Authors: Robert Lyndon
They passed the Pharos, its flame projected by mirrors far out to sea, and docked at the port of Bucoleon, the emperor’s private harbour south of the Great Palace complex. Vallon’s heart beat faster. The escort formed up around him and marched through a postern guarded by bronze lions. They crossed a series of open spaces lit by lanterns whose fitful flames illuminated gardens and fish ponds, pavilions and pleasure grounds. Vallon had never been inside the complex before and had no idea where the escort was taking him. They angled left towards a massy building with random lights showing at some of the windows.
‘Which palace is this?’
‘Daphne,’ said Chlorus. He ran up a monumental flight of steps leading to the entrance. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to hand over your sword and submit to a search.’
Vallon stood unmoving while the men patted him for secret weapons. Chlorus pounded on the doors and they opened into a blaze of candelabra. A chamberlain carrying a silver staff of office received them and led the way through aisles and halls supported by onyx and porphyry columns, through lofty chambers decorated with polychrome mosaics and tapestries, across pavements inset with gold peacocks and eagles, past fountains spouting water from the mouths of bronze dolphins. At each entrance guardsmen and eunuchs stood rooted at attention.
They entered a plain room with a door at the far end guarded by two soldiers. One of them threw the door open and Vallon found himself in a passage or tunnel lit by torches in sconces. His footsteps echoed off bare walls wringing with condensation. The passage must have been fifty yards long and the torches fluttered in an icy draught issuing from the far end.
The chamberlain halted at an entrance open to the night. ‘Wait here.’
He went out and gave a deep bow, murmured something inaudible and received an even fainter response. He turned and beckoned Chlorus forward. The officer put every fibre of his being into his salute. ‘Allagion Chlorus reporting with Count Vallon.’
‘Admit the count,’ a voice said, ‘then you and your men withdraw.’
Vallon stepped onto a covered balcony overlooking a lake of darkness surrounded by the faint breathing glow of the city. It took a moment to realise that the U-shaped arena beneath him was the Hippodrome, and that he was looking down on it from the imperial box. His flesh seemed to congeal about his bones.
Three figures swathed in fur overgarments occupied the balcony, seated around two braziers that cast only enough light to suggest form but not features. Vallon had the impression that one of them was veiled and possibly a woman.
One of the muffled shapes rose. ‘An interesting perspective,’ he said. ‘Looking out over the city while it sleeps.’
Vallon struggled for words. ‘Indeed.’
‘I am Theoctistus Scylitzes, Logothete tou Dromou. I apologise for dragging you away from your hearth on such a bitter night.’
Vallon decided that a deep bow was sufficient response. No seat had been set out for him and the minister obviously had no intention of introducing the other figures. Vallon indicated the arena. ‘It’s strange to see it empty. The last time I was in the Hippodrome it must have held sixty thousand spectators.’
A breeze fanned the coals, throwing the Logothete’s bearded face into relief. He held up what looked like a bound document. ‘I’ve been telling the emperor about the travels that led you from the barbarian northlands to Constantinople.’
Vallon’s nape crawled at that ‘I’ve been telling’. His gaze darted to the other two figures. Was that the emperor? Surely not.
‘Yes,’ said the Logothete, ‘I spent two days studying the report you wrote for my predecessor.’
Vallon found his voice. ‘I didn’t pen it myself. It was written nine years ago, before I’d mastered Greek. The account of our travels was set down by a companion, Hero of Syracuse.’
‘Quite so. He seems to have a gift for literary exposition.’
‘He has many gifts.’
‘And a fertile imagination.’
‘My Lord?’
The Logothete tapped the book. ‘Most interesting, absolutely fascinating.’ He paused. ‘If true.’
‘Tell me which part of the account rings false and I’ll try to set your doubts to rest.’
Theoctistus laughed and smacked the document across his knee. ‘The whole damn thing. Are you really telling me that you journeyed from France to England, then sailed north to Ultima Thule before returning south through the land of Rus and crossing the Black Sea to Rum?’
‘Yes, Lord.’
‘And all to deliver a ransom of falcons demanded by that rogue Suleyman.’
‘In essence, yes, Lord.’
The Logothete appraised him. ‘You’re a remarkable fellow, Vallon.’
‘Remarkably lucky. If I succeeded, it was because I was well served by a brave and ingenious company.’
One of the other figures leaned towards the Logothete and whispered. The minister nodded.
