Prophecy: Death of an Empire: Book Two (Prophecy Trilogy)

by M. K. Hume

  ‘You are far too young to be a master of men and a scholar. If you lie to King Merovech, he will have you spitted like a pig. He is my godfather, and he is in a vile temper already over the sacking of Cambrai, the city won by his father Clodio, during the great wars. If I were you, I’d consider carefully how I answered your betters in future.’

  One narrow foot, shod in gilded sandals, tapped impatiently on the paving. Despite the lady’s arrogant rudeness, Myrddion felt his face fall into a rather cloth-witted grin.

  ‘Don’t just stand there, idiot! Assist me to be seated! No! Not in the sun! May the gods preserve me from all fools! I want to sit in the shade where my complexion won’t be ruined. Now, find my maidservant.’

  As Myrddion grappled with the lady’s demands, he wondered at a pride so engorged and all-encompassing that she presumed he knew who she was. Tentatively, he cleared his throat to ask. In response, she raised that interrogative eyebrow once more. Both eyes were cold and her expression was patronising.

  ‘Who should I say desires her servant, my lady? I am but newly come to these lands, so I am ignorant of the honour that you do me by deigning to address me.’

  The lady sighed with impatience, too lofty to recognise the irony underlying the false servility of his compliments. ‘I am Flavia Minor, youngest child of the great general Flavius Aetius, Overlord of the West, who holds these lands by favour of the Emperor Valentinian.’

  ‘Lady Flavia, I shall obey immediately.’

  Two tall Franks, both dressed identically in the familiar uniform of the household guard, stood in the shadows near a simple door. Myrddion approached them cautiously, with both hands held palm upwards so that they could see he was unarmed.

  ‘The Lady Flavia requires her maid,’ he told them, and watched as the older of the two guards gave a mocking grimace. The rapid-fire instructions that he gave to his fellow warrior in the Frankish language were too fast for Myrddion to even guess at his meaning, but the warrior’s tone suggested weary forbearance. Impassively, his companion turned and entered the cool darkness of the building.

  ‘You’d best return to the lady, Master Myrddion, or neither of us will have any peace. Mistress Flavia requires constant diversion.’

  Myrddion turned to obey, then stopped abruptly and swung back to face the guard. ‘How do you know my name, sir? To the best of my knowledge, we have never met before this day.’

  The tall, craggy warrior grinned widely and exposed a broken canine that was grey with rot. ‘You and your party are the subject of much speculation and curiosity in Châlons, young sir. You seem to us to be far too young to be a healer, and you have managed to earn the distrust of Gwylym the Celt. At the same time, you have managed to pass unscathed through the armies of the Hun. The men are taking wagers on how long it will be before our master orders your head to be parted from your body.’ The guardsman spat on the paving to express his disapproval of unreliable strangers.

  Despite a sudden lurch in his stomach, Myrddion grinned at the warrior with reckless defiance. ‘Even King Merovech will find I am a very difficult person to kill. Other kings have tried to sacrifice me in the past but, as you can see, I’m still here. What did you wager?’

  ‘Me? I never judge by appearances, young master. While most of the men discount you because of your youth, I take the view that if you’re not a boasting child, then you must be a young man of extraordinary talent. I’ve wagered that you will live, so I’ll be very disappointed if you let me down.’

  An imperious female voice interrupted the whispered conversation. ‘Myrddion of Segontium! Why are you talking to Captus, while I’m left to swelter in this heat? Someone needs to fan me, and in the absence of my lazy maid I must depend on you. Stop talking men’s nonsense and act like a gentleman.’

  It was now Captus’s turn to smile ruefully and step aside so that Myrddion could obey the compelling, impudent and husky command. The healer was reminded of honey poured over shell grit by that oddly attractive voice.

  He bowed to Captus and spoke to the warrior so quietly that Lady Flavia couldn’t hear his advice. ‘That tooth must be causing you pain, sir. It is dying, so you risk ulcers or foul humours inside your mouth if it isn’t removed. Come to me tomorrow and I will draw it for you before it weakens your health.

  ‘Now, my lady, where is your fan? Perhaps you would be more comfortable under the pines? It’s a pity that the cooling breezes from the river cannot reach us here.’

