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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Serie: Moments of History
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
"Julian Stockwin, a master of the historic novel, writes with a zeal, re-creating ancient times, with fast-paced prose, vivid characters, and matchless authenticity." - QUARTERDECK MAGAZINE Rome 549 AD. Forced to flee the city, merchant Nicander and legionary Marius escape to a new life in Constantinople. Determined to make their fortune, they plot a number of outrageous money-making schemes, until they chance upon their greatest idea yet. Armed with an audacious plan to steal precious silk seeds from the faraway land of Seres, Nicander and Marius must embark upon a terrifying and treacherous journey across unknown realms. But first they must deceive the powerful ruler Justinian and the rest of his formidable Byzantine Empire in order to begin their voyage into the unknown. In an adventurous tale of mischief and deception, Nicander and Marius face danger of the highest order, where nothing in the land of the Roman Empire is quite what it seems.
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THE SILK TREE
JULIAN STOCKWIN
Map
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The genesis for The Silk Tree came when my wife, Kathy, and I were in Istanbul doing location research. She discovered a rather lovely silk scarf in the Kapali Çarşi, the ancient Grand Bazaar. While she was chatting with the merchant I idly wondered how silk had been brought from China to the West. Intrigued, I did some research on the subject and the creative juices started flowing – I knew I had a story I had to tell! Part of the task of a writer of historical fiction is to recreate city landscapes of the past in his mind’s eye and for The Silk Tree this meant sixth-century Constantinople (as Istanbul was called then).
So, what is known about the secret of silk? China kept the secret for over 1000 years and legend there tells of a princess who smuggled eggs out in her headdress when married to a prince of Khotan. In the West, accounts generally agree that it was two monks that returned from China in 551 AD with the secret of silk, and although documents vary in their details – each providing tantalising references and with no one version standing out as definitive – I have based my novel on these. Many of the characters in the book did exist and it was fascinating researching their lives.
Top of a novelist’s desire when writing is that his readers enjoy the book, but I also hope The Silk Tree has opened a window to a world that we in the twenty-first century can only wonder at.
At about the same time there came certain monks. They promised Emperor Justinian Augustus that they would provide the means for making silk from Sinae where they had learnt the art. After they had announced these tidings, they returned thither and brought back eggs of a worm that feeds on leaves of the mulberry. Thus began the art of making silk in the Roman Empire.
Procopius, Byzantine scholar and historian
– ‘Yπέρ τῶv πολέμων λόγoι
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
* indicates fictional character
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
The dilapidated building on the outskirts of Rome stank of farm slurry – and rank fear hung heavily on the air. Nicander’s stomach contorted painfully with hunger. He rubbed his legs, cursing the sparse, angular timbers of the hayloft where he had been hiding since the day before.
He glanced below. In the fitful moonlight coming through the holed roof he could see the three farmhands still cowering in a corner. Next to them a mother rocked her infant. An older child stood close, her eyes flashing fearfully at every sound.
Now the old man was dead. His two slaves squatted next to the body, sunk in a stupor of misery. At least there would be no more of his tortured whimpering. He wore a toga, making him out to be a patrician of sorts, but it hadn’t saved him from a brutal, casual hacking by the invaders before he had managed to flee.
Outside in the darkness a distant wolf howled. A mourning for the travails of a proud city falling to the forces of darkness. Nicander shivered at the flesh-crawling sound. In the Year of Our Lord 549 a great empire was now meeting its end.
He hadn’t heard any drunken laughter or sounds of rampaging destruction from the farmhouse for some time but the nearby villa was a different matter. The Ostrogoths were again busy at their plunder there, but if they heard noise they would come looking …
He eased more into the shadows. If they broke in, would they be content with butchering the half a dozen below and not glance up? He caught himself – the little group were fellow human beings. But what could he do? He was just one man without so much as a knife. They were strangers; did he owe them anything? Coldly, he concluded that they were in no different position to himself, helpless before the flooding tide of barbarians. Therefore, like him, they must take their chances with whatever scraps of fortune the gods threw their way.
It had all happened so fast. The capital had long moved to Constantinople while the ancient city of Rome had declined and decayed. However, the Emperor in the East, Justinian, had been increasingly successful in his bid to restore the old glories of Rome. He had unleashed the gifted general Belisarius on the Huns, Goths and Ostrogoths and other enemies until the populace felt they could breathe easily. But then he had unaccountably recalled his general, in a fit of jealousy, some said. The beaten hordes had seized their chance and struck back, the wild and cunning Totila of the Ostrogoths thrusting aside the leaderless army to take Rome itself.
Nicander would never forget that night. The rumour had spread that traitors had opened the gates to the Ostrogoths. Panic-stricken crowds scattered before crazed horsemen wielding axes and swords, screaming in bloodlust. An unstoppable flood came on and on, fanning out among the ancient magnificence to plunder and destroy. The wise had hidden. Those witless with fear who had not were mercilessly run down and killed. Females were raped in full view on the street.
Hoarse yells, screaming, flames; the reek of destruction drifting in a choking haze. The chaos and carnage had never abated.
Nicander had watched from his hiding place as his warehouse was set alight by the rampaging barbarians, two hundred thousand solidi worth of incense going up in thickly scented smoke. He was a merchant with a business in the old quarter of the city but now that was over – he was finished and he’d lost no time in fleeing for his life to the countryside while the Ostrogoths were greedily occupied in their looting.
He’d deliberately fled alone, fearing that groups of people would be more likely to attract attention. It had been a terrifying and exhausting struggle over the hills with his little bundle of possessions, avoiding scattered bands of marauders until daylight had threatened. He had looked for the nearest hiding place and found this ramshackle farm outhouse, but was taken aback to find it already occupied by others in the same dire need. They had spent the day in a trembling funk, waiting for who knew what. Towards evening a throng of Ostrogoths had cantered past to plunder the villa close by.
