by M. K. Hume
Instinctively, Merovech knew that Aetius and his allies would be hard pressed to defeat the juggernaut once Attila’s forces were reunited. However, for now the allies could celebrate a miraculous victory. Aurelianum had been saved from annihilation and the Hungvari had proved to be human and fallible.
The healers’ tents were raised just outside the city gates as quickly as the Frankish guard could assemble them. Then Cadoc lit the fires necessary to boil the surgical tools while Captus organised his men to ferry the injured into the makeshift hospital. But before the first casualties arrived Merovech appeared and greeted Myrddion cheerfully. He was accompanied by a soot-blackened Childeric, whose face was enlivened by a ferocious white smile.
‘Aurelianum is ours, although it cost us many good men. Still, Attila has now been warned that we’ll not sit on our thumbs while he rapes our land. We’ve captured part of his baggage train and the gold he filched from our cities, so this battle has hurt him more than it has damaged us. It was a fortunate day when you came to Châlons and gave heart to my warriors.’
Myrddion’s face must have expressed his confusion, so Childeric explained that Aetius had assembled the allied troops and revealed that the gods had promised a victory to the Romans and the Franks. This news, coming as it did from such a pragmatic and experienced general, had spread among the warriors like Greek fire, firming their courage and strengthening their arms.
‘Don’t be surprised if my men treat you like a godling. Any man who correctly predicts the failure of a leader as fearsome as Attila is magical in the eyes of ordinary men.’ Merovech clapped the young healer on the back with sufficient force to make Myrddion stumble and strode off, leaving the sound of a cheerful whistle in his wake.
Childeric paused for a moment. ‘Stay out of Aetius’s way, healer,’ he warned softly. ‘It’s rumoured that the general wishes to broker an advantageous marriage between his son Gaudentius and Valentinian’s daughter, Placidia. Even if anything should happen to weaken Aetius’s reputation, his ambitions will only be thwarted for a short time, for he is a patient man. And he is very annoyed with you for allowing his secret plans to become common knowledge.’
‘I’ll take care, my lord, as should your noble father. I wish no harm to come to him, in all truth, for I’m not responsible for what I say when the fits come upon me. I would not earn the enmity of your house at any price.’
Childeric frowned briefly and then nodded at the healer. ‘Father prefers a short and glorious life to one spent rusting away into feeble old age. What will come, will come.’
‘You’re a generous man, my lord,’ Myrddion responded with a low, diplomatic bow.
‘Just do your job, healer. I will be content if you save as many of my men as possible.’
As Childeric strode away, his face impassive and his body held stiffly erect, Myrddion wondered at the weight the young man carried on those square shoulders. He was sure the prince understood that his youth and freedom would end on the hour that his father died.
This young man isn’t like other princelings, Myrddion thought, hungry for power and prestige. He’s much stronger and more astute than most tyros with potential. But I pray that we have escaped long before Childeric comes to the throne, for he will never permit us to leave him if he feels indebted to us. That young man knows the value of healers who enter his employ.
Throughout that long day, and those that followed, Myrddion had occasion to be grateful to the long-dead Vortigern for the experience of battle injuries that had been forced upon the young healer and his inexperienced apprentices. The baptism of fire they suffered at Tomen-y-Mur and Glevum served them well at Aurelianum. From the moment the first casualty was carried into the leather tents, three healers and three nurses worked as one, although it was a struggle to treat over two hundred seriously wounded men and an even larger number who carried lesser hurts. The steady flow of patients on makeshift stretchers and the walking, stumbling injured who came to the leather tents would have been too many to save had it not been for the efforts of Captus and the guard. Captus hunted up several women from Aurelianum who were skilled in herbal lore, and begged, borrowed or stole the ingredients needed for salves, poultices and potions. And he set his guardsmen to work: chopping wood, stoking the fires, cutting grass for sleeping pallets, preparing meals and providing the muscle that ensured the efficiency of the makeshift hospital.
Myrddion worked naked to the waist with his chest protected by a large leather apron, but even so he was soon drenched in blood. Scrupulous always, the young man insisted on sluicing himself clean after each surgery, and he refused to reuse his small scalpels and needles for successive patients. Although Captus often became impatient when he saw the long lines of waiting men and women, he had only to gaze into Myrddion’s intent, black eyes, which never seemed to doubt that he could find a way to save the lives and limbs of those who awaited his ministrations, to bow to his greater experience. Standing on earth turned to bloody mud, the healer was impressive in his deftness, his stubbornness and his deep, heartfelt empathy.
‘You have worked long enough, Master Myrddion!’ Captus stated baldly when the daylight had fled and the oil lamps were making surgery a slow, difficult task. ‘Your operations can’t be successful if you are half-blind with weariness.’
‘Could you tell that young man with an arrowhead embedded in his calf that he must risk gangrene because I need to sleep?’ Myrddion asked gruffly, before smiling to show his contrition at the response. ‘I thank you for your aid, Captus, because we couldn’t have managed without you and your men, but I’ll not rest until the most seriously wounded are treated. They require my immediate attention. I can always sleep later.’
