Short story: A bird of white and black by Ian Latham

by Ian Latham

I woke from the cold to the blue of the sky and sea, the creaking of the rigging, the white light before the sun rose. The sea was flat and comforting as it stretched to the edge of the isthmus. It seemed so large that our small boat was as a splinter of wood floating in a lake. And there in the distance you could see it; the greatest city in the world; a city that sat like a clenched fist slammed upon the sea.

It was almost a year since last we had left. Most of us were still here. Not a bad effort if you think what we went through. We had shown them, though. Throughout Dalmatia we had harried and attacked them; the barbarians and the apostates. And they; this rabble that lived like pigs. How could they resist? And why should they?

For if we never returned, our souls would live forever in heaven. And if we returned it would be to a procession decked by the standards of the city and its saints. And the priest would lead us to the great church with the icon of the virgin and take our gifts and give thanks. If they died, their soul would search forever for a home. They had no god. No
one would ever remember them.

The men on deck were starting to stir. They were wooden headed from last night but they were happy. They would sleep at home tonight. They would see their women and their kids. Except Con. He didn’t seem to have a family. He didn’t seem that excited to be back. His Greek was terrible. And most strangely he had that very fine tattoo of that strange bird standing on two legs with its head turned to one side.

I had never seen one finer. A bird of white and black. Above it were letters not of Greek but seemingly not Latin. Where was this man from? It had washed around my mind for months. I walked over to him and sat down. After the pleasantries, I asked him where his family was from. He looked at me a bit blankly. ‘My family are from beyond the sea’.

By this stage the others were beginning to crowd around. One of the sailors asked if his family was from Africa. Another asked him whether they came from the lands to the east. There wasn’t anything further away than that. They were laughing. He lolled his head back and said no.

‘My family are from beyond the sea. Further than the land of silk. Further.”

The others grew interested. ‘Are they Greeks? asked a number.

‘Yes, They think so, but not Greeks as you would know.’

It was extraordinary. Greeks beyond the sea. Why had we not heard of them before? Perhaps this man was not well; possessed by some spirit. I laughed: ‘And what can these Greeks tell us? These Greeks across the seas.’

He looked up as if sad. He said: ‘They could tell you how Byzantium was overrun by those from the east. They could tell you how Constantinople was attacked and finally fell. They could tell you how the Church was desecrated and the emperor killed. They could tell you how the Greeks were slaves for centuries.’

It had become so quiet that the noise of the boat seemed deafening. Such talk must be blasphemy but none wished him to stop. ‘And the Greeks.  What of them?’ a number asked. ‘Oh the Greeks. They will survive. The world will become much bigger and the Greeks will live throughout it. Their language and their churches will continue. But this will never be seen as Greek again.’

The others drifted away without speaking. And as if by plan, they went back to their conversations as if the last had never happened. I did the same.

We never spoke of it again. Yet as we walked up to the church later that day, I couldn’t purge a feeling of unease.