All night they had cringed at the harsh shrieks of the family there as they provided bloody entertainment for the conquerors. Bursts of noise and coarse laughter came on the air, along with periodic splintering crashes. The cries had fallen away in the daylight hours but who knew when they would emerge to come after fresh victims. Now the drunken revelry had begun again.
Italia was being overrun. Nicander knew he had to get out, quickly. The northern ports would all be taken but if he pressed on hard to the south he could probably make Brundisium, and there take ship, away from this madness.
He tried to shut out the unsteady maundering of the mother as she attempted to comfort her infant, the older child still standing by her side, mute and rigid.
He was not a warrior but a peace-craving merchant, certainly no hero. Should he go now, or hope the marauders would tire of their revelries at the villa and move on? Either way there was the prospect of stumbling on one of the murderous bands roaming the countryside.
There would be no mercy seen when—
A blow on the door sounded like a thunderclap, then came harsh, smashing hits. Cold fear gripped Nicander – it had happened and they were hopelessly trapped!
The door gave way, sagged and fell flat. With his heart in his throat he stared down and saw limned against the moonlight a single large figure, sword in one hand, a shapeless pack in the other.
There was a terrifying moment as the man looked in suspiciously then, in the same second that Nicander registered that his weapon was a regulation Roman gladius, the infant gave a loud shriek. The legionary dropped the pack and hurled himself forward. ‘Shut it!’ he hissed savagely to the mother, the sword threatening. She gripped the baby tightly, pleading with her eyes.
It was too much for the child, who began screaming hysterically. The soldier tore the infant from her, and in a practised sweep slashed its throat, the screech instantly turning to a bubbling sob. He dropped the limp body quickly. The sword flashed out again, stopping an inch from the mother’s breast.
There was a petrified silence, then the woman fell on the dead child, her sobs muffled by its stained clothing. The soldier stood back, tightly alert, his sword still drawn while his hard eyes passed over them all. He let it fall to his side and went to the doorway and looked out, listening intently. Then he sheathed the weapon and returned.
‘Who’s to speak for you?’ he demanded to the space in general. His Latin was crude and direct.
Nicander couldn’t move. The ruthless execution had paralysed him with its lethal effectiveness.
But then a shameful thought crept in: if there was going to be any chance of survival, this man of inhuman decisiveness might be the means of achieving it.
‘I will,’ he found himself saying.
The soldier’s eyes flicked up to the hayloft in surprise. ‘Then get down and speak!’
Nicander dropped from his hiding place and tried to keep his voice steady. ‘Nicodorus of Leptis Magna. Nicander.’
‘Greek!’ grunted the legionary in contempt. His plumed helmet was missing but he wore body armour which was stained with blood over the right side.
‘And running from the Ostrogoths – like you!’ Nicander retorted.
A strong hand shot out and grabbed the front of his tunic. The man’s hard face thrust into his, the expression merciless. But then he nodded. ‘It’s the truth of it, Greek. We’re beaten, the fucking square-heads did it again and this time Rome itself pays.’
He made play of smoothing Nicander’s tunic and added contemptuously, ‘Who are your mates, then?’
‘They’re not my friends. They were hiding here when I took shelter.’ He held the big man’s eyes. ‘You didn’t say who you are, soldier.’
‘Does it matter, Greek?’
‘Just being polite, Roman.’
Unexpectedly, the big man smiled. ‘Don’t get your dignity in a twist, then, Greek.’ He grunted. ‘It’s Marius, legionary of the Decius twenty-fourth Pannonian as no longer exists. Quintus Carus Marius,’ he added, smacking a fist to his left breast in mocking salute.
Nicander inclined his head. Around them was the stillness of horror, only the muffled distress of the woman audible. ‘We have to get away from here. What’s it like out there?’
Marius ignored him and pointed at one of the huddled farmhands. ‘You! What did you hear outside?’
The lad stared back in mute despair.
Marius’s hand dropped to his sword and he took a pace forward. ‘Answer me, you fucking cowards!’ he snarled.
‘In the last few hours, sounds only from the villa,’ Nicander said carefully.
Marius swung around to face him. ‘Right. That’s to the north.’ He smiled mirthlessly and scooped up his pack. ‘So I’m away to the south. Best of fortune, Mr Greek, you’re going to need it!’
‘Wait!’ Nicander thought furiously. It would be daylight in a few hours and then his fate would be sealed. There was no way he was going to leave his bones in this godforsaken corner of a crumbling empire. He had moments only before the soldier left them to their doom.
It was a long shot, but the only card he had. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something, legionary?’
‘What?’ snapped Marius.
‘Your duty as a Roman soldier!’
Marius stiffened. ‘You dare to speak to me of such, you Greek swine!’
But Nicander sensed he had touched a nerve. ‘Yes, you’ve surely not forgotten your sworn oath before the legate – to defend to the death Rome and its citizens!’
‘Have a care, Greek! I’m not throwing my life away for this worthless rabble!’
Nicander’s face hardened. ‘You’ve lost a battle but this doesn’t end your duty to your country.’
‘What do you know of soldiering! I’ve a bigger charge – to preserve myself as a trained legionary for when we strike back.’
Nicander stepped between Marius and the doorway. ‘These are Roman citizens. They’ve a claim to your protection. Are you going to turn your back on them all, each and every one, to save yourself?’
‘Yes!’
Taking a deep breath, Nicander drew himself up. ‘Then the glories of old Rome mean nothing to you. The wars against Hannibal and his cohorts when all was said to be lost, then brave legionaries turned the tide? Teutoburg Forest and three legions exterminated – but avenged? And you’re going to—’
Marius’s eyes had a dangerous gleam. He bit off savagely, ‘Those times have gone, Greek! There’s nothing now.’
But Nicander had seen something that might give him one last chance. He glanced at the single iron ring on Marius’s hand. ‘I doubt Mithras agrees,’ he said, almost in a whisper. The cult of the bull had gone underground since Christianity had triumphed but still had adherents in the military.
‘Is it not true the god smiles on those who hold honour more precious than life itself?’ he went on.
He could see it hit home.
