So this is a special extra update. I didn't write it except for some small additions. It is the creation of
@Duke of Nova Scotia so he deserves the credit. Hope you all enjoy.
Charalambos Caldonridis
By: Duke of Nova Scotia
The Sweet Waters of Asia, March 4, 1634:
A muffled ‘Thud’ of a gate being dropped between two posts of a paddock fence seemed to accent the quiet of the morning. A man scratched the back of the last draught horse sleepily trotting past him to the fresh clover shoots, dandelions, and grasses at which the other three were already contently grazing. Watching the beasts enjoy their breakfast though was a fleeting reprieve from the headache it was to convince his superior, one Amenas Gabalas, “Chief Park Steward and Administrator of The Sweet Waters of Asia”, to import Arlesian Percherons. A mouthful of a title for a contrary man with always a lot to say. The arguing it took to bring in these four animals was enough to leave the young man near breathless. Luckily, he knew his boss well enough; he’d developed the patience and stamina to wear him down. He just wished it didn’t take so damned long every time he had an idea!
To be fair to his boss, Gabalas had to deal with the army requisitioning a good portion of the Sweet Water’s stock last year, so these four had been quite generous once Charalambos had talked him around. Still, he wouldn’t complain if there was less cajoling needed in the future.
Charalambos Caldonridis turned and headed up the path that rounded the paddock on its left, ascending towards the trout pond at the top of the low rise. Reaching a bench beside the pool, he paused and turned east. The sun broke over the far hills, a wave of warmth and life flooding the valley below, the Potamion river glimmering like a lazy snake shaking off the sleepiness of the night. Charalambos scanned over the grounds before him, low hanging orchards stretching along the riverside, with groves of trees dotting the landscape with an almost checkerboard pattern. ‘For all his stubbornness, Megas Pronoetes Gabalas knew his trees,’ he thought.
On one of the hills at the southern end was a small pavilion, which held the finest lookout in the whole estate. Reportedly it’d been a favorite spot for both the Empress Helena I and one Eparch Demetrios Sideros. And in earlier, more evil times, the red tents of Sultan Bayezid III had been posted there, visible from the White Palace itself.
Thinking of happier things, his eyes drifted further behind that hill to where he couldn’t see, save for memory. He had taken propagations from Gabalas’s apple and pear trees, without the curmudgeon knowing, and planted them in a little pocket beside his modest cabin. His boss had sowed clover and onions beneath his own trees, which looked neat and organized, and to be fair, also helped with keeping the soil refreshed and pests down.
Meanwhile Charalambos had planted mint, rosemary, peas, and gourds in addition to the clover and onions. To the untrained eye it looked like a mess but to Charal there was a layered structure of defence and fertilizing, his “tourmai and Vigla” he would joke to his fellow wardens. Every warden on tour was granted the right to tend a personal garden on patches of imperial lands, size varying depending on level of seniority, while on contract with the park. The park even paid for the tools to build and tend vegetable beds which was a perk. Although if the Emperor wanted your garlic for his dinner rolls, you’d better provide it without complaint.
The trees however on each warden’s personal patch were a different matter. The trees themselves were still Imperial property, regardless of the planter, so a warden would be liable for damages to them but their fruit was the direct property of the grower. However a tithe of all the fruit from the Sweet Waters, both Imperial and the wardens’ personal, had to go to the Monastery of St Mary of the Mongols, a bequest from Demetrios II. And then taxes were owed on the sale of the remaining fruit. Charal figured when the time came and fruit could be harvested, he would just give it to the Pronoetes discreetly.
There were better opportunities for money-making; the physicians of Nicaea and the capital were always in need of herbs from the gardens. The wardens were also granted a permit to sell any excess (non-fruit) harvest tax-free to local grocers, which was gratifying for his money bag. An Imperial park warden earned respect for his necessary duties, including overseeing the great Pontic forests that still provided a sizeable portion of the navy’s stores. But a warden’s pay wasn’t so respectable; one needed to make Pronoetes (Supervisor) for that to change.
But he couldn’t complain too much. The harvest sales had been very helpful for his father and youngest brother. From the profit Father had bought four of the war popes, which had been most handy when the Optimatic press officer had come rolling through the village. They’d left Michael alone.
