The Silk Tree Read online

  Nicander stepped forward but Marius hung back.

  ‘I can’t do it!’ he muttered hoarsely. ‘What if he speaks to me? Wha-what do I say?’

  ‘Come on, Marius. I’ll be doing the talking.’

  ‘He’ll have a go at me – and then I’ll … I’ll say a wrong thing!’

  ‘Not if you’ve taken a vow of silence and cannot speak.’

  They swept on; past the Delphax with its noble columns, the domed Onopodion, the low colonnaded Consisterium, more. A concentration of grandeur and solemnity.

  Finally they emerged opposite the Daphne Palace. The actual residence of the Emperor, it was faced with columns but there were no windows or doors to be seen except for the main entrance. There, wreathed smoky-white marble columns supported a façade of the utmost elegance, the approach steps a contrasting dusky red stone.

  They rounded the end of the building to a lowly entrance and passed inside a single plain doorway which led into a room beyond.

  Narses held up his hand.

  They heard movement in the room; the scraping of a chair, the chink of a goblet and a slight cough.

  Narses gave them a warning glance, then knocked and disappeared inside. There was a murmur of voices and he emerged. ‘His Divine Majesty wishes you to enter upon his presence.’

  Keyed to the highest possible level, Nicander told himself this was really only a bigger league sales pitch, much like the time when, single-handed, he landed that Epirus deal in front of the Exarch of Achaea himself, or that masterly performance when …

  With a single backward glance at the stricken Marius he stepped forward. To stand before Justinian, Emperor and Caesar of the Roman Empire, its people and dominions.

  Sitting at a desk that was not much more than a bench he looked up.

  Nicander saw before him a man of years, an abstemious and heavy face, brooding and unsmiling. Bare-headed, he wore a plain rust-coloured chlamys secured with a simple gold clasp which, with a single massive ring, was the only ornamentation.

  ‘Approach!’

  Heart in his mouth Nicander went to him, knelt and kissed a worn slipper, remembering at the last minute to stay on one knee.

  ‘Rise!’

  Pulse racing, he raised his eyes to meet those of the ruler of civilisation.

  ‘From where do you hail, good Brother?’ The tone was benign, encouraging.

  ‘Sire, I am Brother Paul and this, Brother Matthew. Our home is the kingdom of Artaxium Felix, which is in the desert, past the mountains of Hawazin and beyond the land of the Carnaites.’

  ‘You’re a Lakhmid?’

  ‘No, Majesty,’ Nicander replied, not sure what that meant. ‘We are an ancient race, much decayed in fortune since our river changed its course. We’ve been cut off by the advancing desert and have lived alone, away from the outer world for centuries.’

  ‘Are you then a pagan? Your Latin does you credit, I ask this only to establish your standing before God.’

  ‘Why no, sir! Our little kingdom was established in the time of your illustrious predecessor, Alexander Severus, at the time of the first Persian wars. We were loyal to Rome but the last we have of the true way was the Christianity of the blessed Constantine. From that time we have been alone.’

  ‘So you’re then untainted by the ungodly heresies of Arianism, the Monophysites or even, our good Lord forbid, the Nestorians?’

  ‘Majesty, we have stayed by the teachings of our blessed Saint Agnes to this day.’ He crossed himself devoutly.

  ‘I see. Your fellow brother – has he anything to say for himself?’

  ‘Oh, no, sire! He remains under a vow of silence made on our miraculous return. Seventy-eight days, one for each of the years granted unto our Lady Agnes.’

  ‘Most proper in you, Brother. Then I must hear your tale from yourself only. Do go on.’

  It came out easily; modest in delivery, compelling in what it implied and it held Justinian’s rapt attention.

  ‘I wonder why I have not heard of these wanderings – most travellers are only too eager to prate on about their exploits.’

  ‘Sire, we’re only humble holy men, unversed in the literary arts; we are newly returned, anxious to impart our secret most urgently to Your Clemency before others steal it.’

  ‘A worthy object. And it was in Serica you saw the silk trees?’

