseia, Sinope, Dasteira, and Trapezus. As I say, he moves about constantly, and usually without much state. He also journeys to Galatia, Sophene, Cappadocia, and Commagene. His relatives rule those places.”
‘‘ I see.’’ Marius leaned forward, linked his hands together between his knees. “What you’re saying, I suppose, is that I may never succeed in making contact with him.”
“It depends how long you intend to remain in Asia Minor,” said Battaces, sounding indifferent.
“I think I must stay until I manage to see the King of Pontus, archigallos. In the meantime, I’ll pay a visit to King Nicomedes—at least he stays put! Then it’s back to Halicarnassus for the winter. In the spring I intend to go to Tarsus, and from there I shall venture inland to see King Ariarathes of Cappadocia.” Marius rattled all this off casually, then turned the subject to temple banking, in which he professed himself interested.
“There is no point, Gaius Marius, in keeping the Goddess’s money mouldering in our vaults,” said Battaces gently. “By lending it at good rates of interest, we increase her wealth. However, here at Pessinus we do not seek depositors, as some others among the temple confraternity do.”
“It’s not a
n activity one sees in Rome,” said Marius, “I suppose because Rome’s temples are the property of the Roman People, and administered by the State.”
“The Roman State could make money, could it not?”
“It could, but that would lead to an additional bureaucracy, and Rome doesn’t care much for bureaucrats. They tend either to be inert, or too acquisitive. Our banking is private, and in the hands of professional bankers.”
“I do assure you, Gaius Marius,” said Battaces, “that we temple bankers are highly professional.”
“What about Cos?” asked Marius.
“The sanctuary of Asklepios, you mean?”
“I do.”
“Ah, a very professional operation!” said Battaces, not without envy. “Now there is an institution eminently capable of funding whole wars! They have many depositors, of course.”
Marius got up. “I thank you, archigallos.”
Battaces watched Marius stride down the incline toward the beautiful colonnade built above the spring-fed stream; then, sure Marius would not turn back, the priest hurried to his palace, a small but lovely building within a grove of trees.
Ensconced in his study, he drew writing materials toward him, and proceeded to begin a letter to King Mithridates.
It would appear, Great King, that the Roman consul Gaius Marius is determined to see you. He applied to me for help in tracking you down, and when I gave him no kind of encouragement, he told me that he intends to remain in Asia Minor until he manages to meet you.
Among his plans for the near future are visits to Nicomedes and Ariarathes. One wonders why he would submit himself to the rigors of a journey into Cappadocia, for he is not very young—nor very well, I strongly suspect. But he made it clear that in the spring he goes to Tarsus, and from there he will go to Cappadocia.
I find him a formidable man, Great One. If such as he succeeded in becoming consul of Rome no less than six times—for he is a blunt and rather uncouth individual—then one must not underestimate him. Those noble Romans I have met before were far smoother, more sophisticated men. A pity perhaps that I did not have the opportunity to meet Gaius Marius in Rome, when, contrasting him with his peers, I might have been able to make more of him than I can here in Pessinus.
In all this, please find me your devoted and ever-loyal subject, Battaces.
The letter sealed and wrapped in softest leather, then put inside a wallet, Battaces gave it to one of his junior priests and sent him posthaste to Sinope, where lay King Mithridates.
6
Its contents did not please the King, who sat chewing his full lip and frowning so awfully that those among his courtiers bidden to be in his presence but not to speak were both thankful for this and sorry for Archelaus, bidden to sit with the King and speak when spoken to. Not that Archelaus appeared worried; the King’s first cousin and chief baron, Archelaus was friend as much as servant, brother as much as cousin.
Beneath his unconcerned exterior, however, Archelaus harbored the same degree of apprehension for his safety as the rest of those in attendance on the King; if any man might be excused for thinking he stood high in the King’s favor, he had better remember the fate of the chief baron Diophantus. Diophantus too had been friend as much as servant, father as much as the uncle he actually was.
However, reflected Archelaus as he sat watching the strong yet petulant face only feet away, a man really had no choice in the matter. The King was the King, all others his to command—and to kill, if such was his pleasure. A state of affairs that sharpened the wits of those living in close proximity to so much energy, capriciousness, infantilism, brilliance, strength, and timidity. All a man owned to extricate himself from a thousand perilous situations were his wits. And these perilous situations could blow up like storms off the Euxine, or simmer like kettles on glowing coals at the back of the King’s mind, or loom out of some unremembered sin a decade old. The King never forgot an injury, real or imagined; only put it away for future use.
“I will have to see him, it appears,” said Mithridates, then added, “Won’t I?”
A trap: what did one answer?
“If you don’t choose to, Great King, you don’t have to see anyone,” said Archelaus easily. “However, I imagine Gaius Marius would be an interesting man to meet.”