Marius recoiled. ‘So what do you expect me to do? Take ’em all on myself?’
Nicander felt the tide turning in his favour, but he knew he needed to play it very carefully from now on; the Roman had taken the infant’s life without a second thought. Would he kill him for his insolence?
Folding his arms he said, ‘You’re waiting for a centurion to tell you what to do? These people are looking to you, Mr Quintus Carus Marius, to think of something.’
The legionary strode to the doorway and looked out, seeming to be struggling for a decision. After a moment he turned back with a grim expression. ‘You’re a sad bunch o’ losers – but for the honour of the twenty-fourth – there might be a way. When the square-heads find more loot than they can carry, they let out a wolf’s cry to bring up their mates.’
‘Yes, and—?’
‘I’ll go outside and draw ’em away like that. You and the others can then get clear.’
Nicander smothered a sigh of relief. With the attention of any wanderers out there elsewhere, he would lose no time in making off into the night and blessed safety. ‘Yes, Mr Legionary. A fine plan, worthy of your calling.’
‘You’re just looking to save your own skin.’
‘Not at all,’ Nicander came back. ‘These people will need a leader in the days to come.’
‘And that’s you?’
‘Can you think of anyone else?’
Marius glanced around the forlorn group. ‘No,’ he agreed, with a sour smile. ‘Get ’em on their feet.’
Nicander motioned to his sorry charges then said, ‘I wish you well, Marius.’
The Roman did not reply, but gave an ironic army salute. He turned and loped noiselessly out into the night.
Some minutes later the call of a wolf sounded in the darkness.
‘Get ready!’ hissed Nicander.
Another howl rose further out, long and insistent. Nicander listened intently. Excited shouts came from the villa, no doubt men streaming out toward the call.
‘Go!’ he said urgently. The slaves would not leave their master and in a fury he kicked at them until they obeyed, followed by the listless farm workers, pushing them out bodily into the cold night air.
‘Where’s the woman?’ His voice was taut with nervous tension.
She was still inside, crouched over the body of her infant. He tugged roughly at the older child. ‘Get her out of here – if she’s not with us, you’re both dead! Understand?’
He didn’t wait for a reply and returned to the doorway, listening. The cries were now off to the right and distant. They had to make their move – fast!
Pulled by the older child the mother emerged slowly, holding the dead body to her breast, her ragged sobs distracting. Nicander cursed under his breath but wheeled about and led off to the south, a line of dark woods beckoning in the dull moonlight from beyond the fields.
He moved quickly, through a patch of clinging undergrowth and then on to the bare earth of a ploughed field, stumbling forward, propelled by the sick fear of what might happen to them, discovered in the open.
Panting, he made the edge of the woods and crashed on through into the gaunt shadows and the cold stink of forest litter. He turned and looked back, the others were in a slow, straggling line and this pointed like an arrow to where he was. Distraught, he beckoned them on. One by one, they lumbered in, the mother last of all, still clutching the dead child to her breast.
‘Quickly!’ he urged, then lunged deeper into the forest gloom.
At a small clearing he stopped to catch his breath. How could they carry on like this?
He spared a thought for the legionary. He would be dead by now, overwhelmed by vengeful Ostrogoths, but it would have been a quick end. That such a brave man had to be sacrificed was a pity, but now he had bigger problems.
He knew vaguely where south was, but this would lead them into the densest part of the woods. His thoughts raced – did he let on about his plan to make for Brundisium? There were only so many ships and the more that tried to crowd into them, the less his chance of getting away.
And surely it was insane to think this sorry crew could keep up for the many days’ slog there, anyway. What were—
‘I’m h-hungry,’ the small voice of the older child broke in.
‘Shut up!’ he snarled.
He tried to bring to mind the teachings of the ancient Greeks that he was made to learn in his youth. Did the Stoics or the Cynics have anything to say about any moral necessity for the fittest to sacrifice their chances for the sake of the weak?
‘I want s-something to eat!’ moaned the child. Her mother was no longer in touch with reality; her eyes empty and, slowly rocking, she dangled the dead baby’s body listlessly.
He needed more time to think, to decide what to do.
‘Now!’ the child wailed. ‘Someone give me a little piece of bread, anything.’ She started to cry.
‘Hold your noise!’ Nicander spat. ‘I’ll go find something, just shut up!’
He struck out into the woods, eager to be away. Quickly he was deep into it, pushing through the thickening undergrowth between the trees until a broad track crossed his path at an angle. At last he could move freely – but to where? And how could he find food in a ruined countryside seething with barbarians? Perhaps this track led somewhere or – a chilling thought came. If it did, then it was more than likely …
Suddenly he felt hoof-beats through the ground and in a paroxysm of terror threw himself into a thicket, scrabbling at the leaf litter and thorns, desperate for concealment. The first riders came around the bend and he froze, praying they were not looking down. The horses thudded nearer in a gallop, then, just inches away, thundered past, the displaced air of their passage buffeting him. He was left with the stomach-churning reek of Ostrogoths on their way to plunder.
When they had passed he got up, trembling. The track in fact curved further and in sickening realisation he saw that it must pass close to where he had just left. However there was no slackening in the hoof-beats as he heard them die away on leaving the confines of the wood.
He straightened and tried to gather his wits. But before he could focus, in the distance, from the direction of his little group, he heard shouts, hectoring and triumphant. Instantly he realised what had happened. The Ostrogoths had seen footprints in the moonlight on the bare field and these had led unerringly to their victims.
As the first unhinged shrieks came, Nicander could do nothing but stand dully, listening as it grew into a hellish chorus as the slaughter began.
CHAPTER TWO
His muscles were a raw torment and his feet burnt, but Nicander tramped on. He’d joined a flood of others desperate to get away from the scenes of ruin and carnage, fear driving him mercilessly. While the Ostrogoths were busy looting Rome he had to make best speed to Brundisium. It was the biggest port in the south: a capacious harbour, hundreds of vessels. He knew it well from the distant days when he’d been part of the family business, trading out of Leptis Magna.
