Sulla looked suddenly brisk and businesslike. “Leave it with me, I’ll attend to the matter. We can’t have Armenia and Pontus in control of Egypt!”
His own deliberations were already concluded long since, so without delay Sulla set off for the villa on the Pincian Hill and an interview with Ptolemy Alexander.
“Your day has arrived,” said the Dictator to his hostage, no longer such a very young man; he had turned thirty-five.
“Chickpea is dead?” asked Ptolemy Alexander eagerly.
“Dead and entombed. Queen Berenice rules alone.”
“Then I must go!” Ptolemy Alexander squawked, agitated. “I must go! There is no time to be wasted!”
“You can go when I say you can go, not a moment before,” said Sulla harshly. “Sit down, Your Majesty, and listen to me.”
His Majesty sat with his draperies flattening limply around him like a pricked puffball, his eyes very strange between the solid lines of stibium he had painted on both upper and lower lids, extended out toward the temples in imitation of the antique Eye of Egypt, the wadjet; as he had also painted in thick black brows and whitened the area between them and the black line of the upper lids, Sulla found it absolutely impossible to decide what Ptolemy Alexander’s real eyes held. The whole effect, he decided, was distinctly sinister—and probably intended to be.
“You cannot talk to a king as to an inferior,” said His Majesty stiffly.
“There is no king in all the world who is not my inferior,” Sulla answered contemptuously. “I rule Rome! That makes me the most powerful man between the Rivers of Ocean and Indus. So you will listen, Your Majesty—and without interrupting me! You may go to Alexandria and assume the throne. But only upon certain conditions. Is that understood?”
“What conditions?’’
“That you make your will and lodge it with the Vestal Virgins here in Rome. It need only be a simple will. In the event that you die without legitimate issue, you will bequeath the Kingdom of Egypt to Rome.”
Ptolemy Alexander gasped. “I can’t do that!”
“You can do anything I say you must do—if you want to rule in Alexandria. That is my price. Egypt to fall to Rome if you die without legitimate issue.”
The unsettling eyes within their embossed ritual framework slid from side to side, and the richly carmined mouth—full and self-indulgent—worked upon itself in a way which reminded Sulla of Philippus. “All right, I agree to your price.” Ptolemy Alexander shrugged. “I don’t subscribe to the old Egyptian religion, so what can it matter to me after I’m dead?”
“Excellently reasoned!” said Sulla heartily. “I brought my secretary with me so you’d be able to make out the document here and now. With every royal seal and your personal cartouche attached, of course. I want no arguments from the Alexandrians after you’re dead.” He clapped for a Ptolemaic servant, and asked that his own secretary be summoned. As they waited he said idly, “There is one other condition, actually.”
“What?” asked Ptolemy Alexander warily.
“I believe that in a bank at Tyre you have a sum of two thousand talents of gold deposited by your grandmother, the third Queen Cleopatra. Mithridates got the money she left on Cos, but not what she left at Tyre. And King Tigranes has not yet managed to subdue the cities of Phoenicia. He’s too busy with the Jews. You will leave those two thousand talents of gold to Rome.”
One look at Sulla’s face informed His Majesty that there could be no argument; he shrugged again, nodded.
Flosculus the secretary came, Ptolemy Alexander sent one of his own slaves for his seals and cartouche, and the will was soon made and signed and witnessed.
“I will lodge it for you,” said Sulla, rising, “as you cannot cross the pomerium to visit Vesta.”
Two days later Ptolemy Alexander the Younger departed from Rome with the delegation, and took ship in Puteoli for Africa; it was easier to cross the Middle Sea at this point and then to hug the African coast from the Roman province to Cyrenaica, and Cyrenaica to Alexandria. Besides which, the new King of Egypt wanted to go nowhere near Mithridates or Tigranes, and did not trust to his luck.
In the spring an urgent message had come from Alexandria, where Rome’s agent (a Roman ostensibly in trade) had written that King Ptolemy Alexander the Second had suffered a disaster. Arriving safely after a long voyage, he had immediately married his half sister cum first cousin, Queen Berenice. For exactly nineteen days he had reigned as King of Egypt, nineteen days during which, it seemed, he conceived a steadily increasing hatred of his wife. So early on the nineteenth day of his reign, apparently considering this female creature a nonentity, he murdered his forty-year-old wife/sister/cousin/queen. But she had reigned for a long time in conjunction with her father, Chickpea; the citizens of Alexandria adored her. Later during the nineteenth day of his reign the citizens of Alexandria stormed the palace, abducted King Ptolemy Alexander the Second, and literally tore him into small pieces—a kind of free—for—all fun—for—all celebration staged in the agora. Egypt was without king or queen, and in a state of chaos.