“Cappadocia, then. In the spring. Let him get the measure of Nicomedes first. If this Gaius Marius is so formidable, he will not be predisposed to like Nicomedes of Bithynia,” said the King. “And let him meet Ariarathes first too. Send that little insect word from me that in the spring he will present himself to Gaius Marius in Tarsus, and personally escort the Roman to Cappadocia.”
“The army will be mobilized as planned, O Great One?”
“Of course. Is Gordius coming?”
“He should be in Sinope before the winter snows close the passes, my King,” said Archelaus.
“Good!” Still frowning, Mithridates returned his attention to the letter from Battaces, and began to chew his lip again. These Romans! Why couldn’t they keep their noses out of what was, after all, none of their business? Why was a man as famous as Gaius Marius concerning himself with the doings of peoples in eastern Anatolia? Had Ariarathes already concluded a bargain with the Romans to have Mithridates Eupator off his throne, turn Pontus into a satrapy of Cappadocia?
“The road has been too long and too hard,” he said to his cousin Archelaus. “I will not bow down to the Romans !’’
*
Indeed the road had been long and hard, almost from birth, for he had been the younger son of his father, King Mithridates V, and the King’s sister-wife, Laodice. Born in the same year Scipio Aemilianus had died so mysteriously, Mithridates called Eupator had had a brother less than two years older than himself, called Mithridates Chrestos because he was the anointed one, the chosen king. The King their father had dreamed of enlarging Pontus at anyone’s expense, but preferably at the expense of Bithynia, the oldest enemy—and the most obdurate.
At first it had seemed as if Pontus would retain the title Friend and Ally of the Roman People, earned by the fourth King Mithridates when he assisted the second Attalus of Pergamum in his war against King Prusias of Bithynia. The fifth Mithridates had continued in this alliance with Rome for some time, sending help against Carthage in the third of Rome’s Punic wars, and against the successors of the third King Attalus of Pergamum after his will had revealed that he had left his entire kingdom to Rome. But then the fifth Mithridates had acquired Phrygia by paying the Roman proconsul in Asia Minor, Manius Aquillius, a sum of gold into his own purse; the title Friend and Ally had been withdrawn and enmity between Rome and Pontus had persisted ever since, cunningly fostered by King Nicomedes of Bithynia—and by anti-Aquillian senators in Rome.
Roman and Bithynian enmity or no, the fifth Mithridates had continued his expansionist policies, drawing Galatia into his net, and then succeeding in getting himself named heir to most of Paphlagonia. But his sister-wife didn’t like the fifth King Mithridates; she had conceived a desire to rule Pontus on her own behalf. When young Mithridates Eupator was nine years old—the court was at Amaseia at the time—Queen Laodice murdered the husband who was also her brother, and put Mithridates Chrestos, aged eleven, on the throne. She, of course, was regent. In return for a guarantee from Bithynia that the borders of Pontus itself would not be breached, the Queen relinquished the claims of Pontus to Paphlagonia, and liberated Galatia.
Not yet ten years old, young Mithridates Eupator fled from Amaseia scant weeks after his mother’s coup, convinced that he too would be murdered; for, unlike his slow and biddable brother Chrestos, he reminded his mother of her husband, and she had begun to say so with increasing frequency. Completely alone, the boy fled not to Rome or some neighboring court but into the eastern Pontic mountains, where he made no secret of his identity to the local inhabitants, only begging them to keep his secret. Awed and flattered, predisposed to love a member of the royal house who would choose exile among them, the local
people protected Mithridates fanatically. Moving from village to village, the young prince came to know his country as no other scion of the royal house ever had, and penetrated deeply into parts of it where civilization had slowed, or stopped, or never started. In the summers he roamed utterly free, hunting bear and lion to win a reputation for daring among his ignorant subjects, knowing that the bounty of the Pontic forests would yield him food—cherries and hazelnuts, apricots and succulent vegetables, deer and rabbits.
In some ways his life was never again to yield to him so much simple satisfaction—nor any subjects to yield him so much simple adoration—as during the seven years Mithridates Eupator hid in the mountains of eastern Pontus. Slipping silently beneath the eaves of forests brilliant with the pink and lilac of rhododendron, the pendulous cream of acacia, never it seemed without the roar of tumbling white water in his ears, he grew from boy into young man. His first women were the girls of tiny and primitive villages; his first lion a maned beast of huge proportions that he killed, a reincarnation of Herakles, with a club; his first bear a creature far taller than he was.
The Mithridatidae were big people, their origins Germano-Celt from Thrace, but this was admixed with a little Persian blood from the court (if not the loins) of King Darius, and through the two hundred and fifty years the Mithridatidae had ruled Pontus, they had occasionally married into the Syrian Seleucid dynasty, another Germano-Thracian royal house, descended as it was from Alexander the Great’s Macedonian general Seleucus. An occasional throwback to the Persian strain provided someone slight and smooth and creamy-dark, but Mithridates Eupator was a true Germano-Celt. So he grew very tall, grew shoulders wide enough to support the carcass of a fully developed male deer, and grew thighs and calves strong enough to scale the crags of a Pontic peak.
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