THE SILK TREE

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Nicander gathered his wits, trying not to let the imminent prospect of confronting an emperor affect him. The fact that it was so past belief that a penniless outsider like himself would be in this position insulated him from the actuality.

He worked hard. Going over all parts he ensured there were answers to every possible objection, provisions for failure, background detail to add plausibility.

This was what he was good at, for wasn’t he the one, in better times, who’d planned and put in place the successful cross-country myrrh route to Cyrene? And not forgetting that it was his own delicate talking with the desert Garamantes that had secured the Carthage frankincense concession.

When it was all there, he made Marius ‘emperor’ and delivered his presentation over and over again until he was sure of it, then he sent word to Narses that he was ready.

The old man’s eyes glowed. ‘Excellent! This day I promise, you will be before His Resplendency.’

Before the morning was out, he was back. ‘It shall be so. Directly after the Reception of the Western Kings you are granted a privy audience in the Daphne Palace! This is all but unprecedented, you are honoured above all.’

Nicander was giddy with excitement and nervousness. ‘What do we do – that is to say, the formalities…’

‘For a privy audience there is nothing laid down in the Scroll of Ceremonies, do rest your concern. It is a simple matter: when bidden, you approach, kiss the slipper and remain on one knee until released.’

‘Yes, and…?’

‘I took it upon myself to acquaint the Emperor in a small way of the petition, your expectations and likely success should you meet with his approval. He was most interested.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Do let me give you some frank advice, Holy Brother. His Sacred Clemency is not one for form and custom. Efficiency and clarity are his watchwords, therefore I advise that your presentation be brief and to the point, sparing in honorifics and platitudes. As well, do remember that his mind is sharp and watchful and unforgiving of loose thinking. And whatever else, never utter an untruth – this he cannot abide in any man.’

It brought Nicander up with a sudden chill as the scale of what they were going to do returned.

Narses added, ‘Then I will call for you in two hours and together we will attend at the Magnaura Great Hall for the grand reception, after which we will have our audience.’

After he had gone, Marius turned to Nicander. ‘Be buggered to it, Nico, but I don’t mind telling you I’m… I’m bloody troubled…’

Narses was wearing his full ceremonials: a richly embroidered dalmatica with the tablion of high rank, an infinity of precious stones sewn to his robes, shoes and headgear.

The Imperial Palace was not a single building but a bewildering series of massive marble edifices. The three made their way through a great courtyard faced by other grand structures. They joined others progressing past the great bronze gate to the white colonnades which led to a domed red-stone hall.

Entering by the smaller of three doorways they found themselves in a hushed throng in a great vaulted space. At the far end in the raised apse was a grand throne, illuminated by light from lofty windows.

Leaving the holy men in a corner with strict instructions to remain there and speak with no one, Narses moved off to greet the dignitaries.

Nicander and Marius took in the spectacle of hundreds of nobles, ministers, generals and grand officials of state, waited upon by white-robed servitors and flanked on all sides by soldiers in gleaming plate armour.

Toward the centre of the assembly were the barbarian kings from the shadowy wilds north of the frontier – Gepids, Avars, Uighurs, others. Here to be wooed and impressed by the sights and sensations of civilisation.

The hum of conversation died at a new sound: from far away the ethereal purity of a choir floated on the air. It strengthened: after each stanza the melodious clash of cymbal, then the voices again – both deep and rich, pure and high in a delivery that lifted the soul.

The head of a procession entered the hall. A great golden ornamented cross was borne in front, behind it thuribles swung, the rich odour of incense wreathing the air. Then two holy icons carried high and crowned with myrtle, and another cross.

The choir, dressed in simple vestments and carrying lighted tapers followed, eyes raised to heaven in sonorous chant. It processed into the centre of the gathering and then moved towards the throne, dividing each side and ascending the stalls in the apse behind it. Then all was silent.

With a blast of sound at the doorway from the braying of bronze trumpets the Emperor stepped into view in a blaze of splendour – a heavily jewelled purple pallium cloak over gold breastplate fastened with a brooch of four immense pendant pearls, a red and gold diadem of heart-stopping magnificence. The ruler of the world!

Justinian moved with stately deliberation, followed by a host of nobles. Nicander was transfixed as the glittering image passed across his vision.

A murmur spread, growing in strength: ‘Divine Caesar! Ever august! Victorious and triumphant! Emperor of the Romans! All hail to thee!’

The progress moved on, followed by every eye.

The great ornamented cross was set down and Justinian knelt before it in prayer. He rose and kissed it then ascended the throne.

A richly dressed officer of state strode forward, the feared Master of Offices, Peter the Patrician. From a parchment scroll he declaimed in ringing tones. Nicander could not make out the words but in a heady breathlessness he watched the proceedings unfold.

One by one the barbarian kings were brought before Justinian where they rendered obeisance and in return were blessed and awarded gifts. At certain points the choir made intercession. It was a masterful display – the sounds of angels ringing out, the wafting incense, splendour and brilliance.