  The lady’s skin was alabaster pale, so Myrddion could easily see the blue veins just beneath the surface. Although she had dressed primly in a pale rose peplum of some light fabric, it clung to her full breasts and rounded hips suggestively, and Myrddion felt a hot little knot forming in the pit of his stomach.

  Is this lust, he wondered? But years of practice ensured that his face showed nothing of the unfamiliar turmoil he was feeling. Lady Flavia had set his wits tilting crazily in response to her passionate mouth, her deep, throaty voice and the delicious suggestion of a nipple beneath her gauzy pink gown. Myrddion was not entirely without experience of the pleasure to be found in a woman’s body, freely and generously given, but he had never before felt the dizzying pull of sexual attraction, nor imagined that his sharply honed brain would respond so irrationally to the desires of his body.

  How odd, he thought. So the songs about the madness of love are true. This woman must be avoided if I’m to remain in control of myself.

  ‘I never pine for what I cannot have,’ the lady answered, in response to Myrddion’s comment about the river breezes. Confused and disoriented, the young man took a moment to remember the gist of the conversation. ‘I find that too much effort is wasted on quite fruitless desires. Besides, there’s very little I cannot have if I put my mind to it.’

  ‘Then Lady Flavia is a fortunate young woman, and the goddess must favour her on the Great Wheel.’ Myrddion’s murmured reply was so courtly that Flavia’s eyebrows rose once more.

  ‘Luck has nothing to do with it, young man. All anyone really needs to achieve their desires is a little planning, perseverance and the resolution to do what must be done.’

  As Myrddion continued to ply her simple fan of painted chicken skin in a gilded wooden frame, the lady straightened her curls and chattered on about the deficiencies of Châlons in the matter of social gatherings. The one-sided conversation led inexorably to Lady Flavia’s desire to return to the delights of sophisticated Ravenna, from where she had been removed by her father some three years earlier after the death of her mother. Lady Flavia revealed her egocentricity as she spoke of the status of Flavius Aetius, the dowry that would go with her to the marriage bed and her dissatisfaction with life in Gaul. Barely pausing for breath, the young woman also exposed her ignorance of the world with every word, for Myrddion realised that her veneer of world-weary cynicism was barely skin deep. Although she pretended to be experienced, she was a gently raised Roman maiden who had been kept away from men throughout her youth. No great general like Flavius Aetius would countenance his daughter’s attending social events, no matter how liberal her upbringing had been.

  She lies! Myrddion thought with amusement, ignoring the appeal of Flavia’s husky, intimate voice that almost compensated for the patronising condescension of her words. Almost . . . but not quite.

  Still, she had drawn Myrddion’s eyes to her dress of rose-petal pink, which complemented her remarkable eyes. She had made his brain feel too big for his skull and sent a wave of heat coursing through his body. Unfamiliar as such emotions were, Myrddion understood enough to know instinctively that Lady Flavia was a danger to his peace of mind now that he teetered on the edge of true adulthood. He was beginning to understand carnality at last.

  ‘Are you listening to me, boy? Or are you daft, standing there like a block of wood with a silly expression on your face?’

  Myrddion dropped the fan unnoticed onto the stone bench and stared at his trembling fingers. ‘I must go, my lady. I’ve been absent from my people
for too long.’

  Like all females, Lady Flavia was wise in the ways of sexual attraction. She laughed, and it was the sound of her throaty good humour that followed him through the unfamiliar rear door of the guardhouse, up the rickety stairs and back into a place of relatively dusty order.

  Cadoc looked up from a large bowl of water that he had been using to scrub his hands and face. His eyes swept over Myrddion’s dusty hands and sweat-soiled robes. ‘We’ve been summoned, master. The general and his allies have arrived, so we are commanded to attend Aetius and Merovech at the Hall of Justice, whatever that is!’

  Without wasting time on words, Myrddion began to rummage through his pack until he found his best black robe, his softest doeskin breeches, his best boots and his bone comb. Taking Cadoc’s place at the water basin, he stripped off his soiled robe and exposed a smooth, hairless torso that was both beautiful and androgynous in its sculpted whiteness.

