‘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.’
He wrote something on a slate and handed it over. ‘Go to the Chamber of Apollo and present this.’
Nicander anxiously waited in the small room. Shortly the attendant returned with a single sheet.
It was a map by Pomponius Mela in the reign of Claudius Caesar, from a time of empire and conquest. Nicander examined it carefully; he knew maps of the mercantile kind which detailed market areas but this was different. It was of the entire known world, the oikoumene. The centre was dominated by the Mediterranean, with the continents radiating out from it, the whole surrounded by a boundless ocean.
He quickly found familiar territory: Africa to the right with his birth town of Leptis Magna in tiny script, Europa to the left, Constantinople among the densely packed legends in the middle. He eagerly scanned the map, searching for Serica. It was right at the top.
Nowhere on the map, however, was there a marking to show north or south, nor any indication of distance. At the edge of the land mass, there was on one side, the burning Ethiopian Sea, on the other the frigid Hyperborean regions. Hispania was at the bottom limit.
Having found Serica was as maddening as it was enticing, for the entire region existed without a single notation, neither town nor river. The only information he could draw from the map was that by comparing relative sizes, the distance to reach the Seres was nearly as far as the entire length of the Mediterranean!
The next item that was brought was a fat roll of vellum, a foot broad, twenty feet long, infinitely detailed. An itinerarium, used within the Roman world when travelling between one town and another along public roads, it listed distances and inn stops. This particular one claimed to record every road and town that existed.
There was no pretence at scale or topography; it was simply a lengthy skein of routes originating from Rome to the furthest reaches of Empire. At one end was the outermost extremity of the west, the now-lost province of Britannia, and at the other were the last outposts of civilisation to the east, tailing off with a tantalising reference to the legendary island of Taprobane and a bewildering confusion of barbaric names beyond Scythia that had no meaning to him.
Nicander rubbed his eyes, determined to persevere.
A third item arrived, a map of the world by the famed geographer Ptolemy of Alexandria, his Geographia.
Along the base of the map and its sides was a series of numbered lines. The accompanying gloss explained that these were real-world degrees of latitude derived from observations of the sun’s altitude, the longitude degrees arbitrarily assigned to make a regular square with the latitude. The entire land mass therefore was distributed under a grid of these lines which had been said to have been taken from actual measurement and should thus at last give a true picture of distances and directions.
Finally here was both a scientific and practical map! It looked much different to the others: Rome and indeed Italia seemed impossibly small against the vast expanses of Asia and Africa and Constantinople was almost lost over to the left.
Nicander concentrated, trying to take in how it all related. The frigid regions in the north were at the top and the burning deserts at the bottom. He’d heard that the limits to the world were impassable snow and ice in the north, warming by degrees until in the far south the heat reached the point where the sea itself boiled. He could see how the mass of Africa curved down and around to connect with south-east Asia on the other side, enclosing a vast inland sea with Taprobane in the centre.
The Seres. They were over to the right, past mountain ranges, deserts and vast empty spaces. Over one hundred and twenty of Ptolemy’s longitude degrees, which when brought to real terms was a distance to be measured in thousands of miles!
The steward pointed out that in addition to this world map there were separate regional descriptions on other sheets.
Fighting weariness, Nicander took in the one of the extreme Orient. There indeed was Serica, the land of the Seres, the other side of an impassable desert. Before it was Scythia, the inner home of shadowy tribes so savage and bloodthirsty that it was said the Huns and Goths were fleeing before them to fall on softer civilised peoples.
This map divided the Scythians into the Western hippophagi, the horse-eaters and the Eastern anthropophagi, the man-eaters. The rest of the sheet was vacant space – was it because travellers never returned from there to tell the tale?
Nicander was about to give up when the literary steward entered the room holding a large, brightly coloured map. ‘I came to bring you this,’ he said with pride. ‘It is lately produced and contains all we know of our place in creation.’
It was the work of the cartographer Cosmas Indicopleustes. His map was apparently constructed on an entirely new theoretical principle. Nicander tried to show enthusiasm as the steward explained that this was based on a sensible flat earth and was in the form of a rectangle with raised corners supporting a curved heaven. And modelled after the design of the tabernacle of Moses and being divinely inspired, it could obviously be relied upon.
But it completely contradicted all other sources.
Night was drawing in as Nicander headed back, bitterly disheartened. His meagre notes offered virtually nothing on which to begin laying down detailed plans for an expedition and he’d seen little to suggest there was anything of value left to discover.
As he passed by the Nymphaeum, several prostitutes waved gaily at him but he had no taste for playful banter and trudged on, ignoring the insults that followed him.
