The Silk Tree (9 page)

Frogmarched to the bowels of the Grand Palace, they were fettered to dank, slimy walls. The icy grip of the chains broke through Nicander’s paralysis of unreality. The guttering light of an oil lamp illuminated instruments of pain and the merciless face of the torturer.

Excubitor Marcellus waited impatiently for the soldiers to leave then crossed to them. ‘Now, I’ve not much time to waste on filth like you. Make it easy for me and you can have it quick and clean – tell me lies and I’ll let Khosrau loose. Understood?’

He leant forward until he was inches from them. ‘You’ve been skulking about, first in John the Cappadocian’s villa, then Magister Peter Barsymes is seen being very amiable towards you – this is not his way towards low-life. Then I’m brought word that the same day, if I chose, I could find you being heartily welcomed into his home by none other than the great general Belisarius. So what am I to conclude? I think it speaks for itself, but I’ll let you tell me in your own words.’

He whirled on Marius. ‘You! What’s the meaning of it all?’

The legionary stared back in contemptuous silence.

‘Very well.’

In sick realisation, Nicander knew what was next.

Turning to him, Marcellus eased into a smile. ‘Why, what a shame to tear
about such soft skin – or will it be the hot iron? I haven’t really decided yet.’ His tone became mournful. ‘Why don’t you tell me? It would save so much hurt and pain, when you know I’ll find out in the end …’

Nicander threw Marius a look of apology. He knew he did not have his friend’s powers of endurance but could he bluff their way free?

He blurted hoarsely, ‘All right, I’ll tell you what you want to know.’

In jerking, terrified sentences Nicander explained about the silk tree expedition and its need for funding, but was cut off impatiently.

‘Utter pig’s turds. If all this silk seed nonsense really needed was support, any right-minded citizen would go straight to His Resplendency and fall at his feet.’

‘It’s true,
I swear it!
’

‘Don’t try my patience, dog. There’s only one reason you’ve been to see all those grand names …’ He drew a savage breath. ‘It’s all a monstrous plot against the life of our most Divine Caesar, Emperor Justinian!’

‘
No!
’

‘Yes! You’re part of a wider conspiracy touching every corner of the realm, and I’ll screw it out of you, this I swear!’

There was nothing else for it now. ‘No – it’s … I’ll confess.’

In broken sentences Nicander admitted that the whole thing was a fraud, calculated to lift riches from those investing in the expedition.

‘Enough! You think I’m simple?’ barked Marcellus. ‘You’re determined to make it hard for yourself; I can accommodate you. Khosrau! Start the fire – I’ll be back in an hour.’

‘Marius!’ Nicander gasped. ‘He’s not believing any of it!’

There was no response.

‘What can we do?’

Marius snarled, ‘Die like a Roman, Greek!’

Time passed infinitely slowly, then the door crashed open.

‘Right. Shall we start the fun?’ Marcellus went to the brazier and lifted an iron. It was a flat arrow-shape and glowed white-hot. He sauntered over and flourished it before Nicander.

He flinched in terror, his mind near unhinged.

Marcellus lowered the iron. ‘I think not.’

He selected a more elaborate one, a distorted corkscrew. Speculatively he held it up, watching Nicander’s eyes following its every move.

The Excubitor tested its heat. ‘Ah yes, this will do. I should tell you we normally have a little ceremony before proceedings really begin, more of an entertainment for you.’

A young pig was brought into the cell on a long rope. The animal snuffled about, investigating busily, its farmyard snorts out of character in such a place of torment. It made its way over to the chained men, looking up in puzzlement with innocent eyes.

It was a mistake.

Marcellus stabbed down with the white-hot iron, directly into its pink body. It shrieked in pain, convulsing and thrashing while the Excubitor twisted the iron expertly. The reek of burnt fat rose up as the crazed animal screamed its life away.

Trembling, the handler lifted up the carcass and hurried out.

‘There, now. We know what it’s going to be like, don’t we?’ Marcellus said. ‘Then shall we begin? Who’s to be first?’

Almost fainting with horror, Nicander tried to flog his mind to reason. There were only minutes of sanity left to him – then, as if in a dream, he heard the dry, age-withered voice of an old man standing in the doorway. ‘Marcellus, I thought it was you! Good God, are you at it again?’

He was frail but in a crimson-edged robe that told of a rank of eminence.