“Splendid!” cried Sulla as he read his agent’s letter, and sent off an embassage of Roman senators led by the consular and ex-censor Marcus Perperna to Alexandria, bearing King Ptolemy Alexander the Second’s last will and legal testament. His ambassadors were also under orders to call in at Tyre on the way home, there to pick up the gold.
From that day to this New Year’s Day of the third year of Sulla’s reign, nothing further had been heard.
“Our entire journey has been dogged by ill luck,” said Marcus Perperna. “We were shipwrecked off Crete and taken captive by pirates—it took two months for the cities of Peloponnesian Greece to raise our ransoms, and then we had to finish the voyage by sailing to Cyrene and hugging the Libyan coast to Alexandria.”
“In a pirate vessel?” asked Sulla, aware of the gravity of this news, but nonetheless inclined to laugh; Perperna looked so old and shrunken—and terrified!
“As you so shrewdly surmise, in a pirate vessel.”
“And what happened when you reached Alexandria?”
“Nothing good, Lucius Cornelius. Nothing good!” Perperna heaved a huge sigh. “We found the Alexandrians had acted with celerity and efficiency. They knew exactly whereabouts to send after King Ptolemy Alexander was murdered.”
“Send for what, Perperna?”
“Send for the two bastard sons of Ptolemy Soter Chickpea, Lucius Cornelius. They petitioned King Tigranes in Syria to give them both young men—the elder to rule Egypt, and the younger to rule Cyprus.”
“Clever, but not unexpected,” said Sulla. “Go on.”
“By the time we reached Alexandria, King Ptolemy Auletes was already on the throne, and his wife—the daughter of King Mithridates—was beside him as Queen Cleopatra Tryphaena. His younger brother—whom the Alexandrians have decided to call Ptolemy the Cyprian—was sent to be regent of Cyprus. His wife—another daughter of Mithridates—went with him.”
“And her name is?”
“Mithridatidis Nyssa.”
“The whole thing is illegal,” said Sulla, frowning.
“Not according to the Alexandrians!”
“Go on, Perperna, go on! Tell me the worst.”
“Well, we produced the will, of course. And informed the Alexandrians that we had come formally to annex the Kingdom of Egypt into the empire of Rome as a province.”
“And what did they say to that, Perperna?”
“They laughed at us, Lucius Cornelius. By various methods their lawyers proceeded to prove that the will was invalid, then they pointed to the King and Queen upon their thrones and showed us that they had found legitimate heirs.”
“But they’re not legitimate!”
“Only under Roman law, they said, and denied that it applied to Egypt. Under Egyptian law—which seems to consist largely of rules made up on the spur of the moment to support whatever the Alexandrians have in mind—the King and Queen are legitimate.”<
br />
“So what did you do, Perperna?”
“What could I do, Lucius Cornelius? Alexandria was crawling with soldiers! We thanked our Roman gods that we managed to get out of Egypt alive, and with our persons intact.”
“Quite right,” said Sulla, who did not bother venting his spleen upon unworthy objects. “However, the fact remains that the will is valid. Egypt now belongs to Rome.” He drummed his fingers on his desk. “Unfortunately there isn’t much Rome can do at the present time. I’ve had to send fourteen legions to Spain to deal with Quintus Sertorius, and I’ve no wish to add to the Treasury’s expenses by mounting another campaign at the opposite end of the world. Not with Tigranes riding roughshod over most of Syria and no curb in the vicinity now that the Parthian heirs are so embroiled in civil war. Have you still got the will?”
“Oh yes, Lucius Cornelius.”
“Then tomorrow I’ll inform the Senate what’s happened and give the will back to the Vestals against the day when Rome can afford to annex Egypt by force—which is the only way we’re going to come into our inheritance, I think.”
“Egypt is fabulously rich.”
“That’s no news to me, Perperna! The Ptolemies are sitting on the greatest treasure in the world, as well as one of the world’s richest countries.” Sulla assumed the expression which indicated he was finished, but said, it appeared as an afterthought, “I suppose that means you didn’t obtain the two thousand talents of gold from Tyre?’’