Now, finally, he was close to his destination. And with it was the prospect of safety and release from suffering.
The journey had not been easy: frenzied stumbling across the Pontine Marshes to get out of reach of the marauders, then buying a place in an overcrowded cart at a ruinous price, only for the horse to go lame. Days of soreness had turned to agony as he’d flogged his body to the limits of endurance.
He’d tried to keep clear of the obvious route, the legendary Appian Way, but there was little avoiding the arrow-straight efficiency of the ancient engineers. And now he found himself toiling over well-rounded stone paving, ever alert for the wild thunder of hoofs behind that would tell him it had all been in vain.
Around the bend the wind caught a thick and cloying stench. Bodies. No one was taking time to bury them and as the human flood converged on Brundisium he saw many more corpses, roughly pulled aside from the road.
God help it, he’d be glad to be quit of this place of death and desolation.
He patted his groin furtively. There was still a reassuring weight in the pouch that nestled snugly there. In his makeshift knapsack he’d planted a handful of siliqua, the coins debased and near useless, together with a scatter of obsolete sesterces, big and impressive, but also valueless. However those in the pouch were solidi, coins of gold, his entire fortune.
Nicander reached the crest of the last rise before Brundisium and gazed down into the wide plain and the town. His eyes searched feverishly – the harbour was virtually empty! There were two small ships out of reach at anchor offshore. Apart from that, nothing of the hundreds from the old days.
Picking up his pace down the road he tried to grapple with the consequences: if he couldn’t get away the only other port of size was Tarentum, days of pain over to the west.
But he couldn’t face any more. Must he take his chances here when the Ostrogoths came? Where could he hide? He hobbled on bleakly, fending off wretches begging for a crust, others on their knees in supplication for release from their misery.
There were roaming gangs out to get their hands on the pitiful scraps of wealth travellers kept to bribe their way to survival. When nightfall came it would bring scenes from hell – if the Ostrogoths didn’t arrive first.
Nicander forced his mind to try to find a way out and remembered that on the gently curving south side, out of sight past the old burying ground, ships were hauled up for repair to be fitted out for their voyages. It could be …
He took a short cut through the marshes and rickety tenements; there were far fewer people and he allowed his hopes to rise. Then, above the rooftops – the lofty broad spars of a ship! A corbita, a large vessel of at least 4000 amphorae gross tonnage.
Eagerly he slipped through an alley leading to the docks but, as soon as he got out in the open, he realised it was hopeless. The ship was alongside but almost hidden by a crowd of hundreds; beseeching, shouting, weeping. He pushed through and saw that there were men with weapons in a ring of steel, guarding the crew who were at work ejecting its grain cargo into the sea – they now had a far more valuable freight.
There was one last chance: the cargo agent’s office was on the second floor of the building behind. Would he still be there and perhaps be able to sell him a place for gold in hand? His little hoard was not impressive but he knew the man and …
‘Sueva! How go you, old friend!’ The big Spaniard glanced up, gave a quick grimace and went back to his counting, each kind of coin in a different money bag. A sour-faced Moor looked on impassively.
‘I’d hoped to catch you here,’ Nicander went on, in as friendly a tone as he could muster.
‘Won’t be for much longer,’ Sueva said darkly. ‘Someone just saw the square-heads firing a farmhouse. They’ll be here before nightfall.’
‘Yes. Unfortunate. Sueva. I’ve need of a passage out of here. I don’t suppose that for a premium fee—’
‘Can’t be done.’
‘Oh?’
‘There’s sixty-seven head going in that corbita. We’re not taking any more and that’s final.’
‘I can perhaps find gold …?’
‘No.’
‘Is there another ship leaving soon—’
‘That’s the last. If I were you, my little Greek, I’d scamper off as fast as you can before this town starts getting exciting.’
On the wharf the crowd was growing but was still held at bay by the armed men. Moving closer, Nicander heard cries and curses as the throng was forced aside by some kind of disturbance at the far end.
It was a group being escorted toward the ship – the lucky few who were getting out with their lives. His heart pounded. Unless he could think of something he was going to be left here, probably to die this very night, butchered by the barbarians.
He tried to pull himself together, he was a merchant, a businessman, and surely should be able to come up with some sort of deal. The pay-off would be saving his own life.
But weariness and pain had dulled his wits. He could think of nothing as he watched the fortunates being shepherded to the gangway and over the bulwarks.
And then a tall, well-built man in a shapeless cloak strode up the gangway – there was something familiar about him!
At the top he turned briefly and their eyes met. It was Marius.
For a long second the legionary held the gaze, then made to step onto the deck. He hesitated – and turned to face Nicander again.
‘There he is!’ he suddenly bellowed. ‘Been looking everywhere for the sorry bastard! My Greek slave! Get aboard this instant, you runt. Now!’
A guard reached out to collar Nicander. He allowed himself to be propelled up the gangway – but the captain swaggered up and barred the way. ‘And who’s paying, then? Full price it is, even slaves.’
He glared pointedly at Marius, who folded his arms and looked meaningfully at Nicander.
Near panic, Nicander faced away and scrabbled for a solidus.
‘Ha!’ guffawed the captain. ‘Your skin’s worth only a pawky single? I’ll have another four o’ them or you gets thrown back, my little cockerel!’
Five gold solidi for a couple of weeks’ voyage! His face burning, Nicander handed the coins over.
‘Right, get along, then,’ the man rumbled and stalked off.
Nicander hurried over to Marius, near incoherent with relief. ‘I … I—’
‘Well? Pick up the bag then, slave!’
‘What? You don’t mean—’
‘You need a taste o’ the whip to get you going, Greek?’
‘Marius, we’ve—’
‘It’s Master to you, runt!’
‘I … I – y-yes, Master,’ Nicander said, ready to do whatever it took to keep in favour.
‘Stuff that! Can’t you Greeks take a joke?’ Marius snorted and stalked off.
Nicander followed him forward to a chalked area of deck, presumably where they were to spend the voyage.