Marcellus looked taken aback. ‘What! Can’t you see I’m busy?’

The old man approached and whispered something.

Marcellus snorted. ‘If you must! Damn it, why can’t I be left to get on with it?’ Then he roared peevishly, ‘Guards! Go with ’em.’

Released from their chains, Nicander and Marius followed the old man out along a passageway into another building.

He stopped at a heavy wooden door. ‘That will do.’

The guards took up position outside and they entered what appeared to be a monk’s cell.

Nicander fell into a chair and stared up at their grey-haired saviour. ‘Sir, who …?’

‘My name is Narses. I am grand chamberlain to His Clemency the Emperor.’

‘And … and you …?’

‘The Lady Antonina got word to me of your misfortune. Marcellus does have a tendency to get the wrong end of the stick but he means well. I told him I would be continuing the questions for now.’

‘But—’

‘I can say he won’t be seeing you any more, if that is your concern.’

Narses’s eyes took in the spartan simplicity of the room. ‘No doubt you are at this time living in a mean and humble abode. Now this you may consider
your
cell, holy brothers, guest of His Sacred Majesty. Is it to your satisfaction?’

Nicander mouthed, ‘Th-thank you, sir.’

‘We’ll send for your possessions but for now I think it advisable you stay here and not venture out. You are perfectly safe with me. Meanwhile, you’ll want to bathe – I’ll have fresh raiment sent here for you.’

Reeling at what might have been their fate, Nicander managed to ask, ‘This is kindness beyond the usual. May I know … why are you treating us with such … benevolence?’

‘Why, is not this self-evident?’

‘Sir?’

He gave a benign smile. ‘The Lady Antonina mentioned your expedition plans. To me this is a splendid enterprise, worthy of the best adventurers in the land and deserves well of us. And because it bears so as it does on the revenue situation of the state, I am taking immediate action.’

‘Wha—?’ Nicander scrabbled to make sense of what he was hearing.

‘I’m overriding the usual protocols – when you are ready I shall take you before His Benevolence, Emperor Justinian himself, to present your case in person.

‘Given the nature of your mission we must see to it that you have every facility at hand and no interruption while you polish your case before you see His Refulgence. Involving as it does questions of wealth beyond the commonplace, we must also regard it as a privy secret of state. This means that I must ask you to remain in this cell while you work and refrain from discussing this with anyone – no one whosoever.’

He went on, ‘I’ll ask the Patriarch to relieve you of any clerical or ceremonial duties and make arrangements for your food to be brought. I do beg you will forgive our discourtesy to a guest but the matter presses exceedingly. I know the Emperor would look ill upon any delay once he learns of the expedition.’

After Narses had left, Nicander sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

Marius paced up and down. ‘What’s to do, Nico?’

‘Let me think.’

In a short time they would be expected to present themselves and their ‘project’ before Emperor Justinian. To bring out a reasoned, credible plan to recover the seeds of the silk tree from the other end of the earth – when they had no idea at all where or how to get to them.

Nicander groaned, ‘We’re going to cross the Emperor!’

‘Where’s your backbone, Greek? That was our plan before, if you recall! We’ve a chance for the big money and now you’re turning cold?’

Nicander gathered his wits, trying not to let the imminent prospect of confronting an emperor affect him. The fact that it was so past belief that a penniless outsider like himself would be in this position insulated him from the actuality.

He worked hard. Going over all parts he ensured there were answers to every possible objection, provisions for failure, background detail to add plausibility.

This was what he was good at, for wasn’t he the one, in better times, who’d planned and put in place the successful cross-country myrrh route to Cyrene? And not forgetting that it was his own delicate talking with the desert Garamantes that had secured the Carthage frankincense concession.

When it was all there, he made Marius ‘emperor’ and delivered his presentation over and over again until he was sure of it, then he sent word to Narses that he was ready.

The old man’s eyes glowed. ‘Excellent! This day I promise, you will be before His Resplendency.’

Before the morning was out, he was back. ‘It shall be so. Directly after the Reception of the Western Kings you are granted a privy audience in the Daphne Palace! This is all but unprecedented, you are honoured above all.’

Nicander was giddy with excitement and nervousness. ‘What do we do – that is to say, the formalities …’

‘For a privy audience there is nothing laid down in the Scroll of Ceremonies, do rest your concern. It is a simple matter: when bidden, you approach, kiss the slipper and remain on one knee until released.’

