Julian Stockwin - THE SILK TREE

The entrance of the harbour came up and then they were through – into the blessed expanse of open sea.

‘Marius, just where are we off to? What’s our port of call?’

The legionary said nothing and fumbled in his pack. He brought out a small cloth bag and threw it at Nicander. ‘Beans, Greek.’

‘It’s actually Nicander, Marius.’

‘Right, Nico.’

‘Nicander.’

‘Get a move on, or you won’t make the head of the line for cooking. Nico .’

Without a word Nicander went off.

Some time later he came back with a steaming bowl and they used their fingers to sup the frugal meal together.

‘So it’s Constantinople, then, Marius. I heard the crew talking.’

‘Yes.’

‘Never been there. Have you?’

‘No.’

‘Then it’s a new place for us both. Have you given thought as to what you’ll do there?’

Marius grunted and patted his pack. ‘Seeing as how the square-heads won’t need this loot where I sent ’em, I’ll put it to good use for myself. You?’

‘I’ll see what kind of fist I can make of it in Constantinople.’ Nicander tried to sound convincing, as much to himself as to Marius. ‘Bound to be opportunities for an experienced businessman!’

The Eastern Roman Empire was a great melting pot; races from Greece, the Levant and the unknowable civilisations that lay in the interior to the east. Surely with his skills he could make something of it there! Returning to Leptis Magna was not an option. That would mean admitting defeat: he had left home against his father’s wishes to set up on his own in Rome.

‘Right. Well, I suppose we should get some sleep,’ he murmured. Outside their chalk square, the deck was carpeted by bodies. He pulled out his travel-stained chlamys. Marius quickly had his greasy wool campaign cloak tightly around him and with a practised endurance sat with his back to the bulwark and head on his knees.

Nicander lay down. Even in his fatigue the decking was hard and unforgiving. Right aft there was a cabin with lights within and no doubt soft beds and wine…

He turned restlessly, looking up at the stars gently wheeling above, regularly obscured by the triangular top-sails.

Would fortune smile on him again? On a merchant with little capital, one of so many nameless souls fleeing the barbarians?

Sleep refused to come.

Setting foot on dry land could not come too soon for Nicander. At least the sailing had been uneventful. Their ship had followed the well-worn track eastward, navigating by known headland and seamark as vessels had for a thousand years. And now, after the slow, week-long journey through the winding length of the Hellespont into the Propontis, they were at last coming within sight of their destination.

Nicander watched as the light-blue misty coastline ahead firmed into darker blue.

It was a changed world now, one where Rome was diminished to a carcass for the plucking, finished as a country, let alone a world power. He had no real feelings for it any more; he’d lost his business and nearly his life because of their pathetic living in the past. They still maintained the pretence of glory with a senate and consul and all the flummery of an imperial history while letting their institutions decline and rot.

It was different for Marius. Brought up as a true Roman he was staunch in his loyalty and protected against reality by the traditions and ceremony of the legion. And secure among his comrades, he’d been blind to the inevitable. It must have been a cruel awakening to have been broken in battle and see all he held dear and honourable crushed under a barbarian horde.

How would he take to the other, more oriental Roman Empire? Nicander had dealt with quite a few merchants from these parts; clever, metropolitan and sly. They had done well under Emperor Justinian, who had transformed the climate for trading with his laws and firm rule, preserving a bastion of civilisation in the face of the human torrent that was flooding in from the vastness of Asia.

And would he himself prosper or fade? With so little capital and no friends…

The land ahead took on colour and detail. Constantinople was beginning to emerge to the left, occupying the end of the peninsula across his vision. On the right was Chalcedon, which lay in Asia. Between the two cities was the Bosphorus Strait, leading through the mountains all the way to the Euxine Sea.

Nearer, a massive sea wall ran right along the foreshore, vanishing into the mists to the left. Above it were houses and larger edifices, glittering white in the morning sunshine. The wafting air brought the scent of land.

The ship’s twin rudders were put over as their course was laid to round the peninsula, and as they closed with the shore new sights came into view. A tower, a lighthouse – domes, tall buildings – and a great palace. And there next to it, unmistakeable, was the marvel of the Church of Sancta Sapientia – or Hagia Sophia as he knew it, a breathtaking vision in marble.

Close by it were the stern porticoes of some kind of senate building, looking as if it had been magically transported from Rome, and further round the end of the peninsula, gardens and olive groves, meadows and valleys.

They did not continue on up the Bosphorus but followed the headland around. A noble acropolis stood high on the wooded promontory.

On the left, a long and narrow waterway opened up, bustling with small craft – the Golden Horn, the legendary end point and focus for so much exotic trading.

Sail was shortened, lines thrown ashore and the ship worked alongside the stone wharf. The high-class passengers were escorted off first, then Nicander and Marius joined the flood of others down the gangway and found themselves on the blessed solidity of the land.

‘So. Where do we…?’ Nicander began but tailed off when he saw the outstretched hand.

‘It’s farewell, then, Greek. I wish you well.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Join up, o’ course! Legionary like me, good to be under the eagle banner again.’

The sound of the fretful infant’s crying set Nicander’s teeth on edge. The Sarmatian woman had no time to care for a child – she had her hands full running the tabernaria , the street eatery beneath his room. He’d rented the little place from her crude Thracian husband and daren’t risk losing it by complaining, not with the way things were at present.

The whining continued on and on and Nicander saw red. He jumped up and decided to go to his small lock-up and check if the shipment had arrived. Anything to get away from this racket.

Snatching his chlamys he swirled it on, hoping the dash of colour at its hem and polished bronze brooch at the shoulder would conceal the shabby tunic underneath. He clattered down the wooden stairs, flashing a glassy smile at the woman pouring something from an amphora into a giant pithos set in the floor. A stomach-churning reek of rancid oil and stale fish billowed out from the array of hobs at the back of the tabernaria .

Outside there was little relief from the fetid closeness. He stepped off briskly.

In this capital city of Empire, despair marched side by side with monument and splendour. From his tenement in the fringe area it was only a couple of streets and he was at the Artopoleia with its bustling commerce, and then the four columns of the tetrapylon marking the end of urban Constantinople.

A diseased beggar on his knees clutched at Nicander. Irritably, he kicked him aside; most were frauds and made a tidy living out of their condition. There were church sisterhoods and others who found their salvation by ministering to the poor – why should he be singled out?

It had been a serious blow finding that his line of business was closed to him. There was a guild of incense traders licensed by the state and they were not interested in making things easy for an outsider. And without serious capital there was no prospect of setting up in competition with them. He’d had to look for some other entry-level venture, for no one was going to extend credit to yet another exile.