Julian Stockwin - THE SILK TREE

Around the bend the wind caught a thick and cloying stench. Bodies. No one was taking time to bury them and as the human flood converged on Brundisium he saw many more corpses, roughly pulled aside from the road.

God help it, he’d be glad to be quit of this place of death and desolation.

He patted his groin furtively. There was still a reassuring weight in the pouch that nestled snugly there. In his makeshift knapsack he’d planted a handful of siliqua, the coins debased and near useless, together with a scatter of obsolete sesterces, big and impressive, but also valueless. However those in the pouch were solidi, coins of gold, his entire fortune.

Nicander reached the crest of the last rise before Brundisium and gazed down into the wide plain and the town. His eyes searched feverishly – the harbour was virtually empty! There were two small ships out of reach at anchor offshore. Apart from that, nothing of the hundreds from the old days.

Picking up his pace down the road he tried to grapple with the consequences: if he couldn’t get away the only other port of size was Tarentum, days of pain over to the west.

But he couldn’t face any more. Must he take his chances here when the Ostrogoths came? Where could he hide? He hobbled on bleakly, fending off wretches begging for a crust, others on their knees in supplication for release from their misery.

There were roaming gangs out to get their hands on the pitiful scraps of wealth travellers kept to bribe their way to survival. When nightfall came it would bring scenes from hell – if the Ostrogoths didn’t arrive first.

Nicander forced his mind to try to find a way out and remembered that on the gently curving south side, out of sight past the old burying ground, ships were hauled up for repair to be fitted out for their voyages. It could be…

He took a short cut through the marshes and rickety tenements; there were far fewer people and he allowed his hopes to rise. Then, above the rooftops – the lofty broad spars of a ship! A corbita , a large vessel of at least 4000 amphorae gross tonnage.

Eagerly he slipped through an alley leading to the docks but, as soon as he got out in the open, he realised it was hopeless. The ship was alongside but almost hidden by a crowd of hundreds; beseeching, shouting, weeping. He pushed through and saw that there were men with weapons in a ring of steel, guarding the crew who were at work ejecting its grain cargo into the sea – they now had a far more valuable freight.

There was one last chance: the cargo agent’s office was on the second floor of the building behind. Would he still be there and perhaps be able to sell him a place for gold in hand? His little hoard was not impressive but he knew the man and…

‘Sueva! How go you, old friend!’ The big Spaniard glanced up, gave a quick grimace and went back to his counting, each kind of coin in a different money bag. A sour-faced Moor looked on impassively.

‘I’d hoped to catch you here,’ Nicander went on, in as friendly a tone as he could muster.

‘Won’t be for much longer,’ Sueva said darkly. ‘Someone just saw the square-heads firing a farmhouse. They’ll be here before nightfall.’

‘Yes. Unfortunate. Sueva. I’ve need of a passage out of here. I don’t suppose that for a premium fee-’

‘Can’t be done.’

‘Oh?’

‘There’s sixty-seven head going in that corbita . We’re not taking any more and that’s final.’

‘I can perhaps find gold…?’

‘No.’

‘Is there another ship leaving soon-’

‘That’s the last. If I were you, my little Greek, I’d scamper off as fast as you can before this town starts getting exciting.’

On the wharf the crowd was growing but was still held at bay by the armed men. Moving closer, Nicander heard cries and curses as the throng was forced aside by some kind of disturbance at the far end.

It was a group being escorted toward the ship – the lucky few who were getting out with their lives. His heart pounded. Unless he could think of something he was going to be left here, probably to die this very night, butchered by the barbarians.

He tried to pull himself together, he was a merchant, a businessman, and surely should be able to come up with some sort of deal. The pay-off would be saving his own life.

But weariness and pain had dulled his wits. He could think of nothing as he watched the fortunates being shepherded to the gangway and over the bulwarks.

And then a tall, well-built man in a shapeless cloak strode up the gangway – there was something familiar about him!

At the top he turned briefly and their eyes met. It was Marius.

For a long second the legionary held the gaze, then made to step onto the deck. He hesitated – and turned to face Nicander again.

‘There he is!’ he suddenly bellowed. ‘Been looking everywhere for the sorry bastard! My Greek slave! Get aboard this instant, you runt. Now!’

A guard reached out to collar Nicander. He allowed himself to be propelled up the gangway – but the captain swaggered up and barred the way. ‘And who’s paying, then? Full price it is, even slaves.’

He glared pointedly at Marius, who folded his arms and looked meaningfully at Nicander.

Near panic, Nicander faced away and scrabbled for a solidus.

‘Ha!’ guffawed the captain. ‘Your skin’s worth only a pawky single? I’ll have another four o’ them or you gets thrown back, my little cockerel!’

Five gold solidi for a couple of weeks’ voyage! His face burning, Nicander handed the coins over.

‘Right, get along, then,’ the man rumbled and stalked off.

Nicander hurried over to Marius, near incoherent with relief. ‘I… I-’

‘Well? Pick up the bag then, slave!’

‘What? You don’t mean-’

‘You need a taste o’ the whip to get you going, Greek?’

‘Marius, we’ve-’

‘It’s Master to you, runt!’

‘I… I – y-yes, Master,’ Nicander said, ready to do whatever it took to keep in favour.

‘Stuff that! Can’t you Greeks take a joke?’ Marius snorted and stalked off.

Nicander followed him forward to a chalked area of deck, presumably where they were to spend the voyage.

Already the ship was being prepared for sea, sailors elbowing the milling passengers out of the way as they bent on sail.

The ship poled out, and the big square sail was heaved round to the wind. It filled with a loud slam and banging before it took up, and a cheerful rippling began as they pulled away.

Closer to the open sea the vessel gently heeled under a keen breeze.

Near weeping with relief, Nicander stammered, ‘I can only thank you from my heart for your-’

‘Don’t waste your words, Greek. I don’t know why I did it – reckon it was your spunk when you took that hopeless bunch out into the night.’ A suspicious look came over his face. ‘So where are they now? Did you-’

Nicander pulled himself together, ‘Oh, right now I’m not sure. There was a band of Goths came up and I remembered your cry of the wolf. It worked, as well, but I couldn’t find them afterwards,’ he concluded, avoiding the big man’s eyes.

‘Oh? How did you get away, then?’

‘Ah, I climbed a tree. Easy, really – they were only looking on the ground.’

‘Good thinking, Greek. So how did you leave your tree with ’em all around you?’

‘Ah. That. Not so difficult. I waited for a square-head to ride under the branch then fell on him. A right tussle it was but he dropped his axe and I let him have it straight between the eyes and rode off on his horse, that’s all.’

‘Well, quite the little warrior!’

‘It was nothing,’ he said hastily. ‘How did you…?’

‘Not so smart as yours. Four of them came at me, put ’em down, then took another couple on my way out. Hard hacking all the way,’ he added laconically.