The Grass Crown

by Colleen McCullough

  "This army is yours, Roman?" asked Tigranes.

  "It is."

  "What is it doing in my lands?"

  "Journeying to see you, King Tigranes."

  "You perceive me. What now?"

  "Not a thing!" said Sulla airily, brows climbing, horrible eyes dancing. "I came to see you, King Tigranes, and I have seen you. Once I have told you what I am ordered to tell you, I shall turn my army round and go back to Tarsus.''

  "What are you ordered to tell me, Roman?"

  "The Senate and People of Rome require you to stay within your own boundaries, King. Armenia does not concern Rome. But to venture into Cappadocia, Syria, or Cilicia will offend Rome. And Rome is mighty—mistress of all the lands around the Middle Sea, a greater domain by far than Armenia. Rome's armies are undefeated, and many in number. Therefore, King, stay in your own ward."

  "I am in my own ward," the King pointed out, thrown off balance by this direct talk. "Rome is the trespasser."

  "Only to carry out my orders, King. I'm simply a messenger," said Sulla, uncowed. "I trust you've listened well."

  "Huh!" said the King, raising one hand. His brawny slaves linked arms and stepped upward, the King sat himself down, and was duly enthroned once more upon his barge. With his back to Sulla. And off poled the boat across the turgid stream, Tigranes unmoving.

  "Well, well!" said Sulla to his son, rubbing his hands together gleefully. "An odd lot, these eastern kings, my boy. Mountebanks all. Full of importance, as prickable as a bladder." He looked about, and called, "Morsimus!"

  "Here, Lucius Cornelius."

  "Pack up. We're going home."

  "Which way?"

  "To Zeugma. I doubt we'll encounter any more trouble from Cyzicenus of Syria than from the conceited heap of rubbish you can see disappearing across the water. Much and all as they dislike the sensation, they are all afraid of Rome. That pleases me." Sulla snorted. "A pity I couldn't maneuver him into a situation where he has to look up at me."

  Sulla's reasons for heading southwest to Zeugma were not entirely because it was the shorter route—and a less mountainous one—to Cilicia Pedia; provisions were low, and the crops of the highlands still green. Whereas in the lowlands of upper Mesopotamia he might hope to find ripe grain to buy. His men were growing very tired of the fruits and vegetables they had been living on since leaving Cappadocia; they craved bread. Therefore they must endure the heat of the Syrian plains.

  Sure enough, when he came down from the crags south of Amida onto the plains of Osrhoene he found the harvests in, and bread aplenty as a result. In Edessa he visited Philoromaios the King, and found Osrhoene only too pleased to give this strange Roman whatever he wanted. And to impart some rather alarming news.

  "Lucius Cornelius, I am afraid that King Tigranes has gathered his army and is following you," said King Philoromaios.

  "I know," said Sulla, unruffled.

  "But he will attack you! And attack me!"

  "Keep your army disbanded, King, and your people out of his way. It's my presence worries him. Once he's sure I really am going back to Tarsus, he'll hie himself back to Tigranocerta.''

  This calm confidence did much to quieten the King of Osrhoene, who sped Sulla on his way with a bounty of wheat and an object Sulla had despaired of ever seeing—a big bag of golden coins, stamped not with Osrhoene's features, but with the face of none other than King Tigranes.

  Tigranes tracked Sulla all the way to the Euphrates at Zeugma, but too far in his rear to warrant Sulla's halting and readying for battle; this was clearly a precautionary rather than an aggressive measure. But then after Sulla had got his troops over the river at Zeugma—an easier business by far than at Samosata—he was visited by a party of fifty dignitaries, all clad in garb of a style strange to any Roman— high round little hats studded with pearls and golden beads, neck-choking spiral collars of gold wire descending to their chests, gold-embroidered coats, long stiff gold-embroidered skirts reaching their gold-shod feet.

  When he learned the group was an embassage from the King of the Parthians, Sulla was not surprised; only Parthians had so much gold to wear. Exciting! And a vindication for this unprojected, unauthorized trip east of the Euphrates. Tigranes of Armenia was subject to the Parthians, that much he knew; perhaps he could convince the Parthians to muzzle Tigranes, prevent his yielding to the blandishments of Mithridates.

  This time he wasn't going to look up at Tigranes—nor look up at the Parthians, for that matter.

