Part 5, Chapter 23: Tyrian Purple
September 15th, 30 AG
Varian frowned to himself as he inspected the latest augur’s report from Constanta. The omens were not good for the winter’s sailing season. Such men were not always right - aye, there were some in the community of men who plied the waters of the Wine-Dark Sea who said they were never right - but ignoring the omens was not something Varian was personally comfortable with.
“Finest bowls, pewterwork that will last a dozen winters without fading, a beautiful gift for your beautiful wife! Cloth, as fine as the hair of the gods, only three silver to a cubit, you won’t believe the prices my captain told me to ask for!”
Down below the beached prow of the Almaster, the Herdazian plied his trade with lungs that the navigator envied. His own crew were good enough, but men taken on from foreign ports expected the Moravian man to bellow like some deranged cockerel to get anything done, and the wallowing bulk of the knarr was simply too formidable to make do with the personal command that men utilized on smaller vessels. Varian’s throat was already somewhat raw from nearly two months under sail from the Gates of the Bosphorous, and dealing with the men they had taken on in southern Asia Minor had worked it rawer still.
The thought jarring his memory, the flaxen-haired sailor took a swig from the jug at his side, gargling the vile mixture of fluid before spitting it quickly over the side of the ship. The medicae from Singidun swore by a concoction of one part in ten pure salt for an inflammation of the throat, but it felt like nothing so much as gargling with razors, in the Imperial man’s learned opinion.
Not that he had ever gargled with razors. Obviously. But if one did gargle with razors, his imagination didn’t think it would be far removed from the saltwater remedy.
Still, you could only complain so much. The trade port here, on what the blocky map in his cabin insisted was the “Levant”, named Ushu by the locals, was bustling with men from near and far. Her port, though modest by his standards, also carried a multitude of little merchant ships, each festooned with paint, flags, and banners of many of the various municipalities and little kingdoms that called this coastline home. It was, functionally, exactly where one wanted to unload a panoply of goods. The Herdazian had certainly done a brisk trade with both swarthy Sumerian traders and the locals, their piles of woven flax and clean bleached wool-cloth disappearing at an alacritous rate, and even the more curious items he had been getting a good price for.
That was just chump change though. The captain was looking forward to the evening auction, when several interested parties had been invited to board the Almaster and look over her main cargo. There were even some strange men with burnt skins and hair like obsidian out of the far Desert of Afric who had expressed interest in the weapons-hoard which the ship had carried all the way from the forges of Singidun.
Muammar al-Ghaim was a slightly older gentleman from the fishing jetties of Yanbu. He’d made his life on the sea: first pulling in the catch when his family relied on it to eat. When he was a young man he can remember being an oarsman on the short trips just across the sea, carrying ivory and spice in his hull. Yet the more experience he got, the more the craftsmen and trades began to suggest him to be the captain of a voyage. He’d learned to tell the wind, when to row hard up and over a wave, and when to retract the oars. His first time at the head came when he was in his fifties, a time which saw most men safe at home with his many sons and daughters helping to make a living in their trade. Yet his was not the life for him, and thus he was given the contract stamped with five family’s seals, to transport their goods to market, and return with valuable goods as profit. For years now a great deal of copper and tin flowed south from the cities of the northern ocean, the great blue water which seemed to stretch ever-past the dusty shores, carrying stories of great empires, strange gods, monsters, and the most horrible of weather. Fish-people and their scaly kings, rivers which ran red and not blue- mountains not brown but of pure white from bottom to top, ever covered with this mantle. Naturally, the trip had been made several times, the tribes both local and farther south and east needed blades and tools and trinkets to maintain the ever-growing industry and warfare which energized the region. Thus it was that the winds of heaven and sweat of the oarsmen carried him northward.
