‘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?’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was a long walk back but, in a whirl of elation and trepidation, Nicander barely noticed it.
As long as they kept their heads all would be welclass="underline" they would be confirming what was generally believed about silk and its growing. Their claim could not be disputed – there would be no one from ‘Artaxium Felix’ to cause them trouble, for it didn’t exist, and there were none who had travelled to Serica or knew enough about it to confound their story. Above all, the stakes were so staggering that any hearing of it would want to believe.
Aware of tramping feet behind, he turned. It was soldiers – praetorian guards under the command of the Prefect of the city and responsible for good order, a not unusual sight on The Mese.
Marching stolidly, they were in two columns led by a centurion. Nicander and Marius stepped aside to let them by.
But the columns divided, surrounding them. The centurion bawled, ‘Take ’em!’
Brawny arms seized Nicander. He did not resist, noting in shame that it took four to subdue Marius.
It soon became apparent that they were being taken to the Praetorium, the headquarters of the Prefect himself. The place of secrets and terror.
What had they done? It couldn’t be his library visit, they had neither his name nor where he lived. And he’d done nothing wrong – yet – and as far as he knew was unknown to the authorities. This was probably a case of mistaken identity.
At the reception desk his protesting was ignored and the pair found themselves thrown into a prison cell. Ragged moaning punctuated with screams sounded down the passage as the hours passed.
Then suddenly there was the clash of doors and four guards appeared. ‘Out! March!’
They wound up a worn staircase to a richly appointed office.
A thin, ascetic-looking man with an expression of disdain rose from a desk. He was in flowing white, edged with scarlet, the rich embroidery of a silk tablion proclaiming high rank.
‘I am Peter Barsymes, Count of the Sacred Largesse. Be aware my time is limited and I will not be trifled with.’
Nicander gave a start. This was the one he had been warned about.
‘You were seen at the villa of the disgraced John the Cappadocian. Twice. Do not attempt to deny it, I have competent enough informers. Once might be accounted coincidence, but two times… this suggests an assignation. What were you doing there – answer!’
‘Sir, we are castaways. We were rescued and returned to our land but we have information of such importance that it is only for the ear of Emperor Justinian himself. We were given the name of this gentleman as being one who could arrange a meeting.’