  "I will meet with those Parthians who speak Greek—and with King Tigranes—the day after tomorrow, on the banks of the Euphrates at a spot to which the dignitaries will be conducted by my men," said Sulla to Morsimus. The members of the embassage had not yet set eyes upon him, though he had managed to inspect them; since it had not escaped him that both Mithridates and Tigranes had been amazed by his appearance—and very much intimidated by it—Sulla had resolved that he would burst upon the Parthians also.

  Born actor that he was, he set his stage with scrupulous attention to every fine detail. A huge tall dais was constructed out of some polished slabs of white marble he borrowed from the temple of Zeus in Zeugma. Then upon the dais he constructed another dais just large enough to hold a curule chair, a good foot taller than the rest of the platform, and faced with a plummy purple marble which had formed the plinth of the statue of Zeus. Fine marble seats with arms and backs of griffins and lions, sphinxes and eagles, were pillaged from all over town, and these were placed upon the main dais, a group of six to one side, and a single, splendid specimen formed by the backs of two winged lions off to the other side for Tigranes. Upon the purple marble smaller dais he placed his ivory curule chair, a thin and spindly, chaste-looking seat compared to those below it. And over the top of the whole structure he erected an awning made from the gold and purple tapestry which had curtained off the sanctuary behind Zeus in his temple.

  Shortly after dawn on the appointed day, a guard of his men escorted six of the Parthian ambassadors to the dais and placed them in the six chairs forming a group; the rest of the embassage remained upon the ground, suitably seated and shaded. Tigranes wanted to mount the purple podium, of course, but was firmly yet courteously placed upon his royal seat at the opposite end of the semicircle the chairs made. The Parthians looked at Tigranes—he looked at them—and everybody looked up at the purple podium.

  Then when all were seated came Lucius Cornelius Sulla, clad in his purple-bordered toga praetexta and carrying the plain ivory wand which was his staff of office, one end nestling in his palm, its foot-long stick resting upon his forearm, its other end nestling into the hollow of his elbow. Hair blazing even after he had passed out of the sun, he walked without turning his head to left or to right up the steps to the dais, then up another step to his ivory curule chair, and seated himself, rod-straight, spine unsupported, one foot forward and the other back in the classic pose. A Roman of the Romans.

  They were not amused, especially Tigranes, but there was little they could do about it, having been jockeyed into their present positions with such dignity that to start insisting upon being seated at the same height as the curule chair would have done nothing to enhance dignity.

  "My lords the representatives of the King of the Parthians, and King Tigranes, I welcome you to this parley," said Sulla from his paramount position, and taking great delight in unsettling them with his strange light eyes.

  "This is not your parley, Roman!" snapped Tigranes. "I summoned my suzerains!"

  "I beg your pardon, King, but this is my parley," said Sulla with a smile. "You have come to my place, at my invitation." And then, not giving Tigranes time to reply, he turned slightly toward the Parthians and gave them the full benefit of his most feral grin, long canines well bared. "Who among you, my lords of Parthia, is the leader of this delegation?"

  Predictably, the elderly man seated in the first of the chairs nodded his head regally. "I am, Lucius Cornelius Sulla. My name is Orobazus, and I am satrap of Seleucei
a-on-Tigris. I answer only to the King of Kings, Mithridates of the Parthians, who regrets that time and distance do not permit him to be here today."

  "In his summer palace at Ecbatana, eh?" asked Sulla.

  Orobazus blinked. "You are well informed, Lucius Cornelius Sulla. I was not aware our movements are so well known in Rome."

  "Lucius Cornelius will do, Lord Orobazus," said Sulla. He leaned forward a little, still keeping his spine absolutely straight, his pose in the chair a perfect fusion of grace and power, as befitted a Roman conducting an audience of magnitude. "We make history here today, Lord Orobazus. This is the first time that the ambassadors of the Kingdom of the Parthians have met with an ambassador of Rome. That it takes place upon the river which forms the boundary between our two worlds is fitting."

  "Indeed, my lord Lucius Cornelius," said Orobazus.

  "Not 'my lord,' just plain Lucius Cornelius," said Sulla. "In Rome there are no lords and no kings."

  "We had heard it was so, but we find it strange. You do follow the Greek way, then. How is it that Rome has grown so great, when no king heads the government? The Greeks one can understand. They were never very great because they had no High King—they fragmented themselves into a myriad little states and then went to war against each other. Whereas Rome acts as if there was a High King. How can your lack of any kind of king permit such power, Lucius Cornelius?" asked Orobazus.