They licked the foam for just a few short days and nights before landing in the tight bay of rocks where a village, once impoverished, now rather alive with the land-sea trade needed to exchange transport. They pulled their light-ships ashore and placed a watch with many of their oarsmen crew for the weeks they’d be gone. A small huddle of tents was pitched for those left behind, and local camels brought to carry their wares overland. They’d resell the camels for a small loss once they returned, but it was predictably little enough to justify it to his clients even still. They tossed sacks of charred-black beans, muddled-white salt, horns of ivory, and provisions over the humped-backs of the black and red camels, their shaggy fur encrusted with dirt and sand from many a storm. They buried their gold and silver items inside bags of flour for safekeeping, and thus continued their journey again as it had been, farther northward with the stars as their guide.
They arrived in the large coastal trading village at the same point a small caravan of Sumerians did, carrying cloth and the like. A fortunate occurrence, to be sure, as the back-headed members of Muammar’s crew called out greetings to them, before making their camp just outside. Their dear captain, with a few burly men to protect him, left in a hurry into the town - excited to orchestrate his first new deal. He had spent what felt like hours within the market, looking over the varying men carrying copper and precious tin from across the sea - obviously charging several hands and feet for even a single plate of each. Yet it was mentioned to him by a local that the strange northmen which were docked brought metal much finer and more quality than anything the others were charging, and he thought he investigated farther before making his mind to simply purchase more bronze as planned....
The Sumerians were a sight to see in the coastal village and many gave them a wide berth. This became more of a common sight due to the Queendom...no, Imperial influence being spread throughout the Levant in the past five years. Many of the independent trading cities had seen their influence make a mark when Uruk came to conquer a large swath of the eastern lands. Claiming them in their name of their patron god before their rival took them down and continued to hound them.
The Sumerians, Uruk or Ur, were known as the biggest traders and warmongers in Mesopotamia. It was them who warred with themselves over beliefs, rivalries,and glory for two entire generations before they took most of the southern parts for themselves. The cities who harbored tidings of resistance also saw the rise of the Egyptians and the Nestosians in their lands, seeking land and trade all the same.
Throughout the east and flowing into the center, Sumerians brought with them the glory of their universalism. The continued spread of technology and industry without the need of slaves, despite some still taking part in the practice. It was the same as they brought their idols and proclamations of the Holy Dynasty, of the superiority of Sumerian rule among all things. Yet for a people who have entrench their loyalty among their Queen-Empress, they are still a nation of traders.
Even as they send their many envoys and waves up north and west into the tribal lands of Ankara and the trading cities of the Levant, they still must have trade. For the hubris of the masters of the Twin Rivers, they have nothing else but trade. The Sumerians must exploit this resource for the good of their empire, of their people. Lest they stagnate and die.
Such was the idea of the Merchant Fam’ur and his envoys. His people made their way to Ushu to connect with the various countries beyond the sea. The stories of war between the Nestosian scholars, the Single Market, and the Men of Iron were all that many merchants have been telling during his long-distance travels beyond the new frontiers of what is now called Sumeria. Outside of the Prosperous South where wheat flowed like a golden sea and industry filled the sky with black smoke.
He grabbed his idol, his aspect of the Seven which dealt with diplomacy, in a silent prayer. He did this every time he engaged with one of the heathen traders as a means of protecting his soul from their religious talks. The Nestosian scholars and their many sects had been growing in number in the region over the years, along with ziggurats devoted to the Light but then these people from beyond. These...Imperials as they called themselves and their one god.
It was a strange thing, to unite in only a single vow and that’s all. However some of the stories that came from that strange land, the Imperium, said that there was much more than just churches. They were powered by the things the Nestosians talked about and the Sumerians were building, factories of large power, weapons of thunder. The horde of men in iron.
Such things intrigue merchants like Fam’ur and make his long-distance travels all the more profitable. To know the information of the known world and connect trade throughout was a merchant’s dream. At least on top of getting rich.
While he was trying to procure bronze and new stocks of iron to sell back to the industrious cities of the Prosperous South he saw traders from Arabia. It wasn’t entirely strange to see them but most of the lands had nomadic tribes that would trade between the various trading states and kingdoms between Sumeria and the confederation.