Already the ship was being prepared for sea, sailors elbowing the milling passengers out of the way as they bent on sail.
The ship poled out, and the big square sail was heaved round to the wind. It filled with a loud slam and banging before it took up, and a cheerful rippling began as they pulled away.
Closer to the open sea the vessel gently heeled under a keen breeze.
Near weeping with relief, Nicander stammered, ‘I can only thank you from my heart for your—’
‘Don’t waste your words, Greek. I don’t know why I did it – reckon it was your spunk when you took that hopeless bunch out into the night.’ A suspicious look came over his face. ‘So where are they now? Did you—’
Nicander pulled himself together, ‘Oh, right now I’m not sure. There was a band of Goths came up and I remembered your cry of the wolf. It worked, as well, but I couldn’t find them afterwards,’ he concluded, avoiding the big man’s eyes.
‘Oh? How did you get away, then?’
‘Ah, I climbed a tree. Easy, really – they were only looking on the ground.’
‘Good thinking, Greek. So how did you leave your tree with ’em all around you?’
‘Ah. That. Not so difficult. I waited for a square-head to ride under the branch then fell on him. A right tussle it was but he dropped his axe and I let him have it straight between the eyes and rode off on his horse, that’s all.’
‘Well, quite the little warrior!’
‘It was nothing,’ he said hastily. ‘How did you …?’
‘Not so smart as yours. Four of them came at me, put ’em down, then took another couple on my way out. Hard hacking all the way,’ he added laconically.
The entrance of the harbour came up and then they were through – into the blessed expanse of open sea.
‘Marius, just where are we off to? What’s our port of call?’
The legionary said nothing and fumbled in his pack. He brought out a small cloth bag and threw it at Nicander. ‘Beans, Greek.’
‘It’s actually Nicander, Marius.’
‘Right, Nico.’
‘Nicander.’
‘Get a move on, or you won’t make the head of the line for cooking. Nico.’
Without a word Nicander went off.
Some time later he came back with a steaming bowl and they used their fingers to sup the frugal meal together.
‘So it’s Constantinople, then, Marius. I heard the crew talking.’
‘Yes.’
‘Never been there. Have you?’
‘No.’
‘Then it’s a new place for us both. Have you given thought as to what you’ll do there?’
Marius grunted and patted his pack. ‘Seeing as how the square-heads won’t need this loot where I sent ’em, I’ll put it to good use for myself. You?’
‘I’ll see what kind of fist I can make of it in Constantinople.’ Nicander tried to sound convincing, as much to himself as to Marius. ‘Bound to be opportunities for an experienced businessman!’
The Eastern Roman Empire was a great melting pot; races from Greece, the Levant and the unknowable civilisations that lay in the interior to the east. Surely with his skills he could make something of it there! Returning to Leptis Magna was not an option. That would mean admitting defeat: he had left home against his father’s wishes to set up on his own in Rome.
‘Right. Well, I suppose we should get some sleep,’ he murmured. Outside their chalk square, the deck was carpeted by bodies. He pulled out his travel-stained chlamys. Marius quickly had his greasy wool campaign cloak tightly around him and with a practised endurance sat with his back to the bulwark and head on his knees.
Nicander lay down. Even in his fatigue the decking was hard and unforgiving. Right aft there was a cabin with lights within and no doubt soft beds and wine …
He turned restlessly, looking up at the stars gently wheeling above, regularly obscured by the triangular top-sails.
Would fortune smile on him again? On a merchant with little capital, one of so many nameless souls fleeing the barbarians?
Sleep refused to come.
Setting foot on dry land could not come too soon for Nicander. At least the sailing had been uneventful. Their ship had followed the well-worn track eastward, navigating by known headland and seamark as vessels had for a thousand years. And now, after the slow, week-long journey through the winding length of the Hellespont into the Propontis, they were at last coming within sight of their destination.
Nicander watched as the light-blue misty coastline ahead firmed into darker blue.
It was a changed world now, one where Rome was diminished to a carcass for the plucking, finished as a country, let alone a world power. He had no real feelings for it any more; he’d lost his business and nearly his life because of their pathetic living in the past. They still maintained the pretence of glory with a senate and consul and all the flummery of an imperial history while letting their institutions decline and rot.
It was different for Marius. Brought up as a true Roman he was staunch in his loyalty and protected against reality by the traditions and ceremony of the legion. And secure among his comrades, he’d been blind to the inevitable. It must have been a cruel awakening to have been broken in battle and see all he held dear and honourable crushed under a barbarian horde.
How would he take to the other, more oriental Roman Empire? Nicander had dealt with quite a few merchants from these parts; clever, metropolitan and sly. They had done well under Emperor Justinian, who had transformed the climate for trading with his laws and firm rule, preserving a bastion of civilisation in the face of the human torrent that was flooding in from the vastness of Asia.
And would he himself prosper or fade? With so little capital and no friends …
The land ahead took on colour and detail. Constantinople was beginning to emerge to the left, occupying the end of the peninsula across his vision. On the right was Chalcedon, which lay in Asia. Between the two cities was the Bosphorus Strait, leading through the mountains all the way to the Euxine Sea.
Nearer, a massive sea wall ran right along the foreshore, vanishing into the mists to the left. Above it were houses and larger edifices, glittering white in the morning sunshine. The wafting air brought the scent of land.
The ship’s twin rudders were put over as their course was laid to round the peninsula, and as they closed with the shore new sights came into view. A tower, a lighthouse – domes, tall buildings – and a great palace. And there next to it, unmistakeable, was the marvel of the Church of Sancta Sapientia – or Hagia Sophia as he knew it, a breathtaking vision in marble.
Close by it were the stern porticoes of some kind of senate building, looking as if it had been magically transported from Rome, and further round the end of the peninsula, gardens and olive groves, meadows and valleys.
They did not continue on up the Bosphorus but followed the headland around. A noble acropolis stood high on the wooded promontory.
