The Grass Crown (3 page)

“Because I know you, Gaius Marius. You’re an irreligious old fart! The only vows I’ve ever heard you make were all to do with kicking legionaries up the arse, or conceited tribunes of the soldiers up the same. There’s only one reason why you’d want to drag your fat old carcass to the Anatolian wilderness, and that’s to see for yourself what’s going on in Cappadocia, and just how much King Mithridates has to do with it,” said Sulla, smiling more happily than he had in many months.

Marius turned to Rutilius Rufus, startled. “I hope I’m not so transparent to everyone as I am to Lucius Cornelius!”

It was Rutilius Rufus’s turn to smile. “I very much doubt that anyone else will even guess,” he said. “I for one believed you—you irreligious old fart!”

Without volition (or so it seemed to Rutilius Rufus), Marius’s head turned to Sulla, and back they were discussing some grand new strategy. “The trouble is, our sources of information are completely unreliable,” Marius said eagerly. “I mean, who of any worth or ability has been out in that part of the world in years? New Men scrambled up as far as praetor—no one I’d rely on to make an accurate report. What do we really know?”

“Very little,” said Sulla, utterly absorbed. “There have been some inroads into Galatia by King Nicomedes of Bithynia on the west and Mithridates on the east. Then a few years ago old Nicomedes married the mother of the little King of Cappadocia—she was the regent at the time, I think. And Nicomedes started calling himself King of Cappadocia.”

“That he did,” said Marius. “I suppose he thought it unfortunate when Mithridates instigated her murder and put the child back on the throne.” He laughed softly. “No more King Nicomedes of Cappadocia! I don’t know how he thought Mithridates would let him get away with it, considering that the murdered Queen was the sister of Mithridates!”

“And her son rules there still, as—oh, they have such exotic names! An Ariarathes?” asked Sulla.

“The seventh Ariarathes, to be exact,” said Marius.

“What do you think is going on?” asked Sulla, his curiosity whetted by Marius’s evident knowledge of these tortuous eastern relationships.

“I’m not sure. Probably nothing, beyond the normal squabbling between Nicomedes of Bithynia and Mithridates of Pontus. But I fancy he’s a most interesting fellow, young King Mithridates of Pontus. I’d like to meet him. After all, Lucius Cornelius, he’s not much more than thirty years of age, yet he’s gone from having no territory other than Pontus itself to owning the best part of the lands around the Euxine Sea. My skin is crawling. I have a feeling he’s going to mean trouble for Rome,” said Marius.

Deeming it high time he entered the conversation, Publius Rutilius Rufus put his empty wine cup down on the table in front of his couch with a loud bang, and seized his opportunity. “I suppose you mean Mithridates has his eye on our Roman Asia Province,” he said, nodding wisely. “Why wouldn’t he want it? So enormously rich! And the most civilized place on earth—well, it’s been Greek since before the Greeks were Greek! Homer lived and worked in our Asia Province, can you imagine it?”

“I’d probably find it easier to imagine it if you started to accompany yourself on a lyre,” said Sulla, laughing.

“Now be serious, Lucius Cornelius! I doubt King Mithridates thinks of our Roman Asia Province as a joke—nor must we, even in jest.” Joke—jest; Rutilius Rufus paused to admire his verbal virtuosity, and lost his chance to dominate the conversation.

“I don’t think there can be any doubt that Mithridates is slavering at the thought of owning our Asia Province,” said Marius.

“But he’s an oriental,” said Sulla positively. “All the oriental kings are terrified of Rome—even Jugurtha, who was far more exposed to Rome than any eastern king, was terrified of Rome. Look at the insults and indignities Jugurtha put up with before he went to war against us. We literally forced him to war.”

“Oh, I think Jugurtha always intended to go to war against us,” said Rutilius Rufus.

“I disagree,” said Sulla, frowning. “I think he dreamed of going to war against us, but understood it could be nothing but a dream. It was we who forced the war upon him when Aulus Albinus entered Numidia looking for loot. In fact, that’s how our wars usually begin! Some gold-greedy commander who shouldn’t be let lead a parade of children is given Roman legions to lead, and, off he goes looking for loot—not for Rome’s sake, but for the sake of his own purse. Carbo and the Germans, Caepio and the Germans, Silanus and the Germans—the list is endless.”

“You’re getting away from the point, Lucius Cornelius,” said Marius gently.

