Masters of Rome Boxset: First Man in Rome, the Grass Crown, Fortune's Favourites, Caesar's Women, Caesar

by Colleen McCullough

  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 finished 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.

  The report took some time to give; Orobazus and the others listened gravely, faces impassive. At the end he turned back to Sulla, bowed down to the ground in Sulla’s direction, and got himself off the platform without ever presenting more than the top of his head to Sulla, an extraordinary obeisance.

  Sulla’s heart had leaped, had begun to thud a hasty tattoo as the Nabopolassar gave his verdict, leaped again joyously as the Chaldaean seer wormed his way off the platform and back to his place among the little crowd on the ground. Whatever he had said, he had clearly confirmed Sulla’s own words, that he, Sulla, was a great man. And he had bowed down to Sulla as he would have bowed down to his King.

  “The Nabopolassar says, Lucius Cornelius, that you are the greatest man in the world, that no one in your lifetime will rival you from the River Indus to the River of Ocean in the far west. We must believe him, for he has by default included our own King Mithridates among your inferiors, and thereby placed his head in jeopardy,” said Orobazus, a new note in his voice.

  Even Tigranes, Sulla noticed, now gazed at him in awe.

  “May we resume our parley?” asked Sulla, not varying his pose, his expression, or his tone from normal.

  “Please, Lucius Cornelius.”

  “Very well, then. I have arrived at that point in my account, I think, where my army’s presence has been explained, but not what I came to say to King Tigranes. Briefly, I instructed him to remain on his own side of the Euphrates River, and warned him that he was not to assist his father-in-law of Pontus in attaining Pontus’s ambitions—be they with regard to Cappadocia, Cilicia, or Bithynia. And, having told him, I turned back.”

  “Do you think, Lucius Cornelius, that the King of Pontus has even grander designs than Anatolia?”

  “I think his designs encompass the world, Lord Orobazus! He is already the complete master of the eastern Euxine from Olbia on the Hypanis to Colchis on the Phasis. He secured Galatia by the mass murder of its chieftains, and has murdered at least one of the Cappadocian kings. I am very sure he masterminded the invasion of Cappadocia undertaken by King Tigranes here. And, further to the point of our meeting”—Sulla leaned forward, his strange light eyes blazing—”the distance between Pontus and the Kingdom of the Parthians is considerably less than the distance between Pontus and Rome. Therefore I consider that the King of the Parthians should look to his boundaries while ever the King of Pontus is in an expansive mood. As well as keep a stern eye on his subject, King Tigranes of Armenia.” Sulla produced a charming smile, canines well hidden. “That, Lord Orobazus, is all I have to say.”

  “You have spoken well, Lucius Cornelius,” said Orobazus. “You may have your t
reaty. All to the west of the Euphrates to be the concern of Rome. All to the east of the Euphrates to be the concern of the King of the Parthians.’-’

  “This means, I trust, no more western incursions by Armenia?”

  “It most certainly does,” said Orobazus, with a glare at the angry and disappointed Tigranes.

  *

  At last, thought Sulla as he waited for the Parthian envoys to file off the dais—followed by a Tigranes who looked nowhere save at the white marble floor—at last I know how Gaius Marius must have felt when Martha the Syrian prophetess foretold that he would be consul of Rome seven times, and be called the Third Founder of Rome. But Gaius Marius is still alive! Yet I have been called the greatest man in the world! The whole world, from India to Oceanus Atlanticus!

  Not one tiny hint of his jubilation did he display to any other man during the succeeding days; his son, who had been let watch proceedings from a distance, knew only what his eyes had seen, as his ears were beyond hearing distance; in fact, no member of Sulla’s own people had been within hearing distance. All Sulla reported was the treaty.

  This agreement was to be drawn up on a tall stone monument Orobazus planned to place at the spot where Sulla’s platform had stood, for it was now dismantled, its precious materials returned from whence they came. The stone was a four-sided obelisk and the terms were inscribed in Latin, Greek, Parthian, and Median, one language upon each side. Two copies were made on Pergamum parchment, for Sulla to take to Rome and Orobazus to take to Seleuceia-on-Tigris, where, Orobazus predicted, King Mithridates of the Parthians would be well pleased.

