‘It might not be as straightforward as all that, Marius,’ he muttered. ‘Something about the whole thing that makes me… well, it’s going too well, it can’t be this easy.’
‘You just like it here too much, that’s your problem.’
‘No, I just feel-’
‘It’s all right for you, Greek, you picked up the lingo quick smart. Not like me, half the time I’ve no idea what you’re talking about! I want to be back where a man knows where he’s at with people, can give a straight reply, kind o’ thing. For me, I don’t care if I’m down to hucking the streets again, so long as I’m with m’ kind!’
‘Wanting something badly doesn’t make it any more certain you’ll get it, Marius.’
‘What’s your gripe, Nico? We get on a camel this end and get off some other one at the other – simple.’ He chuckled. ‘Might even meet up with the camel wrangler I spoke to in Constantinople about getting to Seres. There’s a thought – won’t he gasp to see us!’
‘I’m sure,’ Nicander said drily. ‘But look at it my way – count how many things can go wrong, then add to those how many things have to go right for us to make it through. Marius, the odds are piled high against us before we even start!
‘Take just one thing. Only this – that no one, and I mean not a single soul – is known to have got through to the other side! They admit it! And I believe them for one simple reason. How many Chinese have you seen in the streets of Constantinople? None. A whole lot of Huns, Syrians, Moors and even weirder races, yes, but none from here. What does that tell you?’
‘So we’ll be the first! Does that frighten you?’
‘I don’t think you’re getting my drift. We’re heading out into this demon hell of a place and no one knows what’s there at the end. Who’s to say it’s the right way home? It might be in quite a different direction and there we are, tramping on, headed for a boiling sea or frozen place somewhere.’
He stopped walking. Obstinately Marius continued on, then turned back. ‘Look, Nico, I know nothing’s sure. Is that why we shouldn’t even try? Hey?’
‘Then there’s those bloody women around our necks,’ Nicander said bitterly. ‘When things get hard they’ll come crawling to us to save them, no doubt about that. But we’ve sworn to Kuo that we’d stand by them, we’ll never be rid of ’em.’
‘You’re in a funny mood, Nico – what’s riding you? Day after tomorrow we’re on our way and we takes what comes at us until we win. Right?’
The next day the sun was bright, but the mood wouldn’t lift. Nicander took Marius aside, ‘My friend. You know I’m not a religious type, but I’ve a feeling we need all the help we can get.’
‘You’re planning to go and ask a church to pray for us? Well now, I don’t think I’ve seen a one for the last thousand miles.’
‘Don’t mock, Marius. We can’t be sure there’s anyone up there looking after us, right over in this side of the world. What I’m saying is that if we can’t get to our gods, it might be a good idea to ask the ones here.’
Kuo was understanding and pointed out an impressive pagoda rising above the roofs. ‘The Buddhist monastery of The Holy Turtles.’
He turned to his niece. ‘My dear, do you not want to go with these holy men to seek guidance and protection for the journey?’
Stiffly she apologised that she must decline: as a Confucian she had no sympathy with a foreign religion.
Relieved to be let off, the two men set out together. A few coins for ‘donations’ had been quietly pressed on them by Kuo.
‘But we don’t know the words of the hymns,’ Marius said.
‘Or the order of service,’ Nicander agreed as they turned a corner and went up a lane. ‘But that’s no matter. What we want is a lot of monks or whatever praying for us on our behalf. And that’s what they’ll do – for a small fee, that is.’
‘I tell you what I want,’ Marius said, seeing a wine shop set out in the sun under a trellised canopy. ‘A sup o’ something to put me in the mood.’
‘Why not!’ Nicander agreed.
Their holy garb provoked strange glances from the customers and a well-built waiter with one eye came across and looked at them suspiciously.
‘What do you want here, then?’ he asked.
‘A cup of wine, perhaps?’
‘You’re monks – you don’t drink!’
‘Ah, we’re foreign monks, as you can see. In our religion we are allowed.’ Which was quite true of Byzantium churches.
‘Oh, right. What’ll it be, then?’
‘What have you got?’
‘Well, we’ve wine for them as likes that, but we do best with our ales.’
‘Ales, Marius,’ Nicander translated.
‘Ask ’em what they have!’ he said, smacking his lips.
Nicander relayed on the response – Courtiers Clear Ale, Melody of the Western Market, Old Woman’s Ale and the famous and superior, Toad Tumulus Ale.
Several hours later Marius was in a very mellow mood. Nicander had to admit to a much improved perspective, even though he had held back.
They were greeted at the gate of the monastery by a genial monk, his head shaven and hands clasped together.
‘Brother monk,’ Nicander said respectfully. ‘I am Ni lao na, and this is Ma lao na.’ He had shamelessly awarded them both the honorific ‘old and venerable monk’. We are shortly to set forth on a difficult and perilous journey and-’
‘You are joining a camel caravan, and you wish us to pray to Avalokitesvara, bodhisattva of travellers, for your safe passage.’
‘You are very understanding.’
‘But of course, it is a very common thing in Chang An. There is however the custom that-’
‘We will be generous in our thanks.’
‘Then if you will come this way.’
Much of the prayer room was in shadows but a shaft of sunshine lit a small area furnished with well-worn wooden appointments and a large gong.
They were ushered to their places and a file of monks entered.
‘Kneel, if you please.’
The soft boom of the gong sounded and chanting began. It rose and fell hypnotically and in a strange way was comforting. The gong boomed again and a single voice intoned prayers in an ancient language.
Then with more chanting it was over.
‘It is my first time in visiting a monastery of your persuasion,’ Nicander said, making conversation as he dropped some coins into the bowl. ‘It’s very impressive.’
‘You think so? It is only one of very many in China. The Buddha is much respected and revered in this land.’
‘I think, though, that this monastery is one of the most important, is it not?’
‘I cannot dispute your words, Ni lao na. But this could be because of our success in our worldly endeavours which the Enlightened One bids us undertake to support our community.’
‘Worldly endeavours?’
‘In Chang An we have been most fortunate in the quality of our silk that we produce here. It is said to be foremost in the whole of China,’ he said proudly. ‘Are you familiar with silk?’
Nicander tried to look suitably unworldly. ‘Not really. May I learn?’
They moved to inner buildings – where the reality of the secret of silk unfolded before their eyes. No silk trees, no seeds. Only an uncountable number of grey worms steadily munching on mulberry leaves, dozens of monks at labour with boiling vats, others at spindle frames and looms.
Nicander’s guarded look of incredulity at Marius was returned with a shrug.
‘And we are so renowned of our quality,’ the monk went on, ‘that we supply our brothers at monasteries as far away as Kuang Chou and Shen Yang.’
‘Silk cloth?’ Nicander asked. They couldn’t possibly be shipping out wriggling worms.
‘There is no need for that. We send only the eggs.’ He pointed to a large stack of bamboo containers on end. ‘In those. They’ll stay in there for months, even years, then show them light and air and they’ll begin to hatch out.’
‘I see. So convenient.’
But then a thought took root, a ridiculous, wonderful, wicked thought!
He shot a glance at Marius and saw his eyes widen – was he thinking the same thing? His friend gave a slow wink.
It would have to be played right.