Chapter XVII

 

 

 

Show me a man who is not a slave – Seneca, Epistles to Lucilius

 

Stravin

 

"Seven hundred denarii apiece." An orderly enters the office of the Parthian commander and hands over a wax tablet. Sitting at his desk, Vasiges reads it aloud. "What you have are ten Latins, four Greeks, an Egyptian, two Africans, a Scythian, and a Kurd. I give you the Kurd for nothing. Let us call it an even fifteen thousand."

Gelanor purses his lips as he works the numbers in his head. "That’s eight hundred denarii apiece, he says looking aghast.

"Forgive me," Vasiges sneers. "Did I say fifteen thousand? I meant sixteen."

"But my lord, with respect, these are not prime slaves," Gelanor pleads. "They are defeated soldiers, evidently much used to camp life and little else. Only prime slaves will fetch a price of eight hundred denarii."

"They go as a lot, and that is my price.”

"Bear in mind, lord," Gelanor continues, "We must sell them onward to recoup our investment, to make a little profit."

"Tears of sympathy stream from my eyes."

"And they seem to have very few skills." Gelanor bravely continues his pitch. "Five nursing wounds. I do not think they will survive the trip. The Scythian is barbarous, and the Kurd … the Kurd is unspeakable."

"I said he was free." Vasiges stands, arms crossed, bored now. He leans over his table examining documents, as though Gelanor has disappeared.

"I can offer five hundred each for the three Latins of quality," Gelanor persists. "The five left over, plus the two Greeks and the Africans can go for three hundred a piece. For the rest, a hundred each. So that’s fifteen hundred plus twenty-seven hundred. Call it an even five thousand."

"Robbery," Vasiges replies curtly, without looking up.

"But my lord, you are an educated, reasonable man, a man of the world." The descent into flattery. "You know we must pay to feed them; we must tend to their wounds. Most will not be fit for sale for months. Some will surely die on the journey, and …"

"You vex me, Armenian. You have concerns with the merchandise? Let me add to them. A single word from me and the two of you will be flayed alive, your skin fed to the animals and your screaming bodies left to writhe in the sun on a nearby salt flat that we reserve for such entertainments.”

Gelanor pales noticeably, turning to Malorix in appeal. The latter takes his cue and approaches the table with head bowed. "It is evident, Abgar, that this negotiation is not to be determined by the quality of the merchandise."

Vasiges measures Malorix with a bemused smile. "A prescient observation steppe-lander."

Malorix dares to look him in the eyes. "Six thousand."

"Thirteen."

"Six thousand five hundred."

"Twelve."

"Ten."

"I’m prepared to have you killed."

"You would not get a single quadran."

"Or, I can have you tortured very, very slowly."

"Eleven thousand."

"Enough!" Vasiges slams his fist on the table. Particles of dust come loose from the ceiling and float like snowflakes in the air around their heads. "I will not bargain further with vermin. Twelve thousand denarii for the lot! Your lives hang on the next words that come from your insolent mouth!"

Gelanor’s face is ashen. Malorix hears the sentry’s sword clear its scabbard and says, "Agreed.”

"Good answer." Vasiges sits.

"We must give you a down-payment ..."

The commander rises abruptly to his feet. "You doubt my word? Dare impugn my honour? Sons of dogs!"

"By no means lord, by no means." They are on the edge. "But we are not carrying the agreed amount. We must contact our colleagues."

"Colleagues? You never spoke of others."

"Our partners, good lord. Four traders like ourselves, who were also with the caravan, and who hold our gold in security. They await our departure from Stravin."

"How will you contact them?"

Gelanor jumps in. "They watch for us beyond the town. If we do not emerge before the next moon, they will assume we are lost. I fear they will leave us here."

"Why?"

"They are merchants my lord. They are not noble of spirit, not men of your caste."

"Your flattery is pointless, if accurate. How do you propose to do this?"

Malorix feels a rush of relief. Discussing details means the worst is over. He points to Gelanor. "My partner will leave now and return with your gold no later than sunrise on the third day."

Vasiges glowers for an instant, and then nods his assent. He resumes his seat and returns to his reading as though his visitors have ceased to exist. Turning to leave, Malorix hears the metallic sound of the guard’s sword returning to its sheath. The soldier smiles thinly and passes a forefinger across his throat. As they reach the doorway Vasiges looks up.

