The Silk Tree (4 page)

‘We walk in beggars, we leave rich men!’ Nicander cuffed Marius affectionately on the back as they approached the bulking mass of the hippodrome, a full quarter-mile long and capable of seating a hundred thousand – a fifth of the city population. Located at the end of Constantinople’s peninsula, together with the palaces and churches, the Senate, Patriarchate and Praetorium, it stretched from where the main street ended at the Hagia Sophia all the way to the Bosphorus.

The colossal structure was simple in layout: an elongated circuit with a tight turn at each end and along the centre, the
spina
, a central barrier adorned with noble statues from Rome’s glorious past. A twisted bronze column rose thirty feet above the
spina
, topped with three serpent heads. Stands reared sharply up around the entire length, save the northern end, where the starting boxes and entertainment rooms were located, surmounted by copper prancing horses.

It seemed all the world was converging there. Patricians and beggars, souvenir touts and contortionists, great ladies and courtesans, thieves and urchins. All streaming in for the race of the season. The raucous hectoring of officials mingled with the strident brass of the Excubitors’ military horns, the jeers and catcalls of rival supporters and the ceaseless hubbub of excited spectators.

On the side closest to the Bosphorus, the structure formed a wall for the Great Palace compound, giving the Emperor private entry to his box, the kathisma. The opposite side, facing inland, was where the people flooded in through the black gate. The Greens supporters began massing to the left of the Emperor’s box, the Blues to the right, and the two found seats there.

Nicander couldn’t suppress a growing thrill; he’d never seen an emperor and Justinian was the most powerful ruler in the world. He’d rescued the pride of the Romans, built the breathtaking Hagia Sophia, and had kept the faith and his peoples secure against the barbarian hordes.

There was movement at the kathisma. The ivory gates were flung open and six flamboyantly dressed soldiers strode out. Their officer looked about importantly, then returned inside. Moments later, hidden trumpets flourished a fanfare.

The crowd quietened to a hush.

Nicander held his breath: he and Marius were no more than a hundred yards from the royal box. A vast roar went up as Emperor Justinian appeared, an image of white and gold, the glitter of precious stones, a sumptuous purple cloak. On his head, a tall pearl diadem, and at the shoulder of his Greek-style chlamys a massive clasp worked in gold and rubies.

The great man moved with the deliberation of age but was not stooped. He was alone, no empress shared the moment with him for the fabled Theodora was dead.

Justinian, one hand on his breast, gazed down inscrutably on the seething thousands. Suddenly he held up both hands. The roar fell away and a herald appeared to the sound of the trumpets.

‘In the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ! The Emperor Caesar Flavius Justinian, Vice-regent of God, conqueror of the Vandals, the Africans, the Goths and Allemani. Pious and renowned, victorious and triumphant, ever august. Hear him, his people!’

For most of the crowd the stentorian voice was barely audible and when Justinian began speaking it was impossible to make out his words. But it was
enough that their emperor was addressing them. He sat down to a surge of excited anticipation – the games had begun.

From the far end of the hippodrome burst dozens of gaily dressed performers, spreading rapidly down the track, their acrobatics, contortions and clowning a preliminary to the animals.

The bears were brought out for baiting, but the crowd were not in the mood for any delay before the coming race. They were hastily removed.

Then there were movements in the starting boxes. A spreading roar went up at the appearance of four chariots, two Green and two Blue, each with four horses. Their drivers were dressed head to toe in their colours, which also decorated the horses and chariots. One by one, the teams saluted the Emperor then raised their hands to receive the acclamation of the crowd.

Eventually the chariots were eased forward to the white cord, the horses snorting and jibbing in nervous expectation.

The noise died. Justinian solemnly raised an outstretched hand which held a crimson silk cloth. It fluttered for a moment – then fell.

A colossal wave of sound erupted. The horses leapt forward, whips lashing without mercy as the charioteers strove for advantage. The four teams swept down the straight towards Nicander and Marius, swerving at maniacal speed in a breakneck contest for an inside place at the turn. They fought their way around the end of the
spina
in a tight bunch, wheels skidding, the drivers leaning at extreme angles.