Then it was over.

The procession formed up; this time at the head, following the cross, Justinian. With all the pomp and glory of the throne of Byzantium, it proceeded out of the Magnaura Great Hall, passing close to Nicander.

A wave of stark terror overcame him – how could he continue with his plan, stand before that vision and present a business proposition that was entirely false?

As the procession receded, he reached for control: in minutes he was going face to face with the Emperor. He had to go through with it or…

As if in answer, a strange feeling of calmness stole over him; one of ringing destiny.

Narses came for them. ‘His Sacred Majesty disrobes. We will await him at the Daphne Palace.’

Nicander stepped forward but Marius hung back.

‘I can’t do it!’ he muttered hoarsely. ‘What if he speaks to me? Wha-what do I say?’

‘Come on, Marius. I’ll be doing the talking.’

‘He’ll have a go at me – and then I’ll… I’ll say a wrong thing!’

‘Not if you’ve taken a vow of silence and cannot speak.’

They swept on; past the Delphax with its noble columns, the domed Onopodion, the low colonnaded Consisterium, more. A concentration of grandeur and solemnity.

Finally they emerged opposite the Daphne Palace. The actual residence of the Emperor, it was faced with columns but there were no windows or doors to be seen except for the main entrance. There, wreathed smoky-white marble columns supported a facade of the utmost elegance, the approach steps a contrasting dusky red stone.

They rounded the end of the building to a lowly entrance and passed inside a single plain doorway which led into a room beyond.

Narses held up his hand.

They heard movement in the room; the scraping of a chair, the chink of a goblet and a slight cough.

Narses gave them a warning glance, then knocked and disappeared inside. There was a murmur of voices and he emerged. ‘His Divine Majesty wishes you to enter upon his presence.’

Keyed to the highest possible level, Nicander told himself this was really only a bigger league sales pitch, much like the time when, single-handed, he landed that Epirus deal in front of the Exarch of Achaea himself, or that masterly performance when…

With a single backward glance at the stricken Marius he stepped forward. To stand before Justinian, Emperor and Caesar of the Roman Empire, its people and dominions.

Sitting at a desk that was not much more than a bench he looked up.

Nicander saw before him a man of years, an abstemious and heavy face, brooding and unsmiling. Bare-headed, he wore a plain rust-coloured chlamys secured with a simple gold clasp which, with a single massive ring, was the only ornamentation.

‘Approach!’

Heart in his mouth Nicander went to him, knelt and kissed a worn slipper, remembering at the last minute to stay on one knee.

‘Rise!’

Pulse racing, he raised his eyes to meet those of the ruler of civilisation.

‘From where do you hail, good Brother?’ The tone was benign, encouraging.

‘Sire, I am Brother Paul and this, Brother Matthew. Our home is the kingdom of Artaxium Felix, which is in the desert, past the mountains of Hawazin and beyond the land of the Carnaites.’

‘You’re a Lakhmid?’

‘No, Majesty,’ Nicander replied, not sure what that meant. ‘We are an ancient race, much decayed in fortune since our river changed its course. We’ve been cut off by the advancing desert and have lived alone, away from the outer world for centuries.’

‘Are you then a pagan? Your Latin does you credit, I ask this only to establish your standing before God.’

‘Why no, sir! Our little kingdom was established in the time of your illustrious predecessor, Alexander Severus, at the time of the first Persian wars. We were loyal to Rome but the last we have of the true way was the Christianity of the blessed Constantine. From that time we have been alone.’

‘So you’re then untainted by the ungodly heresies of Arianism, the Monophysites or even, our good Lord forbid, the Nestorians?’

‘Majesty, we have stayed by the teachings of our blessed Saint Agnes to this day.’ He crossed himself devoutly.

‘I see. Your fellow brother – has he anything to say for himself?’

‘Oh, no, sire! He remains under a vow of silence made on our miraculous return. Seventy-eight days, one for each of the years granted unto our Lady Agnes.’

‘Most proper in you, Brother. Then I must hear your tale from yourself only. Do go on.’

It came out easily; modest in delivery, compelling in what it implied and it held Justinian’s rapt attention.

‘I wonder why I have not heard of these wanderings – most travellers are only too eager to prate on about their exploits.’

‘Sire, we’re only humble holy men, unversed in the literary arts; we are newly returned, anxious to impart our secret most urgently to Your Clemency before others steal it.’

‘A worthy object. And it was in Serica you saw the silk trees?’

‘We did, Resplendency. Such a picture in a warm dusk, when the ladies of the village gather with their combs and panniers waiting for the moon. They sing strange but beautiful songs and no man may join them, for only the agility of the female hand is sufficient to garner the harvest of silk from high up on the topmost leaves.’

‘And… the seeds?’

