The Silk Tree (3 page)

They did not continue on up the Bosphorus but followed the headland around. A noble acropolis stood high on the wooded promontory.

On the left, a long and narrow waterway opened up, bustling with small craft – the Golden Horn, the legendary end point and focus for so much exotic trading.

Sail was shortened, lines thrown ashore and the ship worked alongside the stone wharf. The high-class passengers were escorted off first, then Nicander and Marius joined the flood of others down the gangway and found themselves on the blessed solidity of the land.

‘So. Where do we …?’ Nicander began but tailed off when he saw the outstretched hand.

‘It’s farewell, then, Greek. I wish you well.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Join up, o’ course! Legionary like me, good to be under the eagle banner again.’

The sound of the fretful infant’s crying set Nicander’s teeth on edge. The Sarmatian woman had no time to care for a child – she had her hands full running the
tabernaria
, the street eatery beneath his room. He’d rented the little place from her crude Thracian husband and daren’t risk losing it by complaining, not with the way things were at present.

The whining continued on and on and Nicander saw red. He jumped up and decided to go to his small lock-up and check if the shipment had arrived. Anything to get away from this racket.

Snatching his chlamys he swirled it on, hoping the dash of colour at its hem and polished bronze brooch at the shoulder would conceal the shabby tunic underneath. He clattered down the wooden stairs, flashing a glassy smile at the woman pouring something from an amphora into a giant pithos set in the floor. A stomach-churning reek of rancid oil and stale fish billowed out from the array of hobs at the back of the
tabernaria
.

Outside there was little relief from the fetid closeness. He stepped off briskly.

In this capital city of Empire, despair marched side by side with monument and splendour. From his tenement in the fringe area it was only a couple of streets and he was at the Artopoleia with its bustling commerce, and then the four columns of the tetrapylon marking the end of urban Constantinople.

A diseased beggar on his knees clutched at Nicander. Irritably, he kicked him aside; most were frauds and made a tidy living out of their condition. There were church sisterhoods and others who found their salvation by ministering to the poor – why should he be singled out?

It had been a serious blow finding that his line of business was closed to him. There was a guild of incense traders licensed by the state and they were not interested in making things easy for an outsider. And without serious capital there was no prospect of setting up in competition with them. He’d had to look for some other entry-level venture, for no one was going to extend credit to yet another exile.

He was approaching the edge of town, broken up with vegetable plots and artisan workshops. He hurried; all he’d been able to secure was an agreement to provide pomegranates to a monastery and if his Syrian supplier let him down again he stood to lose it.

At the converted stable he eased open the door of his lock-up and saw it was quite empty. The old watchman he had hired to act as storekeeper was lying on sacking in a corner, snoring heavily.

‘Get up, pig!’ Nicander shouted.

The man rolled over but didn’t awake.

‘Stir yourself,’ he bellowed, landing a kick.

‘Wharr?’

Nicander caught the stench of cheap wine, he’d get nothing out of him. There’d been no delivery and he left with only the satisfaction of slamming the door with an almighty crash.

He started back, trudging on in a black mood.

Ahead was a building site – yet another villa or church in construction – and he winced at the noise, hurrying past the busy scene. At the roadway groups of men lay sprawled on the ground, waiting to be taken on as labourers by the hour.

He noticed one in a dusty tunic, unusually with a cowl concealing his face. Suddenly he got up and made for him.

Alarmed, Nicander braced himself.

The man flicked back the cowl. ‘Ah, Mr Nicander, good to see you!’

‘Marius?’

The proud legionary was kneading his hands, not catching his eye. ‘Do I see you in good health, sir?’

‘Quite well, thank you,’ Nicander replied cautiously. ‘And yourself? How’s the army treating you?’

‘I’m not with ’em any more,’ Marius said stiffly, then added, ‘You – you’re now in the way of business as a merchant, as you said you would?’

‘Fruit from Syria and so on. I’ve just come from my warehouse, checking on deliveries. I’ve a contract with the ecclesiasticals which sets fair to lead to big things if fortune allows.’

‘So you’re doing well, Mr Nicander.’

‘So-so. I’m rather busy, what with all this business to attend to, so I’ll have to bid you good day, old chap, and be on my way.’

A hand shot out and clamped on his arm.

Nicander glared until it fell away.

‘Look, I’m no good at begging. Don’t make me do it, friend.’ Marius’s eyes hardened, then he looked down. ‘It’s like this. I fell out with that mongrel army, took a run. Thought to set up as a bootmaker but the toad who rented me a shop found my silver loot and thiefed it, threatened to turn me in.’

He came closer, his voice a whisper as though fearing someone might overhear. ‘So, well, I thought as how you might have a place for me in your company. Anything – anything at all! I don’t fear to get my hands dirty, and if you’d give me charge o’ your slaves I’d sweat ’em!’

