(no subject)
Dec. 30th, 2015 09:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thewidewideworldThe trade boats joined the caravans at Tyre, unloading their cargos of oil and wine, silver and gold from Rome and Greece alongside great barrels of salt beef and water and all the other necessities of the long voyage.
But the strangest cargo of all, as the traders and caravaners went to and fro packing and loading, was a young woman, given over to the foreman’s charge.
A noble by her bearings, and pretty. No one could doubt that. She kept her veil tight around her, her face away from the sun, but not even a heavy veil could hide such beauty.
Petite, delicately featured but sad, so very sad.
The caravaners kept their distance. The caravan’s Greek foreman made it very clear they were to keep their distance. And he was not the sort to give second warnings.
But they watched. Watched the pretty, sad girl from a distance as they worked. Watched her in the evenings when the foreman let her out of the confines of his wagon. But never far from his sight.
They listened in the night, to the echoes of her tears.
No name was ever given for the pale beauty when the men spoke of her, they called her Philomela.
The Nightingale.
Around the fire at night, the men gossiped, as only men on a long journey can. For want of other entertainment.
Nobleman’s daughter to be married off to some Eastern lord?
Or sold to pay a debt?
Or a bride disgraced and running from her shame.
Those who favoured the latter theory watched for any thickening of her slender waist as they travelled. The journey took the better part of a year so if they were right, they would know eventually.
But if anything she grew thinner, paler. A silent ghost in the flickering light of the cooking fires.
And in the evenings sometimes she would sing. The only sound they heard from her but for her tears. They listened when she sung, every man of them. Such sweet, sad songs. Enough to bring the entire camp to silence and stillness. When she sang, the desert itself seem to strain to listen.
But over time, the foreman grew frustrated with the waif he kept all but chained to him. It was no secret he cared nothing for her virtue. On a still night in the desert, sounded travelled and no secret stayed secret for long.
And then he began to beat her.
None of the men was brave enough to set in. After all, it would have cost them their commission. But they watched over her as best they could, slipping her extra food and water when they could.
As the chill of winter burned away into bright spring days, she grew weaker still, her songs less frequent and her voice less strong.
Until she stopped singing completely.
Which only caused the foreman to rage further still, often heard to at night to take to her with the back end of his whip. For weeks on end, she was seen by no-one and the men started to wonder if the foreman had done her to death and left her body out on the dunes.
Three days from reaching Dunhuang and the borders of the Sino Empire, the caravan met with another, coming from the east. Small and well provisioned, the group travelled light and fast and stopped for the night with the Greek caravan only out of courtesy to the customs of the Road.
Normally it was tradition that the leaders of each caravan would sup together, trade news and gossip but the Sino envoy was snubbed by the Greek foreman and refused entry to his wagon. A deep affront under any circumstances but as the envoy was in haste to move on, he let it go.
But he instructed his men to see what they could learn from the labourers and hands of the caravan.
That was how he learned of the Nightingale.
Through a translator, the envoy asked the foreman if such a personage was amongst his retinue. The journey being long and dull, he would pay handsomely to have the lady sing for them.
The Greek foreman, drunk on the rice wine presented as a ritual gift, was all too happy to drag the fragile girl down the wagon’s stairs. “See you sing prettily for them or I’ll whip you again.” He growled, openly and without fear that the Sinese envoy knew his mother tongue.
But their leader did. A fact he had gone to some pains to conceal.
The envoy stepped forward as the man shoved the girl towards them, reaching out to catch her and guiding her to his men. Knowing their commander well, they helped the girl to a chair and brought her water. Their physician bent to look at her, calling for the men to move her into their leader’s wagon at once.
“If you want that, you pay extra.” The foreman spat, muscling towards the Sino’s warriors now formed a protective circle around the lady.
The envoy caught the foreman by the arm. Strong and lean, he was easily a match for the stout Greek. “You would whore her out?” He asked archly, in crisp if accented Greek. “So clearly ill as she is?”