On the left, a long and narrow waterway opened up, bustling with small craft – the Golden Horn, the legendary end point and focus for so much exotic trading.
Sail was shortened, lines thrown ashore and the ship worked alongside the stone wharf. The high-class passengers were escorted off first, then Nicander and Marius joined the flood of others down the gangway and found themselves on the blessed solidity of the land.
‘So. Where do we …?’ Nicander began but tailed off when he saw the outstretched hand.
‘It’s farewell, then, Greek. I wish you well.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Join up, o’ course! Legionary like me, good to be under the eagle banner again.’
CHAPTER THREE
The sound of the fretful infant’s crying set Nicander’s teeth on edge. The Sarmatian woman had no time to care for a child – she had her hands full running the tabernaria, the street eatery beneath his room. He’d rented the little place from her crude Thracian husband and daren’t risk losing it by complaining, not with the way things were at present.
The whining continued on and on and Nicander saw red. He jumped up and decided to go to his small lock-up and check if the shipment had arrived. Anything to get away from this racket.
Snatching his chlamys he swirled it on, hoping the dash of colour at its hem and polished bronze brooch at the shoulder would conceal the shabby tunic underneath. He clattered down the wooden stairs, flashing a glassy smile at the woman pouring something from an amphora into a giant pithos set in the floor. A stomach-churning reek of rancid oil and stale fish billowed out from the array of hobs at the back of the tabernaria.
Outside there was little relief from the fetid closeness. He stepped off briskly.
In this capital city of Empire, despair marched side by side with monument and splendour. From his tenement in the fringe area it was only a couple of streets and he was at the Artopoleia with its bustling commerce, and then the four columns of the tetrapylon marking the end of urban Constantinople.
A diseased beggar on his knees clutched at Nicander. Irritably, he kicked him aside; most were frauds and made a tidy living out of their condition. There were church sisterhoods and others who found their salvation by ministering to the poor – why should he be singled out?
It had been a serious blow finding that his line of business was closed to him. There was a guild of incense traders licensed by the state and they were not interested in making things easy for an outsider. And without serious capital there was no prospect of setting up in competition with them. He’d had to look for some other entry-level venture, for no one was going to extend credit to yet another exile.
He was approaching the edge of town, broken up with vegetable plots and artisan workshops. He hurried; all he’d been able to secure was an agreement to provide pomegranates to a monastery and if his Syrian supplier let him down again he stood to lose it.
At the converted stable he eased open the door of his lock-up and saw it was quite empty. The old watchman he had hired to act as storekeeper was lying on sacking in a corner, snoring heavily.
‘Get up, pig!’ Nicander shouted.
The man rolled over but didn’t awake.
‘Stir yourself,’ he bellowed, landing a kick.
‘Wharr?’
Nicander caught the stench of cheap wine, he’d get nothing out of him. There’d been no delivery and he left with only the satisfaction of slamming the door with an almighty crash.
He started back, trudging on in a black mood.
Ahead was a building site – yet another villa or church in construction – and he winced at the noise, hurrying past the busy scene. At the roadway groups of men lay sprawled on the ground, waiting to be taken on as labourers by the hour.
He noticed one in a dusty tunic, unusually with a cowl concealing his face. Suddenly he got up and made for him.
Alarmed, Nicander braced himself.
The man flicked back the cowl. ‘Ah, Mr Nicander, good to see you!’
‘Marius?’
The proud legionary was kneading his hands, not catching his eye. ‘Do I see you in good health, sir?’
‘Quite well, thank you,’ Nicander replied cautiously. ‘And yourself? How’s the army treating you?’
‘I’m not with ’em any more,’ Marius said stiffly, then added, ‘You – you’re now in the way of business as a merchant, as you said you would?’
‘Fruit from Syria and so on. I’ve just come from my warehouse, checking on deliveries. I’ve a contract with the ecclesiasticals which sets fair to lead to big things if fortune allows.’
‘So you’re doing well, Mr Nicander.’
‘So-so. I’m rather busy, what with all this business to attend to, so I’ll have to bid you good day, old chap, and be on my way.’
A hand shot out and clamped on his arm.
Nicander glared until it fell away.
‘Look, I’m no good at begging. Don’t make me do it, friend.’ Marius’s eyes hardened, then he looked down. ‘It’s like this. I fell out with that mongrel army, took a run. Thought to set up as a bootmaker but the toad who rented me a shop found my silver loot and thiefed it, threatened to turn me in.’
He came closer, his voice a whisper as though fearing someone might overhear. ‘So, well, I thought as how you might have a place for me in your company. Anything – anything at all! I don’t fear to get my hands dirty, and if you’d give me charge o’ your slaves I’d sweat ’em!’
‘Well …’
‘Or even lumping. I’m good and strong still …’
‘Anything?’
‘Look, I’m desperate, Mr Nicander. Huck out your drains, swab down your warehouse, polish your pots …’
Recalling how the legionary had toyed with him when he’d come aboard the ship in Brundisium he couldn’t help replying, ‘Why is Marius desperate, I’m thinking? Is it because no one will take him on? Then, should I?’
‘You’re making me beg. You gave your word not to.’
‘I made no such promise!’
‘Then … then you want me to beg, damn it.’
‘Well, I—’
‘On my knees? Kiss your sandals?’ Marius continued in a savage growl.
He scruffed Nicander’s chlamys, lifting him off his feet. ‘I’ve never begged to any man in my life and I’m not starting with you!’
Nicander tried to say something but the big legionary drew him close to his face. ‘You lot just don’t know what it is to be right out o’ luck, not a coin, not a future, no pride and all no fault of your own, do you?’
He let go. ‘I’d have thought you a better sort, but then I’m no hand at judging men. Sorry.’
‘It was of no account,’ Nicander said, shaken.
Marius gave a mock bow. ‘Well, sir will be wanting to get about his business. I won’t detain sir any longer.’
‘Wait – when I said that the business was doing fine, I didn’t really mean that well. In fact, not so prosperous that … and to tell the truth, not so brisk at all that I can think to hire any man.’