He went up to the leader and waved.
“Ho fine travelers! What brings people of the confederation so far out north?”
Muammar looked over his shoulder at the black-head which called out to him. The Sumerian’s dusty robes, much like his own, gave away this man must have traveled here sometime recently, possibly the same day he did, or perhaps a few before. He raised a hand of greeting to the man, turning away from the stall he was perusing, looking between differing-patterned rugs of blue, yellow, orange, and red. He scratched his salt-and-pepper beard, before giving the man a toothy grin. The Sumerian would immediately notice the strange mix of culture which was unmistakably characteristic of the coastal Arab towns. He wore a long, very loose white woolen robe down to his knees, overwhich a thick leather belt kept it cinched to his waist. The sleeves were sewn with geometric patterns of red and blue. He wore his hair long and braided, with a long red-and-white-striped cloth hanging from his head and secured with a braided cord wrapped around his forehead. Around his neck was something perhaps unmistakable however. A small back tablet hung around his neck, secured with leather cord. Upon with was the carving of a very familiar man - smiling with a long beard and cone-like crown. Though the lettering below it became hard to see, it was in fact in Sumerian script that, as the man approached, he could make out what it said. “Enki- Lord of Earth.”
“Peace be upon you, friend.” He stated with slight friendliness in his words, slight because he still was apprehensive in his expression. “I make the trip with Hubal’s grace in the name of my patrons, Abu Fidah, Umm Amal, and others - to trade their wares in exchange for others, and hopefully earn their happiness in the process. We’ve made the trip in-person and by-proxy a few times now, though I have never commanded it, which is perhaps why I look so odd here. Copper and in are brought through here in sheets and items, and fine metals are always needed to arm the warbands and make the plows of fields. With times as they are, I have no doubt my patrons will be pleased to see the products I am told are here… perhaps they will give their sons spears of this foreign metal to fight bandits, or maybe to defend their homes should the Axumite-God declare war on Yanbu. Yet, what brings you so far from the twin rivers, brother? Surely you had to cross the desert to reach here, unlike the boats with which you travel around the coast and reach my home. “
The man shrugged, his robes moving about his skinny but wiry frame. “The light of trade draws many men to many shores. The roads from mighty Ur are not so perilous as they once were, and the oases between here and there are many. If a man finds a strange thing in a strange land, why, that merely makes it more valuable. For instance, we have heard tell of men from the frozen north, where water falls from the sky like stones and men pile it into idols that walk, who bring weapons to sell. They boast of spears that may cut leather like a calf’s new skin, and bows that sing. These wonders I will see, and perhaps buy, and perhaps men of the Empire will pay yet more for them, ha!”
Muammar raised his eyebrow, curious at such a statement. The Northmen were always an ephemeral concept to him. The Axumites said they got their god from them, but always in abstracts, most of them living and dying never seeing the strange men. The concept of their concrete existence, alongside actually meeting one was an opportunity he would not miss, and if what he said was true… it would be far better a deal than mere sheets of copper and tin. He nods, frowning slightly as he thinks it over. “Yes… If I don’t beat you to them I suppose, heh. Did you say where they would be? I’d certainly care to examine their wares, for curiosity sake if nothing else.”
“Hmm,” Fam’ur combing his beard with his fingers thinking.” They usually come through the docks of the village. They come in ships not too unlike what you see in the Golden Gulf. But that’s what I heard from others in my travels. However I know that the wares of the Northmen are mysterious and always worth looking at friends.”
It was later that night when the men began to arrive, and Varian ordered the braziers lit. Most of his crew was turned out, cluttering the sands alongside the knarr with their recently-washed bodies and aura of salt, more for security than anything else. Not that the lads objected to the opportunity to stretch their legs. It had taken a fair bit of wrangling, but the captain had managed to secure two large tents, which kept out the sea chill of evening once fires had been lit within and pillows piled for conversation.
