City of jade, p.1
City of Jade, page 1
By L.J. LABARTHE
ARCHANGEL CHRONICLES
No Quarter
No Surrender, No Retreat
No Shadows Fall
The Body on the Beach
Part of the Under the Southern Cross anthology
Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Copyright
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
5032 Capital Circle SW
Ste 2, PMB# 279
Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886
USA
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
City of Jade
Copyright © 2013 by L.J. LaBarthe
Cover Art by Anne Cain
annecain.art@gmail.com
Cover content is being used for illustrative purposes only
and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Ste 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA.
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
ISBN: 978-1-62380-848-8
Digital ISBN: 978-1-62380-849-5
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
June 2013
Short story City of Gold previously published by Dreamspinner Press, June 2011.
Acknowledgments
THERE are many people to whom I owe a debt of gratitude. They are: the authors of the various resources I consulted during my research, particularly Dr. Paul Halsall, Dr. Timothy Dawson, and Rolf Gross. I could not have finished this manuscript without the ongoing support of my mother, brother, and cousin, and my dear friends Marina Pycroft, Michelle Wauchope, Tracy Bailey, Claire Clarke, Shane Bevin, Jasmin Pycroft, Cate Ashwood, Meredith Shayne, and the Australian Living History movement. I also wish to thank Jacqueline Broeker, E. E. Ottoman, and Nicole Hines for assistance with betaing and proofreading. Last but certainly not least, my thanks go to Elizabeth, Lynn, my editor Jo, and all the staff at Dreamspinner Press.
Author’s Note
THIS novel is not and cannot be accurate to the last inch. I have taken some few small liberties with things such as language and names that are more familiar to modern readers. If the reader is interested in perusing my sources, there is an extensive bibliography and a short glossary at the end of the novel.
—L.J. LaBarthe
Other people too have friends that they love;
But ours was a love such as few friends have known.
You were all my sustenance; it mattered more
To see you daily, than to get my morning food.
And if there was a single day when we did not meet
I would sit listless, my mind in a tangle of gloom.
—Yuan Zhen to Bai Juyi, 816 AD
Prologue
City of Gold
Constantinople, Byzantium
THE day began just like any other. Gallienus, a veteran of the wars that had ended the previous year, in 1130, went to his postwar duties at the gates of Constantinople, the jewel in the crown of the Byzantine Empire. He limped up and down the lines of wagons carrying all manner of goods from the East for trade, inspected the packs and wagons, and waved merchants through to the city. He gave directions to the merchants’ quarter when necessary and detained those who were smuggling items prohibited by Emperor John Komnenos II.
“It is busy today.” Alexander, a guard on duty with Gallienus, chuckled as they waved through yet another packtrain.
“Aye.” Gallienus leaned against the wall of the city, stretching his leg. “And so far, we have confiscated far too much opium for my liking.”
“Truly,” Alexander agreed.
Another wagon rumbled up to them, and conversation broke off as Alexander went to talk to the teamster and merchant, and Gallienus began to search the contents of the wagon bed.
He found nothing untoward within—some sacks of grain, amphorae of the sour wine from Antioch that some men found palatable, and some glassware. He was about to signal Alexander to allow the merchant entry to Constantinople when a small crate caught his eye.
Frowning to himself, he pulled it closer and opened it. At first glance, it seemed to hold nothing more than elaborate pottery, but as he hefted a vase, he heard the rattling that suggested something was secreted within.
“What are you doing?” The outraged voice of the merchant cut through Gallienus’s examination, and his frown deepened.
“Good merchant, what is inside this?”
The merchant licked his lips. “Nothing of import, my lord. Perhaps a gratuity would see you leave my goods be and allow me into the city unmolested?”
Gallienus looked over to Alexander. Alexander’s expression was serious, and he shook his head, indicating there would be no giving or receiving of bribes. Gallienus agreed. He turned back to the merchant.
“I am afraid that attempting to bribe a servant of the emperor is a grave offense.” As the merchant spluttered in indignation, Gallienus drew his dagger and used the hilt to crack open the vase.
Porcelain shattered easily, and the contents of the vase were revealed as several handfuls of dried red poppies. Gallienus was grim. “Call the soldiers and have this man and his team taken into custody,” he said to Alexander.
“My lord!” the merchant wailed, wringing his hands together. “I beg you!”
“This is illegal in the empire,” Gallienus said. “Now the emperor himself will decide what is to become of you.”
The soldiers arrived from the nearby barracks. They took the still protesting merchant and his teamsters into custody, and two of them gathered up the opium with care, looking as if they were handling deadly snakes. Gallienus did not blame them.
As the merchant was hauled away, his wagon driven toward the barracks by soldiers, Alexander joined Gallienus and they watched as the press of people within the city swallowed up the soldiers and their prisoners.
“Never a dull moment, Gallienus,” Alexander said.
“Not today, at least,” Gallienus replied.