“Oh, we got that without any trouble, Lucius Cornelius,” said Perperna, shocked. “The bankers handed it over the moment we produced the will. On our way home, as you instructed.”
Sulla roared with laughter. “Well done for you, Perperna! I can almost forgive you the debacle in Alexandria!” He got up, rubbing his hands together in glee. “A welcome addition to the Treasury. And so the Senate will see it, I’m sure. At least poor Rome didn’t have to pay for an embassage without seeing an adequate financial return.”
*
All the eastern kings were being troublesome—one of the penalties Rome was forced to endure because her internecine strife had made it impossible for Sulla to remain in the east long enough to render both Mithridates and Tigranes permanently impotent. As it was, no sooner had Sulla sailed home than Mithridates was back intriguing to annex Cappadocia, and Lucius Licinius Murena (then governor of Asia Province and Cilicia) had promptly gone to war against him—without Sulla’s knowledge or permission, and in contravention of the Treaty of Dardanus. For a while Murena had done amazingly well, until self-confidence had led him into a series of disastrous encounters with Mithridates on his own soil of Pontus. Sulla had been obliged to send the elder Aulus Gabinius to order Murena back to his own provinces. It had been Sulla’s intention to punish Murena for his cavalier behavior, but then had come the confrontation with Pompey; so Murena had had to be allowed to return and celebrate a triumph in order to put Pompey in his place.
In the meantime, Tigranes had used the six years just gone by to expand his kingdom of Armenia southward and westward into lands belonging to the King of the Parthians and the rapidly disintegrating Kingdom of Syria. He had begun to see his chance when he learned that old King Mithradates of the Parthians was too ill to proceed with a projected invasion of Syria—and too ill to prevent the barbarians called Massagetae from taking over all his lands to the north and east of Parthia itself, as well as to prevent one of his sons, Gotarzes, from usurping Babylonia.
As Tigranes himself had once predicted, the death of King Mithradates of the Parthians had provoked a war of succession complicated by the fact that the old man had had three official queens—two his paternal half sisters, and the third none other than a daughter of Tigranes called Automa. While various sons of various mothers fought over what remained, yet another vital satrapy seceded—fabulously rich Elymais, watered by the eastern tributaries of the Tigris, the rivers Choaspes and Pasitigris; the silt—free harbors to the east of the Tigris—Euphrates delta were lost, as was the city of Susa, one of the Parthian royal seats. Uncaring, the sons of old King Mithradates warred on.
So did Tigranes. His first move (in the year Gaius Marius died) was to invade in succession the petty kingdoms of Sophene, Gordyene, Adiabene, and finally Osrhoene. These four little states conquered, Tigranes now owned all the lands bordering the eastern bank of the Euphrates from above Tomisa all the way down to Europus; the big cities of Amida, Edessa and Nisibis were now also his, as were the tolls levied along the great river. But rather than entrust such commercial enterprises as toll collecting to his own Armenians, Tigranes wooed and won over the Skenite Arabs who controlled the arid regions between the Euphrates and the Tigris south of Osrhoene, and exacted tolls on every caravan which passed across their territory. Nomad Bedouins though they were, Tigranes moved the Skenite Arabs into Edessa and Carrhae and appointed them the collectors of Euphrates tolls at Samosata and Zeugma. Their king—whose royal title was Abgar—was now the client of Tigranes, and the Greek—speaking populations of all the towns the King of Armenia had overcome were forced to emigrate to those parts of Armenia where the Greek language was hitherto unknown. Tigranes desperately wanted to be the civilized ruler of a Hellenized kingdom—and what better way to Hellenize it than to implant colonies of Greek speakers within its borders?
As a child Tigranes had been held hostage by the King of the Parthians and had lived in Seleuceia—upon—Tigris, far away from Armenia. At the time of his father’s death he was the only living son, but the King of the Parthians had demanded a huge price for releasing the youth Tigranes—seventy valleys in the richest part of Armenia, which was Media Atropatene. Now Tigranes marched into Media Atropatene and took back the seventy valleys, stuffed with gold, lapis lazuli, turquoise and fertile pastures.