‘Vallon, I’ll come to the point. I want you to undertake another journey on behalf of the empire.’
Vallon’s guts constricted. ‘May I ask where you propose to send me?’
The Logothete took a moment to answer. ‘In your account you describe a former Byzantine diplomat, a noted traveller known as Cosmas Monopthalmos.’
Vallon saw the Greek’s dark eye as if it were yesterday. ‘Indeed I do, Lord. Although I only met him in his dying hours, he left a lasting impression.’
‘Then you’ll remember that Cosmas travelled as far east as Samarkand.’
‘It’s only a name to me.’
‘Samarkand lies beyond the Oxus, in the wilderness that spawned the Seljuk Turks and all the other swarms of horse nomads who plague our eastern frontiers.’
‘You want me to lead a mission to Samarkand?’
‘You’ll pass through it. I calculate that it marks the halfway point on your journey.’
Despite the cold, sweat filmed Vallon’s forehead. ‘I’m sorry, Lord. My knowledge of that part of the world is flimsy.’
The glow from the braziers cast the Logothete’s face in sinister relief. ‘Have you heard of an empire called China? It goes by other names, including Cathay, though some reports suggest that Cathay and China are separate empires. Its own citizens, subjects of the Song emperor, call it the Middle Kingdom or Celestial Empire, titles stemming from their belief that it occupies an exalted position between heaven and earth.’
‘I’ve heard rumours of a rich kingdom at the eastern end of the world. I have no idea how to reach it.’
The Logothete pointed down the tunnel leading from the balcony. ‘Quite simple. Follow the rising sun and you should reach it in about a year.’
About a year! Vallon was so shocked that he missed some of the Logothete’s smooth exposition. He shook himself. ‘Even Alexander the Great never travelled so far.’
‘You’ll be following the Silk Road, a well-trodden trade route, travelling in stages, stopping and resting at entrepôts and caravanserais.’
Vallon stiffened. A year felt like being saddled by a dead weight, but that represented only the period of outward travel. A year to reach China, a year returning, and God knows how long spent between the two termini. He felt old before he’d taken a single step.
‘Might I ask the purpose of the expedition?’
The Logothete spread his hands. ‘Constantinople is the mirror of Western civilisation. By all accounts, China enjoys the same glittering pre-eminence in the East.’ He brought his hands together. ‘It’s only natural that the two poles of civilisation should establish diplomatic relations. Yours won’t be the first Byzantine mission to China. I’ve examined the records and discovered that the empire has sent seven embassies to China in as many centuries.’
‘Resulting in benefits to Byzantium. I trust.’
The Logothete’s breath condensed in the chill air. ‘They have created mutual recognition and respect.’
Achieved absolutely nothing, Vallon interpreted.
‘Now is the time to build on this foundation,’ the Logothete said. ‘An alliance with China will yield practical rewards.’ He pulled his cape tight over his shoulders. ‘Vallon, you don’t need me to tell you what a plight we’re in. Seljuks within a day’s ride of the Bosporus, Normans hammering at our Balkan possessions, Arabs threatening our sea lanes. Byzantium is under siege from all sides. We need allies; we need friends.’
‘I agree, but I fail to see how a foreign power a year’s journey to the east can offer any succour.’
‘China is also threatened by the steppe barbarians. Form an alliance with them and we can squeeze our common enemy, allowing us to concentrate on foes closer to home. Other benefits will flow from establishing a conduit to the East. With our trade routes closed or under competition from Venice and Genoa, opening up a road to China will provide a much-needed lifeline.’
Vallon knew that he was on the rim of a whirlpool and would be sucked down if he didn’t thrash clear. ‘Lord, I’m not the man to accomplish these goals. Next year I turn forty. My health is not as robust as it was when I made the journey to the north. I have —’
The Logothete slapped the document. ‘You’re cunning and resourceful, steadfast and brave. Don’t think your actions at Dyrrachium have gone unnoticed. You’ve had years of experience campaigning against the nomads. You employ Turkmen soldiers in your own squadron.’
Vallon opened his mouth and then shut it. A decision had been made at the highest level, and nothing he could say would change it.
The minister resumed his seat. ‘There are other prizes to be sought in China.’
Vallon’s response sounded dull in his ears. ‘Such as?’
The Logothete looked over the empty arena. ‘You know that silk is Constantinople’s most valuable export.’
