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

by M. K. Hume

  ‘Aye! Tell me about your father, Myrddion ap Nobody.’

  Merovech’s eyes were as hard as chips of ice under a northern sun, so Myrddion knew he would be unwise to lie, for Childeric had obviously told Merovech about the healer’s claims of demonic birth. However, to be completely honest about his father could be equally dangerous, so Myrddion decided to speak with the spirit of truth, using the broadest possible definition of honesty.

  ‘Your son has obviously reported my words, great king. Therefore, I am obliged to tell you the truth as I have been told it. My father was a chaos-demon who raped my mother and begot me on her young and innocent flesh. She was a princess of the Deceangli tribe and the daughter of the High Priestess of the Mother – so I was permitted to live. I cannot vouch for the truth of this birth, as I can only repeat what my mother vowed were the circumstances of my conception.’

  Merovech frowned. Myrddion understood that the king would be struggling with the knowledge that another man shared the same extraordinary birth as himself.

  ‘A princess! So your family was of royal blood?’ Merovech clutched at the one detail that could link them both and underscore their superiority to the ordinary run of men.

  ‘Aye, my Lord. My great-grandfather was Melvig ap Melwy, king of the Deceangli tribe of Cymru. He left me his sword when he died.’

  ‘Bring it to me!’ Merovech demanded peremptorily, and he and the Roman general were soon examining the short, utilitarian blade and the gold-chased pommel with its single, carved stone with the interest of professional fighting men.

  ‘Aye,’ Merovech decided. ‘This is surely the sword of a king. But how am I to know that you speak the truth? You could have stolen this sword, filched it from one of your masters.’

  ‘But you know in your heart that I didn’t steal it, King Merovech. I am demon born, so I have the skills of my sire, although I would prefer that I were free of them. At times I see what will be, as well as what was, just as clearly as if past and future were a scroll that I could unroll and read.’

  Two spots of colour mounted on Merovech’s cheeks. His jaw clenched and jutted aggressively and Myrddion shuddered inwardly at the king’s reaction. Obviously, Merovech did not have the sight, and the healer hoped that he had not overplayed his hand.

  ‘You are a soothsayer?’ the king growled menacingly. ‘So you knew you would be captured.’

  ‘No, my lord, I did not. When I prophesy, I have no recollection of what I say, although I sometimes catch glimpses of dangers that are present in the air around me. I would surely be free of this cursed birth-sight, if I could.’

  Even Aetius, who believed very little that he was told, was forced to admit to himself that Myrddion seemed sincere. The young man’s eyes had shown the first flashes of emotion since the questioning had begun. As a good Roman, Aetius paid lip service to many gods, and took part in the rituals invoking the blessing of the soldiers’ god, Mithras. But his duty required him to bind the northern pagans to Rome’s cause, so pragmatism as well as a natural scepticism ensured he remained detached in the face of all religions.

  ‘But you must have some inkling of the future,’ he said with a sardonic grimace. ‘Tell us, then, what your demon has whispered into your mind regarding the outcome of this war – if you dare!’

  ‘Lord, do not ask,’ Myrddion whispered, but he saw Aetius lower his eyebrows and could tell by the suspicious twist of the general’s lips that his gambit had failed. To mention his fits had been risky, but he had gambled that it might save their lives if Merovech and Aetius had been impressed by the account of his demonic powers. Instead, the healers were now in grave peril.

  ‘Do you fear to demonstrate your skills? Or do you lie to us, because you believe us to be credulous barbarians who will believe anything you say? Perhaps you need persuasion?’ Merovech gestured with one hand, and a guard stepped forward. ‘Choose one of the apprentices and cut his throat. Then, perhaps, this young charlatan will recover his powers.’

  ‘No, my lord! No,’ Myrddion cried. ‘I’ll try. But for the Mother’s mercy, hold your hand.’

  ‘Very well, healer. Entertain us! Show me how a demon’s son can master the ribbon of time.’ Merovech’s craggy, handsome face was stiff with scorn. ‘Demonstrate why you are no ordinary man. And hurry, because we impatiently await your pleasure.’