  ‘Master? Cadoc asked softly. ‘Should we be frightened of this Merovech and the Roman general?’

  ‘Aye, we should. By all that I’ve heard, General Aetius is a clever, ruthless man who will do what must be done to protect the emperor’s interests in Gaul. The centuries of Roman power are gone, perhaps, but men such as Aetius remind us why Romans once ruled the world. He’ll use us up, then cast us away like empty wineskins if there’s some advantage to Ravenna in doing so.’

  ‘Isn’t this Merovech just another barbarian king? We survived Vortigern and his sons, and we’ve managed to avoid crossing swords with Ambrosius and Uther, so why should we fear another minor king?’

  ‘The walls have ears in this place, Cadoc, and these Franks don’t think as we do. Merovech believes he is the son of a sea demon, so he’ll be very confident of his own powers. Nor is he the greatest of our concerns. The Visigoths, the Alans and a clutch of other tribal lords are also threats to our continued good health. We must walk carefully, my friend, for we know neither the men who await us nor what mantraps have been laid to snare us.’

  Finn moved forward into the fading light from the narrow windows. He had dressed in the best garb he had, oiled his long hair and plaited it into the side locks of a warrior before securing the ends with bronze clasps carved with intricate detail. His leathers gleamed in the dusty light.

  ‘I have just been told that this king was raised in Rome to ensure that his father held the peace. General Aetius backed Merovech’s claim to King Clodio’s throne, and no man dares to breathe in Gaul without the general’s permission. Merovech is his protégé.’

  ‘As always, Finn, you keep me supplied with answers before I even know the questions to ask. These two men are dangerous pikes and we are minnows swimming in their pond, so take care and keep your mouths shut, as I intend to do.’

  ‘If they’ll let you,’ Finn muttered.

  Myrddion scrubbed his flesh until it shone before donning his clean clothes. As he chewed a stick of charcoal to clean his teeth and sweeten his breath, Rhedyn dragged his comb through his hair until the raven locks gleamed. As he had no right to assume the plaits of a warrior, the young healer permitted his hair to hang free to his waist. With a last careful rinse of his mouth, his toilette was complete.

  ‘Well, we are as presentable as possible, so let’s discover what breed of men these rulers are, and how they will treat us as visitors to their lands.’

  Unarmed, and escorted by three hulking Franks, the three healers were led out of the guardhouse and into the narrow stone building next door. Myrddion’s first impression was of many dark corridors and small rooms of indeterminate purpose. He noted the lack of ornamentation and luxury in the presentation. Then they entered a bigger, stone-walled apartment at the rear of the building. This chamber was obviously a meeting place for large groups, to judge by the long benches built into all four walls, a dais that caught the light from high, narrow, barred windows, and more banks of benches arranged behind the throne-like stools that stood in the centre of the dais.

  Accompanied by their guard of barbarian warriors, the three healers were forced to await the arrival of their noble inquisitors. As they stood before the dais, Gwylym ambled into the audience chamber and whistled softly when he noticed Myrddion’s long, glossy hair. The older Celt strolled around the three men, taking in their attempts at finery, before he whispered in Myrddion’s ear.

  ‘You’re very pretty, healer. Were we in Rome or Ravenna you’d be in no danger from the nobles – for the citizens of the Empire worship young male flesh.’

  Myrddion’s face spasmed with disgust. ‘Faugh!’ he gasped. ‘Pederasts sicken me.’

  Gwylym laughed. ‘How very intolerant of you.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Myrddion hissed, and Gwylym walked away, whistling through his teeth.

  Flanked by his friends, Myrddion tried to avoid fidgeting as he stood in the centre of the chamber and faced the empty stools. Five minutes went by before a door was ceremoniously opened, admitting five men who radiated the kind of power that only kings could muster.

  The eldest man mounted the dais first and seated himself with considerable care, as if his bones were aching. He possessed a shock of thick white hair that was cut militarily short at the sides, although his domed forehead was bald. From his laced army boots to his spotless white toga, the ageing warrior was the epitome of a Roman soldier. Yet there was something foreign about the slightly slanted eyes and the high cheekbones that jutted through the man’s skin like knife blades.