‘The silk tree requires particular care, the soil well watered and animals kept away until they be of a stature to stand alone. The seeds are small, many would fill a common purse but these are well guarded, for it is feared that the Scythians to the north might well plant their own and be seen abroad in all manner of rich silks, to the despising of their industry.’

‘Hmm. I can quite see that – silk is not for the common people, still less barbarians.’

Nicander tensed as the Emperor’s face hardened.

‘Now you propose to return with these same seeds of the silk tree. How is it you can feel able to return the kindness of the King of the Seres by robbing him of his secret in this way?’

‘In the eyes of God, all creation is gifted to all men – it is so written. Is it right therefore to withhold the fruits of creation from others so?’

A wintry smile came and vanished quickly. ‘Very well, shall we now hear something of your plans?’

‘Yes, Excellency. It is a long and arduous journey across desert and mountains to Serica, through uncountable Hunnish tribes and vile kingdoms – the worst of these are the Persians. Nevertheless, we who have experienced so much know that there is another way. We mean to embark in a ship and sail to the fabled isle of Taprobane, which lies at a distance into the Erythraean Sea far from any Persian or barbarian. There with our precious decree of protection we will induce a trader of Seres to take us on to his country.’

‘A wise and well-thought plan. I had feared you would present a scheme requiring me to mount an expedition of size to cross Persia, which would undoubtedly mean war.’

‘Thank you, Majesty. It was always our intent to keep costs and gross outlay to a minimum by setting aside ambassadors and an official delegation, leaving merely ourselves to support.’

‘I see. Nevertheless, an enterprise as you propose will still require funding at a significant level. Travel at an unknown distance, subsistence, additional attire to meet a variety of conditions…’

‘Still far less than a military-led expedition, sire.’

‘True. Then for the sake of example, should we hazard, say, funding in the amount of five hundred gold solidi? Would this be too generous, do you believe?’

‘It is in our thinking, that to cross lands beyond the protection of the King of the Seres will require a different course. It is the usual practice to hire unemployed soldiery for guards, which we feel a reasonable expense. And there are always unenlightened rulers who will levy exactions on travellers under penalty of refusing to allow them passage. In fact, there are many such traps for the unwary and it were folly to hazard the success of the venture for want of proper funding. Excellent Majesty, the Persians are exacting fifteen solidi a pound for raw silk.’

‘It’s more than that, but I’ll let it go.’

‘At seventy grains weight for each solidus, seventy-two in a pound, then each pound of silk is two, three ounces of pure gold. Thus, to import a single ton of silk the Persians must receive no less than four hundred pounds weight of gold. To satisfy an empire will therefore take in the measure of some tons’ weight of gold every year – all pouring into the treasury of the King of the Persians and no revenues you may call upon to offset this outflow.’

Justinian’s eyes narrowed. ‘For a holy man it seems to me you’re worldly beyond your station, Brother Paul.’

‘Clemency, I knew you would require detail and considered thought, so I made it my business to have the facts at hand.’

‘Go on.’

‘Sire, I merely wished to point out that when in possession of the seeds this drain will cease. No more tons of gold to your bitter enemy – perhaps even a net inflow when you begin exporting your crop to others. Surely this is worth an investment of, say, four thousand…?’

‘You present a compelling argument. Just for my curiosity, pray, what reward do you seek for your services? A fee against-’

‘Sire!’ Nicander blurted, shocked. ‘This is not the way of one in the fellowship of the holy Saint Agnes!’

He allowed a beatific smile to settle. ‘If it pleases, Your Effulgence, it would gratify my king were you to establish a church to Saint Agnes and provide us with such monks as are necessary to teach our people the true way of the Lord in these parlous modern times.’

‘A church? I would think that possible. And clerics – you shall have them both. Provided you are successful in bringing back to me the seeds of the silk tree.’

‘Then…?’

‘It does seem you have a case, Brother Paul. I’m minded to assist. If you’re going forth to cross the earth at great personal hazard, why should we not risk our own paltry three thousands?’

‘Sire, four.’

‘Hmm, four. Now let me help you, Brother. The tribute convoy to Persia leaves shortly. You will have escort and rations all the way to the shores of the Erythraean.’

‘Thank you, Majesty,’ Nicander managed.

‘Further, I would not have it on my conscience if I allowed men of God to go into the world without they have attendants. You shall have two of my finest compulsors to look after you. To carry your bags, as it were, and assist in bringing safely back my seeds.’

‘This won’t be necessary, Your Resplendency, we-’

‘You will be provided with a holy relic to present to your king. Perhaps the finger bone of Saint Anthony?’

‘You are most generous, Divine Majesty.’

‘And holy scriptures, of course. You have no objection to the writings of the sainted Athanasius?

‘So now there is little more for you to concern yourselves with. Return to your cell with our blessing, to fast and prepare yourselves spiritually for the journey. Rest easy, holy brothers – you will be guarded day and night, have no fear. Your attendants will take care of the chest of funds when they have been assembled. You are to be relieved of responsibility and anxiety for all profane existence.’