as it succeeded, the effort only made room in my thoughts for everything else. I looked again at the commission Heraclius had sent me:
You will proceed with all haste to Our most learned and famous town of Athens , it read. There, you shall act as may be made necessary. The Lord Priscus, Our Commander of the East, shall accompany you and do likewise.
And that was it. Unrolled and held open with lead weights, the parchment sheet was about thirty inches by eighteen. On its very dark purple background, the three sentences of my commission, written in gold, took up a single line. Because the Emperor had written this himself, and in Latin, it was surely of no importance that he’d omitted all the usual Greek formulae. Did it matter if he’d missed out all my titles and not called me his right trusty and beloved friend ? Did it matter if he’d left off the epithet ever victorious from the mention of Priscus? And – far more important – what did the whole sodding document require of us? I’d never seen anything so vague – not even from Heraclius. After the ship had intercepted us off Cyprus, and turned us west from our homeward voyage to Constantinople, I’d sat looking at the parchment sheet over and over again. I’d told myself until I really believed it, that this was simply the work of someone who was at best semi-literate, even in his own language. Now the voyage was reaching its end, and we’d soon be stepping on to the Piraeus docks, every word of the commission dripped menace.
I let the sheet fall on to my desk and stretched cautiously. My official robe made a bitch of all movement, though was a refuge from the chill. I yawned. If this was the last time I ever wore it, I might as well look good when the Governor had put me in chains and taken off to Corinth. Yes, even if my career was to reach its end in some barbarian-ravaged province in the middle of nowhere, I might as well look good for the occasion. The spot aside, I could be a sight worth seeing.
‘Come!’ I shouted. The door opened. I should have guessed from that hesitant knock that it would be Martin and not the slave with a jug of wine. I glared at him. How he’d managed to gain still more weight on this voyage was a mystery. But he’d managed. The clothes that had fitted him reasonably well in Alexandria were now visibly bulging. In Athens, it was no comfort that he might draw attention from my spot. ‘Have you eaten yet?’ I asked.
Looking as miserable as I felt, he said nothing. But I saw the hungry look he darted at the cheese and stale bread I’d left untouched beside me. I grunted and waved him into the chair opposite my desk.
‘When do you think we can dock?’ I asked.
He shoved a wedge of cheese into his mouth and chewed without visible enjoyment. ‘The Captain is still on shore,’ he said indistinctly. He took a mouthful of brackish water and cleared his throat. ‘I spoke with one of the sailors he sent back for something.’ He swallowed and continued with a faint tremor in his voice. ‘Apparently, the military situation is looking desperate.’
I shrugged again. The provincial authorities, I’d already learned from Priscus, had five hundred troops to cover the entire area south of Thermopylae. If the Spartans had once held up the entire Persian Army there with three hundred hoplites, our own people had long since given up on trying to keep out a rabble of Avars and Slavs. Thirty years of their depredations, and there really was no military situation left to call desperate or otherwise.
‘The harvests have failed in Thrace and beyond,’ Martin explained. I reached cautiously forward and pulled a corner off the dry loaf. I wondered if it was worth trying to eat anything at all. Once arrested, it might be some while before anyone got round to feeding me.
‘Starvation is setting in everywhere south of the Danube, and possibly north of it,’ he added. ‘The word is that twenty million barbarians are on the move, and
You will proceed with all haste to Our most learned and famous town of Athens , it read. There, you shall act as may be made necessary. The Lord Priscus, Our Commander of the East, shall accompany you and do likewise.
And that was it. Unrolled and held open with lead weights, the parchment sheet was about thirty inches by eighteen. On its very dark purple background, the three sentences of my commission, written in gold, took up a single line. Because the Emperor had written this himself, and in Latin, it was surely of no importance that he’d omitted all the usual Greek formulae. Did it matter if he’d missed out all my titles and not called me his right trusty and beloved friend ? Did it matter if he’d left off the epithet ever victorious from the mention of Priscus? And – far more important – what did the whole sodding document require of us? I’d never seen anything so vague – not even from Heraclius. After the ship had intercepted us off Cyprus, and turned us west from our homeward voyage to Constantinople, I’d sat looking at the parchment sheet over and over again. I’d told myself until I really believed it, that this was simply the work of someone who was at best semi-literate, even in his own language. Now the voyage was reaching its end, and we’d soon be stepping on to the Piraeus docks, every word of the commission dripped menace.
I let the sheet fall on to my desk and stretched cautiously. My official robe made a bitch of all movement, though was a refuge from the chill. I yawned. If this was the last time I ever wore it, I might as well look good when the Governor had put me in chains and taken off to Corinth. Yes, even if my career was to reach its end in some barbarian-ravaged province in the middle of nowhere, I might as well look good for the occasion. The spot aside, I could be a sight worth seeing.
‘Come!’ I shouted. The door opened. I should have guessed from that hesitant knock that it would be Martin and not the slave with a jug of wine. I glared at him. How he’d managed to gain still more weight on this voyage was a mystery. But he’d managed. The clothes that had fitted him reasonably well in Alexandria were now visibly bulging. In Athens, it was no comfort that he might draw attention from my spot. ‘Have you eaten yet?’ I asked.
Looking as miserable as I felt, he said nothing. But I saw the hungry look he darted at the cheese and stale bread I’d left untouched beside me. I grunted and waved him into the chair opposite my desk.
‘When do you think we can dock?’ I asked.
He shoved a wedge of cheese into his mouth and chewed without visible enjoyment. ‘The Captain is still on shore,’ he said indistinctly. He took a mouthful of brackish water and cleared his throat. ‘I spoke with one of the sailors he sent back for something.’ He swallowed and continued with a faint tremor in his voice. ‘Apparently, the military situation is looking desperate.’
I shrugged again. The provincial authorities, I’d already learned from Priscus, had five hundred troops to cover the entire area south of Thermopylae. If the Spartans had once held up the entire Persian Army there with three hundred hoplites, our own people had long since given up on trying to keep out a rabble of Avars and Slavs. Thirty years of their depredations, and there really was no military situation left to call desperate or otherwise.
‘The harvests have failed in Thrace and beyond,’ Martin explained. I reached cautiously forward and pulled a corner off the dry loaf. I wondered if it was worth trying to eat anything at all. Once arrested, it might be some while before anyone got round to feeding me.
‘Starvation is setting in everywhere south of the Danube, and possibly north of it,’ he added. ‘The word is that twenty million barbarians are on the move, and
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