  ‘We did, Resplendency. Such a picture in a warm dusk, when the ladies of the village gather with their combs and panniers waiting for the moon. They sing strange but beautiful songs and no man may join them, for only the agility of the female hand is sufficient to garner the harvest of silk from high up on the topmost leaves.’

  ‘And … the seeds?’

  ‘The silk tree requires particular care, the soil well watered and animals kept away until they be of a stature to stand alone. The seeds are small, many would fill a common purse but these are well guarded, for it is feared that the Scythians to the north might well plant their own and be seen abroad in all manner of rich silks, to the despising of their industry.’

  ‘Hmm. I can quite see that – silk is not for the common people, still less barbarians.’

  Nicander tensed as the Emperor’s face hardened.

  ‘Now you propose to return with these same seeds of the silk tree. How is it you can feel able to return the kindness of the King of the Seres by robbing him of his secret in this way?’

  ‘In the eyes of God, all creation is gifted to all men – it is so written. Is it right therefore to withhold the fruits of creation from others so?’

  A wintry smile came and vanished quickly. ‘Very well, shall we now hear something of your plans?’

  ‘Yes, Excellency. It is a long and arduous journey across desert and mountains to Serica, through uncountable Hunnish tribes and vile kingdoms – the worst of these are the Persians. Nevertheless, we who have experienced so much know that there is another way. We mean to embark in a ship and sail to the fabled isle of Taprobane, which lies at a distance into the Erythraean Sea far from any Persian or barbarian. There with our precious decree of protection we will induce a trader of Seres to take us on to his country.’

  ‘A wise and well-thought plan. I had feared you would present a scheme requiring me to mount an expedition of size to cross Persia, which would undoubtedly mean war.’

  ‘Thank you, Majesty. It was always our intent to keep costs and gross outlay to a minimum by setting aside ambassadors and an official delegation, leaving merely ourselves to support.’

  ‘I see. Nevertheless, an enterprise as you propose will still require funding at a significant level. Travel at an unknown distance, subsistence, additional attire to meet a variety of conditions …’

  ‘Still far less than a military-led expedition, sire.’

  ‘True. Then for the sake of example, should we hazard, say, funding in the amount of five hundred gold solidi? Would this be too generous, do you believe?’

  ‘It is in our thinking, that to cross lands beyond the protection of the King of the Seres will require a different course. It is the usual practice to hire unemployed soldiery for guards, which we feel a reasonable expense. And there are always unenlightened rulers who will levy exactions on travellers under penalty of refusing to allow them passage. In fact, there are many such traps for the unwary and it were folly to hazard the success of the venture for want of proper funding. Excellent Majesty, the Persians are exacting fifteen solidi a pound for raw silk.’

  ‘It’s more than that, but I’ll let it go.’

  ‘At seventy grains weight for each solidus, seventy-two in a pound, then each pound of silk is two, three ounces of pure gold. Thus, to import a single ton of silk the Persians must receive no less than four hundred pounds weight of gold. To satisfy an empire will therefore take in the measure of some tons’ weight of gold every year – all pouring into the treasury of the King of the Persians and no revenues you may call upon to offset this outflow.’

  Justinian’s eyes narrowed. ‘For a ho
ly man it seems to me you’re worldly beyond your station, Brother Paul.’

  ‘Clemency, I knew you would require detail and considered thought, so I made it my business to have the facts at hand.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Sire, I merely wished to point out that when in possession of the seeds this drain will cease. No more tons of gold to your bitter enemy – perhaps even a net inflow when you begin exporting your crop to others. Surely this is worth an investment of, say, four thousand …?’

  ‘You present a compelling argument. Just for my curiosity, pray, what reward do you seek for your services? A fee against—’

  ‘Sire!’ Nicander blurted, shocked. ‘This is not the way of one in the fellowship of the holy Saint Agnes!’

  He allowed a beatific smile to settle. ‘If it pleases, Your Effulgence, it would gratify my king were you to establish a church to Saint Agnes and provide us with such monks as are necessary to teach our people the true way of the Lord in these parlous modern times.’

