John the Cappadocian was waiting for them, a faint smile in place.
‘We can see the merit of your suggestion, sir, and we—’
‘I thought you might. And now you’ll do exactly as you’re instructed in the matter – no more, no less – or it’s finished here and now!’ There was no mistaking the rap of authority, of accustomed power, as the terms of the relationship were ruthlessly laid down.
‘We understand.’
‘Then to work. From this point on, you’re in the character of monks, holy men. You’ll practise this until you think yourselves born to it.’
‘How do we—’
‘To start with – you speak Latin, always. You have the mother tongue?’ he asked, looking at Nicander.
‘I do,’ he replied. As most of his incense business had been concluded in metropolitan Rome, he knew it well enough.
‘And you?’
‘Learnt on my mother’s knee.’
The rough-tongued sermo vulgi brought a wintry smile. ‘You’ll need a trifle more polish than that, Holy Father. Perhaps ask your Greek friend to …?’
He turned back to Nicander. ‘So – to raiment. Lose that bronze clasp, if you please. And those sandals are much too fine for a poor cleric.’
‘Ah, I’ve been shipwrecked and the good people of Constantinople have not been backward in seeing me restored in the matter of attire.’
This brought only a raised eyebrow. John the Cappadocian looked at Marius in dismay. ‘Do droop a little, fellow. You’re strutting around for all the world like a Roman legionary in disguise. It will never do for a begging cleric.’
He called for more wine. ‘So, to your origins. You come from the distant reaches of Empire, perhaps in the deserts to the far south of the Holy Land? You’ve been cut off from civilisation for some reason, that’s why no one has heard of you or your king.’
Nicander came in, ‘That’s because our river dried up – took another course, and the desert has driven us away from the coast and kept us isolated from the world of man.’
‘Good. Your new king, however, being of an enlightened nature, wishes to know more of the world—’
‘We were colonised in the time of Constantine, our conceiving of the Christian faith is primitive and our king seeks to know the truth.’
‘Yes. You two have been sent to discover this truth. You embark in a ship and—’
‘We set out for India! A place of mystery and holiness. We sail for days and nights without end but then—’
John the Cappodician nodded in satisfaction.’Now, to your names.’
‘I am Brother Paul and this is Brother Matthew of the fellowship of Saint Agnes, the kingdom of Artaxium Felix.’
‘They will suffice.’ He paused. ‘Now, Brother Paul, just why is it that you are offering to repeat your voyage at great hazard to yourselves? What is your purpose? I will tell you, as I know what will touch the Emperor most. It is that you desire that on the proceeds a great church be built in your kingdom, and that Justinian sends multitudes of his unemployed clerics on a mission to direct you back on the path of righteousness. That is all you desire. Riches of this world are to be rendered to Caesar, as it were.’
‘I understand,’ Nicander said gravely.
‘Then I believe we may proceed.’
There was no look of triumph, avarice, even of satisfaction – only one of calculated resolve.
‘Your part now is to be who you seem. If you fail, this is to your misfortune, not mine. I am not implicated, I shall deny all. In return, however, I undertake to place you before Justinian in the best possible light to make your case – the details of which you will leave to me. Now, in what form shall your precious letter be?’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was a long walk back but, in a whirl of elation and trepidation, Nicander barely noticed it.
As long as they kept their heads all would be well: they would be confirming what was generally believed about silk and its growing. Their claim could not be disputed – there would be no one from ‘Artaxium Felix’ to cause them trouble, for it didn’t exist, and there were none who had travelled to Serica or knew enough about it to confound their story. Above all, the stakes were so staggering that any hearing of it would want to believe.
Aware of tramping feet behind, he turned. It was soldiers – praetorian guards under the command of the Prefect of the city and responsible for good order, a not unusual sight on The Mese.
Marching stolidly, they were in two columns led by a centurion. Nicander and Marius stepped aside to let them by.
But the columns divided, surrounding them. The centurion bawled, ‘Take ’em!’