Charal was a different sort from the other wardens who typically hailed from Bithynia or Thrakesia with a smattering of Cilician Armenians. His grandfather was a Scot who made his way south after being sent away due to a blood feud, became a Varangian, and retired to a small village in the Optimaton theme not too far from here. His father would lecture how ‘he and his father’ didn’t build a (moderately) successful trading company by putting their money into other people’s hands. Business was never something that interested him, all the pluses and minuses made life look zero sum to him.
Thankfully his father was pragmatic enough to see that his younger siblings had more of a taste for the family business. His brother and sister have been growing their networks a little more each market day, as their father handed off the responsibilities. The biggest inclination he ever had was the goods they imported; they brought in one of the widest varieties for only having 6 stalls in the surrounding area, one in Nicaea to his father's pride, and finally their own warehouse on the Nikomedian docks. They were comfortable to say the least, and his father was able to indulge Charal’s hobbies and inquiries. When he showed a desire to want to garden, his father had the east lawn of the family estate tilled and his choice of seed stock from wherever it could be reached. That was when he discovered the potato.
This mystical plant from beyond the Atlas, further away than Rhomania-in-the-East, in the almost mythical Kingdom of Mexico. Potatoes were still viewed with cautious eyes, from ignorance, and the fact few had used them. It didn’t help that apparently Dutch traders had introduced them into Germany recently and, on the instigation of Lady Elizabeth, former Empress of Andreas III no less, were being used to help provision the armies of her brother.
Charal understood the unsavory association that gave the potato; he also found it irrelevant. Latins ate wheat and barley bread, and were huge consumers of malmsey wine, one of the common items in his father’s inventories. Romans used them as well, so why not the potato too?
After planting the two varieties his father gifted him, and the subsequent second planting the following season, Charal could see the potential for this plant. Resilient to moderate drought, it grew in hills and mountains, and so far after testing in the kitchen, could be baked, boiled, or mashed. On top of its different flavour, which to a latin’s palate could be described as non-flavour, but to him it was subtly sweet, and nutty.
He would have liked to have a conversation with the people who grew the tuber in the New-world. Nothing beat experience; alas though any who had made the journey to the Old-world either died of illness, or were such high profile they never left the courts of the nobility.
Here his Rhoman ignorance arose, figuring the nobility of the Inca would be as invested in their land’s production as those of his home. Andreas III in his surveys had invigorated the desire of the nobility to improve the productivity of their holdings through the sharing of farming pamphlets, court incentives, and all-around browbeating to be loyal providers of The Empire. It was a matter of growing concern. Repeated bad harvests in Syria had been a serious problem during the Eternal War and the Empire’s population had grown over 50% in the last eighty years. Scythian and Egyptian grain could only be relied upon for so much.
The sounds of some of the other wardens and a seriously irritated mule brought his mind back to more immediate concerns. There was a hustle around the communal hall a day before; the Emperor Demetrios III and his daughter the Princess Athena were going to be stopping through Sweet Waters. The wardens were posturing amongst themselves how their own tulips were going to be picked for the imperial table. Charal rolled his eyes at these conversations. He knew from reading about the man that Demetrios III was not one for fancy decor and expensive flowers. “Function is the form” was Charal’s favourite quote from him, and said volumes about his mind.
He found he was feeling, while a loyal Rhoman, and a private fan of the Emperor, apathetic. His cynicism had told him that there was not a chance to be in his presence, let alone see him, while he was visiting. Pronoetes Gabalas however would be the Emperor’s guide which made Charal green with envy however. If anything were to be picked it would likely be his prize horses; they were arguably the strongest in the park and would make a fine addition to the imperial stud ranches. His quiet pride however knew the emperor would be drawn to the secret experiment Pronoetes Garabas and himself were working on. The Pronoetes had lent him a pamphlet on a technique from the Far East months ago. That in itself wasn’t a shock; for all his cragginess the man shared everything he could with his subordinates. It was the secrecy with which he shared this with Charal. The conversation between the two made him smile still. ‘The old man played me like a lyre’ he thought.
Ten months ago:
“What do you know about cocoa, Charalambos?” Garabas asked nonchalantly over the lunch of pickled beets, smoked fish and salad.
“It is from Mexico, has invigorating properties, is the Emperor's favourite treat, and impossible to grow here.”
