Sean Gabb: The Break

Though distorted, there was a voice from across the water so loud, its owner might have been shouting in his ear. He couldn’t understand the words, but he did know they were repeated once and then again. The pilot stood up, and standing as only sailors can without falling overboard, stretched out both arms. With a roar that reminded him of a water mill running at full speed, one of the smaller boats sped alongside. A beardless official in a peaked hat looked down at everyone, and shouted angrily in an unknown language. The pilot called back haltingly in the same language. He turned and pointed at Michael and his uncle and shrugged. The official’s mouth fell open as if with surprise, and he looked hard at the two ambassadors. Then he stepped back into the glass cabin of his boat and started what looked like a shouted conversation with himself.

While the officer shouted and pulled faces, Michael turned his attention to the cold and sparkling sea and the great birds that fluttered and called loudly overhead. He was about to try again for a look across the mile of water separating the boat from those docks. But the official now finished his conversation and came out again. No longer angry, he called detailed instructions down at them. The pilot bowed respectfully at every phrase, breaking in now and again with what were obviously questions prompted by a defective understanding of the language.

At last, the official’s boat turned back to the shore, and the pilot sat down again. Looking troubled, he glared at the Greeks. Then he shouted something at the oarsmen in his own language, and the boat continued towards the artificial harbour.

The boat was too low for any of the docks, and Michael had to help his uncle up the rusted iron ladder where the boat was eventually able to put in. The pilot had gone up first, and was already in conversation with several more officials as Michael stepped onto the impossibly wide expanse of the dock.

“On behalf of His Imperial Majesty,” Simeon cried in Latin, “I bring greetings and felicitations to your king.” It could be doubted whether anyone heard him above the sound of the wind and the endless flocks of white seabirds. Certainly, no one took notice of his rank. Even as he spoke, several men stepped forward and pointed blunt but threatening weapons at him.

“For Christ’s sake,” the pilot called sharply. “Keep still, and put your hands over your heads. Haven’t I said these people can kill you on the spot?” He turned back to his conversation with perhaps the most senior of the officials. After much waving of hands and shouting, he pointed at the Greeks. Now he produced and handed over the purple-edged sheet of parchment they had carried with so much care by sea from Constantinople to Bari, and then all through Italy and France to the grey and surging waters of the Outermost Ocean. Excepting in Benevento, the Normans themselves had respected the Emperor’s letter. This official, though, couldn’t even tell which way up it should be read. Still holding it, he let his arms drop down, so it unravelled and trailed in the dockside puddles.

“Let it be, uncle,” Michael said as softly as he could. He looked at the old man’s face. Anyone else would have seen total impassivity behind the grey beard. Not Michael. They’d been warned repeatedly on the French shore not to try for a crossing. Even after Simeon had talked the pilot into carrying them, they’d had to leave all their attendants and baggage behind. Michael’s own sword had been taken away as he boarded. Now, they were in the total power of a people whose very existence had, till lately, been unknown to the world. The pilot was still deep in his broken, gesticulating conversation. Michael looked about. What he guessed were the civilian officials were dressed in dark trousers and high coats. The armed guards wore a kind of padded armour and helmets with smoked glass visors to cover their faces. Several dozen of these were being lined up behind the officials. All carried what looked like glass shields and long clubs. The shields carried words in Roman letters that might have indicated they were part of a city guard.

With a final bow, the pilot finished his conversation and stood back. He stared at Michael and shook his head. There was no time to wonder what this could mean. At almost the same moment, he felt something press on his back, and someone barked instructions that had only one meaning. Keeping his hands over his head, he stumbled forward.

After a strange and almost joyous smile, the old man put a stack of papers onto his side of the table and fiddled with a metal stylus. “My name is Gordon Jessup,” he said in a rather fussy Latin. He stopped and repeated the unfamiliar sound of his family name, spelling it a letter at a time. “I have been appointed as your interpreter. Whatever anyone else may say or do, please accept my own heartiest welcome to England, and please do count on me for any help that I can give you.” He looked up at the ceiling and smiled again. He took off the framework of glass discs that covered the upper part of his face, and closed his eyes for a long moment. Then he leaned forward across the table and repeated himself in a slow Greek that would have sounded barbarous if it hadn’t been for the careful attention to grammar. This done, he took out a handkerchief and polished one of his discs.

“How long are we to regard ourselves as prisoners?” Michael asked coldly in Latin. He tipped his head gently backwards, acknowledging the two silent guards behind him. So far as he could tell without turning, their faces were still hidden by smoked glass.

“I regret, Your Excellency,” the interpreter replied, “that you are prisoners for the moment. There is nothing I can do yet. But I do promise to make a full report to London that will surely bring about a change of circumstances. For the moment, be assured that none of the animals set to watch over you understands a word of any civilised language.”

He stopped and gave a long and now openly joyous look at the two men before him. “You are from Constantinople?” he asked with a catch of his voice. Simeon nodded gravely, and asked if Jessup had been there. “No, not to the real City,” came the enigmatic reply. “But, all my life, I’ve longed that I could have seen it in all its glory—the civil and religious buildings, the markets, the museums, the—the— libraries filled with ancient learning….” He trailed off in a decidedly odd reverie.

Simeon leaned forward. “Master Jessup, if I cannot ask for our release, I might at the least observe that my nephew and I have eaten nothing since we set out early this morning. A meal of some kind would be much appreciated.” Jessup started slightly in his chair and apologised. He spoke to the guards. One of them answered with an insolent laugh. Jessup scowled and banged on the table. It was to no effect. He apologised again and got up and bowed. Once he was out of the room, the two guards began a conversation in their own language. Keeping his hands on the table, Michael stared across at the metal stylus. About six inches long, it had a solid look about it. He wondered if he could get to it before the guards could jump into action. Neither was armed with a sword. He was reasonably sure he could take them both on.

Simeon noticed what he was looking at. “Don’t even think about it, boy. You wouldn’t get a dozen yards.” One of the guards bent forward and screamed something into the old man’s ear. Trying to look as dignified as their bedraggled robes allowed, they sat in silence.

After a long wait, the door opened again. Jessup came back in. He had no food with him. Instead, there were two other men in white coats. “I must apologise for the indignity, My Lords,” he explained, a ghastly look on his face. “But our laws require that you should be tested for any sickness. These men must take a sample of your blood.”