  ‘A church? I would think that possible. And clerics – you shall have them both. Provided you are successful in bringing back to me the seeds of the silk tree.’

  ‘Then …?’

  ‘It does seem you have a case, Brother Paul. I’m minded to assist. If you’re going forth to cross the earth at great personal hazard, why should we not risk our own paltry three thousands?’

  ‘Sire, four.’

  ‘Hmm, four. Now let me help you, Brother. The tribute convoy to Persia leaves shortly. You will have escort and rations all the way to the shores of the Erythraean.’

  ‘Thank you, Majesty,’ Nicander managed.

  ‘Further, I would not have it on my conscience if I allowed men of God to go into the world without they have attendants. You shall have two of my finest compulsors to look after you. To carry your bags, as it were, and assist in bringing safely back my seeds.’

  ‘This won’t be necessary, Your Resplendency, we—’

  ‘You will be provided with a holy relic to present to your king. Perhaps the finger bone of Saint Anthony?’

  ‘You are most generous, Divine Majesty.’

  ‘And holy scriptures, of course. You have no objection to the writings of the sainted Athanasius?

  ‘So now there is little more for you to concern yourselves with. Return to your cell with our blessing, to fast and prepare yourselves spiritually for the journey. Rest easy, holy brothers – you will be guarded day and night, have no fear. Your attendants will take care of the chest of funds when they have been assembled. You are to be relieved of responsibility and anxiety for all profane existence.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  They spoke in whispers – the guards posted were only paces away outside their cell.

  ‘You think … he knows?’ Nicander said, his voice unsteady.

  Marius grunted, lying on his back on the simple wicker bed and staring up at the dark ceiling. ‘So why let us go?’

  ‘We’re trapped in this cell. Peter Barsymes won’t go near us now, John the Cappadocian is no use – he’ll deny us anyway – Lady Antonina dare not show herself at this level. We’re on our own, Marius – do you hear what I’m saying?’

  ‘That’s good – we don’t need anybody now.’

  ‘Are you mad? We’re caught up in a crazy scheme that’ll see us on a boat to nowhere or the edge of the world, and you say we don’t need anybody?’

  ‘I’m saying it’s all down to us, and that’s how I like it.’

  ‘So what do you suggest we do now?’

  ‘We wait for the right moment and get out fast with the doings, why not?’

  ‘The attendants, remember?’

  ‘Two little servants? Nothing to worry of, Greek.’

  ‘These are compulsors!’

  Marius levered himself up. ‘So?’

  ‘Known in the business world as “tax extraction agents”, and hard men, believe me, friend!’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘They know all the tricks, have been everywhere, eat a Sarmatian muscleman for breakfast – each – and are blind loyal to Justinian. Only sent in where other persuasions fail.’

  ‘Why …?’

  ‘Can’t you see it? There’s two ways to look at it. Either he believes that we’re two innocent holy men needing protection from a wicked world, can’t be let out alone – or he wants us to get the silk seeds, then these two seize ’em, and after disposing of us in a permanent way, present them to their master, secret safe.’

  ‘Ah …’

  ‘So we’re in trouble either way, my good friend.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘What’s that bloody noise?’ Marius groaned, awakening in the pre-dawn light.

  The insistent knocking made Nicander stir, too. ‘See what the matter is,’ he muttered, pulling his blanket over his head.

  Cursing under his breath, Marius opened their cell door. Two men stood patiently. ‘What do you want?’ he growled.

  ‘Are you gentlemen not yet risen? Sorry to disturb. We’re your attendants come for you,’ said the taller of the two.

  ‘Can we enter? Get acquainted, like.’

  ‘Well, make yourselves at home!’ Marius said sarcastically as they pushed past. Both, he noted, wore a knee-length chlamys, plenty of room to conceal weapons.

  Nicander emerged from under his blanket. ‘Why are you here at this hour? We’re—’

  ‘Ship sails soon. We’re to see you on it.’

  ‘I don’t think I caught your names.’

  ‘I’m Velch the Tuscan and he’s Nemasus of Massilia.’