A Green took the lead.

The chariots flew down the straight, dust swirling, the frenzied roar of the spectators never slackening. Then around the far end and back up the other straight.

A gilt ball dropped on a pole of the
spina
signified a lap completed.

The Green was still out in front by a couple of lengths, a Blue in hot pursuit, the other two jockeying for position close behind as they came up to the turn below the Emperor.

Nicander was shouting and screaming with the rest, barely aware of Marius next to him bellowing and flailing his arms like a madman.

The chariots crowded into another turn. The lead Green was going all out, setting a cruel pace for the Blue that was close behind.

Then Nicander saw that those following were the two star charioteers: first Nepos for the Blues then Priscus for the Greens – and they were separated from the leaders by a significant three lengths.

Was this a ploy to reserve everything for a ferocious last lap?

When would the fix go in? To be certain of the outcome Nepos had either to be in the lead or second coming up – but there were still two ahead vying for position! If either of these second-rank drivers won, their fame was assured and as they made for the turn they were neck and neck, slashing their foam-streaked horses into madness.

Then, in a split second, everything changed. As they went into the turn, the lead horse of the Green chariot out in front seemed to stumble and hop and his other horses, confused, slackened their pace. The driver skilfully slewed his chariot clear of the onrushing avalanche of horses and riders but he

This left the two Blues in the lead. The Greens supporters screeched their dismay.

Now the final turn lay ahead. Nepos, flashing a glance behind at Priscus saw his chance and lashed his horses to their limits, gradually pulling up level with the leading Blue. They stayed together, denying Priscus the Green any chance at the inside in this last, critical turn.

The crowd went wild. But yet again the situation changed – the first Blue was visibly tiring, spent in reckless efforts to stay in front and was dropping back. Priscus saw his chance and began a move to overtake. All three closed the turn – if Priscus could manage the manoeuvre the race would be his!

But then the first Blue deliberately went wide. It blocked Priscus but gave Nepos the inside at the cost of his own position in the race. Priscus, however, tugged savagely at his reins and fell in behind Nepos on the inside. They came out of the turn skidding wildly and into the final straight.

From somewhere Priscus found the last vestiges of strength in his horses
and began pulling up with Nepos, whose glances behind betrayed that his own foam-streaked animals were at the limit of their endurance.

There was an overlap! Nepos swerved to discomfit Priscus who sheered away but came back quickly still overhauling the Blue. There was blood streaking the back of Nepos’s horses – he swerved again but there was no deterring the Green and they swayed dangerously close together.

The fix! Do it now! Nicander’s heart hammered but he knew Nepos would only act when Priscus was in exactly the right place for the deadly blow.

Transfixed, he watched as the Green drew level, Nepos’s head flicking over again and again as he made his judgement. Nicander remembered the position of the trap – Priscus would have to be precisely two feet ahead before—

In a heart-stopping moment the chariot seemed to explode, pieces cartwheeling and bouncing. The maddened horses plunged on with the wreck furrowing the dust behind, the helpless charioteer dragged along behind, entangled in the traces.

But this was not Priscus – it was the Blue! Nicander felt numb: the opposition must somehow have got wind of the fix and put in their own.

Nepos desperately went for the knife down his back to cut himself free but he couldn’t reach it and his frantic horses thundered on. He was sandpapered to death in front of the screeching crowd, while Priscus cantered on to an easy victory.

In a haze of unreality Nicander and Marius watched the garlanded winner receive his prize and laurel crown from the hand of the Emperor then turn to receive a deafening acclamation from the masses.

Fighting their way clear of the riotous supporters streaming from the hippodrome the pair, headed for home – the stinking stew they had so hoped to be rid of.

Neither spoke, the crushing enormity of what had happened too great for words. In the gathering dusk gangs of the Green faction gleefully set upon any Blue they could find, but at the sight of the big legionary they left the pair alone.

They passed a wine shop overflowing with raucous customers. Marius snarled a curse. ‘Wait!’ he mouthed and loped off down a side alley.

Nicander became uneasy when he didn’t reappear after some minutes.