‘Well …’

‘Or even lumping. I’m good and strong still …’

‘
Anything?
’

‘Look, I’m desperate, Mr Nicander. Huck out your drains, swab down your warehouse, polish your pots …’

Recalling how the legionary had toyed with him when he’d come aboard the ship in Brundisium he couldn’t help replying, ‘
Why
is Marius desperate, I’m thinking? Is it because no one will take him on? Then, should I?’

‘You’re making me beg. You gave your word not to.’

‘I made no such promise!’

‘Then … then you want me to beg, damn it.’

‘Well, I—’

‘On my knees? Kiss your sandals?’ Marius continued in a savage growl.

He scruffed Nicander’s chlamys, lifting him off his feet. ‘I’ve never begged to any man in my life and I’m not starting with you!’

Nicander tried to say something but the big legionary drew him close to his face. ‘You lot just don’t know what it is to be right out o’ luck, not a coin, not a future, no pride and all no fault of your own,
do you
?’

He let go. ‘I’d have thought you a better sort, but then I’m no hand at judging men. Sorry.’

‘It was of no account,’ Nicander said, shaken.

Marius gave a mock bow. ‘Well,
sir
will be wanting to get about his business. I won’t detain
sir
any longer.’

‘Wait – when I said that the business was doing fine, I didn’t really mean that well. In fact, not so prosperous that … and to tell the truth, not so brisk at all that I can think to hire any man.’

‘Oh?’

‘But …’

‘Yes?’

‘Tell me, Marius, have you somewhere to stay at all?’

‘None of your business, Greek.’

‘It’s just that … I’ve a small place near the Artopoleia. If you’re embarrassed for accommodation at the moment perhaps …’ He’d come to know the man on the voyage out and had developed an odd regard for his character. And even though they were so different, they were facing the same fate … to have someone to talk with, share the wretchedness …

‘I couldn’t pay my way in a fine mansion like yours,’ Marius responded. But there was a knowing look in his eyes.

‘On a temporary basis, of course, I can see my way to suspending any fee incurred.’

‘We could share meals, it’ll be less for both.’

‘As it happens, there’s a
tabernaria
close by which I know well.’

‘Hah! So there’s something in it for you then, Greek?’

He sighed. ‘Call me Nico, then, if you must.’

Nicander could swear that the child had not left off whining the whole time he’d been away, only pausing to watch the big man in a cowl go up the stairs with him.

As they entered the room, Marius said, ‘It’s decent of you, Nico. Letting me stay and that.’ He looked around at the humble furniture. ‘I’ll doss down there,’ he said, pointing to the ragged carpet against the opposite wall to the bed. There was no hint of sarcasm Nicander could detect.

The child’s fitful crying broke out again.

In a voice that had been heard above the din of a battlefield, Marius bellowed down, ‘Shut it, or I’ll come and tear off your poxy head!’

The sound stopped as if cut off with a knife.

Nicander fought down a rising warmth. ‘You’ve had a tough time of it, then.’

‘Been kipping on the steps of St Demetrius. Hard as a whore’s heart and noisy with it, they at their business all night. Look, if you’ve a bit o’ bread, I’d take it kindly …’

Nothing less than a fish soup and a jug of rough watered African wine could meet Nicander’s feeling that he was no longer alone.

Marius lifted his cup. ‘Here’s to rare times,’ he grunted and drank heavily.

When he finished he fixed Nicander with a shrewd look. ‘Business not so good, then.’

‘Oh, fair, a slow start I’d have to say.’

‘So it’s bad.’

The elated spirits fled under a tide of depression. His head hung in despair.

‘Not your fault, mate,’ the legionary rumbled. ‘The world being so fucked up.’

The evening was drawing in, shadows deepening in the dingy room. Nicander found the oil lamp and brought flame to it.

They both stared pensively into space until Marius broke the silence. ‘Seems to me a right shame.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Well, you and me. Now we understand each other, a pity we can’t work something out. Team up, come together on some venture.’

‘Such as?’

‘I don’t know! Get in the ferry business? I can pull an oar better than the pathetic weasels I’ve seen.’

‘Capital.’

‘What’s that you said?’

‘We’ve no coin. That’s the rub,’ Nicander said bitterly. ‘No capital, no investment; no business, no profit.’

Marius glowered.

‘I’d willingly join you if I could think of a venture not requiring capital, I really would.’

‘Well, what are you doing with yourself now? You said something about fruit.’

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—’

‘Get out!’ Nepos snarled at the two masseurs.

‘Now, what—’

‘These are some of my closest friends,’ Grotius said, grovelling. ‘It behoves us to share our good fortune.’

‘They know …?’ He sprang lithely over and seized him by his tunic, drawing his face close. ‘How many others have you blabbed to, you Tyrian bird-brain?’