  The second man appeared to be about forty years of age and was very fair in colouring. His uncut hair was wheat yellow, as was a large, luxuriant moustache. His eyes were pale blue, but the profile that accompanied this typical Frankish colouring was unexpected. His nose was strong, high-arched and aquiline, with flaring nostrils. By comparison, his mouth was thin and almost cruel, with downturned corners that matched the deep crevices running from each nostril almost to his jaw line. With narrow, dark brows arching over his deep-set eyes, Merovech’s appearance suggested that under his conventional Frankish good looks he was a man of stubborn pride and a freakish, inflexible will.

  The three accompanying kings sat directly behind Aetius and Merovech, gathering their cloaks about themselves as if they could be contaminated if they touched each other. Each was a man of middle years; each was dressed with gorgeous, barbaric magnificence and each possessed a face scoured by power, ruthlessness and ferocity. Later, Myrddion discovered that they were King Sangiban of the Alans, King Theodoric of the Visigoths and the king of the Burgundians. Elsewhere in the room, lords of the Alan tribe, the Saxons of the north, Amoricans and Sarmatians rested on soft cushions and tried to conceal their growing concern at the prospect of defeat in the coming battles.

  One other man was present, standing deferentially to Myrddion’s left, and positioned so he could watch the reactions of every man in the room. He was tall, almost cadaverous in appearance, and was dressed with exotic opulence in silks of brilliant blue and green. Myrddion had never seen the like of the man’s exquisite, almost feminine jewellery, which included earrings of finely wrought gold basketry set with blood-red precious stones. For the first time, Myrddion gazed at the face of Cleoxenes, the emissary of Theodosius, emperor of Constantinople and the sole ruler of the Eastern Empire.

  Aetius coughed briefly, and all eyes in the room swung to focus on him.

  ‘We are here to consider several weighty matters, including the incursions of Attila into the lands of the Salian Franks, the Visigoths and the Burgundians. We shall also discuss his siege of Aurelianum, which you call Orléans. But before we commence our deliberations, we must decide on the fate of these travellers who have entered our lands without our express approval. We find it suspicious that they have followed a wing of Attila’s army from Tournai almost to the gates of Aurelianum.’ He turned his eyes directly onto Myrddion. ‘What are your names, and what is your purpose in entering our lands?’

  Aetius’s eyes were a greenish-brown, and ice cold. They held no pity or empathy as t
hey scanned every inch of Myrddion and his apprentices in a careful, dispassionate examination that missed no detail of their appearance.

  Myrddion stepped forward cautiously. No one thinks to inform us of their names, he thought irrelevantly. They presume that all men here will know who they are. Like father, like daughter.

  He coughed apologetically. ‘As you have no doubt been told, I am Myrddion of Segontium in Britain and these men are my apprentices, Cadoc ap Cadwy and Finn ap Finbarr, who is also known as the Truthteller. We are healers, come to Gaul on a quest to learn the finer details of our craft.’

  Aetius sucked on his teeth in an action that appeared to be habitual whenever he was thinking. Like his daughter’s, his voice was husky and imperious, and possessed an edge that abraded the nerves of any listener.

  ‘That does not explain why you were following the Hun army, unless you were in their pay.’

  ‘No sir, we are not in anyone’s employ. We took a route that we were advised would keep us away from the fighting. Our destination is Ravenna, and having served Vortigern, the High King of Britain, we have no desire be in the service of any other king.’

  ‘You are arrogant!’ Aetius snapped. ‘Who are you to choose your employer? Nor does your explanation satisfy me, so I repeat the question. Why did you follow in the tracks of Attila’s army?’

  In his eagerness, Myrddion took a short pace forward, and immediately heard the sinister hiss of a sword sliding out of a scabbard in the hands of one of the guards. He stopped immediately.

  ‘We weren’t certain of where we were most of the time, my lord. We had been advised to follow the old Roman road, so we did. As we travelled, we met refugees from Tournai and realised we were indeed on the track taken by Attila.’

  Aetius turned and faced King Merovech. ‘Do you have any questions, Merovech, before we arrive at our decision?’