THE SILK TREE

CHAPTER TEN

John the Cappadocian greeted them with irritation. His eyes were bloodshot and his robe stained.

‘You’re finished so soon? I expected something of a proper plan, decently put together.’

‘There are difficulties that have arisen. Sir, we need your advice.’

Swearing, John cleared the table with a sweep of his arm. ‘Sit down.’

The sound of the smashing pottery brought a slave running.

‘What is it, then? Am I to be disturbed for every little problem you meet?’

‘Silk does grow upon trees, sir, I now have sufficient confirmation of that.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

Gathering his courage, Nicander went on, ‘What is proving harder is to find a suitable route to Serica. No two authorities agree and the ancients are not helpful. Sir, might I ask that in your time as an officer of state did you ever hear of the Seres in any way?’

‘As I told you before, I’ve heard of them, but then so has everybody. Are you telling me you’ve no reliable indication of where you’re headed?’

‘Not at the moment.’

John the Cappadocian slumped back with a bitter smile. ‘Then you’ve got a problem. All I know is that it’s a damn long way off, in some godforsaken place somewhere at the end of the world.’

He held Nicander’s eyes. ‘I take it you’ve asked to see the records of that… what was it… the Antoninus delegation. Didn’t I hear they’d actually reached there and came back?’

‘I have, sir, and others. They didn’t – or couldn’t – say where they were, and the fools didn’t bother to write down anything of value in terms of direction or distance.’

‘That doesn’t augur well for your plan, sir. What will you do now?’

‘The secret’s out there somewhere,’ Nicander said doggedly. ‘We’ll keep looking until we find it. Then let you know, of course.’

He got up to leave.

‘Why the hurry? Stay, take a little refreshment.’ It was an order: two more cups were signalled.

Marius shot a warning glance at Nicander, but he took no notice. While there was any chance…

‘All is not lost.’

‘Why do you say that, sir?’

‘Just a thought, that’s all.’ There was a self-satisfied smile touched with a hint of spite. It brought Nicander to full alert.

‘May we know it?’

‘Perhaps. Tell me, what is your objective in this?’

Wary, he answered that it was the securing of the seeds of the silk tree.

‘No, Mr Greek. The real object.’

‘I – I don’t understand you, sir.’

‘Surely it’s the acquisition of wealth by whatever means? Those baubles of comfort that so ease the pangs of old age…?’

‘As a man of business I do accept that the increase resulting-’

‘Then I believe there is a path to that same objective – requiring only a little courage, far less effort and with the gratifying consequence that it goes a little way into… squaring accounts between myself and the Emperor Justinian.’

This was edging into dangerous waters. Were they going to be pawns in some palace power struggle?

Nicander was aware of Marius’s disquiet but John the Cappadocian was probably the most successful money man of the age, brought low only by the spite of a woman. And he had just this one chance to talk at the exalted level of emperors and gold, statecraft and business.

‘Your advice to us is always to be welcomed,’ Nicander said as neutrally as he could.

‘Very well. We go inside – in this evil city there are ears everywhere.’ He heaved himself up and led them into a sparsely furnished room. The window looked out on olive trees where a slave hoed the soil in desultory fashion.

‘Aha – the boot is on the other foot! Before I reveal my idea, how do I know it will not be taken from me by a pair of out-of-town adventurers? Hey?’

‘Sir, I don’t-’

‘Be easy, Greek. I’m only in jest. The situation remains as before. I cannot perform it, and I’m bound to your own good selves for any fortune that might result.’

‘Then what is your idea, sir?’

‘The same as your own… taken a little further.’

He went on briskly, ‘The seeds of the silk tree. Brought back to be planted in a sacred grove for the enrichment of the whole Roman Empire. This cannot fail!’

A dreamy expression appeared on his face. ‘I can see it all: two holy men from the edge of Empire, thinking it their sacred duty to inform their ruler that having particular knowledge far beyond that of mere libraries, they are prepared to venture to far Sinae to acquire the seeds for the glory of the Byzantine Empire and its illustrious ruler. They lack only the means to do so.’

‘Special information?’

‘I rather think something more in the way of a token, a visible sign that not only do they possess the knowledge but are themselves the only ones able to take advantage of it. A species of immunity, if you like, preserving the idea for their own furtherance… and profit.’

‘Sir, I don’t follow you,’ Nicander said. ‘We have no special knowledge and no prospect of any.’

‘Yet you’ll agree, should these two men appear with some, their way to being funded is assured? Our ever-avaricious Justinian would think nothing of settling five hundred thousand gold solidi on them for a return of eight tons of gold a year!’ His eyes gleamed wolfishly.

‘But how-’

‘These monks come with a tale. They were on pilgrimage from somewhere outlandish like Sheba, when the winds seize their ship and after a harrowing experience which would wring pity from the hardest heart they are cast up in shipwreck. They are rescued by a passing trader who is from Serica and takes them there. Where they meet the King of the Seres who offers them hospitality and his prayers for their safe return. When they are ready to leave, he gives them a letter decreeing those named therein as honoured guests of the kingdom. This they offer to Justinian as proof that they will be welcomed back should they return.’