‘None but these, Master Driver, truly! And I can say they’re in great admiration that it’s your own cunning that came up with this winning stroke against those arrogant Greens.’

Nepos let his hands drop. ‘So they should be, runt.’

‘I would be so gratified if you’d show them something of our little surprise.’

The big chariot driver hesitated, then gave a wicked grin. ‘Follow me.’

Below the clubhouse were the workshops and Nepos stopped at the one with two lounging guards. ‘Just remember,’ he muttered darkly, ‘the Greens have got it coming!’

Inside were workbenches and timber racks, but in the centre was the sleek and oddly large bulk of a racing chariot. Not much more than a platform on wheels with a raised breast-rail and side panels, it was clearly designed for victory. In weight it was pared down to the very limits of prudence: wheel spokes nothing but spindles, iron fittings like filigree and a single supporting beam fore and aft. On the side was emblazoned a large blue escutcheon. The whole gave an impression of arrogance and speed.

Nepos swaggered over to it and lightly stepped aboard, cutting a
magnificent figure as he looked down on them. He dropped to a racing crouch, one hand stretched to the ‘reins’, the other furiously cracking an imaginary whip, his lips curled in a contemptuous sneer. ‘It’s the last lap, the Greens are coming up on the outside. I sees ’em, gets ready. They’re coming … we make at each other. Priscus doesn’t give way, the prick. But next time he gets it – like this!’

There was no giveaway motion that Nicander could see but with a shocking clatter a small wooden pole suddenly shot out from the side of the chariot, ending yards away.

‘See?’ It didn’t take much imagination to conceive of its effect on an adjacent chariot, thrust into flimsy wheel spokes at speed.

Nepos leapt to the ground and bent under the platform to replace the device. ‘That’s all it is!’

The concealed pole was held by a simple leather spring which was restrained by a small peg protruding up through the platform. The driver had only to tread on the peg to set it off. And with both of his hands in sight working reins and whip there could be no accusations of interference.

‘Ingenious!’ Grotius chuckled. ‘And will see us rich as Croesus!’

Nicander and Marius returned to their tenement.

‘I told you it was a certainty, didn’t I!’ Marius crowed. ‘Worth staking all of, say, ten golden solidi, don’t you think, Nico?’

Nicander didn’t reply but went straight to his accounts.

‘Did you hear me, Greek? At least ten – why not fifteen?’

Nicander flipped the ledger firmly shut and looked away.

‘So just five, then.’

There was no response. ‘Come on, that’s not so much – is it? This is our big chance! Have we ever seen anything like it since we came to this pox-ridden place? We can’t let it go without—’

‘You know nothing of finance, do you? Five solidi – how much do you think this can yield on just a single voyage in olive oil? No? I’ll tell you. It returns as eight. A profit of three on five.’

Marius stared back obstinately.

‘But this is a four month turnaround voyage. And danger of pirates and tempest.’ His eyes held Marius’s with a sudden intensity. ‘Three solidi! Enough, perhaps, to keep us in meat for six months. And then back to that woman’s stinking fish. But let’s say we take our five solidi to the races at a solid sevens. Thirty-five solidi! Think of it – put on a Cyrenaican grain venture we’d be talking near fifty! Reinvested in another, and one on the side in marble and we’d be looking to moving out of this … this situation in a year.’

‘Well, let’s do it! The five on Blues to win!’

Nicander didn’t answer, his gaze unseeing.

‘Why not?’ Marius blazed.

Nicander reached for his slate, his hand flying as he made calculations.

‘This is why not,’ he said, holding it up.

‘What’s that to me?’

‘If instead we settle all we can rake together on a certain sevens, we stand to make six … hundred … and … seventy … gold ones! We clear out of here, set up on The Mese and get our start! The world ours for the taking, Marius! With that kind of cash we get respect, investment capital and decent living all in one hit! We’d be on our way!’

Marius blinked, startled at what seemed so out of character in his friend. ‘Yes, but don’t you think—’

‘Who’s holding back now! Courage, brother!’

‘That’s all our savings, and most of our purse too. What if something goes wrong?’

‘We saw with our own eyes what’s in plan, and the Blues’ greatest man to do it. How can it fail?’

‘I …’ rumbled the big legionary awkwardly.

‘Look, remember what Grotius said at the end. We don’t place the bet until they’re at the starting line. Gives us the chance to wait for the secret signal from Nepos that’ll tell us the Greens haven’t rumbled what’s going on. Nothing to risk now, is there?’

‘What if—’

‘You’ve objection to the high life? Slaves, fine wine, Palmyran dancing girls at dinner?’

‘But—’

Nicander slapped his hands down on the table. ‘An end to it! All or nothing – what’s it to be …?’