In effect he had established three things only: that silk was indeed harvested from the silk tree, that the land of the Seres was all but unknown and that it was at a staggering distance, in an uncertain direction through barbarian hordes of unimaginable ferocity.
Now he would have to face a trusting Marius waiting for answers.
CHAPTER NINE
The seediness of their living quarters drove in on Nicander.
Marius looked up from the table. He was fashioning something in leather, his hard, capable hands sure and swift.
‘A bloody long time!’ he growled and got up to check a pot. ‘I’ve had a mess of lentils going since sundown.’
Nicander did not enjoy such crude Roman peasant fare but knew his friend had a fondness for it. He took his bowl and ate with as much relish as he could muster.
‘So how did you get along, then? Read a hill o’ books and things, I suppose.’ Marius was literate in Latin but only painfully so.
Nicander sighed. ‘Quite a few.’
‘Well?’
‘I found the subject very complicated,’ he mumbled. ‘A lot of things to take in.’
‘So hard going, then.’
‘It was, yes.’
‘I thought of a way to find out about Seres.’
Nicander bristled. ‘What?’
‘Calm down, I couldn’t spoil your fun with the books, could I?’
‘Then please tell,’ he said sarcastically, ‘just what is it that’s better than research in the greatest library on earth?’
‘Fellow down the street I know. Back with his family after a long trip. I met up with him today.’
‘This better be good!’
‘Interesting job he’s got – camel wrangler with the silk caravans as trade across Asia with the Seres. Just asked him how far, like, what direction you go in.’
Nicander sat back. So simple – so obvious!
‘Well – what did he say?’
‘Not a lot, he couldn’t. Like ’em all he only picks up on the caravan this side of the border, that’s Nibilis for him. See, the Persians don’t allow crews to go through their territory, they might learn something, so they has their own.’
‘Oh.’
‘That’s not all. He says that they’ve foreigners – Sogdians or something – taking charge of their caravans up to t
here, come from way into Asia and he often talks with ’em while they hand over. What they told him is that no one at all goes the whole way.’
‘They must – how do we get the silk, then?’
Marius chuckled grimly. ‘Hey now, and you’re a merchant and haven’t picked up on it!’
‘What, damn it?’
‘Why, just that it’s all organised between ’emselves. Freight gets loaded, taken on to another town, sold in the market where there’s a profit. Then the new owner sends it to wherever he’s heard there’s a good price, and so on. Who knows how many changes. That’s why it’s so bloody expensive to us, everyone adding their profit on top, and why nobody knows where the stuff ends up or comes from. So, Nico, there’s no one sending silk from Sinae to Constantinople – no one at all!’
‘And nobody who can say where the caravan’s been or going.’
‘No. Crews change at different places – he said his friend goes on another stage with the caravan across the plains in camels and when they come to the mountains hands over to others with oxen and donkeys. He thinks there’s a mighty desert beyond but he’s not sure.’
Nicander put down the unfinished lentils.
Marius gave an awkward smile and picked up what he’d been working on. ‘For you,’ he said, almost apologetically, ‘Try ’em on. Need to impress His Nibs, won’t we.’
It was a pair of sandals of the carlatina pattern, a single piece of leather used to create a soft-soled sandal with a pleasing openwork cross lacing. ‘Why, these are wonderful, Marius. And – and just the thing to go before an emperor,’ he finished lamely.
‘Right. Well, can’t sit about, what next?’
Nicander knew he couldn’t put off telling him the truth.
When he had finished, the big man said nothing, his face set.
‘So it’s come down to stupid fairy tales and maps which don’t agree and now with what you learnt from your friend …’
They sat wordless for a long time.
‘A hit o’ wine?’
‘No, Marius. I’m not in the mood.’
‘And as for our greasy friend John the Cappadocian,’ Marius rasped, ‘I think the bastard knows more than he’s telling us.’
Nicander grunted agreement. He wasn’t looking forward to facing him but could there be something they’d missed?
CHAPTER TEN
John the Cappadocian greeted them with irritation. His eyes were bloodshot and his robe stained.
‘You’re finished so soon? I expected something of a proper plan, decently put together.’
‘There are difficulties that have arisen. Sir, we need your advice.’
Swearing, John cleared the table with a sweep of his arm. ‘Sit down.’
The sound of the smashing pottery brought a slave running.
‘What is it, then? Am I to be disturbed for every little problem you meet?’