  ‘We’re here just to keep you gentlemen safe, looking after details, like. Wouldn’t want a nasty barbarian taking advantage of you holy gentlemen, now would we?’

  ‘So, you’re guarding us. And our chest, too?’

  ‘Ah, now you’ve no need to worry yourselves about that there,’ he chuckled. ‘It’ll all be taken care of – just you get us to this Seres place and we’ll be doing all the rest.’

  Nicander didn’t miss the quick flash between the two.

  ‘We’re holy men and used to our privacy. I trust this will be respected?’

  ‘Of couuurrrse!’ purred Velch. ‘We’ll be no bother at all.’

  Nemasus produced two small bags from the hallway, which he tossed on one of the beds. ‘You can take as much as you like on the boat – as long as it fits in those. We’ll be back in an hour.’

  Velch stood in the doorway, Nemasus to one side.

  ‘We are ready to proceed,’ Nicander said, looking pointedly at their bags.

  The two compulsors did not move.

  ‘Our luggage?’

  ‘We don’t carry bags. Gets in the way of a sword arm, like. Now, if you holy gentlemen would go on ahead where we can keep an eye on you.’

  In the quiet of the early morning the little group moved through the palace compound and out to the small harbour by the lighthouse.

  Alongside the breakwater was a dromond, the sleek sail galley that was the navy’s chief battle weapon. It was being loaded by a chain of labourers and the yards already had sail bent to them.

  The entire area was secured. A double line of armoured soldiers cordoned off the approaches to the vessel and a burly ship’s corporal made much of looking up their names on a slate before they were let through. At the gangway an officer also checked a list.

  Hundreds of feet long, the dromond was equipped with fifty oars and two lofty masts with diagonal lateens across them. A full deck ran fore and aft, both for sheltering the oarsmen beneath and to serve as a fighting platform for archers.

  As they boarded, Nicander spied a series of squat cases lashed down in a row on the centreline under cloths. Their chest would be amongst them.

  They were escorted aft to the clear area before the cabin and left with their bags until they could be attended to by the busy crew while the compulsors disappeared below. With a hundred men-at-oars pouring aboard, sailors hauling on ropes and the last stores being
struck down it was no time to be in the way.

  There was a long, piercing whistle followed by three short ones. Sailors sprang into position, lines were thrown ashore and they were poled clear. Then a sharp order rang out, along with a rumble of wooden thunder as oars were shipped and brought to a ready position.

  The captain looked about, sniffing for a wind. Satisfied, he raised his hand.

  A bull roar erupted from forward. The oars lifted and fell in a chorus of creaks, bit into the sea then lifted once more – and with a slither and thud dipped again together.

  Nicander looked up to see the dry land retreating feet at a time. The ship gathered way and began slipping further off until, imperceptibly, their world changed to a watery one.

  Soon all the familiar sights of Constantinople took on a different perspective, the great Hagia Sophia becoming model-like, a vision in white. The low bulk of the vast hippodrome was nothing more than an apologetic hump beyond the sea wall stretching down the coast.

  His thoughts were interrupted by another barked order. The oars ceased their rhythm and the ship glided to a stop. They were now well out into the Propontis. Two other galleys took position ahead, on either side.

  More orders cracked out and running feet thumped on the deck as sailors raced to their stations. Lines were thrown off, yards hauled around and sail was shown to the wind. As if bowing to Oceanus, the ship leant at an angle and with a final rumble below, oars were brought in and housed.

  ‘So, our last view of Constantinople,’ murmured Nicander. Marius remained silent.

  ‘You do realise, if – when – we’ve got it in the bag we can’t return. If something else happens, we’ll be cooked like a goose. Either way, this is the last we’ll be seeing of the old place.’

  ‘You sound sorry.’

  ‘Sorry! When every face I see could be in the pay of someone out for our blood – when you can’t trust a common serving maid, public races are corrupt and you’re dragged off the street to a torture chamber on the orders of some thick-brained idiot!’

  Marius muttered something that Nicander did not quite catch.