A variety of men had begun arriving once the smells of roasting goat and thick soups began to fill the air. Some were men out of Egypt, their eyes lined with thick kohl, their gaze eager but scurrilous, unwilling to meet anyone’s gaze, as was their custom. Others were sunburnt savages out of the western deserts, threadbare clothing and worn sandals betraying a long journey, but their gold would spend as well as any, and so they too were welcome.
For several minutes Varian just allowed the Herdazian to work the crowd, schmoozing and laughing merrily with the guests. Most of them got by in thick accented Kasar, the language of the Nile Delta, but Varian wouldn’t have cared to try and speak it. To his ears it sounded like so much wine being poured quickly out of jugs, glug-glug-glug. At a few intervals the merchant glanced over at his employer, but Varian waved him off. He was still expecting other parties, and was unwilling to begin the display before they arrived.
Muammar approached the craft and her landed crew, curious. He pushed through the small crowd, frowning slightly as he cast a quick glance at the multi-national crew and their small camp. “So these are the mighty northmen…” He thought to himself, looking them up and down. “Or atleast - the tall, lighter ones are. Other’s are relatively normal, but it is what they say… they do look strange.” He looked among them for the one which looked perhaps most incharge, seeing Varion’s commanding gestures as evidence of his note. Egyptian was the language of trade here - that or Sumerian. He could only assume they spoke the former, as that tended to be what those who came on boats he’d met spoke, that and the occasional Axumite, but they were easy to spot. “Good evening.” He said shortly in his gruff, differently yet just as thickly accented voice. “You are the men from across the white sea?”
A man stood forward, a trader from the southlands, and spoke quickly in accented Kasar. The northerner merely smiled and nodded, before reciting a carefully practiced phrase.
“I greet you, but do not speak this tongue.” Then he turned, and shouted something in a staccato voice which had a lilt of Anglic in the speech. The Herdazian quickly disengaged himself, and glided lightly over to where the Arab trader stood near to his master. The unctuous man of tan skin bowed a fraction, then politely requested that the man repeat himself, which Muammar deigned to do. After the Herdazian had translated what was said, the captain nodded dramatically, emphasizing his actions. These southerners seemed more given to display than his own people, and suspicious of those who did not emote openly after their fashion.
The Herdazian translated.
“I am Varian, captain of the Almaster, the ship you see before you. I have the honor to be a landed citizen of the Imperium of Man, which lies far north of here, aye.”
The old arab cracked a grin, nodding along to the translation. He envisioned the barbaric and strange land that must produce such a kind of man. One which turned the man’s skin white, just as age turned his beard. “Greetings to you then, Varian. You will have to tell your friend to explain to me what that word… citizen means. I’m afraid I do not know if to treat you like a sheikh or a slave.” He pauses for a moment, looking over the Northman’s shoulder. “Your craft is quite impressive - much longer and wider than the fishing boats we see around our homeland, to be sure!” He chuckled a bit, leaning to the side to look at the foreign ship up and down with his… less than stellar vision.
The Herdazian scratched at his chin, chewing on the words of Muammar from the south. Truth be told the word he had used for ‘citizen’ denoted a freeman of Egypt, a shareholder who did not owe tithes to his lord, but further conversation with the captain showed that the man from Europa was dissatisfied with the translation too. They talked in the quick-firing language of the north for about a minute, then the Herdazian turned back to the Arab, bowing once more, more deeply this time.
“It is a difficult thing to express, truly. The captain says to be a citizen is to bear the full rights of a man of the Imperium, the right to trade, to marry, to walk free under the sun, but also to be charged with the defense of others who have taken the same position, and to be beholden to the good of all those other peoples. He speaks of oaths he has taken which bind him to treat those under him as his children, and those over him as his father, to extend the right of filial piety to the others in a long chain to the Emperor himself. As he serves, so he is served by others, so every man knows his place and both what he is owed as well as what is expected of him.”
Varian watched the display, nodding at the rise and fall in the translator’s voice patterns. He then spoke for several moments more, which the Herdazian faithfully repeated.