  “Rome is our king , Lord Orobazus , though we give Rome the feminine form, Roma, and speak of Rome as 'her' and 'she.' The Greeks subordinated themselves to an ideal. You subordinate yourselves to one man, your king. But we Romans subordinate ourselves to Rome, and only to Rome. We bend the knee to no one human, Lord Orobazus, any more than we bend it to the abstraction of an ideal. Rome is our god, our king, our very lives. And though each Roman strives to enhance his own reputation, strives to be great in the eyes of his fellow Romans, in the long run it is all done to enhance Rome, and Rome's greatness. We worship a place, Lord Orobazus. Not a man. Not an ideal. Men come and go, their terms on earth are fleeting. And ideals shift and sway with every philosophical wind. But a place can be eternal as long as those who live in that place care for it, nurture it, make it even greater. I, Lucius Cornelius Sulla, am a great Roman. But at the end of my life, whatever I have done will have gone to swell the might and majesty of my place — Rome. I am here today not on my own behalf, nor on behalf of any other man. I am here today on behalf of my place — Rome! If we strike a treaty, it will be deposited in the temple of Jupiter Feretrius, the oldest temple in Rome, and there it will remain — not my property, nor even bearing my name. A testament to the might of Rome."

  He spoke well, for his Greek was Attic and beautiful, better by far than the Greek of the Parthians or Tigranes. And they were listening, fascinated, obviously wrestling to understand a concept utterly alien. A place greater than a man? A place greater than the mental product of a man?

  "But a place, Lucius Cornelius," said Orobazus, "is just a collection of objects! If it is a town, a collection of buildings. If it is a sanctuary, a collection of temples. If it is countryside, a collection of trees and rocks and fields. How can a place generate such feeling, such nobility? You look at a collection of buildings — for I know Rome is a great city — and do what you all do for the sake of those buildings?"

  Sulla extended his ivory wand. "This is Rome, Lord Orobazus." He touched the muscular snow-white forearm behind it. "This is Rome, Lord Orobazus." He swept aside the folds of his toga to display the carved curved X of his chair's legs. "This is Rome, Lord Orobazus." He held out his left arm, weighed down by fold upon fold of toga, and pinched the woolen stuff. "This is Rome, Lord Orobazus." And then he paused to look into every pair of eyes raised to him on high, and at the end of the pause he said, "I am Rome, Lord Orobazus. So is every single man who calls himself a Roman. Rome is a pageant stretching back a thousand years, to the time when a Trojan refugee named Aeneas set foot upon the shores of Latium and founded a race who founded, six hundred and sixty-two years ago, a place called Rome. And for a while Rome was actually ruled by kings, until the men of Rome rejected the concept that a man could be mightier than the place which bred him. No man must ever consider himself greater than the place which bred him. No Roman man is greater than Rome. Rome is the place which breeds great men. But what they are—what they do—is for her glory. Their contributions to her ongoing pageant. And I tell you, Lord Orobazus, that Rome will last as long as Romans hold Rome dearer than themselves, dearer than their children, dearer than their own reputations and achievements." He paused again, drew a long breath. "As long as Romans hold Rome dearer than an ideal, or a single man."

  "But the King is the manifestation of everything you say, Lucius Cornelius," Orobazus objected.

  "A king cannot be," said Sulla. "A king is concerned first with himself, a king believes he is closer to the gods than all other men. Some kings believe they are gods. All personal, Lord Orobazus. Kings use their countries to fuel themselves. Rome uses Romans to fuel herself."

  Orobazus lifted his hands in the age-old gesture of surrender. "I cannot understand what you say, Lucius Cornelius."

  "Then let us pass to our reasons for being here today, Lord Orobazus. It is an historic occasion. On behalf of Rome, I extend you a proposition. That what lies to the east of the river Euphrates remain solely your concern, the business of the King of the Parthians. And that what lies to the west of the river Euphrates become Rome's concern, the business of those men who act in the name of Rome."

  Orobazus raised his feathery greying brows. "Do you mean, Lucius Cornelius, that Rome wishes to rule every land west of the Euphrates River? That Rome intends to dethrone the Kings of Syria and Pontus, Cappadocia and Commagene, many other lands?"

