Julian Stockwin - THE SILK TREE

Nicander sighed and explained what faced him in the fruit supply business. ‘Without the pomegranate shipment I’m finished anyway,’ he concluded.

Marius gave a tight smile. ‘Ah, now that’s something that can be left to me. Tell me about this Syrian.’

Next day, as if by magic, the pomegranates had arrived. Disbelieving, Nicander set about arranging delivery.

‘He’s sorry for the inconvenience and will do better next time,’ Marius said with a wicked smirk. ‘What now?’

Then it was the oranges. A private arrangement with a ship’s master to regularise. Again there was no trouble, once the legionary had seen to it.

‘How’s our capital, now, Nico?’ Marius asked as the coins were carefully counted.

‘Improving.’

‘Can we-’

‘No. Capital is blood – we don’t shed it unless we have to. It’s our way out of this stinking hole, but we need to build up more.’

‘Damn it all, when will that be?’

‘At this rate… perhaps a year or so, then-’

‘I don’t want to wait that fucking long!’

‘This is what we have to do, Marius.’

‘Take a chance on it, man! Where’s your courage?’

‘No!’

‘I say, yes!’

Nicander’s face tightened. ‘You’re entitled to half the assets, Marius. Do you want them now? Shall I put them in a bag?’

‘A plague on your money-grubbing ways, Greek.’

‘Patience is the hardest lesson in business.’

‘A pox on that, too.’

Rage suddenly clamped in. ‘You stupid bastard, Marius! Can’t you see? Do you think I want it to be like this? Let me tell you, not so long back you’d see me running my own incense business, seventy men taking my wages, a turnover of a hundred thousand solidi, a reputation in the city. Can you just try to think how it feels for me to be grubbing about in oranges and pomegranates at the beck and call of any pig with an obol or two? Can you?’

Marius’s face went dull red. Then with a crash, his fist slammed down.

‘Now you listen to me, you… you poor pissed-upon bastard! How do you think I’m taking it? A first-class Roman legionary, service in Syria and Dalmatia, there’s enemy bones out there because I’m good with a blade – now all I’m told to do is put the frights on some witless idiot on a barrow stall!’

He heaved a deep breath.

Both men slumped back in their chairs.

After a space Nicander said, ‘Look, I do appreciate what you’re doing. It’s hard on both of us…’

He picked up his accounts and opened the ledger. ‘This Nabatean Grotius,’ he said wearily, ‘I advanced him an amount to cover his lemon shipment and now he’s crying poverty and won’t return it. If you could go and persuade him to his obligation… or it’ll leave me embarrassed in the matter of the currants deal.’

Marius flung open the door. ‘M’friend, m’ friend!’

He rubbed his hands in delight as he sank into a chair with a wide grin.

‘You have the coin, then?’ Nicander asked, surprised as the legionary had only been away an hour or so.

‘Better’n that, Greek!’

‘Oh?’

‘Grotius. He begs to be released of his arrears.’

‘ And …?’

‘I said we’d agree to it.’

Lost for words, Nicander blinked in confusion.

Marius continued enthusiastically, ‘In view o’ what he had to say.’

‘Which was, might I ask?’

‘Ha! What you didn’t know is that the fat toad is in with the Blues faction in a big way.’

‘And what’s that got to do with us?’

The brutal Roman circus of gladiators and Christian sacrifice had long since been overtaken in Byzantine popular entertainment by other offerings; now it was wild animal baiting and, above all, chariot racing between the Blues and Greens factions.

Marius retorted triumphantly, ‘In two days there’s a fix, and Grotius is on the inside!’

‘So?’

‘He says it’s certain, as only he’s in the know and he trusts we’ll look kindly on his position while we collect our winnings.’

‘Do I hear you – you’re saying we should risk our precious capital – on a bet?’

‘Right enough. I can tell you on the quiet, he’s staking his wife and two daughters to slavery on it.’

‘No reason for us to be demented as well! Now look, Marius, betting is the business of fools. Can’t you see he’s throwing out an excuse so you leave him alone?’

‘This is our chance to make a hill o’ cash! Greens have had a good run with Priscus, their crack driver, they’re calling odds of sevens at least on a Blues win. We put-’

‘No!’

‘I say we go for it!’ Marius growled. ‘Anything which sees us on top o’ this world instead of-’

‘You fool!’ Nicander said. ‘We’ve not one shred of proof that there’s such a fix being planned. You’d throw our money at a bunch of losers and-’

‘Look, he’ll take us to see Nepos, the Blues driver. Introduce us. You can ask him yourself!’

Grotius met them outside the Blues faction clubhouse. ‘So pleased you could come, gentlemen,’ he said with an oily charm. ‘It might be better to sport these favours?’ He handed a blue cloth spray to each of them to pin on their tunics. His own had an ostentatious silver clasp, Nicander noted, already regretting his agreement to humour Marius.

‘My party,’ Grotius told the heavyweight pair at the door and they proceeded into the noisy interior.

Seeing the marble panelling, ornate classical statues and the occasional flash of a senatorial toga, Nicander suspected that Grotius was a man living to the limits of his means.

He also knew the factions were more than simple supporters. Enormous sums were granted to them by the Prefect to manage the public shows. In Rome there had been four factions but now the Blues and Greens had it all between them. They played to the masses and ran an operation that included top charioteers and circus spectaculars.

They could effortlessly whip up the mob with professional cheerleaders and gangs and were therefore a formidable political force, even having the power to address the emperor directly in their own interest.

Nicander trod carefully around the carousing groups as they followed the corpulent merchant. Female cries that left no doubt as to the activity within came from behind closed doors. A stream of slaves bearing exotic sweetmeats and jugs of wine jostled past. Occasionally, well-dressed patrons nodded familiarly at Grotius then looked curiously at his guests.

At the end of the long passage Grotius knocked firmly at a door.

‘Who the fuck’s that?’ came a deep voice from inside. ‘I’m tired. Go away.’

‘Ah, Nepos, old friend. It’s Grotius and I’ve a pair of your greatest fans who beg to meet you.’

‘Oh? Well send ’em in if you have to, then.’

Rush dips guttered as they entered and a rich stink of horses lay on the air. The charioteer reclined on a leather bench. Two women were at work on his oiled back.

‘This is Nepos, gentlemen, the supreme chariot driver of the age!’

He rolled over to face them. Impressively big, with muscular thews and a deep chest, he had the dark of the Thracians. His hair was a riot of black curls in the old Roman style and he sported a pugnacious beard.

Nicander felt his presence overbearing. ‘Good sir, we’re here to express our best wishes for your contest with the Greens.’

Cruel eyes took him in. ‘You’ve got money on me, then?’

‘O’ course, Mr Nepos,’ Marius came in quickly. ‘Knowing you’ll win, like.’

‘What do you mean?’ The charioteer snapped, sitting up suddenly.

‘That your loyal Blues have taken precautions to-’