“Everything has a price.” The foreman jerked his chin at the Nightingale. “And that one’s already been paid for. Delivery to some noble in Chang'an. What’s the harm in making some extra on the side?”
The envoy’s expression turned flat. His men reached for their swords.
Then the Nightingale’s voice rang out, soft and broken but clear as a bell . “Yan.”
Ambassadorial Envoy Li Tan Yan turned on his toes to look at the girl in the face for the first time, staring deep into those soft eyes, now rimmed with the red of illness and the mottled yellow of much abuse. With such control and tenderness, he knelt at the Nightingale’s feet pressing a single soft kiss on the feverish brow. “I feared I would never see you again.” His Latin was less accented but rough with emotions tightly constrained.
Switching to the formal dialect of the court, Yan spoke to his men. “Take the Nightingale back to my caravan. See to it he has all possible care. As our honoured guest and under our protection. We leave at dawn to return to Chang'an.”
His men obeyed, not for a moment questioning the change in personal pronoun.
“That whore is mine.” The foreman growled, pulling a knife from his belt. “Bring it back!”
“He.” Yan corrected, his expression serene as the man lunged at him. “Not it.”
***
Sinric woke to find himself wrapped in silk and fur, compresses of herbs laid over his bruises and sores. Yan sat by him, gently brushing the loose ends of Sinric’s too long neglected hair. He looked down at Sinric with loving concern. “My dearest friend, you’re safe now. I have you.”
Sinric reached for Yan, too lost to notice the small stain of blood on his beloved friend’s sleeve. “Constantine. He is-” His voice broken and rough with disuse.
“I know,” Yan whispered, taking Sinric’s hand and bringing it to his lips. “The news came ahead of you by only a month.” He stroked back Sinric’s hair. “I was so afraid for you. I know what a brute Leo is. I begged the Emperor’s leave from my duties to search for you.”
Tears blurred Sinric’s eyes, his voice choked with them. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“You need nowhere else.” Yan answered urgently. “You are my dearest friend and my honoured guest as long as you wish. Till the end of your days if you desire it. My household is yours.” He kissed Sinric’s hand again and held him till tears washed Sinric back into sleep.
But the strangest cargo of all, as the traders and caravaners went to and fro packing and loading, was a young woman, given over to the foreman’s charge.
A noble by her bearings, and pretty. No one could doubt that. She kept her veil tight around her, her face away from the sun, but not even a heavy veil could hide such beauty.
Petite, delicately featured but sad, so very sad.
The caravaners kept their distance. The caravan’s Greek foreman made it very clear they were to keep their distance. And he was not the sort to give second warnings.
But they watched. Watched the pretty, sad girl from a distance as they worked. Watched her in the evenings when the foreman let her out of the confines of his wagon. But never far from his sight.
They listened in the night, to the echoes of her tears.
No name was ever given for the pale beauty when the men spoke of her, they called her Philomela.
The Nightingale.
Around the fire at night, the men gossiped, as only men on a long journey can. For want of other entertainment.
Nobleman’s daughter to be married off to some Eastern lord?
Or sold to pay a debt?
Or a bride disgraced and running from her shame.
Those who favoured the latter theory watched for any thickening of her slender waist as they travelled. The journey took the better part of a year so if they were right, they would know eventually.
But if anything she grew thinner, paler. A silent ghost in the flickering light of the cooking fires.
And in the evenings sometimes she would sing. The only sound they heard from her but for her tears. They listened when she sung, every man of them. Such sweet, sad songs. Enough to bring the entire camp to silence and stillness. When she sang, the desert itself seem to strain to listen.
But over time, the foreman grew frustrated with the waif he kept all but chained to him. It was no secret he cared nothing for her virtue. On a still night in the desert, sounded travelled and no secret stayed secret for long.
And then he began to beat her.
None of the men was brave enough to set in. After all, it would have cost them their commission. But they watched over her as best they could, slipping her extra food and water when they could.
As the chill of winter burned away into bright spring days, she grew weaker still, her songs less frequent and her voice less strong.