‘Yes, and …?’

‘I took it upon myself to acquaint the Emperor in a small way of the petition, your expectations and likely success should you meet with his approval. He was most interested.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Do let me give you some frank advice, Holy Brother. His Sacred Clemency is not one for form and custom. Efficiency and clarity are his watchwords, therefore I advise that your presentation be brief and to the point, sparing in honorifics and platitudes. As well, do remember that his mind is sharp and watchful and unforgiving of loose thinking. And whatever else, never utter an untruth – this he cannot abide in any man.’

It brought Nicander up with a sudden chill as the scale of what they were going to do returned.

Narses added, ‘Then I will call for you in two hours and together we will attend at the Magnaura Great Hall for the grand reception, after which we will have our audience.’

After he had gone, Marius turned to Nicander. ‘Be buggered to it, Nico, but I don’t mind telling you I’m … I’m bloody troubled …’

Narses was wearing his full ceremonials: a richly embroidered dalmatica with the tablion of high rank, an infinity of precious stones sewn to his robes, shoes and headgear.

The Imperial Palace was not a single building but a bewildering series of massive marble edifices. The three made their way through a great courtyard faced by other grand structures. They joined others progressing past the great bronze gate to the white colonnades which led to a domed red-stone hall.

Entering by the smaller of three doorways they found themselves in a hushed throng in a great vaulted space. At the far end in the raised apse was a grand throne, illuminated by light from lofty windows.

Leaving the holy men in a corner with strict instructions to remain there and speak with no one, Narses moved off to greet the dignitaries.

Nicander and Marius took in the spectacle of hundreds of nobles, ministers, generals and grand officials of state, waited upon by white-robed servitors and flanked on all sides by soldiers in gleaming plate armour.

Toward the centre of the assembly were the barbarian kings from the shadowy wilds north of the frontier – Gepids, Avars, Uighurs, others. Here to be wooed and impressed by the sights and sensations of civilisation.

The hum of conversation died at a new sound: from far away the ethereal purity of a choir floated on the air. It strengthened: after each stanza the melodious clash of cymbal, then the voices again – both deep and rich, pure and high in a delivery that lifted the soul.

The head of a procession entered the hall. A great golden ornamented cross was borne in front, behind it thuribles swung, the rich odour of incense wreathing the air. Then two holy icons carried high and crowned with myrtle, and another cross.

The choir, dressed in simple vestments and carrying lighted tapers followed, eyes raised to heaven in sonorous chant. It processed into the centre of the gathering and then moved towards the throne, dividing each side and ascending the stalls in the apse behind it. Then all was silent.

With a blast of sound at the doorway from the braying of bronze trumpets the Emperor stepped into view in a blaze of splendour – a heavily jewelled purple pallium cloak over gold breastplate fastened with a brooch of four immense pendant pearls, a red and gold diadem of heart-stopping magnificence. The ruler of the world!

Justinian moved with stately deliberation, followed by a host of nobles. Nicander was transfixed as the glittering image passed across his vision.

A murmur spread, growing in strength: ‘Divine Caesar! Ever august!
Victorious and triumphant! Emperor of the Romans! All hail to thee!’

The progress moved on, followed by every eye.

The great ornamented cross was set down and Justinian knelt before it in prayer. He rose and kissed it then ascended the throne.

A richly dressed officer of state strode forward, the feared Master of Offices, Peter the Patrician. From a parchment scroll he declaimed in ringing tones. Nicander could not make out the words but in a heady breathlessness he watched the proceedings unfold.

One by one the barbarian kings were brought before Justinian where they rendered obeisance and in return were blessed and awarded gifts. At certain points the choir made intercession. It was a masterful display – the sounds of angels ringing out, the wafting incense, splendour and brilliance.

Then it was over.

The procession formed up; this time at the head, following the cross, Justinian. With all the pomp and glory of the throne of Byzantium, it proceeded out of the Magnaura Great Hall, passing close to Nicander.

A wave of stark terror overcame him – how could he continue with his plan, stand before that vision and present a business proposition that was entirely false?

As the procession receded, he reached for control: in minutes he was going face to face with the Emperor. He had to go through with it or …

As if in answer, a strange feeling of calmness stole over him; one of ringing destiny.

Narses came for them. ‘His Sacred Majesty disrobes. We will await him at the Daphne Palace.’

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.’