  "Not at all, Lord Orobazus. Rather, that Rome wants to ensure the stability of lands west of the Euphrates, prevent some kings expanding at the expense of others, prevent national borders shrinking or expanding. Do you, for instance, Lord Orobazus, know precisely why I am here today?"

  "Not precisely, Lucius Cornelius. We received word from our subject king, Tigranes of Armenia, that you were marching on him with an army. So far I have not been able to obtain a reason from King Tigranes as to why your army has made no aggressive move. You were well to the east of the Euphrates. Now you appear to be traveling west again. What did bring you here, why did you take your army into Armenia? And why, having done so, did you not make an aggressive move?"

  Sulla turned his head to look down at Tigranes, discovering that the toothed margin of his tiara, decorated on either side above the diadem with an eight-pointed star and a crescent formed by two eagles, was hollow, and that the King was going very bald. Clearly detesting his inferior position, Tigranes lifted his chin to glare angrily up at Sulla.

  “What, King, not told your master?'' Sulla asked. Failing to receive an answer, he turned back to Orobazus and the other Greek-speaking Parthians. "Rome is seriously concerned, Lord Orobazus, that some kings at the eastern end of the Middle Sea do not become so great that they can expunge other kings. Rome is well content with the status quo in Asia Minor. But King Mithridates of Pontus has designs on the Kingdom of Cappadocia, and on other parts of Anatolia as well. Including Cilicia, which has voluntarily placed itself in Rome's hands now that the King of Syria is not powerful enough to look after it. But your subject king, Tigranes here, has supported Mithridates—and upon one occasion not long ago, actually invaded Cappadocia."

  "I heard something of that," said Orobazus woodenly.

  "I imagine little escapes the attention of the King of the Parthians and his satraps, Lord Orobazus! However, having done Pontus's dirty work for him, King Tigranes returned to Armenia, and has not stirred west of the Euphrates since." Sulla cleared his throat. "It has been my melancholy duty to eject the King of Pontus yet again from Cappadocia, a commission from the Senate and People of Rome that I concluded earlier in the year. However, it occurred to me that my task would not be finishe
d conclusively until I journeyed to have speech with King Tigranes. So I set off from Eusebeia Mazaca to look for him."

  "With your army, Lucius Cornelius?" asked Orobazus.

  Up went the pointed brows. "Certainly! This is not exactly a part of the world I know, Lord Orobazus. So— purely as a precaution!—I took my army with me. It and I have behaved with perfect decorum, as I am sure you know—we have not raided, looted, sacked, or even trodden down crops in the field. What we needed, we bought. And we continue to do so. You must think of my army as a very large bodyguard. I am an important man, Lord Orobazus! My tenure of government in Rome has not yet reached its zenith, I will rise even higher. Therefore it behooves me— and Rome!—to look after Lucius Cornelius Sulla."

  Orobazus signed to Sulla to stop. "One moment, Lucius Cornelius. I have with me a certain Chaldaean, the Nabopolassar, who comes not from Babylon but from Chaldaea proper, where the Euphrates delta runs into the Persian Sea. He serves me as my seer as well as my astrologer, and his brother serves none other than King Mithridates of the Parthians himself. We—all of us here today from Seleuceia-on-Tigris—believe in what he says. Would you permit him to look into your palm, and into your face? We would like to find out for ourselves if you are truly the great man you say you are."

  Sulla shrugged, looked indifferent. "It makes no odds to me, Lord Orobazus. Have your fellow poke his nose into the lines on my palm and in my face to your entire satisfaction! Is he here? Do you want him to do it now? Or must I go somewhere more seemly?"

  "Stay where you are, Lucius Cornelius. The Nabopolassar will come to you." Orobazus snapped his fingers and said something to the little crowd of Parthian observers seated on the ground.

  Out of their ranks stepped one who looked exactly the same as all the others, with his little round pearl-studded hat, and his spiral necklace, and his golden garments. Hands tucked into his sleeves, he trotted to the dais steps, hopped up them nimbly, and then stood on the step halfway between Sulla's podium and the main floor of the platform. Out came one hand, snatching at Sulla's extended right hand; and for a long time he mumbled his way from one line to another, then dropped the hand and peered at Sulla's face. A little bow, and he backed off the step, backed across the dais to Orobazus, only then turning his front away from Sulla.