Brawny arms seized Nicander. He did not resist, noting in shame that it took four to subdue Marius.
It soon became apparent that they were being taken to the Praetorium, the headquarters of the Prefect himself. The place of secrets and terror.
What had they done? It couldn’t be his library visit, they had neither his name nor where he lived. And he’d done nothing wrong – yet – and as far as he knew was unknown to the authorities. This was probably a case of mistaken identity.
At the reception desk his protesting was ignored and the pair found themselves thrown into a prison cell. Ragged moaning punctuated with screams sounded down the passage as the hours passed.
Then suddenly there was the clash of doors and four guards appeared. ‘Out! March!’
They wound up a worn staircase to a richly appointed office.
A thin, ascetic-looking man with an expression of disdain rose from a desk. He was in flowing white, edged with scarlet, the rich embroidery of a silk tablion proclaiming high rank.
‘I am Peter Barsymes, Count of the Sacred Largesse. Be aware my time is limited and I will not be trifled with.’
Nicander gave a start. This was the one he had been warned about.
‘You were seen at the villa of the disgraced John the Cappadocian. Twice. Do not attempt to deny it, I have competent enough informers. Once might be accounted coincidence, but two times … this suggests an assignation. What were you doing there – answer!’
‘Sir, we are castaways. We were rescued and returned to our land but we have information of such importance that it is only for the ear of Emperor Justinian himself. We were given the name of this gentleman as being one who could arrange a meeting.’
‘Convince me. If not, I swear your end will not be pleasant!’
It all now sounded so unbelievable but Nicander persevered with the story of a remote desert kingdom, their honest seeking after truth.
‘And this information for the ears of the Emperor only,’ Barsymes snapped. ‘You will tell me, that I may be judge of its value.’
‘Oh, this is impossible, sir! We have sworn—’
‘Do you realise that I am at the right hand of Justinian always? There are no secrets between us, you may safely disclose your information to me.’
‘Sir, we cannot! It is—’
‘Before you go before the Emperor I must be sure his time is not wasted on idle talk. Tell me!’
‘Very well, sir. But I crave that the room be empty of all but yourself, what I have to say being of such gravity and … and of interest to those of a sinful cupidity.’
Barsymes’s eyes gleamed. ‘Get out! All of you! Guards, wait outside. Now, speak!’
One thing was certain: John the Cappadocian was out of the game, their pathway to Justinian stopped.
But just possibly this power behind the throne might restore it!
Nicander’s voice fell to a whisper as he outlined their story and the plan that the seeds of the tree be acquired for the Empire.
‘Do you … have you any idea what you’re saying? This is incredible!’
‘But only what is due to our illustrious emperor,’ Nicander murmured. ‘We ask merely that we might seek assistance from him for an expedition to Serica.’
Barsymes gave an oily smile. ‘A fine and worthy object! However, I doubt the
Emperor need be troubled. I have it in mind to finance an expedition myself.’
‘Sir, you’ll dispatch your own men?’
‘You’ve suffered much, and are not to be imposed upon again. If you’ll leave me the details I’ll ensure you’re both handsomely rewarded.’
Yes, in a sack at the bottom of the Bosphorus!
Nicander thought furiously. ‘I’m devastated to be the one to bring objections, but if it’s others who venture forth, there will be a difficulty.’
‘Oh?’
‘The king of Serica decrees that none but we two named in the document we have shall be made welcome in his country.’
‘I see.’
‘It is a long and dangerous road to Sinae, sir. On the outward journey there will be need for much expense, many bribes, unforeseen costs.’
‘You’ll not want for outlay – be assured I have resources I may count upon.’
‘The return journey will be much easier,’ Nicander stammered. ‘A few dozen seeds is a paltry cargo. Sir, as yours is the investment, the seeds are your property. Have you given thought to their cultivation? They require particular soil and much labour in the harvesting, and will—’
‘Thank you, Brother. We’ll attend to that, I promise you. Now, you see to finalising your plans, I’ll take care of the funding, and we’ll meet again soon.’