  With his mind racing and his heart pumping as if he had just completed an exhausting race, Myrddion looked round at each of the barbarian kings. In the many pairs of eyes that were riveted on him, the healer saw no sympathy, but he did recognise an avid curiosity and a hunger for bloody diversion. Cadoc and Finn reached out to him with their hands and hearts, but Myrddion was powerless. His fits did not come at the bidding of a mere king. Nor had his gift ever responded to any attempts on his part to master it.

  With a suddenly dry mouth, Myrddion stared fixedly at the narrow strip of light that crawled across the tiled floor, as he tried to dredge up the curse of his birth. The light was fading as the afternoon died; each regal face already had deep shadows about its eyes and mouth as if the skull were trying to burst through the skin.

  Myrddion felt the old, hated darkness begin to push through the angled light until the room in Châlons began to shrink, becoming smaller and smaller until it was just a pinpoint of light in the blackness of his skull. He had a sensation of falling, and then his consciousness was swept away in a dark tide of great wings.

  He knew nothing more.

  CHAPTER V

  THE SINGER AND THE SONG

  Roman, Goth, and Hun,

  And Scythian strength of chivalry, that tread

  The cold Codanian shore, or what far lands

  Inhospitable drink Cimmerian floods,

  Franks, Saxons, Suevic, and Sarmatian chiefs,

  And who from green Armorica or Spain

  Flocked to the work of death.

  Herbert, Attila, Book 1

  When Myrddion opened his gummed eyelids, some hours later, he lay in inky darkness. As his eyes gradually adjusted to the gloom of this lightless room, his sensitive fingers fumbled over the surface on which he had been laid out, almost as if he were a corpse. A pallet had been spread on a wooden framework strung with sturdy rope, and someone had flung a woollen blanket over his supine form. He recognised the distinctive smell of horse.

  Then the memory of his dilemma came flooding back in an uncomfortable tide. What had he said? Where were Cadoc and Finn? Had he made the situation worse, or had he promised the success that would cement their survival? In his distress, he groaned aloud and shifted on his bed, hearing a complaint of stretched rope.

  A shape suddenly loomed out of the dimness. His pupils at their widest, Myrddion made out a silent servant who had been standing beside what he could now see was a barred doorway. A flint was struck and a crude pottery bowl of oil was lit and leapt weakly into life.

  ‘I am instructed to bring you a restorative draught, but you must stay lying down in case you feel nauseous,’ the prim, disembodied voice instructed.

  Myrddion felt like a child who had soiled his loincloth and was now being lectured, firmly but censoriously, on his behaviour.

  The dark shape moved easily to the doorway and a slice of light provided enough visibility for Myrddion to see the far wall of a small, windowless room. Then the door was closed once more and the wall vanished into darkness. Only a brief period elapsed before the servant returned, bearing a horn beaker filled with warm milk to which some powerful liquor had been added. Myrddion coughed as the raw spirit hit the back of his throat, but the initial burning sensation was almost immediately replaced by warmth that radiated outwards from his belly.

  The cloth wick of the oil lamp had now caught and details of the room were more easily discerned. Clean, scrubbed and spartan, it offered few comforts and no hint of the personality of its normal occupant. The only clue to its owner was a large wooden chest bound with thin strips of iron for security.

  Myrddion sipped his powerfu
l drink carefully and tried to think. The presence of the very superior manservant seemed to suggest a mark of favour, but the room had a distinctly cell-like quality that hinted at imprisonment. The young man was confused.

  ‘So, healer, you’ve set the hen coop a-flutter, haven’t you?’

  ‘Lady Flavia,’ Myrddion croaked as Aetius’s daughter swept into the room, lifting her trailing skirts fastidiously as if she feared encroaching grime in this sterile little room. A hint of musky perfume caught at his nostrils and made his senses tremble. ‘You should not be here if you are unaccompanied.’

  ‘How else would I discover anything in this house of secrets?’

  What was it about this brusque, rude woman? What quality in her character forced Myrddion’s eyes to follow her every movement and set his heart beating irregularly in his breast?

  ‘Cat got your tongue, Myrddion? I felt sure you would be interested in your situation when you woke from your trance, but here you sit with your mouth hanging open like a dullard. Aren’t you a little bit curious about your prophecies? After all, you owe your life to them.’