"Sarmatian." Malorix turns. "Know this. If he does not return before the sun rises on the third day, you will not see it set."

 

* * * * *

 

As he awaits Gelanor’s return, Malorix wanders the shabby town looking for horses or camels for sale. He manages to find only six that are not completely worthless, pays too much for them and then whiles away his time with wood carving and sampling a fiery local liquor known as arkhi. Gelanor returns with the gold promptly on the morning of the third day. Malorix takes it and immediately dispatches Gelanor on his way. If there is to be trouble, better only one of them is taken. He waits until mid-afternoon and makes for the office of the commander.

Vasiges arrives promptly, carrying a riding crop and sweating as though just in from the field. "Where is the Armenian?"

"Buying horses."

Vasiges accepts this explanation without comment. Malorix follows him to a large newly whitewashed building. It appears to be a kind of barracks, or an assembly hall where soldiers might take a meal. Long tables and benches are pushed up against one wall, and cavalry banners and standards are prominently displayed. In the centre of the room a man is seated at a table upon which resides a set of scales, an oil lamp, some brass cylinders, a jug, and a small wooden chest inlaid with flower motifs in mother of pearl. The man wears a worn hooded robe, and his grey beard is long and braided. Thin wisps of white hair protrude from beneath a tiny red leather cap, his skin rough and lined.

Vasiges is all business. "The money," he says.

Malorix tosses a leather pouch, which gives the unmistakable ring of coin as it lands on the table top. The old man bows his head formally, opens the tie and discharges the coins into a lustrous pyramid. Holding the lamp in one hand, his face reflects a golden hue as he examines the treasure trove, his nose inches from the table. Vasiges picks up a coin. "These coins are newly minted," he says to the old man in Greek. "Where were they made Polydius?"

Polydius reaches for a coin and examines the inscription. He holds it close to his eye. "It says Serdica, my lord."

"What of the others?"

The old man runs his hand through the pile examining coin after coin. "Serdica, Serdica, all of them it seems, all from Serdica."

Vasiges turns to Malorix. "Explain."

"Explain?" Playing dumb.

"All Roman coins, all newly minted, all from Serdica. Why?"

"This haul comes from a single sale," Malorix extemporizes. "There was a shipload of slaves and silks. The buyer was an Armenian from Tartus. His gold was plentiful. I didn’t ask or care from where he got it."

"You are very trusting, Sarmatian. More trusting than I would be in your place. Proceed, Polydius." The Greek reaches inside the chest and withdraws a flat black stone.

"What is the point of this?" Malorix asks.

"This is a touchstone." Polydius holds up the stone up for Malorix to see. He rasps a coin edgeways against the touchstone, and then stops abruptly, frowning.

"This is filthy." He rummages among an assortment of small bottles in the box settling on one containing a fine black powder. He taps the powder onto the stone and adds a few drops of what appears to be water. "Sorry for the delay, my lord," he says, "but I must have a clean touchstone to get an accurate measure."

"Get on with it!" Vasiges says impatiently. "Greeks."

Without any apparent additional effort to "get on with it," Polydius rubs the stone dry with a cloth. "There now," he exclaims with a craftsman’s satisfaction, as he examines the stone in the lamp light. As he picks up a phial, he addresses Malorix in Latin. "These Parthian pigs don’t know a thing about science, sadly." He sighs. "Don’t even have the sense to use gold to make money. Idiots." He smiles at Vasiges. "They pay me in silver of course, and they are interested in some scientific applications but, it takes a Greek mind to truly understand science. Aristotle … Archimedes …"

"Don’t speak to him in that barbarous twaddle. You know it’s a crime." Vasiges' agitation is becoming more visible. He slaps a palm hard on the table. "I want to know what you said."

"I told him I didn’t fancy being in his place, my lord," Polydius replies in obsequious Greek. "So," he continues, "a scratch of your coin, Beucan the Sarmatian, next to a scrraaatch…" His tongue juts slightly from the corner of his mouth as he applies pressure to the coin, "of my own coin. There."

He holds up his coin. "My coin is pure gold."