He went to the door and barked for the guards. ‘These two good men are my friends and not to be vexed with petty attentions when next they visit.’
‘We’ve done it, Marius! In just a few weeks—’
‘We’ve done it, right enough. The bastard took the bait, but when he starts asking questions among his poncey friends he’s going to wake up and we’ll be nailed to the wall!’
‘What questions? Nobody knows us! That’s the great thing about it all. John the Cappadocian is going to deny he’s anything to do with us, and who’s to say we’re not who we claim to be?’
‘You’re so bloody confident – I’m not! This is way over our heads, out of our league as much as a worm to an eagle. I’ve never had a word from a nob in all my life, now in a couple of days I’ve been pawed over by two! I don’t like it, and I want to get out before it’s too late, Nico!’
‘Take it easy, Marius. Think about it – Barsymes stumbles on two innocent holy men with the secret to wealth beyond his wildest dreams. All they ask for is to be funded to get it. No big risk to him, that’s our worry, he just sits back and waits for the gold to shower down. All we have to do is come up with some sort of believable plan and sail off with the chest of riches and vanish. Can’t be much simpler than that!’
‘If he smells a rat—’
‘How can he? I keep telling you, nobody knows either about us or Serica! And the thing I particularly like …’
‘What?’
‘Barsymes insists we’re on a private venture – the palace is not involved any more and it’s in his selfish interest to keep very quiet about it. So for us it means no need to get worked up about seeing the Emperor, or even to go into the Grand Palace which, I tell you now, gives me the shakes just to look at it! We’ve the chance to be not just comfortable, but rich – wealthy! And we’re only talking a few weeks away! Just play your part – and we’re there!’
A grin eventually surfaced. ‘What the fuck! Let’s go for it.’
Nicander went over to the corner and found their pot. He emptied it on the table, a solidus here and there but mostly the worn dark bronze of a follis. With a practised eye he assessed their pile and divided it into two. ‘There’s enough here to see us over the next few weeks – and some for tonight! I say we go out and celebrate. Soon we’ll have more than ever we could jump over!’
CHAPTER TWELVE
The early evening streets seemed noisier and more foetid than usual, but Nicander was not going to let that affect his mood.
‘Fish or meat?’ he asked happily, a vision of a slab of roast shimmering enticingly before him.
‘A brace of ox ribs from Thessaly,’ Marius replied immediately. ‘With all the trimmings.’
Their stroll changed to a purposeful stride at the thought but a cry from a slave loping towards them brought the pair to a halt.
‘Good gentlemen – I’ve been searching everywhere for you. Magister Barsymes asks that you spare him an hour. There’s someone he’d like you to meet.’
This was probably to make acquaintance of some lower ranking functionary they would be working with instead of the great man himself.
They turned to retrace their steps back toward the Praetorium, but the slave stopped them. ‘Oh no, sirs, not there. At his home! This way, if you please.’
They were shortly outside one of the exclusive residential buildings near the Grand Palace, like the others showing only a small portico entrance in an otherwise blank façade. It led into a vast interior courtyard with a fountain flowing.
The slave beckoned them up marble steps to a top floor room, passing a careless display of wealth on all sides. ‘Be used to it, Marius,’ Nicander whispered. ‘It’ll be us soon!’
A richly dressed woman rose from a couch, her lustrous rust silk dalmatica set off by gold and pearls.
‘My Lady Barsymes,’ Nicander bowed, remembering just in time to speak in Latin.
Her strong features registered distaste. ‘Be careful with your words, sir. I’m no creature of that toad. You are addressing the Lady Antonina, wife of Justinian’s foremost general, Belisarius.’
‘But why …?’
‘I used the name of that reptile to bring you here to my house.’
Unease seized Nicander. What on earth could she want with two such humble persons?
