Julian Stockwin - THE SILK TREE

‘Bugger that!’

‘We’ll be putting in at a whole lot of ports beforehand.’

‘You know your way about, then.’

‘Well, I’ve been in the incense import-export business since I was a nipper. I know ships and shipping and there’s going to be at least a dozen stops down the coast before this one ever gets to North Africa.’

‘Well, we’d better get to planning,’ Marius came back.

‘What’ll we do about those two bruisers?’

‘Stands to reason – we get rid of ’em.’

Nicander frowned uneasily. ‘You can’t just-’

Marius rolled over and fixed him with a grim stare. ‘Nico. We make a break for it, whether it’s with the loot or no, those bastards – under Justinian’s direct orders – are going to kick up such a fuss as will have the whole country crawling with troopers. We’d have no chance. So…’

‘Still…’

‘Them or us.’

This was not how Nicander had seen things work out. ‘Putting that aside for now, I thought we’d first ask for our chest because we need to check it, then we know where it’s stowed. So we’ll be ready for any chance. After all, no one suspects us or what we’re going to do so, in a quiet port somewhere, we slip off to visit a monastery with our heavy holy scriptures in our bag…’

Marius grunted, closing his eyes in dismissal at the current conversation.

Restless, Nicander went out on deck.

There was a brisk breeze coming in over the quarter and the ships made a fine picture slashing through the easy swell. He looked up at the soaring curve of the big lateen sails, taut and fluttering at the edge. They seemed so much more workmanlike than the usual broad square sails of a merchantman.

He strolled forward. The rowers were visible each side under this main deck, taking it easy while they could.

Right in the bow was a slightly elevated forecastle. He peered over into it and saw their attendants, lounging with a cup of wine in the quarters of the weaponeer.

Velch raised his drink in mock salute. ‘Anything you need, Holy One?’

Nicander gave a wry smile: they obviously knew all the tricks, including how to find a comfortable berth. Here on the open sea they had no need to constantly watch over their charges.

As the afternoon came to a close the ships downed sail and headed purposefully under oars in to the darkening coast. This was the long Hellespont that separated Europa from Asia, and led to the outside world.

Nicander knew that at the narrowest part of the seaway was the port of Dardanellia, a trading harbour where the customs imposts for the Empire were exacted. That’s where they must be headed first.

He racked his brain, trying to remember what he’d heard about the port. Yes. On the Asian side opposite to Constantinople – berths alongside, an amiable population. A river, hills and wooded valleys not so far off. Beyond that still was the anonymity of the ancient lands of Troad and Lydia.

He and Marius had managed to see exactly where their chest was. Stowed under a pack of glassware right at the front of the second case, number XIV, it was only three feet long. It contained, however, over forty leather sacks neatly laced at the tops, packed tightly together under a layer of parchment scrolls and an intricately worked reliquary containing a finger bone of Saint Antony, together with other religious oddments.

Fearing the attendants’ interest, they had tut-tutted that the scriptures were so scanty but allowed it was all there, making much of seeing it safely restowed.

For now they must just be alert. Once it became clear how the ship was to be secured they could finalise their plans.

Ahead, slightly to the left, Nicander saw the first outer settlements of Dardanellia. The narrows shortened and the town grew in size but, one by one, the ships pulled past without slackening pace.

In bewilderment he watched as they left the confines of the strait and moved out into the eye of the sunset and the vastness of the Mediterranean Sea. A few miles further they raised an island, rounded it and dropped anchor.

Nicander returned to Marius, disheartened. Even if they got away with the chest by boat or whatever, on an island there was nowhere to go.

They spooned up the greasy slop that passed for supper in sullen silence.

‘There’ll be a proper port before long, never fear,’ Nicander muttered.

But it was the same all the way down the coast of Asia Minor. Even a naval ship did not navigate across the seas out of sight of land, it followed well-known headlands and seamarks to its destination and moored safely in a bay by night. Potable water for the rowers was brought aboard from the shore and the next morning they were on their way again.

After a week they reached Cyprus and the port of Paphos, ancient and with a thriving town where they loaded provisions and water for the next and final leg – across to Alexandria.

‘This is how we’ll do it,’ Nicander told Marius. ‘I know Alex well. The docks are along the waterfront below the Timonium. Cargo is landed next to the ship under local guard until customs have assessed it and duties are paid. Then it’s freed to be moved into the warehouses while the inland shippers bring up their wagons. That’s when our men go to work.’

‘Our men?’

‘Who will have been paid to relieve the shipment of the goods we’ve told them to.’

‘Then?’

‘Meanwhile the four camels I’ll hire arrive and during the night we vanish.’

‘While the sailors and rowers are on shore, getting on the juice. Yes!’

They made landfall in two days and turned in along the sandy shore of North Africa until they came up with the capital city of Egypt.

‘You’ve not been to Alex,’ Nicander said as they approached the double harbour. It was hot, the dry smell of dunes and the wafting pungency of camels sharp on the air.

‘No, never.’

‘Well, you’re in for treat. Look, there.’ He pointed to an immensely tall, stepped square structure at the edge of the sea. ‘The Pharos! You can see its flame from an unbelievable distance at night.’

The ships curved around to enter the harbour.

Nicander could see their captain measuring distances and speeds by eye. The entrance right by the Pharos was not wide and he was prudently coming in with more control. The oars began their steady pull until at about half a mile off they were suspended to allow the other dromonds to enter first.

‘See, when we get inside we go across to the docks, and there we’ll be right before the Library of Alexandria. And of course Cleopatra’s Caesareum which she put up for Julius Caesar but ended up dedicating to Marc Antony-’

‘Damn your history, why aren’t we going in?’ Marius snapped.

Their dromond made no move to enter, heaving gently to the waves, oars motionless. Nicander frowned. ‘That’s odd.’

They were at the wrong angle to see much inside the harbour but there was no reason to wait indefinitely after the others had gone in.

But then they were moving again. The huge, rearing Pharos passed on the right.

‘The docks are over there,’ Nicander said, pointing past the noble Caesareum to the untidy clutter of wharves and ships across the harbour.

‘And our mates are over there!’ Marius gestured to the left where their escorts were tucked into a small cove with a single pier.

They were not headed for the common docks – the landing was to be away from public gaze.

‘Now I see why we didn’t go in. They’ve taken the time to set up a full perimeter – see all the men over there?’ Marius pointed to the continuous line of soldiers surrounding the private dock.

‘Stops other buggers coming in, stops us going out,’ he added bitterly.