  ‘I’m terrified of what I might have said during my fit. Believe me, Mistress Flavia, such a talent is a curse and I’d willingly cast it from me.’

  ‘Oh, fie to you, healer! I can see many ways to profit from your fits, as you call them. I never inherited anything useful from my father other than an extremely large nose.’

  Doubtfully, Myrddion stared at the offending feature. Flavia’s nose was aquiline and slender, with delicately moulded nostrils that flared attractively when she became excited. Perhaps it was a little long for true beauty, but, feature by feature, Flavia’s physiognomy was decidedly unusual, as well as attractive. When seen in totality, what should have jarred actually charmed and, once again, Myrddion felt that unfamiliar flutter under his ribs.

  ‘So, tell me truthfully, mistress, for I am on tenterhooks to discover my fate.’

  ‘I wasn’t present, for such audiences are for men alone,’ Flavia teased, her eyes dancing with mischief. ‘Such exclusions are dreary and unfair, but I cannot persuade my father to allow me to attend his meetings with the kings.’ She sighed with impatience, leaving Myrddion convinced that she had argued with her parent over this restriction on many occasions. ‘But Castor here was present, for he was serving my father. Perhaps he can be persuaded to describe your fit and its repercussions.’

  Castor moved forward so that Myrddion could see him clearly. ‘I believe, Mistress Flavia, that your honourable father would be disappointed by the levity with which you approach such weighty matters. I shall, however, report my recollections of what occurred to the healer, for I believe that such was my master’s intention. But I assure you that what I saw and heard was no subject for jesting.’

  ‘You’re so . . . so puffed up with your consequence, Castor!’ Flavia’s eyes flashed with annoyance. ‘For Fortuna’s sake, say what you mean without all the verbiage.’

  ‘Very well, mistress, I will try.’

  Beneath his stiff, formal manner, Castor was a natural storyteller who enjoyed being centre stage, and the word picture he drew was so vivid that Myrddion could soon visualise what had happened as clearly as if he had seen it.

  The healer’s eyes had rolled back into his head, exciting a sudden chatter of alarmed comment from the seated rulers. His body had become rigid and his fists had clenched tightly at his side.

  ‘Speak, healer, and describe what you see,’ Aetius had commanded in a voice that neither quavered nor broke with fear.

  Myrddion’s eyes had snapped back so that the pupils remained visible, but every man present could see that his senses had fled from his body.

  ‘Woe to the west if the Hungvari succeed in their quest out of Buda. Woe to the west if the Fratricide fulfils the legend of Romulus, for the last vulture has fled.’

  Aetius had gasped, despite his stern refusal to admit the possibility of second sight. In his position against the wall, noble Cleoxenes had flinched and made a swift movement of the cross over his breast. Many of the Goth and Frank kings had looked puzzled at Aetius’s consternation, but before they could ask questions Myrddion had begun to speak once more.

  ‘Strike while the Huns are sacking Aurelianum! If you hasten, they will be forced to retreat to their great camp on the Catalaunian Plain. The fate of the City of the Seven Hills, and more, rests on your speed. While you are engaged in battle, a great king will die and you cannot save him, no matter how hard you try, for his own horsemen will drive him into the clay. Still, your luck will hold, Roman, though you are closer in blood to the Hungvari than to Rome. Beware of hubris, Aetius. Although your son will sit beneath the feet of Ravenna’s golden throne, your own ambitions will betray you, unless you have the will to change your plans. And you must be wary of a high-born servant who will turn against you.’

  ‘If you seek my favour, healer, know that a prophecy such as this is guaranteed to win my enmity rather than my friendship. I will repeat the question, Myrddion-no-name. Will I defeat the Hun?’

  ‘The Dread of the World will take the high ground, but you will have the higher. When you lay the great king to rest, do so where he falls, as a gift to your gods, and, perhaps, the last vulture will tarry a little. I cannot say for sure, as I am only a messenger, and not so beloved of the gods that I am permitted to know all their secrets. Yet I can say freely that you will defeat the Dread of the World.