The aged Pronoetes chuckled into his cup. “What about Kaffos?” An inquiring glace over said cup at the young man made Charal sit up a bit. This wasn’t simple conversation about the park and exotics.
Charal took a settling breath. “Ethiopia's biggest export: it grows well in its warm climate and acidic soil, but not so much on the Aegean islands. Markos Tyrinos nearly bankrupted his sugar empire trying to grow it in Krete. From what I’ve read the climate isn’t stable enough temperature wise and he used lime at the wrong times. And like cocoa, impossible to grow here. Not to mention it fuels the White Palace.”
The last comment made Pronoetes Garabas laugh out loud now.
“A quick tongue tends to mean a quick mind, I always appreciated that about you Charal,” he said through smiling eyes.
His boss had never been so informal before. While it was routine for him to dine with his wardens, he despised sitting and reading reports, and he had never called him Charal before. The personal compliment was the hammer blow to the bull for him. It wasn’t rare for Garabas to say ‘Good Job’ when there was a good job done, but this was far closer to an uncle enjoying the company of a favoured nephew. For once he was completely disarmed by the old man he argued with so much with.
The Pronoetes saw this and attacked. “I’ve read about some ideas from the east. It involves heating similar to a hypocaust system, in a wattle and daub structure. Its roof however is made of oiled cloth to let light through.” On the last bit, he pulled a small pamphlet from his inside pocket. “I’d like you to read this, but please, please, do not share this with anyone. I know you are not a braggart or a loner, yet you relish in being aloof at times, so I know that it isn’t going to be hard for you to do that.”
Receiving the booklet Charal started to flip through, noticing the writing and diagrams were all hand drawn, causing him to raise an eyebrow subconsciously.
“I got it from a friend in New Constantinople, who translated it for me. It originally was in Japanese I think,” the Pronoetes mentioned noticing the young man's piqued interest. “Take the week to read it; we will be building one starting this Saturday coming. The clearing near ‘our’ apple trees, beside your cabin I think, would be the perfect spot. Good sun, minimal wind, and able to be under your daily watch.” Charal became very quiet at the mention of the trees, and tried to act like he was absorbed by the gift. He was never much of an actor.
“Relax Charal, they are healthier than mine and their yield heavier. The only part that annoyed me was you not sharing your notes on their ground covers. I never thought of mint and rosemary before.” Feeling the tension leave his shoulders he looked up, as a child would after being told they did the right thing just the wrong way about it.
“I was experimenting, and would have preferred to share the successes,” he replied sheepishly.
“My boy, how can we figure what it is that went wrong with the failures if all we discuss are our successes? You are one of the few who sees the greater picture of our job. Yes the navy has its supply of materials, yes the White Palace has its ornate gardens, but it is in our beds that we discover new ways to feed our countrymen, new flowers and herbs that can help treat illnesses. What we do here is secure our empire’s ability to be an empire for her people. I truly believe that. I didn’t get my posting because of family, or favours. Andreas III, God rest his soul, chose me because while working in the White Palace, I had started to plant vegetables and herbs in the Garden of Helena. Not because the kitchen needed them, but the plants did. The man was on a leisure and noticed the brassicas and enquired. I explained they protected the soil and how that was important for the water in it. Next thing I knew we were on a bench having wine and food brought, having a discussion on the foods of the empire. It was shortly after that he made me Chief Park Steward and Administrator. Charal, if I were to drop tomorrow, the only person my soul would be content with taking over my life's work is you.”
The old man softly shared with damp eyes looking out the window. Then with a clearing of his throat and in his usual gruff voice, “Be well rested, I expect you to be familiar with the diagrams and principles by this coming Saturday Charalambos Caldonridis, we have serious hard work ahead of us, and I’m 72.”
Present:
He was finishing his breakfast of a smoked ham monem, still in his mouth as he put on his warden’s apron of leather and canvas, and looking out the window at the indigo and saffron tones splayed out from the horizon. He thought, ‘this is going to be a beautiful day’. He glanced over his shoulder to a shelf on the north wall. A fine hand-beaten silver vessel sat upon it with a matching percolator. The canister was impressive compared to the usual contents of his modest, if one was polite, two room cabin, but its value was still paltry compared to what was stored inside the canister.