At midday, he ate a small meal and drank a tankard of ale with his fellow gate guards. He felt a little rueful as they talked about past wars and how lucky Gallienus was to have survived the violent conflicts with only a limp and an ugly scar from a crossbow bolt to show for them. After the meal, he returned to his post by the gates, and the business of inspecting merchant packtrains resumed.
Yes, it was a day like any other, unremarkable, his routine unchanged. Gallienus expected this to be the way his life would go on until it ended. He knew he should be grateful to be alive and allowed to remain to serve the empire, even as a lowly gate guard of Constantinople. He was grateful, but he was a soldier, trained to fight the enemies of John Komnenos II, to march proudly beneath the standard of the golden eagle of Byzantium. He was not meant to be languishing here, checking cargo. He should be out with the rest of his men, the men who served with honor and glory.
It was nearing late afternoon when Gallienus’s day took an unexpected turn. He was inspecting the goods of a merchant and his train from the Far East. The man said they had come from the city of Gyeongju, once the capital of the Kingdom of Silla. Gallienus nodded absently, only half listening to his oddly accented Greek as he limped down the line of the packtrain, looking into each wagon. Gallienus’s hip was aching, as it often did toward the end of the day, another legacy of the injury that had seen him gently released from the emperor’s armies and reassigned to this duty.
Pausing for a moment and taking a deep breath, forcing his mind not to dwell on the growing pain in his hip and leg, Gallienus looked down the line of horses and mules and a few camels. His gaze stopped, lingering on one person, a man who had emerged from behind a heavily laden mule. As Gallienus stared, the man approached and gracefully bowed low, and as he straightened, Gallienus could see there was curiosity in his handsome face.
“Is everything to your satisfaction, my lord?”
The voice of the merchant jerked Gallienus out of his reverie, and he flushed, turning away from the vision in front of him to nod at the merchant. “Yes. Everything’s fine.” As he turned back to face the man who had so transfixed him, Gallienus asked, “Have you been to Constantinople before?”
“Oh yes,” the merchant cheerfully answered as the object of Gallienus’s fascination scrutinized him and shook his head slightly in the negative. “I have traded here many times over the years, my lord.” The merchant’s voice droned on and on as Gallienus and the other man looked at each other, unmoving. It was only when the merchant lightly shoved the young man’s shoulder, to get him to move with the rest of the train as it slowly plodded through the gates and into the city, that Gallienus felt himself released from that captivating gaze.
“Misahuen, move,” the merchant said—not unkindly, Gallienus was relieved to hear. “We must find lodgings before dark.”
Gallienus turned as the merchant and the man—Misahuen—walked past him. “Ther
The merchant bowed low. “Thank you, my lord, you are most kind.” He barked instructions to others of his men in a language Gallienus did not understand, and Gallienus looked again at Misahuen.
“Thank you,” Misahuen said, bowing to Gallienus. “You honor us.” His voice was soft, rich, educated, and his Greek was flawless. Gallienus felt his cheeks color as his heart pounded.
Returning the bow, Gallienus answered, “No, thank you. It is I who am honored to serve.” The ritual phrase came automatically, although the sincerity with which he said it was anything but.
Misahuen’s lips curved upward faintly, and then he was gone, walking into Constantinople with the rest of his packtrain.
Gallienus groaned and closed his eyes, raising his face toward the sky to seek strength to finish his working day without rushing to see if the merchant had taken his advice about the inn… and to see Misahuen. He could not recall ever having been so mesmerized—and so quickly—by another person, male or female, in all of his life.
IT WAS evening several days later before Gallienus could find a reason to go to The Grape Vine and see his friend, the innkeeper. At least, that was what he told himself he was doing as he climbed the few steps that led to the door of the taproom. Deep down, however, he knew the truth of the matter was that he was there to see Misahuen. He had not been able to get the man out of his head.
Gallienus greeted the innkeeper as he entered, noting that the place was almost empty, save for an old soldier, a veteran of battles long past, mumbling over his tankard about the Crusades of the 1090s. Gallienus chose a table in a dimly lit corner of the taproom and sat, ordering a tankard of ale. When the innkeeper’s son brought it to him, he paid the boy with a small coin and leaned back against the wall. There appeared to be no one else around, and Gallienus reluctantly concluded Misahuen must be staying elsewhere. If the merchant had taken lodgings at another inn, it could be days, even weeks, until Gallienus found him. His duties prevented him from searching the merchants’ quarter—at least unless he had good reason, and he knew his superiors would not consider a fascination with a young man from the Far East to be a good reason.
One could nurse one’s drink only so long without looking ridiculous, and he did have duties the next day. Gallienus drained his tankard and stood to return to his small home—a soldier’s billet, little more than a one-room cottage near the walls of the great city. He was about to leave when he heard voices speaking that language he did not understand, and the tread of feet upon the stairs. The language sounded, now that he was fully paying attention, musical, almost lyrical. As Gallienus listened and watched, the merchant and several other men descended from the upper floors of the inn and into the taproom.