‘And only them.’

‘Just so. And while in Serica they see the silk trees, how they are cared for, how to use the peculiar combs and so forth as no one else has. Who else might Justinian send, but these two worthy monks?’

With the assistance of one slightly less than genuine document they would get their funding! It was a lifeline but… ‘Sir. There is an impossibility. We do not know where Serica is!’

‘What a charming innocence you possess, sir! I asked clarification of your major objective which you were kind enough to disclose. You know not where the Seres are. At the point of sailing these two are not in conflict.’

‘You mean…?’

‘Our monks are again unlucky in their voyaging. This time, soon after departing, they are swallowed up by the sea and they and their treasure are never seen again. How sad, is it not?’

It started to sink in slowly and Nicander felt his face pale. Was John the Cappadocian inciting them to a deception, a fraud against Emperor Justinian himself?

He glanced at Marius. His expression gave nothing away.

Nicander asked for a moment with his friend and they went out to the olive grove.

‘I owe nothing to this shite of a city after what I’ve been through,’ Marius spat. ‘Why not make something out of its greedy sods who’d see us go out to be gutted by the Huns if there’s a profit in it somewhere for them?’

Nicander hesitated, troubled about the morality of such a deception. But just supposing they went along with it. They’d have the entire money chest for the expedition in their hands, which, after paying off the captain and crew, would amount to a colossal haul. Guiltily, his mind toyed with the prospect: unable to come back to Constantinople, he would be returning home with a fortune beyond their wildest dreams. His father would have to eat humble pie while he dictated how the capital would be invested…

John the Cappadocian was waiting for them, a faint smile in place.

‘We can see the merit of your suggestion, sir, and we-’

‘I thought you might. And now you’ll do exactly as you’re instructed in the matter – no more, no less – or it’s finished here and now!’ There was no mistaking the rap of authority, of accustomed power, as the terms of the relationship were ruthlessly laid down.

‘We understand.’

‘Then to work. From this point on, you’re in the character of monks, holy men. You’ll practise this until you think yourselves born to it.’

‘How do we-’

‘To start with – you speak Latin, always. You have the mother tongue?’ he asked, looking at Nicander.

‘I do,’ he replied. As most of his incense business had been concluded in metropolitan Rome, he knew it well enough.

‘And you?’

‘Learnt on my mother’s knee.’

The rough-tongued sermo vulgi brought a wintry smile. ‘You’ll need a trifle more polish than that, Holy Father. Perhaps ask your Greek friend to…?’

He turned back to Nicander. ‘So – to raiment. Lose that bronze clasp, if you please. And those sandals are much too fine for a poor cleric.’

‘Ah, I’ve been shipwrecked and the good people of Constantinople have not been backward in seeing me restored in the matter of attire.’

This brought only a raised eyebrow. John the Cappadocian looked at Marius in dismay. ‘Do droop a little, fellow. You’re strutting around for all the world like a Roman legionary in disguise. It will never do for a begging cleric.’

He called for more wine. ‘So, to your origins. You come from the distant reaches of Empire, perhaps in the deserts to the far south of the Holy Land? You’ve been cut off from civilisation for some reason, that’s why no one has heard of you or your king.’

Nicander came in, ‘That’s because our river dried up – took another course, and the desert has driven us away from the coast and kept us isolated from the world of man.’

‘Good. Your new king, however, being of an enlightened nature, wishes to know more of the world-’

‘We were colonised in the time of Constantine, our conceiving of the Christian faith is primitive and our king seeks to know the truth.’

‘Yes. You two have been sent to discover this truth. You embark in a ship and-’

‘We set out for India! A place of mystery and holiness. We sail for days and nights without end but then-’

John the Cappodician nodded in satisfaction.’Now, to your names.’

‘I am Brother Paul and this is Brother Matthew of the fellowship of Saint Agnes, the kingdom of Artaxium Felix.’

‘They will suffice.’ He paused. ‘Now, Brother Paul, just why is it that you are offering to repeat your voyage at great hazard to yourselves? What is your purpose? I will tell you, as I know what will touch the Emperor most. It is that you desire that on the proceeds a great church be built in your kingdom, and that Justinian sends multitudes of his unemployed clerics on a mission to direct you back on the path of righteousness. That is all you desire. Riches of this world are to be rendered to Caesar, as it were.’

‘I understand,’ Nicander said gravely.

‘Then I believe we may proceed.’

There was no look of triumph, avarice, even of satisfaction – only one of calculated resolve.

‘Your part now is to be who you seem. If you fail, this is to your misfortune, not mine. I am not implicated, I shall deny all. In return, however, I undertake to place you before Justinian in the best possible light to make your case – the details of which you will leave to me. Now, in what form shall your precious letter be?’