“As for my vessel, she is my pride and joy. I am sure the ships of your homeland are fair vessels, designed for their purposes - but my pretty lady must ply stormy seas with no hope of a friendly port or convenient anchorage, and so she must be sturdy and fell-handed, to survive whatever Our Father sends to test us.”
Muammar listens to the man’s words intensely, nodding along as the man announces his oaths. “You must be an honorable man if you can make so many promises with a single word, Varian. I trust then your wares are fine and free of trickery?”
The captain smiled broadly as the words were translated. “There is no trickery to what I bear, Master Muammar. Indeed, even if I were a man to seek such things - ah, you shall see. What I have brought for trade are honest goods, such that even a charlatan could not falsify them.” He nodded again, almost to himself, then gestured broadly.
“Actually, you recall me to my duties. If you would excuse me, good master, I would not have men spend all night only drinking my best wine and eating my best food without at least trying to sell them something.”
There was a joke in his voice, but at the same time it was apparent that it was only half of a jest - a merchant who does not ply his wares, after all, is a poor merchant.
The arab man nodded, his smile fading as he looked over his shoulder for somewhere to sit. He found a group of men citting in a circle off to the side - an eclectic group of three men from the south and two sailors of the north. He nodded, raising his hand to say goodbye to Varian, and left to join them. He smiled, giving his greetings as he sat down in a free stool, and began to listen and kill the time hearing of the happenings of their travels...
As the Arab departed, Varian caught the eyes of some of his men standing at the rear of the tent. They slipped out the back, and with a flourish of cloth the Herdazian stood forward, hopping up on a low dais of cut timber ends which the men had crudely fashioned at one end of the feasting pavilion.
“Friends! Countrymen! Honored guests!” Eyes lined with kohl, eyes dark from Sumer, eyes bright with summer seas - all turned to watch the little peacock of a man strut up and down the makeshift stage.
“We thank you - my master thanks you - for coming. His wares, rare and exotic, are not for just any man to see, let alone buy. He values your time as much as you do, no doubt, and now that you are refreshed with cakes and wine from your long journeys, he would delay no longer. For your perusal - the treasures of the North!”
From behind the Herdazian men came forward now, arms laden with goods too expensive or costly to be simply displayed in the market of Ushu. They bore cloaks, of cunning make with seams so small they appeared to not even exist, cut with clever embroidery in resplendent silver, or rich gold and bronze thread. They had tunics, dyed in brilliant red, and deep sea-blue, hues so vibrant that those unaccustomed to them saw the crimson of blood and the azure sky as if reflected in their own mind’s eye. This display went on for some time - mainly fine clothes, of excellent and propitious weave, but then ended abruptly - with no bids asked for. The Herdazian leapt up again, and waved widely with both hands.
“But that is just a sampling of what the men of the North bring. You are men of taste, men who understand the value of power, not mere luxury. See now, the true wealth of the Wine-Dark Sea.”
Men in gray tunics, nearly invisible in the gathering dark, pulled back one side of the pavilion, pinning it back. Beyond the tent in the sand torches had been placed at close intervals, throwing a part of the beach into stark relief with overlapping pillars of fire. Men stood there now, bearing gleaming spears and curved bows, and they all bowed low in unison once the eyes of the guests were judged accustomed to the dark.