‘Silk does grow upon trees, sir, I now have sufficient confirmation of that.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
Gathering his courage, Nicander went on, ‘What is proving harder is to find a suitable route to Serica. No two authorities agree and the ancients are not helpful. Sir, might I ask that in your time as an officer of state did you ever hear of the Seres in any way?’
‘As I told you before, I’ve heard of them, but then so has everybody. Are you telling me you’ve no reliable indication of where you’re headed?’
‘Not at the moment.’
John the Cappadocian slumped back with a bitter smile. ‘Then you’ve got a problem. All I know is that it’s a damn long way off, in some godforsaken place somewhere at the end of the world.’
He held Nicander’s eyes. ‘I take it you’ve asked to see the records of that … what was it … the Antoninus delegation. Didn’t I hear they’d actually reached there and came back?’
‘I have, sir, and others. They didn’t – or couldn’t – say where they were, and the fools didn’t bother to write down anything of value in terms of direction or distance.’
‘That doesn’t augur well for your plan, sir. What will you do now?’
‘The secret’s out there somewhere,’ Nicander said doggedly. ‘We’ll keep looking until we find it. Then let you know, of course.’
He got up to leave.
‘Why the hurry? Stay, take a little refreshment.’ It was an order: two more cups were signalled.
Marius shot a warning glance at Nicander, but he took no notice. While there was any chance …
‘All is not lost.’
‘Why do you say that, sir?’
‘Just a thought, that’s all.’ There was a self-satisfied smile touched with a hint of spite. It brought Nicander to full alert.
‘May we know it?’
‘Perhaps. Tell me, what is your objective in this?’
Wary, he answered that it was the securing of the seeds of the silk tree.
‘No, Mr Greek. The real object.’
‘I – I don’t understand you, sir.’
‘Surely it’s the acquisition of wealth by whatever means? Those baubles of comfort that so ease the pangs of old age …?’
‘As a man of business I do accept that the increase resulting—’
‘Then I believe there is a path to that same objective – requiring only a little courage, far less effort and with the gratifying consequence that it goes a little way into … squaring accounts between myself and the Emperor Justinian.’
This was edging into dangerous waters. Were they going to be pawns in some palace power struggle?
Nicander was aware of Marius’s disquiet but John the Cappadocian was probably the most successful money man of the age, brought low only by the spite of a woman. And he had just this one chance to talk at the exalted level of emperors and gold, statecraft and business.
‘Your advice to us is always to be welcomed,’ Nicander said as neutrally as he could.
‘Very well. We go inside – in this evil city there are ears everywhere.’ He heaved himself up and led them into a sparsely furnished room. The window looked out on olive trees where a slave hoed the soil in desultory fashion.
‘Aha – the boot is on the other foot! Before I reveal my idea, how do I know it will not be taken from me by a pair of out-of-town adventurers? Hey?’
‘Sir, I don’t—’
‘Be easy, Greek. I’m only in jest. The situation remains as before. I cannot perform it, and I’m bound to your own good selves for any fortune that might result.’
‘Then what is your idea, sir?’
‘The same as your own … taken a little further.’
He went on briskly, ‘The seeds of the silk tree. Brought back to be planted in a sacred grove for the enrichment of the whole Roman Empire. This cannot fail!’
A dreamy expression appeared on his face. ‘I can see it all: two holy men from the edge of Empire, thinking it their sacred duty to inform their ruler that having particular knowledge far beyond that of mere libraries, they are prepared to venture to far Sinae to acquire the seeds for the glory of the Byzantine Empire and its illustrious ruler. They lack only the means to do so.’
‘Special information?’
‘I rather think something more in the way of a token, a visible sign that not only do they possess the knowledge but are themselves the only ones able to take advantage of it. A species of immunity, if you like, preserving the idea for their own furtherance … and profit.’
‘Sir, I don’t follow you,’ Nicander said. ‘We have no special knowledge and no prospect of any.’
‘Yet you’ll agree, should these two men appear with some, their way to being funded is assured? Our ever-avaricious Justinian would think nothing of settling five hundred thousand gold solidi on them for a return of eight tons of gold a year!’ His eyes gleamed wolfishly.
‘But how—’
‘These monks come with a tale. They were on pilgrimage from somewhere outlandish like Sheba, when the winds seize their ship and after a harrowing
experience which would wring pity from the hardest heart they are cast up in shipwreck. They are rescued by a passing trader who is from Serica and takes them there. Where they meet the King of the Seres who offers them hospitality and his prayers for their safe return. When they are ready to leave, he gives them a letter decreeing those named therein as honoured guests of the kingdom. This they offer to Justinian as proof that they will be welcomed back should they return.’
‘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 …
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