‘Yes, Lord.’
‘Do you know where we obtained the secret of its manunfacture?’
‘A place called Seres, somewhere in the East, beyond the River Oxus.’
The Logothete turned in some surprise. ‘You’re better informed than I imagined.’
‘Hero of Syracuse told me, passing on information he obtained from Cosmas. Both men thirsted for knowledge about far-off places.’
‘I’d like to meet this Hero of Syracuse.’
Vallon held his tongue, and after a few moments of interrogative silence, the Logothete continued. ‘Seres and China are one and the same. Five hundred years ago, an official who held a post corresponding to mine sent a pair of Nestorian monks into a silk-making town east of Samarkand. They smuggled silk worms back in hollowed-out staffs.’ The Logothete reached under his furs and stroked his gown. ‘Silk has been the mainstay of our wealth ever since, but now the Arabs and others have learned how to produce it and broken our monopoly. It’s time to discover fresh secrets in China – new metals, ingenious war engines.’ The Logothete eyed Vallon. ‘No doubt you’ve seen Greek Fire used in battle.’
‘Yes. I’ve never employed it myself. I don’t know its formula.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Greek Fire is the secret weapon that forms the bulwark between Byzantium and its enemies.’
‘Long may it preserve us,’ Vallon said, in the tone of someone reciting a response in a litany.
The Logothete stepped close and spoke in a scented whisper. ‘Suppose I told you that China possesses a weapon more powerful than Greek Fire.’
Vallon resisted the instinct to step back. ‘That would be a prize worth having.’
The Logothete withdrew. ‘Three years ago slavers in Turkestan captured a Chinese merchant who eventually ended up in Constantinople. The man had been a soldier and engineer. Under questioning, he told his interrogators that Chinese alchemists had formulated a compound called Fire Drug, a substance that ignites with a spark and explodes when packed into a container. Now then, Vallon. You’ve seen a sealed bottle of oil burst in a fire.
Poof!
Alarming and possibly injurious to those standing close by.’ The Logothete’s face ducked back into the firelight. ‘In the same circumstances, a bottle of Fire Drug would blow everybody within twenty yards to shreds.’
Vallon massaged his throat. The Logothete swung away and tramped along the balcony, one hand slapping the rail.
‘Packed into cylinders, Fire Drug propels arrows twice as far as any bow can shoot. Encased in iron spheres, it explodes with a force that can shatter a ship into splinters.’
‘An army equipped with such a weapon wouldn’t need knights, only engineers.’
‘Precisely,’ the Logothete said. ‘But the strange thing is that the Chinese don’t exploit this terrible incendiary for military purposes. Apparently, they use it to frighten away evil spirits.’ The Logothete paused. ‘We want you to obtain the formula for this devastating compound.’
‘Lord, Byzantium has possessed Greek Fire for centuries, and during all that time we’ve kept the secret of its manufacture to ourselves. The engineers of Cathay will guard their formula just as closely.’
‘I’m sure you’ll find a way of discovering the secret.’
‘Steal it, you mean. If the theft is discovered, it would wipe out any diplomatic gains at a stroke.’
‘That won’t do at all. You must use guile and ingenuity.’
Vallon recognised finality in the Logothete’s tone. He drew a shuddering breath. ‘When does the expedition set out?’
‘Next spring, as early as wind and weather permit.’
‘Lord, if the embassy is so important, I can’t understand why you would choose a foreign count to lead it.’
‘Not lead. Escort. Professional diplomats will head the mission. You’ll meet them in due course. But you’re right. Your rank must befit the importance of your commission.’ The Logothete bowed. ‘Congratulations,
Strategos
.’
General. Never had promotion been so unwished for. It was all Vallon could do to bow and acknowledge the honour.
‘I should stress that the expedition is secret,’ the minister said. ‘Your promotion will be announced as recognition for your valour at Dyrrachium.’
‘I understand,’ said Vallon.
The Logothete resumed his seat. The braziers hummed in a swirl of air. A harsh female voice spoke. ‘We’ve been told that your wife is a beauty.’
Vallon’s night vision had sharpened. A veil covered the speaker’s face, but he was sure that the woman was the Empress-Mother, Anna Dalassena, the most duplicitous schemer in Constantinople and the woman who’d plotted her son’s seizure of the throne. Which meant that the third figure hunched over in his furs
must
be Alexius.