  ‘You are the last of the great generals of Rome, and, though you lack the strength of arms that is necessary to bring Attila to his knees, you will deny him his ambitions. The Princess Honoria will weep for lost chances.’

  Aetius leaned back in his gilded chair with a deep sigh of satisfaction. Although he had little faith in soothsayers, he understood that the details of this prophecy would soon become common gossip and would give heart to his troops and their superstitious allies. Besides, this Celt seemed to know details that were not immediately obvious, even to the Goth kings.

  ‘Blood and death! All I can see is heaped piles of carrion. The streams will run with blood.’

  ‘And what will be my part in this battle?’ Merovech demanded, leaning forward on his stool with eagerness.

  A short silence followed, before Myrddion continued softly, ‘And there you are, Merovech, the font of a line of kings who will forge these lands into a great nation. In future times you will be spoken of with reverence as the foundation stone of a great dynasty and glory will shroud the legends that surround your name.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ Merovech breathed, his face shining with awe and hope. ‘You offer me eternity.’

  ‘But it must be paid for with blood and suffering.’ Myrddion’s voice had the measured, sombre beat of a funerary bell. ‘You will die before your time with your sword in your hand, but your son will win glorious victories in your name.’

  ‘Then what does an early death matter? I will have eternity . . . and that is sufficient.’

  Then the young healer’s voice became slower and seemed to be dragged from a dank, dark place deep within his body. The listeners invoked their gods with superstitious dread at the tone and content of his last, dreadful prophecy.

  ‘This land is already soaked in blood and will remain so for two thousand years to come. The dead of Tournai will be as nothing to the millions of men, women and children who will perish on this cursed land in conflicts that are yet to come. Great nations will struggle over it, but they will bleed so freely that they will perish, one by one. What Caesar began in suffering and melancholy will never be finished until the land is satisfied that her rapists have been repaid in full.’

  Aetius snorted with anger when the healer accused the great Julian of being the root cause of so much suffering. Myrddion’s eyes almost focused in that instant, but then a heavy veil seemed to fall over the healer’s face and his eyes darkened once again.

  ‘Be silent, Aetius the Patrician, for the river of time is clear and you are just another Roman caught up in i
ts tides. This day, you will decide to cast the die that will save the land from despoilers, and you will succeed because the gods will strengthen your arm. But you will seek to bolster your family power beyond common sense or personal safety. You will place the knives in your assassins’ hands out of hubris. Perhaps you wish to rule in Ravenna; or perhaps you hunger that a son of yours will reign in the fullness of time. Be very sure that such an ambition will not come to pass.

  ‘And with your death, the last blow is dealt to the Roman Empire. The schism will rip away any pretence that past glories will return and only the Golden Throne of Constantinople will endure – for a time! Your assassins will cut off the strong right arm of Rome, but men are fools and infinitely fragile. They will not count the cost until it is far too late. You might change your fate, Aetius of Ravenna, but you will not choose that safer path. The Scythian Plains are in your blood, so the taint of envy lies deeply coiled in your brain. My words will be forgotten, so your fate is sealed.’

  ‘Enough, healer,’ Aetius interrupted. ‘I no longer desire to hear the sound of your cursed voice. Do not let me see you again.’ The general’s face was bloated with rage and his fists were clenched. He would have risen and struck out at Myrddion, but Merovech stopped him by gripping his toga.

  ‘Never fear, my lords. If you think my message is bleak and unjust, I turn the river of time against myself as much as against you. I will be forced to serve you for a time, great general, and your house will make me pay deeply for this day of prophecy over many untold years. I will live alone, struggling to mitigate my faults and to save my own world from disaster. I, too, will know hubris and meddle in the affairs of the gods. I am their tool, as are you, and who can know what they intend for us? I will fail, as thoroughly as you will, for we are all servants of the Mother and the new god who comes from the east. Not one of us can escape the destiny that time has mapped out for us.’

  Then Myrddion turned to his left on legs that seemed to be controlled by an invisible giant, as if the healer were a wooden doll in the hands of a monstrous child, until he turned his burning, inward gaze upon Cleoxenes, the emissary of the emperor of Constantinople.