‘Admit it!’ Marius snarled. ‘All your grand plans, prancing off to a library – you don’t want an old caligatus getting in the way, spoiling your pitch! I’m no fucking use to you any more, right?’
‘Why-’
‘So what do I bloody well do? Hey?’
‘Well-’
‘See! I saw you with that scumbag John the Cappadocian. He only spoke to you, didn’t he? Didn’t say shite to me. You’re going off to speak to Emperor Justinian yourself – can you see him giving me the time o’ day? No way!’
‘It’s not like that-’
‘I’m a shame to you! To drag about and act dumb all the time – you don’t have to fling it in my face, I know.’
‘Marius-’
‘You’re going to dump me. But have the guts to tell me first!’
Nicander sat down slowly. So that was what was goading him.
‘I’ve no intention of getting rid of you, Marius. In this venture you’ve equal shares with me.’
The legionary breathed deeply. ‘Listen to me, Greek. Don’t you dare patronise me. You go out of that fucking door without you swearing on all that’s holy that you’ll not betray me… you won’t find me here when you get back!’
In a rush of feeling Nicander realised that he was about to challenge fortune for the greatest stakes of his life yet he had not a single one to trust, any to whom he could safely open his heart, lay out troubles and frustrations, share the burdens – except this bear of a man with his strong, uncomplicated views.
He stood and clasped Marius’s hand. ‘We’ve gone through so much together…’ He paused, aware that a lump was forming in his throat. ‘And in what lies ahead I want you with me. I’ll swear, if you insist, but I allow before all that you’re my true friend and… I could never let you down.’
At first there was no reaction. Then the other big hand came out and a smile surfaced. ‘Friends. Yes. You and me, Nico – that is, Nicander,’ Marius added with a self-conscious chuckle.
‘No, m’ friend, it’s Nico.’ He grinned. ‘But only from you!’
CHAPTER EIGHT
In a haze of excitement Nicander stepped out along The Mese. His destination was the public library of the Emperor Julian of two centuries before – since the destruction of the Library of Alexandria, the acknowledged centre of learning of the civilised world.
Their great venture was now under way!
At the Forum of Theodosius he turned right towards the arched aqueduct of Valens. Where it met the rise of a hill there was a modest basilica, opposite the grander buildings of the university and overlooked by the Praetorium.
A number of stalls outside sold knick-knacks: stylus and wax tablet sets, finger guards and offcuts of parchment. One of the industries in the library was the copying of decaying papyrus documents to vellum, prepared from more long-lasting animal skins. With a few of his precious remaining coins, Nicander purchased several small pieces on which to make notes.
The library had the reek of ages past. He made his way inside through an old-fashioned columned doorway passing rhetors, grey-and-black robed learned scholars. An open space filled with desks stretched ahead to an apse and a dais with a pulpit-style desk where the stern literary steward sat.
There were three open floors with an endless warren of scroll nooks in the lower, broader shelves for the codices in the upper.
Nicander found an empty desk and looked about at the scores of students perched on stools working silently. They took no notice of a newcomer but an assistant steward quietly appeared at his side. In low tones he explained the structure of the library and Nicander was soon at a well-thumbed index.
The first thing he wanted to equip himself with was all there was to be known about silk. The ancients would have what he sought!
He asked for a well-remembered tome of his youth – the Naturalis Historia of the elder Pliny, who had lost his life on the seashore of Pompeii as the volcano rained destruction.
Several volumes of the work arrived. Sections on geography, nature, more.
In a dissertation about silk at origin, Pliny’s view was that it was nothing more than an insect’s lidle weaving of a cocoon. A commentary below by another declared that it was in fact the hair of the sea-sheep.
Nicander asked for a further volume. It got worse: this one mentioned that in far Sinae gigantic spiders were held prisoner in cages and spun silk while being fed on condemned criminals. Yet another reference stated that silk was scraped from the underside of the common mulberry.
It was deeply unsettling. How could the ancient scholars disagree so?
He found his eyes focusing on the literary steward. Taking his courage in hand, he threaded his way between the rows of desks.
‘Learned gentleman, I have a question.’
The august figure frowned.
‘Sir, I’m engaged in the writing of a paean to beauty, in particular to that of man-wrought silk, and I rather thought it would lend a pleasing turn to the conceit if I were to make reference to its origin.’
The man’s face cleared, apparently satisfied that he was to be troubled for no less a reason than the sublimity of a poem’s creation. ‘Why, surely you’re aware it grows upon the silk tree?’ he replied in ponderous tones. ‘The authorities are clear on this.’
‘As I thought, sir. But Pliny and some others would have it otherwise.’
‘Your minor scribblers are never reliable. As to the good Pliny, there have been instances where regrettably he has been found to be in error and his observations in this case are not to be relied upon. The more substantive of the classical authors are the authorities you will wish to consult. The Virgil Georgics spring to mind – as does the Phaedra of Seneca the Younger.’
In a wash of relief Nicander found among the heavy-going homilies of Virgil that silk did indeed originate from trees, and in fact there was a mention of a fine-tooth comb of special design used by the Seres to harvest the precious substance from the leaves.
He then turned to the Phaedra, a gruesome play of taboo love, suicide and a cruel man’s relentless will, persevering until he came across a reference to silken garments won from the silk tree in far away Serica.
He could now move on to the next objective: where was Sinae and how to get there.
Accounts by travellers would no doubt reveal what he needed and he busied himself at the index. The first he decided to consult were the reports of the envoys of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus to the mysterious Seres. They would be a logical beginning to his reading, even though they had been written a good three centuries earlier, in the period before the Roman Emperor Valens had been slain by the Persians and their entire access to the East cut off.
The assistant steward brought the work. While filled with exotic details of impossible beasts it was written neither by merchants with an eye to the practicalities nor a geographer, or even a military man concerned with where they were. And it was plain that this was not an official mission, only a half-hearted attempt to open communications, which was admitted to have failed.
Nicander pored over more accounts. The revered historian Ammianus Marcellinus was the most detailed. He had compiled a picture of Scythia – and Serica beyond – but it was a wild tale of Syziges and Chardes, Alitrophages and Annibes, in wearisome succession, together with dogmatic assertions on climate and terrain that made no sense. But Marcellinus did confirm the production of silk originated from a soft fine down spun into thread, gathered from the trees while the leaves were continuously moistened.
The rest just spoke of dragons and gryphons. Nothing on the location of the land of Serica.
Once again Nicander made his way up to the pulpit. This time he was awarded a look of benevolent indulgence.
‘Sir, you were entirely correct in the particulars concerning the source of silk. Yet my enquiring mind thirsts to know more – where in the world is this Sinae, that gifts man with such beauty?’
‘Quite so. It is to your credit, young man, that you so ardently seek after such knowledge in this crass commercial world. And in furtherance of a work of literary art I believe I will help you.’