He now found, however, that he lacked sufficient Nesaean horses to mount his growing numbers of cataphracts. These strange cavalrymen were clad from head to foot in steel—mesh armor—as were their horses, which needed to be large to carry the weight. So in the following year Tigranes invaded Media itself, the home of the Nesaean horse, and annexed it to Armenia. Ecbatana, summer royal seat of the Kings of the Parthians—and before them, the summer royal seat of the Kings of Media and Persia, including Alexander the Great—was burned to the ground, and its magnificent palace sacked.
Three years had gone by. While Sulla marched slowly up the Italian peninsula, Tigranes had turned his attention to the west and crossed the Euphrates into Commagene. Unopposed, he occupied all the lands of northern Syria between the Amanus Mountains and the Libanus Mountains, including mighty Antioch and the lower half of the valley of the Orontes River. Even a part of Cilicia Pedia fell to him, around the eastern shore of the Sinus Issicus.
Syria was genuine Hellenized territory, its populace a fully Greek—speaking one powerfully under the influence of Greek customs. No sooner had he established his authority in Syria than Tigranes uplifted whole communities of these hapless Greek—speakers and sent them and their families to live in his newly built capital of Tigranocerta. Most favored were the artisans, not one of whom was allowed to remain in Syria. However, the King understood the need to protect his Greek imports from his Median—speaking native peoples, who were directed under pain of death to treat the new citizens with care and kindness.
And while Sulla was legislating to have himself appointed Dictator of Rome, Tigranes formally adopted the title he had hungered for all his life—King of Kings. Queen Cleopatra Selene of Syria—youngest sister and at one time wife of Ptolemy Soter Chickpea—who had managed to rule Syria through several Seleucid husbands, was taken from Antioch and made to live in the humblest circumstances in a tiny village on the Euphrates; her place in the palace at Antioch was taken by the satrap Magadates, who was to rule Syria in the name of Tigranes, King of Kings.
King of Kings, thought Sulla cynically; all those eastern potentates thought themselves King of Kings. Even, it seemed, the two bastard sons of Ptolemy Soter Chickpea, who now r
uled in Egypt and Cyprus with their Mithridatid wives. But the will of the dead Ptolemy Alexander the Second was genuine; no one knew that better than Sulla did, for he was its witness. Sooner or later Egypt would belong to Rome. For the moment Ptolemy Auletes must be allowed to reign in Alexandria; but, vowed Sulla, that puppet of Mithridates and Tigranes would never know an easy moment! The Senate of Rome would send regularly to Alexandria demanding that Ptolemy Auletes step down in favor of Rome, the true owner of Egypt.
As for King Mithridates of Pontus—interesting, that he had lost two hundred thousand men in the freezing cold of the Caucasus—he would have to be discouraged yet again from trying to annex Cappadocia. Complaining by letter to Sulla that Murena had plundered and burned four hundred villages along the Halys River, Mithridates had proceeded to take the Cappadocian bank of the Halys off poor Cappadocia; to make this ploy look legitimate, he had given King Ariobarzanes of Cappadocia a new bride, one of his own daughters. When Sulla discovered that the girl was a four-year-old child, he sent yet another messenger to see King Mithridates and order him in Rome’s name to quit Cappadocia absolutely, bride or no bride. The messenger had returned very recently, bearing a letter from Mithridates promising to do as he was told—and informing Sulla that the King of Pontus was going to send an embassage to Rome to ratify the Treaty of Dardanus into watertight legality.
“He’d better make sure his embassage doesn’t dawdle,” said Sulla to himself as he terminated all these thoughts of eastern kings by going to find his wife. It was in her presence—for she wasn’t very far away—that he ended his audible reflections by saying, “If they do dawdle, they won’t find me here to dicker with them—and good luck dickering with the Senate!”
“I beg your pardon, my love?” asked Valeria, startled.
“Nothing. Give me a kiss.”
*
Her kisses were nice enough. Just as she was nice enough, Valeria Messala. So far Sulla had found this fourth marriage a pleasant experience. But not a stimulating one. A part of that was due to his age and his illnesses, he was aware; but a larger part of it was due to the seductive and sensuous shortcomings of aristocratic Roman women, who just could not relax sufficiently in bed to enter into the kind of sexual cavorting the Dictator hankered after. His prowess was flagging: he needed to be stimulated! Why was it that women could love a man madly, yet not enter wholeheartedly into his sexual wants?
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