It was a present for his recent 30th birthday from his father. He’d joked this was easier as he was terrible at wrapping, which was true. Inside was the real gift, a thin leather bag with the Royal seal of Ethiopia stamped into it with red dye. Only two items found their way to Rhome from Ethiopia with such a seal; he had an abhorrence to slavery, so that only meant Kaffos. And with the red dye, Imperial grade Kaffos. Grown on plantations owned personally by the Negusa Nagast, it was the only brand of kaffos that could be served in the palace at Gonder. In Rhomania, only dynatoi, Nea-Aneres (New-Men), and the Emperor could afford it. He would open it now and then just to breathe in the aroma, as intoxicating as it was.
‘Best to save it’ he thought to himself with a wolfish grin. ‘Maybe I’ll run into Barbra next market day, and invite her to enjoy some the morning after.’
Monem still in mouth, walking out his front door, and making the turn to the clearing where the ‘new manure shed’ he and Pronoetes Garabas had joking called it in its construction, he came to a complete stop. He saw a man he did not recognize, wandering around the greenhouse. With consternation building, he took a bite of the monem he forgot was in his mouth and marched over to the interloper. He had chased poachers away before, having been proficient with a bow, and blessed be his grandfather's training, murderous with a dirk. As he reached the man, he noticed that he was exploring more than lurking. That was odd as the latter was the perfect activity for this time of day, more than the former. His pace slowed with his chewing as he tried to figure this stranger out. The man wasn’t very tall, perhaps Charal’s height, and had the build of an erudite. ‘Strange fellow to be lost in the park’ Charal pondered, finishing his last bite. He came up to the side of the man, noticing his hand flinch a bit.
“Can I help you sir? Are you lost? It’s a big park I can understand.” Charal offered the man, who was obviously not a poacher. None he ever encountered would wear such garments. And he didn’t want to accidentally insult a Logothete.
The man didn’t seem to hear him, but spoke. “This greenhouse, it doesn’t look like the others. It’s smaller, and its roof is oiled cloth and not glass. It was either the first, or you are very industrious,” he said, waving his hands, not taking his eyes from the building.
Charal had stopped and turned to the greenhouse, his pride bumping his curiosity out of the driver's seat. “You are correct on both counts good sir. I built it under the tutelage of Pronoetes Garabas. His age kept him from a lot of the heavier tasks, so his experience was his muscle.” A small grin crept to the corner of his mouth thinking back to the five days it took him and his boss to build it.
A chuckle rose out of the man, “Funny how men of advanced years can have advanced ideas that need a back of a man half their age. What do you have growing in there?”
Charalambos straightened a bit; the new greenhouses that were built were being used to nurture seedlings for planting. His however had become the unofficial experimental grow-op between the Pronoetes and himself. No one has ventured in, mostly because few knew about Charal’s greenhouse, or were smitten by the newer buildings, and wouldn’t be caught dead in the ‘tester’. “A little of this, a little of that, flowers mostly,” Charal offered, hoping to dispel any more curiosity.
“So nothing useful is what you are saying,” The man casually tossed.
This comment made Charal stand upright and faced the man, his pride firmly grabbing the reins.
“There is more worth growing in there, than your opinion is, Sir.” He said with ascorbic resolve.
Again the chuckle, “So more of ‘this and that’, than flowers.” A twinkle flashed in the man’s eyes. He quickly turned to Charalambos with a mischievous grin and raised his eyebrows. “Let’s have a look then,” and before Charal could stop him, the man had made his way to the door and inside. He caught up to the stranger in three wide strides only to nearly walk into him. The man had stopped almost within the doorway, with his mouth agape, staring at the range of plants that would have made the Hanging Gardens look utilitarian in its greenery.
“You’ve grown all of this here?” the man asked with a touch of genuine wonder. The 12x12 room was literally covered in vines, dwarf shrubs, flowers, and herbs, save for the most southern facing bed where a bush was dominant, a walkway circulating the room, and finally a bed in the centre playing host to a dwarf tree.
Hearing the man’s voice Charal snuck beside him into the room, “For the last few months, this has been my refuge from people, yes.”
The man smiled at Charal’s reply. “That I understand. I imagine the conversations in here are a bit better. Where did you acquire so many?”