  Tigranes had slunk off with the mien of a whipped cur the moment he could secure leave from his suzerains, returned to where his new city of Tigranocerta was having its streets surveyed. His first logical step was to write to Mithridates of Pontus, but he did not for some time. When he did, it was at least with some private satisfaction emerging from the news he had received from a friend at court in Seleuceia-on-Tigris.

  Take heed of this Roman, Lucius Cornelius Sulla, my valued and mighty father-in-law. At Zeugma on the Euphrates he did conclude a treaty of friendship with the satrap Orobazus of Seleuceia-on-Tigris, acting on behalf of my suzerain, King Mithridates of the Parthians.

  Between them, they have tied my hands, beloved King of Pontus. Under the terms of the treaty they concluded, I am bound to remain to the east of the Euphrates, and I dare not disobey—not while that merciless old tyrant your namesake sits upon the throne of the Parthians. Seventy valleys my kingdom paid for my return. Did I disobey, seventy more valleys would be taken from me.

  Yet we must not despair. As I have heard you say, we are still young men, we have the time to be patient. This treaty of Rome and the Kingdom of the Parthians has made up my mind. I will expand Armenia. You must look to those domains you named—Cappadocia, Paphlagonia, Asia Province, Cilicia, Bithynia, and Macedonia. I will look south to Syria, Arabia, and Egypt. Not to mention to the Kingdom of the Parthians. For one day soon old Mithradates the King of the Parthians will die. And I predict that there will then be a war of succession, for he has sat on his sons as he sits on me, and favors none above the others, and torments them with threats of death, and even occasionally does kill one to watch the others hop. So there has been no ascendancy of one son above any of the others, and that is dangerous when an old king dies. This much I do swear to you, honored and esteemed father-in-law—that the moment there is internal war between the sons of the King of the Parthians, I will seize my chance and strike out for Syria, Arabia, Egypt, Mesopotamia. Until then, I will continue my work of building Tigranocerta.

  One further thing I must report to you about the meeting between Orobazus and Lucius Cornelius Sulla. Orobazus told the Chaldaean seer, the Nabopolassar, to scan the palm and face of the Roman. Now I know the work of this Nabopolassar, whose brother is seer to the King of Kings himself. And I tell you, great and wise father-in-law, that the Chaldaean is a true seer, never wrong. When he had done with the hand and face of Lucius Cornelius Sulla he fell upon his stomach and humbled himself to the Roman as he humbles himself to the King of Kings and no other. Then he told Orobazus that Lucius Cornelius Sulla was the greatest man in the world! From the River Indus to the River of Ocean, he did say. And I was very afraid. So too was Orobazus. With good reason. When he and the others got back to Seleuceia-on-Tigris they found the King of the Parthians in residence there, so Orobazus reported what had happened immediately. Including details the Roman had given him about our own activity, mighty father-in-law. And including the Roman’s warning that you might look toward the Kingdom of the Parthians to conquer it. King Mithridates took heed. I am strapped with watchers. But—the only news which cheers me—he executed Orobazus and the Nabopolassar for making more of a Roman than their king. Yet he has decided to honor the treaty, and has written to Rome to this effect. It seems the old man is sorry he never set eyes on Lucius Cornelius Sulla. I suspect had he, he would have employed his executioner. A pity then that he was in Ecbatana.

  Only the future can show us our fates, my dearest and most admired father-in-law. It may be that Lucius Cornelius Sulla comes no more to the east, that his greatness will be aimed at the west. And it may be too that one day it is I who assume the title, King of Kings. This means nothing to you, I know. But to one brought up at the courts in Ecbatana and Susia and Seleuceia-on-Tigris, it means everything.

  My dear wife, your daughter, is very well. Our children are well. Would that I could inform you our plans were going well. That is not to be. For the moment.