‘Oh?’
‘But …’
‘Yes?’
‘Tell me, Marius, have you somewhere to stay at all?’
‘None of your business, Greek.’
‘It’s just that … I’ve a small place near the Artopoleia. If you’re embarrassed for accommodation at the moment perhaps …’ He’d come to know the man on the voyage out and had developed an odd regard for his character. And even though they were so different, they were facing the same fate … to have someone to talk with, share the wretchedness …
‘I couldn’t pay my way in a fine mansion like yours,’ Marius responded. But there was a knowing look in his eyes.
‘On a temporary basis, of course, I can see my way to suspending any fee incurred.’
‘We could share meals, it’ll be less for both.’
‘As it happens, there’s a tabernaria close by which I know well.’
‘Hah! So there’s something in it for you then, Greek?’
He sighed. ‘Call me Nico, then, if you must.’
Nicander could swear that the child had not left off whining the whole time he’d been away, only pausing to watch the big man in a cowl go up the stairs with him.
As they entered the room, Marius said, ‘It’s decent of you, Nico. Letting me stay and that.’ He looked around at the humble furniture. ‘I’ll doss down there,’ he said, pointing to the ragged carpet against the opposite wall to the bed. There was no hint of sarcasm Nicander could detect.
The child’s fitful crying broke out again.
In a voice that had been heard above the din of a battlefield, Marius bellowed down, ‘Shut it, or I’ll come and tear off your poxy head!’
The sound stopped as if cut off with a knife.
Nicander fought down a rising warmth. ‘You’ve had a tough time of it, then.’
‘Been kipping on the steps of St Demetrius. Hard as a whore’s heart and noisy with it, they at their business all night. Look, if you’ve a bit o’ bread, I’d take it kindly …’
Nothing less than a fish soup and a jug of rough watered African wine could meet Nicander’s feeling that he was no longer alone.
Marius lifted his cup. ‘Here’s to rare times,’ he grunted and drank heavily.
When he finished he fixed Nicander with a shrewd look. ‘Business not so good, then.’
‘Oh, fair, a slow start I’d have to say.’
‘So it’s bad.’
The elated spirits fled under a tide of depression. His head hung in despair.
‘Not your fault, mate,’ the legionary rumbled. ‘The world being so fucked up.’
The evening was drawing in, shadows deepening in the dingy room. Nicander found the oil lamp and brought flame to it.
They both stared pensively into space until Marius broke the silence. ‘Seems to me a right shame.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Well, you and me. Now we understand each other, a pity we can’t work something out. Team up, come together on some venture.’
‘Such as?’
‘I don’t know! Get in the ferry business? I can pull an oar better than the pathetic weasels I’ve seen.’
‘Capital.’
‘What’s that you said?’
‘We’ve no coin. That’s the rub,’ Nicander said bitterly. ‘No capital, no investment; no business, no profit.’
Marius glowered.
‘I’d willingly join you if I could think of a venture not requiring capital, I really would.’
‘Well, what are you doing with yourself now? You said something about fruit.’
Nicander sighed and explained what faced him in the fruit supply business. ‘Without the pomegranate shipment I’m finished anyway,’ he concluded.
Marius gave a tight smile. ‘Ah, now that’s something that can be left to me. Tell me about this Syrian.’
Next day, as if by magic, the pomegranates had arrived. Disbelieving, Nicander set about arranging delivery.
‘He’s sorry for the inconvenience and will do better next time,’ Marius said with a wicked smirk. ‘What now?’
Then it was the oranges. A private arrangement with a ship’s master to regularise. Again there was no trouble, once the legionary had seen to it.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘How’s our capital, now, Nico?’ Marius asked as the coins were carefully counted.
‘Improving.’
‘Can we—’
‘No. Capital is blood – we don’t shed it unless we have to. It’s our way out of this stinking hole, but we need to build up more.’
‘Damn it all, when will that be?’
‘At this rate … perhaps a year or so, then—’
‘I don’t want to wait that fucking long!’
‘This is what we have to do, Marius.’
‘Take a chance on it, man! Where’s your courage?’
‘No!’
‘I say, yes!’
Nicander’s face tightened. ‘You’re entitled to half the assets, Marius. Do you want them now? Shall I put them in a bag?’
‘A plague on your money-grubbing ways, Greek.’
‘Patience is the hardest lesson in business.’
‘A pox on that, too.’
Rage suddenly clamped in. ‘You stupid bastard, Marius! Can’t you see? Do you think I want it to be like this? Let me tell you, not so long back you’d see me running my own incense business, seventy men taking my wages, a turnover of a hundred thousand solidi, a reputation in the city. Can you just try to think how it feels for me to be grubbing about in oranges and pomegranates at the beck and call of any pig with an obol or two? Can you?’
Marius’s face went dull red. Then with a crash, his fist slammed down.
‘Now you listen to me, you … you poor pissed-upon bastard! How do you think I’m taking it? A first-class Roman legionary, service in Syria and Dalmatia, there’s enemy bones out there because I’m good with a blade – now all I’m told to do is put the frights on some witless idiot on a barrow stall!’
He heaved a deep breath.
Both men slumped back in their chairs.
After a space Nicander said, ‘Look, I do appreciate what you’re doing. It’s hard on both of us …’
He picked up his accounts and opened the ledger. ‘This Nabatean Grotius,’ he said wearily, ‘I advanced him an amount to cover his lemon shipment and now he’s crying poverty and won’t return it. If you could go and persuade him to his obligation … or it’ll leave me embarrassed in the matter of the currants deal.’
Marius flung open the door. ‘M’friend, m’ friend!’
He rubbed his hands in delight as he sank into a chair with a wide grin.
‘You have the coin, then?’ Nicander asked, surprised as the legionary had only been away an hour or so.
‘Better’n that, Greek!’
‘Oh?’
‘Grotius. He begs to be released of his arrears.’
‘And …?’
‘I said we’d agree to it.’
Lost for words, Nicander blinked in confusion.