One of them was Misahuen.
Gallienus’s breath caught as he watched the group and listened to their conversation, even though he could not understand what they were saying. He did not want to make himself obvious, yet he hoped desperately that Misahuen would turn and see him and linger. Gallienus could not fathom why he was fascinated by this man. Why he was so drawn to him or why the desire to know Misahuen was so great. This was the first time in his life he had found himself feeling such things for another. He found it confusing and strange, yet he did not want to run from it. He was a soldier, after all, and soldiers did not retreat—least of all from situations like this. Or so he told himself.
Misahuen was silent as the rest of his party talked among themselves, and Gallienus watched, hoping against hope that Misahuen would turn and see him there in the shadows. After a moment that felt like a lifetime, Misahuen looked around and his gaze met Gallienus’s. They stared at each other, unblinking, and finally Misahuen looked away and touched the merchant’s shoulder to get his attention. They exchanged words in that foreign tongue, and Misahuen bowed as the merchant and the other men in the group left the inn, the door closing with a soft click behind them.
The taproom felt almost eerily silent with their departure, and Gallienus’s heart was in his throat as Misahuen walked to him and half bowed politely.
“May I join you?”
Gallienus nodded, gesturing to the bench opposite the one upon which he sat. “Please do.”
Misahuen smiled and sat down. “Thank you.” He clasped his hands together in front of him on the worn wood of the table, and Gallienus bit his lip, watching those long fingers. “I am Misahuen of Gyeongju,” he formally introduced himself.
Biting back the instinctive answer of “I know who you are,” Gallienus nodded instead. “Gallienus. My father named me after the emperor of the same name. I’m a retired soldier and now a gate guard.” He was annoyed at himself for sounding bitter as he said it. “Would you like something to drink, Misahuen?”
“Water, please.” Misahuen was looking at him curiously, dark brown eyes like pools of rich coffee, making Gallienus feel as if he were being stripped bare, as if all his secrets were laid out for Misahuen to see. Squirming a little beneath that intense gaze, Gallienus gestured to the innkeeper’s son and ordered water for his companion and another tankard of ale for himself.
“So what brings you to Constantinople?” Gallienus paid for the drinks, and the boy quickly brought them to the table; he was relieved that the boy did not linger after scooping up the few coins Gallienus placed on the rough wood. He felt out of his depth, for he had no idea how to talk to Misahuen. He knew only that he wanted to get to know Misahuen a very great deal.
“Trade.” Misahuen smiled the ghost of a smile. “Although I assume you are asking why I chose to leave my homeland in the first place?”
“Yes, I am. Sorry, I should have been clearer,” Gallienus said.
“It is nothing.” Misahuen’s smile broadened. “Your language of Greek is beautiful, but there are nuances to it that I cannot find a comparable translation for in my native tongue. So there are times when the translation is, how do you say… it is not as correct as it could be.”
Gallienus took a sip of his ale. “I understand.”
“There is civil war in my land,” Misahuen continued, his expression becoming sad. “My family was killed, and I fled. I did not know where to go or what to do. It was luck that brought me to Merchant Yuen’s camp. He had taken on others who had fared similarly to myself, so it seemed providence had brought me to him as well. He offered me a place in his train, working with the animals and helping guard the goods he was trading as we traveled the Silk Road, and so, here I am.”
“I’m sorry,” Gallienus said softly. “For the loss of your family.”
Misahuen shrugged. “What will be, will be. I fear that I am not yet ready to speak more about it. The grief is still too raw.” His expression grew doleful, and he changed the subject. “And what of yourself, Gallienus? How long have you guarded the gates of this magnificent city?”
Gallienus shook his head. “A year, more or less. A little more than less, I’d wager. The last campaign was a hard one, and I was injured. Crossbow bolt through the thigh.” He shrugged as Misahuen made a soft sound of sympathy. “I was lucky. Many others died. My commanding officer decided that I could serve the empire better by patrolling the walls and guarding the gates of Constantinople than out in the field fighting for the emperor.”
“But you do not agree?” Misahuen canted his head slightly, his expression a mixture of curiosity and compassion.
“Logically, I do. I would slow down any fighting unit in the field. Emotionally… no, emotionally, I don’t agree. I remind myself that it could be worse though. I could be dead.”
“Indeed. Consider, however, that this duty you perform now is not as useless as you may think,” Misahuen said.
Gallienus arched an eyebrow in eloquent query. “What do you mean?”
“This city, Constantinople, it is the capital of your Byzantine Empire, yes?” As Gallienus nodded, Misahuen continued. “Therefore, the walls which you guard and protect, the gates you patrol, are the last bastion of refuge and safety for those who seek shelter from their enemies. You and your companions who share these duties protect and defend them. You are still a soldier of the empire—it is just that your duties in war have changed. They are no less important than before, merely defensive in nature rather than offensive.”