  Ten days after the parley on the platform, Lucius Cornelius Sulla received his copy of the treaty, and was invited to be present at the unveiling of the monument beside the great milky blue river. He went clad in his toga praetexta, trying to ignore the fact that the summer sun was wreaking havoc upon the skin of his face; this was one occasion upon which he could not wear his hat. All he could do was oil himself and hope the many hours in the sun would not burn him too deeply.

  Of course they did, a lesson his son absorbed, vowing he too would always wear his hat. His father’s misery was acute. He blistered, peeled, blistered again, peeled again, oozed precious water from the healing layers, and scratched, and suppurated. But by the time he and his little army reached Tarsus some forty days later, Sulla’s skin was finally beginning to heal and he no longer itched. Morsimus had found some sweet-smelling cream in a market along the Pyramus River; from the time he first anointed himself with it, his skin ceased to plague him. And it healed without a blemish, a fact which pleased Sulla, who was vain.

  Like the prediction of the Nabopolassar, he told no one, even his son, about the bags of gold. The one he had been given by the King of Osrhoene had been joined by five others, the gift of the Parthian Orobazus. These coins were emblazoned with the profile of the second King Mithridates of the Parthians, a short-necked old man with a nose suitable for catching fish, carefully curled hair and pointed beard, and on his head the little round brimless hat his ambassadors had worn, except that his boasted the ribbon of the diadem and had ear-flaps and neck-shield.

  In Tarsus Sulla changed his golden coins for good Roman denarii, and found to his amazement that he was the richer by ten million denarii—forty million sesterces. He had more than doubled his fortune! Of course he didn’t haul bags and bags of Roman coins away from the Tarsian banking house; he availed himself of permutatio and tucked a little roll of Pergamum parchment into his toga instead.

  The year had worn down, autumn was well under way, and it was time to be thinking of going home. His job was done—and done well. Those in the Treasury at Rome who had dowered his war chest would not complain; for there had been ten more bags of gold—two from Tigranes of Armenia, five from the King of the Parthians, one from the King of Commagene, and two from none other than the King of Pontus. This meant Sulla could pay his army out and give Morsimus a generous bonus, then put more than two thirds of it into his war chest, now far richer than it had been wh
en he started out. Yes, a good year! His reputation in Rome would rise, and he now had the money to stand for the consulship.

  His trunks were packed and the ship he had hired was riding at anchor on the Cydnus when he had a letter from Publius Rutilius Rufus, dated in September.

  I hope, Lucius Cornelius, that this catches you in time. And I hope yours has been a better year than mine. But more of that anon.

  I do so love writing to those far away about the goings-on in Rome. How I shall miss it! And who will write to me? But more of that anon.

  In April we elected ourselves a new pair of censors. Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus Pontifex Maximus and Lucius Licinius Crassus Orator. An ill-assorted pair, you perceive. The irascible allied to the immutable— Hades and Zeus—the succinct coupling with the verbose—a harpy and a muse. All of Rome is trying to find the perfect description of the world’s most imperfect duo. It should of course have been Crassus Orator and my dear Quintus Mucius Scaevola, but it wasn’t. Scaevola refused to run. He says he’s too busy. Too wary, more like! After the fuss the last censors created—and the lex Licinia Mucia to cap it—I daresay Scaevola thought himself well out of the business.

  Of course the special courts provided for by the lex Licinia Mucia are now defunct. Gaius Marius and I succeeded in having them disbanded early in the year, on the grounds that they were a financial burden the returns could not justify. Luckily everyone agreed. The amendment was passed without incident in both Senate and Comitia. But the scars linger, Lucius Cornelius, in truly terrible ways. Two of the more obnoxious judges, Gnaeus Scipio Nasica and Catulus Caesar, have had farmsteads and villas they own burned to the ground; and others have had crops destroyed, vineyards torn apart, water cisterns poisoned. There is a new nocturnal sport up and down the country—find a Roman citizen and beat him half to death. Not, naturally, that anyone—even Catulus Caesar—will admit that the lex Licinia Mucia has anything to do with all these private disasters.