The Silk Tree

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘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 …?’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘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 Priscu
s 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.