Julian Stockwin - THE SILK TREE

‘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?’

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.’