“Sorry, so I am!” Unabashed, Sulla grinned at his old commander affectionately. “Anyway, I think the situation in the east is very similar to the situation in Africa as it was before Jugurtha went to war against us. We all know that Bithynia and Pontus are traditional enemies, and we all know that both King Nicomedes and King Mithridates would love to expand, at least within Anatolia. And in Anatolia there are two wonderfully rich lands which make their royal mouths water—Cappadocia, and our Roman Asia Province. Ownership of Cappadocia gives a king swift access to Cilicia, and fabulously rich growing soil. Ownership of our Roman Asia Province gives a king unparalleled coastal access onto the Middle Sea, half a hundred superb seaports, and a fabulously rich hinterland. A king wouldn’t be human if he didn’t hunger after both lands.”

“Well, Nicomedes of Bithynia I don’t worry about,” said Marius, interrupting. “He’s tied hand and foot to Rome, and he knows it. Nor do I think that—for the present, at any rate—our Roman Asia Province is in any danger. It’s Cappadocia.”

Sulla nodded. “Exactly. Asia Province is Roman. And I don’t think King Mithridates is so different from the rest of his oriental colleagues that he’s shed his fear of Rome enough to attempt to invade our Asia Province, misgoverned shambles though it might be. But Cappadocia isn’t Roman. Though it does fall within our sphere, it seems to me that both Nicomedes and young Mithridates have assumed Cappadocia is a little too remote and a little too unimportant for Rome to go to war about. On the other hand, they move like thieves to steal it, concealing their motive behind puppets and relatives.”

There came a grunt from Marius. “I wouldn’t call old King Nicomedes’s marrying the Queen Regent of Cappadocia furtive!”

“Yes, but that situation didn’t last long, did it? King Mithridates was outraged enough to murder his own sister! He had her son back on the Cappadocian throne quicker than you can say Lucius Tiddlypuss.”

“Unfortunately it’s Nicomedes is our official Friend and Ally, not Mithridates,” said Marius. “It’s a pity I wasn’t in Rome when all that was going on.”

“Oh, come now!” said Rutilius Rufus indignantly. “The kings of Bithynia have been officially entitled Friend and Ally for over fifty years! During our last war against Carthage, so too was the King of Pontus an official Friend and Ally. But this Mithridates’s father destroyed the possibility of friendship with Rome when he bought Phrygia from Manius Aquillius’s father. Rome hasn’t had relations with Pontus since. Besides which, it’s impossible to grant the status of Friend and Ally to two kings at loggerheads with each other unless that status prevents war between them. In the case of Bithynia and Pontus, the Senate decided awarding Friend and Ally status to both kings would only make matters worse between them. And that in turn meant rewarding Nicomedes of Bithynia because the record of Bithynia is better than Pontus.”

“Oh, Nicomedes is a silly old fowl!” said Marius impatiently. “He’s been ruling for over fifty years, and he wasn’t a child when he eliminated his tata from the throne, either. I’d guess his age at over eighty. And he exacerbates the Anatolian situation!”

“By behaving like a silly old fowl, I presume is what you mean.” The retort was accompanied by a near-purple look from Rutilius Rufus’s eyes, very like his niece Aurelia’s, and just as direct, if a little softer. “Do you not think, Gaius Marius, that you and I are very nearly of an age to be called silly old fowls?”

“Come, come, no ruffled feathers, now!” said Sulla, grinning. “I know what you mean, Gaius Marius. Nicomedes is well into his senescence, whether he’s capable of ruling or not—and one must presume he is capable of ruling. It’s the most Hellenized of all the oriental courts, but it’s still oriental. Which means if he dribbled on his shoes just once, his son would have him off the throne. Therefore he has retained his watchfulness and his cunning. However, he’s querulous and he’s grudging. Whereas across the border in Pontus is a man hardly thirty—vigorous, intelligent, aggressive and cocksure. No, Nicomedes can hardly be expected to give Mithridates his due, can he?”

“Hardly,” agreed Marius. “I think we can be justified in assuming that if they do come to open blows, it will be an unequal contest. Nicomedes has only just managed to hang on to what he had at the beginning of his reign, while Mithridates is a conqueror. Oh yes, Lucius Cornelius, I must see this Mithridates!” He lay back on his left elbow and gazed at Sulla anxiously. “Come with me, Lucius Cornelius, do! What’s the alternative? Another boring year in Rome, especially with Piggle-wiggle prating in the Senate, while the Piglet takes all the credit for bringing his tata home.”

But Sulla shook his head. “No, Gaius Marius.”