Until she stopped singing completely.
Which only caused the foreman to rage further still, often heard to at night to take to her with the back end of his whip. For weeks on end, she was seen by no-one and the men started to wonder if the foreman had done her to death and left her body out on the dunes.
Three days from reaching Dunhuang and the borders of the Sino Empire, the caravan met with another, coming from the east. Small and well provisioned, the group travelled light and fast and stopped for the night with the Greek caravan only out of courtesy to the customs of the Road.
Normally it was tradition that the leaders of each caravan would sup together, trade news and gossip but the Sino envoy was snubbed by the Greek foreman and refused entry to his wagon. A deep affront under any circumstances but as the envoy was in haste to move on, he let it go.
But he instructed his men to see what they could learn from the labourers and hands of the caravan.
That was how he learned of the Nightingale.
Through a translator, the envoy asked the foreman if such a personage was amongst his retinue. The journey being long and dull, he would pay handsomely to have the lady sing for them.
The Greek foreman, drunk on the rice wine presented as a ritual gift, was all too happy to drag the fragile girl down the wagon’s stairs. “See you sing prettily for them or I’ll whip you again.” He growled, openly and without fear that the Sinese envoy knew his mother tongue.
But their leader did. A fact he had gone to some pains to conceal.
The envoy stepped forward as the man shoved the girl towards them, reaching out to catch her and guiding her to his men. Knowing their commander well, they helped the girl to a chair and brought her water. Their physician bent to look at her, calling for the men to move her into their leader’s wagon at once.
“If you want that, you pay extra.” The foreman spat, muscling towards the Sino’s warriors now formed a protective circle around the lady.
The envoy caught the foreman by the arm. Strong and lean, he was easily a match for the stout Greek. “You would whore her out?” He asked archly, in crisp if accented Greek. “So clearly ill as she is?”
“Everything has a price.” The foreman jerked his chin at the Nightingale. “And that one’s already been paid for. Delivery to some noble in Chang'an. What’s the harm in making some extra on the side?”
The envoy’s expression turned flat. His men reached for their swords.
Then the Nightingale’s voice rang out, soft and broken but clear as a bell . “Yan.”
Ambassadorial Envoy Li Tan Yan turned on his toes to look at the girl in the face for the first time, staring deep into those soft eyes, now rimmed with the red of illness and the mottled yellow of much abuse. With such control and tenderness, he knelt at the Nightingale’s feet pressing a single soft kiss on the feverish brow. “I feared I would never see you again.” His Latin was less accented but rough with emotions tightly constrained.
Switching to the formal dialect of the court, Yan spoke to his men. “Take the Nightingale back to my caravan. See to it he has all possible care. As our honoured guest and under our protection. We leave at dawn to return to Chang'an.”
His men obeyed, not for a moment questioning the change in personal pronoun.
“That whore is mine.” The foreman growled, pulling a knife from his belt. “Bring it back!”
“He.” Yan corrected, his expression serene as the man lunged at him. “Not it.”
***
Sinric woke to find himself wrapped in silk and fur, compresses of herbs laid over his bruises and sores. Yan sat by him, gently brushing the loose ends of Sinric’s too long neglected hair. He looked down at Sinric with loving concern. “My dearest friend, you’re safe now. I have you.”
Sinric reached for Yan, too lost to notice the small stain of blood on his beloved friend’s sleeve. “Constantine. He is-” His voice broken and rough with disuse.
“I know,” Yan whispered, taking Sinric’s hand and bringing it to his lips. “The news came ahead of you by only a month.” He stroked back Sinric’s hair. “I was so afraid for you. I know what a brute Leo is. I begged the Emperor’s leave from my duties to search for you.”
Tears blurred Sinric’s eyes, his voice choked with them. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“You need nowhere else.” Yan answered urgently. “You are my dearest friend and my honoured guest as long as you wish. Till the end of your days if you desire it. My household is yours.” He kissed Sinric’s hand again and held him till tears washed Sinric back into sleep.