“My father has an import/export business, mostly with foodstuffs, and seeds. Naturally he sends me stuff he wants to know is a bust or not.”
“Clever man, shame I can’t do that with my...” He muttered the last part under his breath as he started to casually wander, stopping and smelling the odd flower. “I can see what you mean by the worth. I don’t think there is anywhere in the empire where these are all growing in the same room, if even they can be.”
Charal matched pace with his now guest. “You seem to have a good grasp of flora sir. That far corner...” He pointed to the SE corner. “...you could find those in the more opulent gardens, mostly centerpieces. These two however...” Now they were standing between the two beds that were home to the solitary bush and the dwarf tree. “...are the only two of their kind in all of Europe, the tree maybe even the entire Old World. I named this one...” Motioning to the tree. “...Veronica”.
With a hint of mirth, the guest smiled, “You named them?”
“Well of course sir. Plants grow better when you talk to them, and I would feel ridiculous talking to plants and not have a name for them, Theobroma Mexcoco is a lot to say.” The sarcasm was not missed by the man. A smile appeared, only to vanish with his brows furrowed in thought. “This is a cacao tree?”
Proudly Charalambos nodded, “First guess, have you studied at the University of Nicaea? Few know the scientific name.”
“No, I’m afraid I have not, but have been known to read anything, even missives I don’t want to.” The man replied, now turning to the bush to Charals right. “And what is this pretty lady's name?”
“Pretty is one word. It should be fuller, and with more berries, and I can’t get the same flavour, but her name is Jahzara.” Charal answered in a wistful voice, looking at its bright ruby berries.
His guest became still, looking at the young man before him with a hard stare, only to relax, recognizing a love in the eyes of his host as he gazed on what looked like a very ordinary plant. He turned to join him in his appreciation.
“A rather regal name for such an unassuming bush. What’s it called?”
Charal knew he was treading on thin ice. Pronoetes Garabas and he planted these two with great secrecy. ‘Alas the ram has touched the wall’ Charal thought.
“Jahzara is a Kaffea plant.”
Silence hung over the room with the weight of a water logged fleece. The two men stood there in the greenhouse, it slowly warming with the caress of the now early morning sun. Both in thought about the same thing, and in entirely different directions.
The guest cleared his throat dramatically to drawn his host back. “Could I trouble you for a drink? The heat while welcoming, has raised my thirst.”
Coming back to reality, he slightly shook his head and put a hand to his guest’s back. “Of course, please this way sir.” Charal noticed the man stiffen when he touched him, but chalked it up to unfamiliarity. Guiding him out of the greenhouse Charal walked him to his cabin around the corner, the man's hand twitching again. Entering the humble structure, the man scanned with pleasant surprise his host’s neatness, though noticing the austerity of the accommodations.
“Ceud mìle fàilte, please have a seat.” Charal waved to a chair by the sole table, under the shelf. He started to draw a cup of water from the basin in the opposite corner, then stopped, looking at the urn on the shelf. For a second he thought and then shrugged. “Have you a taste for Kaffos sir?”
His guest, taking his seat, nodded with a smile, “I’ve been known to enjoy a warm cup on a cold day.”
With that Charal grabbed the urn, pestle & mortar, and the ornate percolator from the shelf, and began the process of grinding the beans, his guest watching him with interest. “You must hold your kaffos in high regard, to keep in such a vessel, and use such a perc.”
“It was a gift for my birthday recently, well more so the kaffos beans themselves.” Charal was never one for putting on airs but he could not help himself, gently plopping the bag down in front of his guest. “This is not the usual Kaffe House blend, this is Imperial grade. It was the real gift my father gave me. I am a bit of a kaffos fanatic. He used the urn because as he said, ‘wrapping isn’t my thing’. Really though, I imagine he was just trying to figure out some way to spend on me. I am not one for fancy accoutrements, or useless decorations, ‘Function is the form’.” His guest raised an eyebrow, then leaned in over the bag breathing in the luxurious aroma. “He must have wheeled and dealed some serious favours,” the man mentioned.
“He is a cagey sort. I don’t think he has ever walked away from a deal without profiting some way, and at times favours have more weight than gold.”