Running his fingers once again among the bottles he withdraws one containing another liquid. "Now I apply simple nitric acid to these scratches. Mine is pure gold, so it will not turn dark. That’s just to show Lord Vasiges how it should appear. Nitric acid, you see, only reacts with impure metals, and turns dark when it encounters them." He pours the liquid onto the stone. "And now we wait... Did you know? In Parthia gold is called the metal of the gods for its purity. Isn’t that charming?" His voice is laden with sarcasm. He peers at the stone.

"The colour is very dark." A sort of wheezing chuckle issues from his nose, and he looks up at Malorix, shaking his head sadly. "Copper. I think you may have a problem, Sarmatian."

"Well?" Vasiges demands impatiently. Evidently, he has not been paying very close attention to the science demonstration.

"There is one more test my lord, if you will indulge me. Then I will be more certain of the proportions."

The commander agrees by way of an irritable snort. Polydius produces a set of brass scales engraved with markings Malorix takes to be astronomical signs. Then he sets out two small glass vessels filled with equal parts of water. "These measurements must be very precise." He produces a battered box filled with golden aureii, and weighs them one by one, taking note of the values on a piece of parchment.

"Tell me, Sarmatian," Polydius says as he works, "have you heard of Archimedes?"

“No.”

"Pity. Archimedes was the greatest scientist in history. A Greek of course. That goes without saying."

"So why say it?" Vasiges snarls.

"Indeed my lord, foolish of me. But there is this lovely story …"

Malorix is beginning to feel an anxious tightening in his stomach. Nor is his rising alarm assuaged by his fascination with the way Polydius seems to be baiting the Parthian commander with his banter. There is something wrong with his gold. He tries to remember what happened in Moesia. He took the gold directly from Cocconas. There had never been any reason to question its quality.

"So," Polydius continues, "A long time ago there was a king in the country of Syracuse. That is a beautiful place, Syracuse. Or it was until the Romans took it over and brought civilization to the little island. Just like the Romans. Can’t appreciate distinctiveness, have to smash it all down. Even killed Archimedes there on the beach."

As he recounts his tale he adds pieces of gold alternately to opposite sides of the scale. A central arrow rocks methodically back and forth searching for equilibrium.

"My gold … your gold … so. The king’s name was Hieron." He glances surreptitiously at Vasiges. "He was a Greek as well. Now Hieron ordered himself a nice new crown from a local goldsmith. But when it came time to pay up, he suspected that perhaps he was being cheated. Hieron had provided the gold you see, but he thought maybe the goldsmith had kept some of it for himself. A sort of hidden cost. Maybe all that glittered was not gold. You see?"

"Your gold … my gold …," Polydius repeats like a child as he continues placing the coins on the scale one by one with meticulous and maddening precision, all the while stealing clandestine glances at his commander as though judging how far he can provoke him.

"Now that we have equal parts gold, we place them in the water." He positions the two glass vessels on the scale and adds the coins he has just weighed, putting Malorix’ coins in one vessel and his own in the other. All observe carefully as the water from one overflows and collects in a cleverly fashioned brass tube that empties in a glass phial to one side.

"Archimedes. Did I mention he was a Greek?"

"Enough, you bloody fool!" Vasiges explodes.

"Perhaps I did. Alas, age comes to us all. Never mind. Archimedes understood that all metals weigh differently in water and accordingly will displace different amounts of water when placed in it. And so, to steal his phrase… Eureka! I’ve found it!" The old man regards Malorix pityingly. "You’re light."

Malorix feels his insides twisting again. "What do you mean, light?"

"It’s mostly gold, my lord, but it’s been debased. Perhaps some silver in it, but I suspect copper. Perhaps as much as one third."

Malorix feels a violent impact across his cheek and finds himself sprawled on the floor. "You think you are very clever, Sarmatian," Vasiges says evenly, rubbing the tip of his riding crop casually on the table. "Here we are in Stravin, you said to yourself. Land of bumpkins. We’ll hand over this debased coinage and save ourselves the thirty percent we couldn’t get through fair bargaining. The Parthians are suckers, just waiting to be fleeced." Vasiges kicks the side of his head and his vision clouds. A bright light appears like the opening of doors. Dragging Gelanor’s body.

"I can get you more," he mumbles through the blood in his mouth, "to make up the shortfall." Another boot. No, something harder. A spear shaft …

"I assume you were counting on my greed to protect you. It won’t. I don’t need to bargain for more debased coins. I have these coins. We’ll find your friends and then we’ll have it all anyway. Won’t we?"

"Now beat him."