Then the exhibition began. Some men shot at targets with the heavy bows of curious shape, their arrows penetrating deep into the straw dummies with thrumming songs of horsehair and bone. Others sparred in exaggerated motion with the glistening iron spears, while two men demonstrated to some of the guests who had risen from their seats how deeply these spears would penetrate through even thick leather armor, and showed how even blows against sturdy timber or stone barely notched their blades. |
Muammar gazed upon these happenings with intrigued eyes. The white metal they tipped their spears with was certainly a fascinating subject. He had traded in tin for the making of bronze before - he knew it couldn’t be used like this. This metal - whatever combination of ingredients was cooked into it, was unique. He scratched his beard as he watched the demonstration, as one man stabbed his spear into a sheet of leather, piercing it finely. He walked up to the man, asking if he could feel how deep the cut went. Being allowed forward, he carefully prodded the hole, seeing how clean a mark it made. He nodded to the man, and stepped back, considering what he had seen. The metal of the spear certainly aided in its ability to pierce armor - but was the same true for the bows their carried? Perhaps it was the metal-tipped arrows they launched into their targets, or perhaps it was the strength of the wood they made it with… all questions for craftsmen he knew not personally. And yet - he was certain that these were fine goods… quality ones, and ones which would impress his benefactors. And yet - how many could he purchase, should he wish to? Would such a trade really impress those whose goods he carried? Surely they may not hire him again if they would be displeased, to see he had exchanged their produce and crafts for weapons of war. And yet… conflict always seemed on the horizon. Perhaps they would benefit from such an advantage these strange ways offered. Either way, it would be a risk on his credibility for an opportunity to make a name for himself.
After a few minutes, as those who were interested had come forward to inspect the wares and the stream of their fellows began to dwindle, the Herdazian opened the bidding. The first goods on offer were the bundles of expensive cloth and the fine-quality clothing. Several of the Egyptians expressed interest, and some Sumerians as well - men obviously representing clients with luxurious tastes from richer houses. The price started very low for such goods, and there were nearly two dozen lots of clothing to be sold of various makes and color. They moved quickly, and even some of them were purchased by locals from Ushu. Exactly the type of goods that could be resold at a fine profit, Varian used them to whet the appetites of the merchants, to get them in a bidding mood.
Then came the weapons. First up were a lot of the singing bows, which the northerners called in a strange word, ‘composite’. The Herdazian sang out a brief spiel about their range, their power, the many formidable beasts - lions, tigers, bears! - that they could down with a shot. Then the floor quieted for a moment.
“Two tusks of ivory for the twenty.”
A man from Kush, skin as black as midnight, opened the bidding. A rare good, the bones of the great southern beasts. The Herdazian capered and clapped his hands. Such things would fetch a good price for his masters back in Europa.
Muammar raised his hand, barking up at the men: “I’ll give two tusks of Ivory and an ell of wool-yarn!”
One of the Sumerians spoke, brash voice carrying from the rear of the tent. “Six ells of wool, and one ell of silk.”
Varian pursed his lips, then shook his head at the Herdazian. Wool was valuable, but not so valuable that he would turn down ivory. The amount of tusks of great beasts that had come north was very low, and their closest equivalent those of the blubber-beasts of distant Nordlund who were hunted at great effort only. They would command far more than mere wool.
The Herdazian spoke. “Two tusks of ivory and an ell of wool-yarn from the Master Muammar.”
A grumble came from the Sumerian. The man from Kush eyed Muammar, then spoke once more.
“Two tusks of ivory, and a bushel of coffee, unground.”
The arab raised his eyebrows at the man. He did not know the men of Kush cultivated the plant in such high numbers as the mountain villages of his homeland. He frowned, before saying: “Two tusks, an ell of wool-yarn, and a half-bushel of coffee.”
The man with midnight skin threw up his hands in disgruntlement. After nearly a minute with no further bids, the Herdazian nodded, and announced the lot had been sold. This set the tone for the rest of the auction. The Egyptians paid high prices for composite bows, and their enemies, the men from the Western Desert, paid much in gold flakes for the keen spears. That was, Varian concluded, probably a result of their war - he had heard rumors of skirmishes coming down the coast from Asia Minor, and this was proof of that conjecture. A curious thing which, no doubt, the Emperor’s Eyes would be interested in knowing of.
As midnight neared the final lot was sold, a crate heavy with iron spearheads and packed with oilcloth and sand to hold away the damp. The captain’s men carried ivory, karaf, cloth, silk, exotic skins, and even some spices aboard the ship, packing them into wax-sealed barrels and chests for transport back north. The Levant and Ushu, it seemed, were good places to trade for a man out of Varna.