The perc was shaking on its hanger in the hearth, drawing both their attention. Charalambos removed it and took it to the table. He reached up for a small lidded clay pot and two spoons. “Sugar?” He offered to his guest, who nodded and scooped what Charal would diplomatically call a healthy helping into his cup. Stirring with the second, the man then offered it back to Charal.
“No, thank you. I rarely go in for sweets though, and have developed a ‘plebian palate’ for it as is. The blessings of living economical I guess,” he chucked the last bit with self-deprecating humour.
The two chatted in peaceful commonality over their hot drinks, his guest taking control of the conversation. “You said a phrase I’ve never heard before, when we came in. What was that?”
Charal grinned into his kaffos. “It’s Gaelic. My grandfather was a Scot who joined the Varangoi after leaving Scotland under circumstances his pride would not let go. He was quite accomplished as well. He was never one for the axe but wielded a claymore, fighting beside The Scourge of Mesopotamia himself, Theodoros Sideros. He retired just a few months before Dojama.” That had been one of Iskandar’s greatest victories. Theodoros Sideros, injured after a fall from a horse a week before, had been too dosed on opium to command during the battle itself. Yet the humiliation and disgrace had been too much to bear, and so he’d remained on the battlefield to be cut down by Ottoman timariots.
“He laments that day at times. He always says that his soul will be judged harshly for leaving his comrades and commander, and not dying with the greatest men he ever knew.” Realizing he was rambling, he pulled the conversation back to the original question. “But back to Gaelic, it was something he found hard to give up so we still speak it around the house. His Greek was weak to say the least except numbers and reading, until he fell for my grandmother who brought the giant to his knees, and taught him more than army commands and the usual business interactions of a soldier. He had converted shortly after joining the Varangoi so her father did not object, I think out of fear of my grandfather as much as respect, so they married and being a proud Scot, he took the family name Caldonridis. The Gaelic helps when he and father are at market day. What I said was ‘a hundred thousand welcomes’. ”
“‘A hundred thousand welcomes’, I like that, it’s disarming,” his guest mused.
“I must confess sir, my rudeness, this entire time I never asked you your name, nor introduced myself. I am Charalambos Caldonridis of Nicomedia, son of Dunkeld, son of Donald Morrison.” Silly as it was to add the last two parts, but he took pride being a son and grandson of them, even if they sometimes raised eyebrows amongst the more pretentiousness neighbors.
A knock at the door drew both of their attentions before his guest could reply. Charalambos’ face become one of inquiry, his guest’s one of resignation. “This was a lovely break from life, my good man, but reality knocks,” the stranger sighed. Not understanding, Charal rose to greet his newest visitor at the door. Upon opening he took a step back from the over six foot man crowding the doorway. ‘He is almost as big as grandfather,’ thought Charal.
With a polite nod, the either soldier or horse juggler, Charal wasn’t sure, spoke in a measured tone towards the guest at the table. “M’lord the sun is nearing the ninth hour, and your daughter will be rising soon. She will wonder about your absence at the breakfast table if we linger any longer.”
“I suspect she would not phrase it so diplomatically,” the man replied. The soldier did not respond.
His guest sighed again and rose, “There are somethings a father should never be late for if he is around. Charalambos Caldonridis, it was an honest pleasure to make your acquaintance. Please have the Pronoetes forward any news on ‘Jahzara’ and ‘Veronica’. I am intrigued by their development.”
He turned to what was now obviously his bodyguard and asked for his seal and wax. “Have you any parchment and quill, Charalambos?” Charal nodded, and went to the second room, returning with parchment, ink, and quill in hand, setting them down on the table. His guest sat down and started to write on the leaf, then wax sealed it at the bottom. Standing and reaching into a pocket in the arm of his coat, he drew a small sack out and handed it over to Charal. “You are a genuine sort, and equally as hospitable. Please take this simply as a gift in return for letting me be just a man.”
He now handed him the leaf. “And this for sharing your most prized possessions with me, both in the garden and at the table.” With that he turned to leave, only to stop in the doorway and turn back. “Where are my manners? I am Demetrios Sideros, Son of Theodoros, Son of Timur II, in respect to your introductions. That missive should set you up with a lifetime's supply from my Kaffos supplier, now that I know we share similar tastes.” And with that, the Emperor and his guard made their way back to the imperial villa for breakfast, leaving Charal standing there dumbfounded.