Marius continued enthusiastically, ‘In view o’ what he had to say.’
‘Which was, might I ask?’
‘Ha! What you didn’t know is that the fat toad is in with the Blues faction in a big way.’
‘And what’s that got to do with us?’
The brutal Roman circus of gladiators and Christian sacrifice had long since been overtaken in Byzantine popular entertainment by other offerings; now it was wild animal baiting and, above all, chariot racing between the Blues and Greens factions.
Marius retorted triumphantly, ‘In two days there’s a fix, and Grotius is on the inside!’
‘So?’
‘He says it’s certain, as only he’s in the know and he trusts we’ll look kindly on his position while we collect our winnings.’
‘Do I hear you – you’re saying we should risk our precious capital – on a bet?’
‘Right enough. I can tell you on the quiet, he’s staking his wife and two daughters to slavery on it.’
‘No reason for us to be demented as well! Now look, Marius, betting is the business of fools. Can’t you see he’s throwing out an excuse so you leave him alone?’
‘This is our chance to make a hill o’ cash! Greens have had a good run with Priscus, their crack driver, they’re calling odds of sevens at least on a Blues win. We put—’
‘No!’
‘I say we go for it!’ Marius growled. ‘Anything which sees us on top o’ this world instead of—’
‘You fool!’ Nicander said. ‘We’ve not one shred of proof that there’s such a fix being planned. You’d throw our money at a bunch of losers and—’
‘Look, he’ll take us to see Nepos, the Blues driver. Introduce us. You can ask him yourself!’
Grotius met them outside the Blues faction clubhouse. ‘So pleased you could come, gentlemen,’ he said with an oily charm. ‘It might be better to sport these favours?’ He handed a blue cloth spray to each of them to pin on their tunics. His own had an ostentatious silver clasp, Nicander noted, already regretting his agreement to humour Marius.
‘My party,’ Grotius told the heavyweight pair at the door and they proceeded into the noisy interior.
Seeing the marble panelling, ornate classical statues and the occasional flash of a senatorial toga, Nicander suspected that Grotius was a man living to the limits of his means.
He also knew the factions were more than simple supporters. Enormous sums were granted to them by the Prefect to manage the public shows. In Rome there had been four factions but now the Blues and Greens had it all between them. They played to the masses and ran an operation that included top charioteers and circus spectaculars.
They could effortlessly whip up the mob with professional cheerleaders and gangs and were therefore a formidable political force, even having the power to address the emperor directly in their own interest.
Nicander trod carefully around the carousing groups as they followed the corpulent merchant. Female cries that left no doubt as to the activity within came from behind closed doors. A stream of slaves bearing exotic sweetmeats and jugs of wine jostled past. Occasionally, well-dressed patrons nodded familiarly at Grotius then looked curiously at his guests.
At the end of the long passage Grotius knocked firmly at a door.
‘Who the fuck’s that?’ came a deep voice from inside. ‘I’m tired. Go away.’
‘Ah, Nepos, old friend. It’s Grotius and I’ve a pair of your greatest fans who beg to meet you.’
‘Oh? Well send ’em in if you have to, then.’
Rush dips guttered as they entered and a rich stink of horses lay on the air. The charioteer reclined on a leather bench. Two women were at work on his oiled back.
‘This is Nepos, gentlemen, the supreme chariot driver of the age!’
He rolled over to face them. Impressively big, with muscular thews and a deep chest, he had the dark of the Thracians. His hair was a riot of black curls in the old Roman style and he sported a pugnacious beard.
Nicander felt his presence overbearing. ‘Good sir, we’re here to express our best wishes for your contest with the Greens.’
Cruel eyes took him in. ‘You’ve got money on me, then?’
‘O’ course, Mr Nepos,’ Marius came in quickly. ‘Knowing you’ll win, like.’
‘What do you mean?’ The charioteer snapped, sitting up suddenly.
‘That your loyal Blues have taken precautions to—’
‘Get out!’ Nepos snarled at the two masseurs.
‘Now, what—’
‘These are some of my closest friends,’ Grotius said, grovelling. ‘It behoves us to share our good fortune.’
‘They know …?’ He sprang lithely over and seized him by his tunic, drawing his face close. ‘How many others have you blabbed to, you Tyrian bird-brain?’
‘None but these, Master Driver, truly! And I can say they’re in great admiration that it’s your own cunning that came up with this winning stroke against those arrogant Greens.’
Nepos let his hands drop. ‘So they should be, runt.’
‘I would be so gratified if you’d show them something of our little surprise.’
The big chariot driver hesitated, then gave a wicked grin. ‘Follow me.’
Below the clubhouse were the workshops and Nepos stopped at the one with two lounging guards. ‘Just remember,’ he muttered darkly, ‘the Greens have got it coming!’
Inside were workbenches and timber racks, but in the centre was the sleek and oddly large bulk of a racing chariot. Not much more than a platform on wheels with a raised breast-rail and side panels, it was clearly designed for victory. In weight it was pared down to the very limits of prudence: wheel spokes nothing but spindles, iron fittings like filigree and a single supporting beam fore and aft. On the side was emblazoned a large blue escutcheon. The whole gave an impression of arrogance and speed.
Nepos swaggered over to it and lightly stepped aboard, cutting a magnificent figure as he looked down on them. He dropped to a racing crouch, one hand stretched to the ‘reins’, the other furiously cracking an imaginary whip, his lips curled in a contemptuous sneer. ‘It’s the last lap, the Greens are coming up on the outside. I sees ’em, gets ready. They’re coming … we make at each other. Priscus doesn’t give way, the prick. But next time he gets it – like this!’
There was no giveaway motion that Nicander could see but with a shocking clatter a small wooden pole suddenly shot out from the side of the chariot, ending yards away.
‘See?’ It didn’t take much imagination to conceive of its effect on an adjacent chariot, thrust into flimsy wheel spokes at speed.
Nepos leapt to the ground and bent under the platform to replace the device. ‘That’s all it is!’