Then Marius, cradling a heavy amphora, burst from out of the alley, pursued by a livid innkeeper. Nicander thrust out his foot and the man chasing him was sent sprawling headlong on the ground.

‘Where are you going with that?’ he panted after catching up with Marius.

‘What do you think!’

Nicander glanced back into the darkness. ‘Better you play it smart – put it over your shoulder and follow your master, slave!’

Marius growled but fell in behind him for the trudge home.

In their shabby quarters Nicander got a rush dip going and found a knife to pierce the hard wax around the stopper. It came free and the heady pungency of wine filled the room. He sniffed appreciatively.

The amphora yielded up its contents, a dark, rich red wine.

‘No water?’ Roman wines were strong and always diluted to taste.

‘No water.’

Nicander didn’t argue and poured for them both. ‘To damnation in hell for this stinking city!’ he said and downed his wine in one. It coursed to his belly in a flooding tide of guilty release. He wiped his mouth on his hand and pronounced, ‘A Falernian niger – and a good one.’

Marius held out his empty cup. ‘Will do me whatever it’s called, by the gods.’

They drank deeply again, then Nicander threw at Marius, ‘Would never have happened if you hadn’t made me bet.’

‘Or you hadn’t staked the lot!’

They lapsed into silence; given what was ahead there seemed little point in debating blame.

They were facing the unthinkable.

Marius tossed back more wine. ‘Be quit o’ the place! Get out, go somewhere a man can breathe clean air again!’

‘Oh? Where? I can’t think of anywhere not crawling with Goths or Huns,
can
you
?’ He snorted. ‘Of course, there is one way that will keep us safe and warm, never short of a bite – security and all that.’

‘All right, Greek. What?’ Marius said morosely.

‘Sell ourselves into slavery. That way we get silver in our pocket and not much work – can’t be bad!’

‘Be buggered to that! I’m a free Roman and—’

‘Calm down, I’m only joking.’ Nicander said wearily. ‘If Leptis Magna is still standing, I
suppose
I could go back there,’ he muttered. He’d not told Marius about the feud with his father and in truth he doubted a return would be welcome. ‘But without a single sesterce –
and
assuming I could raise the passage money. How about you? Could—’

‘I’ve got no folks,’ Marius said tightly.

‘Then …’ Nicander felt a curious pang at the thought of parting with the strong-minded and plain-speaking man he had come to know and respect. ‘I suppose for now we could throw ourselves on the state, register for the bread handout.’

‘I’ve never begged before and I’ll not start now!’

‘Then it leaves us with only one thing.’

‘What?’

‘Pull off a crime so big we’re right back in the picture.’

‘Now you really are joking, Greek.’

‘You’ve got a better idea, then? Well, if we’re not to thieve our way out of trouble, there’s only one way to turn an honest coin and that’s in business.’ The wine was doing nothing for his concentration but Nicander pressed on, ‘We’ve got to find something that has solid returns and quick yields.’

‘Business? I know the biggest there is!’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes! With my own eyes, I saw it. In charge of the fore-escort to Ankara.’ His brow furrowed in concentration as he recalled the details. ‘Four carts, eighty men, all on the quiet. I asked my centurion, he said it was gold – payment to the Persians. Over a ton! Told me it was to pay
the bastards for silk as can only be got from them. Each year, six loads o’ gold go to Nisibis and gets handed over. Just think about it, Nico – tons of gold because the poxy priests and royal court can’t do without their silk!’

‘And you want us to lift a shipment!’

‘Listen, Greek! You asked about a big business, I’m telling you one! You’re the mighty money man – let’s see you make something out of this silk thing!’

Nicander tried to throw off the wine’s fuddle. Maybe there was some little corner which they could ease into. ‘Ah, I grant you, if we get into it, why, we’ve chance for a good earner … but there’s always going to be need of capital.’

‘But what about those damn Persians?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Got a stranglehold on the whole stinking silk trade. Can’t get past ’em to buy directly, demands we pay in gold, nothing else will do.’

‘Ah. So if we can get around them, we can set up a business deal?’