‘I am at a loss, Lady, to understand …’
Antonina purposefully straightened an ornate emerald ring on her right hand, then looked directly at him. ‘To be strictly correct, I have no great wish to, to … but by your actions you have interested me.’
‘We—’
‘I’m a woman and cannot bear a mystery. And this one is particularly deep. I want the answer, and all Constantinople knows I’m not to be denied. Do you understand me, or must I …?’
‘My Lady, anything I can—’
‘Then tell me this. Why is it that in the last few days you have been seen with both that loathsome John the Cappadocian and the slimy pig Peter Barsymes? Not only are they the two most powerful money men of the age but they hate and detest each other to a degree.’
‘It’s nothing really,’ Nicander mumbled, desperately trying to think. ‘We—’
‘Don’t waste my time, or you’ll rue it! I make it my business to know everything of consequence, everybody’s petty plots, secrets and crimes – that way I’m not to be surprised when things happen.’
A look of cruel calculation came on her face. ‘Or shall I make a guess and you’ll tell me if I’m right? Very well – I say that the Cappadocian is plotting to restore his place before Justinian by a clever false betrayal of Barsymes, for which he needs information from the inside, and you’re the one to feed it to him?’
‘N-no, My Lady, that’s not—’
‘So. It’s the other, and more serious for all that. These two are colluding in a master plot, some wicked design that requires them to join their forces together. They loathe each other so you are the go-between, and therefore know everything. Right?’
Nicander flashed a helpless glance at Marius.
‘Great lady. May I explain everything?’
‘Do so.’
‘We’re holy men from a far desert kingdom and …’
He stumbled through his story.
‘A fine tale. And all lies.’
‘No, no, My Lady. This is the truth!’
‘Don’t insult me!’ she spat. ‘I know the world more than most, and holy men you’re not! Where’s your doleful look, snivelling whine, begging manner? And for one born and bred in the desert you’re as milk-white as a babe!’
‘I-I …’
‘And all that d
og vomit about silk seeds. Even I know silk comes from spiders, and you’re not going to keep those in a bag all the way from Sinae!’
‘But—’
Her voice dropped. ‘I don’t think you quite understand your situation,’ she said slowly. ‘I’ve only to lift that bell and the general’s men will rush to my rescue, you having talked your way into my room. When he hears of this, you’ll be begging for a crucifixion as the more merciful. Yes?’
Nicander nodded helplessly.
‘So let’s begin again. Just what are you doing with those two vultures?’
They were cornered like rats with no alternative but to confess the full extent of what they planned, and hope for mercy.
Stony-faced, she heard him out, down to the final twist.
‘Now, let me get this right. You two plotted to defraud the Emperor with a wild scheme, then let Peter Barsymes take it over? In some colossal sum as would see either in some difficulty?’
‘Yes, Lady,’ Nicander admitted miserably.
Antonina stood transfixed for a moment, then shook her head in wonder.
Suddenly her body convulsed, and she screamed with laughter. ‘Oh, merciful God, but I’ve not heard such a merry tale in all my life!’ She bent double, choking back tears of mirth. ‘It’s priceless! That I could see their faces when—’
‘My Lady, you’re not—’
‘Good God, no! I wish you well of your … enterprise.’
Her face suddenly tightened. ‘Screw those rat-faced fuckers for every obol you can get and you’ll have my great thanks for it. You know it was that prig Justinian who recalled my husband away – in case he should win a popular victory over Totila the Ostrogoth?’ She smiled. ‘May I offer you some advice?
‘Barsymes is entirely corrupt and there’s nothing he will not stoop to. Trust him no further than you can spit. Avoid the palace like the plague – it’s a cesspit of betrayal and intrigue. There are some like Peter the Patrician who are straight enough, but he’s an emperor’s man to his gizzard. And Marcellus – thick as a short plank, always gets the wrong end of the stick. But dangerous. He’s Count of Excubitors, which means he’s in charge of protection for the Emperor, which gives him a lot of power.’
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