“I hear,” said Rutilius Rufus, nibbling the side of his fingernail idly, “that the official letter recalling Quintus Caecilius Metellus Numidicus Piggle-wiggle from his exile in Rhodes is signed by the senior consul, Metellus Nepos, and none other than the Piglet, if you please! Of the tribune of the plebs Quintus Calidius, who obtained the recall decree, not a mention! Signed by a very junior senator who is a privatus into the bargain!”

Marius laughed. “Poor Quintus Calidius! I hope the Piglet paid him handsomely for doing all the work.” He looked at Rutilius Rufus. “They don’t change much over the years, do they, the clan Caecilius Metellus? When I was a tribune of the plebs, they treated me like dirt too.”

“Deservedly,” said Rutilius Rufus. “All you did was to make life hard for every Caecilius Metellus in politics at that time! And after they thought they had you in their toils, at that! Oh, how angry was Dalmaticus!”

At the sound of that name Sulla flinched, was conscious of a flush mounting to his cheeks. Her father, Piggle-wiggle’s dead older brother. How was she, Dalmatica? What had Scaurus done to her? From the day Scaurus had come to see him at his home, Sulla had never set eyes on her. Rumor had it she was forbidden ever to leave Scaurus’s house again. “By the way,” he said loudly, “I heard from an impeccable source that there’s going to be a marriage of great convenience for the Piglet.”

Reminiscences stopped at once.

“I haven’t heard about it!” said Rutilius Rufus, a little put out; he considered his sources the best in Rome.

“It’s true nevertheless, Publius Rutilius.”

“So tell me!”

Sulla popped an almond into his mouth and munched for a moment before speaking. “Good wine, Gaius Marius,” he said, filling his cup from the flagon placed close at hand when the servants had been dismissed. Slowly Sulla added water to the wine.

“Oh, put him out of his misery, Lucius Cornelius, do!” sighed Marius. “Publius Rutilius is the biggest old gossip in the Senate.”

“I agree that he is, but you must admit it made for highly entertaining letters while we were in Africa and Gaul,” said Sulla, smiling.

“Who?” cried Rutilius Rufus, not about to be deflected.

“Licinia Minor, younger daughter of none other than our urban praetor, Lucius Licinius Crassus Orator himself.”

“You’re joking!” gasped Rutilius Rufus.

“No, I’m not.”

“But she can’t be old enough!”

“Sixteen the day before the wedding, I hear.”

“Abominable!” growled Marius, eyebrows interlocked.

“Oh really, it’s getting beyond all justification!” said Rutilius Rufus, genuinely concerned. “Eighteen is the proper age, and not a day before should it be! We’re Romans, not oriental cradle snatchers!”

“Well, at least the Piglet is only in his early thirties,” said Sulla casually. “What about Scaurus’s wife?”

“The least said about that, the better!” snapped Publius Rutilius Rufus. His temper died. “Mind you, one has to admire Crassus Orator. There’s no shortage of money for dowries in that family, but just the same, he’s done very well with his girls. The older one gone to Scipio Nasica, no less, and now the younger one to the Piglet, only son and heir of. I thought that Licinia was bad enough, at seventeen married to a brute like Scipio Nasica. She’s pregnant, you know.”

Marius clapped his hands for the steward. “Go home, both of you! When the conversation degenerates to nothing more than old women’s gossipy tidbits, we’ve exhausted all other avenues. Pregnant! You ought to be down in the nursery with the women, Publius Rutilius!”

All the children had been brought to Marius’s house for this dinner, and all were asleep when the party broke up. Only Young Marius remained where he was; the others had to be taken home by their parents. Two big litters stood outside in the lane, one to accommodate Sulla’s children, Cornelia Sulla and Young Sulla, the other for Aurelia’s three, Julia Major called Lia, Julia Minor called Ju-ju, and Young Caesar. While the adult men and women stood talking low-voiced in the atrium, a team of servants carried the sleeping children out to the litters and placed them carefully inside.

The man carrying Young Caesar looked unfamiliar to Julia, automatically counting; then she stiffened, clutched Aurelia by the arm convulsively.

“That’s Lucius Decumius!” she gasped.

“Of course it is,” said Aurelia, surprised.

“Aurelia, you really shouldn’t!”

“Nonsense, Julia. Lucius Decumius is a tower of strength to me. I don’t have a nice respectable journey home, as you well know. I go through the middle of a den of thieves, footpads, the gods know what—for even after seven years, I don’t! It isn’t often that I’m lured out of my own home, but when I am, Lucius Decumius and a couple of his brothers always come to bring me home. And Young Caesar isn’t a heavy sleeper. Yet when Lucius Decumius picks him up, he never stirs.”