‘Most of them will die anyway,’ Captus muttered, and then he also relented. ‘At least let me give you some help. I’ve butchered enough beasts on my father’s lands before I came into Clodio’s service. I might be of some use to you.’
Myrddion managed to raise another tired smile, although his shoulders were rounded with exhaustion. ‘Are you suggesting that my trade is little more than butchery?’ he joked. ‘I suppose we both trade in blood.’ Then, because willing hands were very valuable, he relented and pointed to the pool of lamplight where his apprentices were binding the wounds of warriors who were not severely injured. ‘You can assist Cadoc and Finn, by all means. Both are adept at their task and you can help them to stitch and poultice wounds. An extra pair of hands will always be useful.’
Then, without taking his eyes from a gaping wound that still oozed blood from a young warrior’s chest, Myrddion halted Captus with a brief question.
‘I haven’t seen any wounded Huns. It seems strange to me that Attila would delay his retreat to collect his wounded warriors.’
‘He left them behind, which is not his usual practice,’ Captus replied drily. ‘We killed them. We couldn’t allow recuperating Hungvari to remain free within our camp, for they’d cut our throats as soon as they could stand upright. And what of their allies? They’re far worse than the Hungvari. Don’t weep for traitorous Burgundians or Goths, for men who raise their swords against their brethren deserve to perish. And we were merciful: we did not torture them for information.’
Myrddion winced, but made no protest. He understood the realities of warfare where prisoners became liabilities to their captors.
His patient’s wound bubbled blood as the warrior struggled to breathe, so Myrddion placed a pad over the ugly gash and indicated to Bridie that a poppy draught should be prepared.
‘Is it bad, Master Myrddion?’ the young man wheezed through bluish lips.
‘It’s not so very bad as wounds go, lad. I’ve seen worse by far. I expect you’ll be able to rest soon.’
Captus saw that Myrddion’s eyes were very sad, and recognised the ambiguities in his reassurances. This patient would surely die. Then, as he gazed down at the youth, who had sighed with satisfaction in response to Myrddion’s promise, he understood that healers suffer as much as any
warrior.
When Myrddion finally sought his bed well after midnight, Captus was still sluicing down tables and boiling instruments. The groans of the wounded and dying chased the healer into sleep; indeed, so great was his exhaustion that he found even the cries of those in an extremity of pain to be as lulling as Finn’s soft singing. Drowning in the mindless languor that comes at the very edge of oblivion, Myrddion dived deeper into the nothingness that engulfed him.
MYRDDION’S EYE-WITNESS RECORD OF THE BATTLE OF THE CATALAUNIAN PLAIN
CHAPTER VI
THE CATALAUNIAN PLAIN
Those whose wounds drove them to slake their parching thirst drank water mingled in gore. In their wretched plight they were forced to drink what they thought was the blood they had poured from their own wounds.
Jordanes, Getica, 40.208
Cadoc shook Myrddion’s shoulder just as a narrow shaft of sunlight angled through the trees and struck his opening eyes. The healer swatted at the air as if he could drive the sudden dazzle away like an annoying insect.
‘King Merovech is here to see you with King Theodoric of the Visigoths, master. They leave today to join Aetius on the Catalaunian Plain. We have been instructed to finish patching up the wounded here and make arrangements for the people of Aurelianum to take care of them. Our orders are clear. Pack up our tents, and follow behind the king at best speed. Aetius has need of us.’
The words were a jumble in Myrddion’s head and he took an unusually long time to decipher their meaning. Although he had slept for four hours, deeply and dreamlessly, his eyes still felt gritty and his brain seemed incapable of retaining any complicated information.
‘Give me a moment, Cadoc. Shite, I feel as if I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. Is there any cold water? Perhaps I might come to my senses if I dowse my head.’
‘Perhaps if you didn’t work yourself half to death for most of the night . . . oh, wait here. I’ll fetch some water and try to head King Merovech off for a few minutes.’
Cadoc hurried away and Myrddion staggered to his feet. With an exclamation of disgust, he realised that blood had dried between his toes and now caked his nails in a dark red, muddy paste, exactly like dried mud. He had washed his hands scrupulously before he had tumbled into his pallet, but he had been too exhausted to bathe all over. Now he was aware of smeared bloodstains on his lower body where his leather apron had failed to provide protection.
As soon as Cadoc appeared with the water, Myrddion poured half of it over his head and then thrust both feet into the pliant leather pail. With a scrap of rag, he began to scrub . . . and scrub . . . and scrub. The water was soon stained a rusty brown.
‘Master, there are two kings who await your presence. Can’t you wash later?’
Without bothering to reply, Myrddion finished scouring his feet and legs and then sluiced them with the last of the water. As quickly as he could, with Cadoc’s assistance, he dried himself, threw on his last clean robe and breeches, and pulled a hasty comb through his long hair before securing it with a narrow thong at the base of his neck.
‘Will I pass their inspection?’
‘Well, at least you’re awake.’
Guiltily, Myrddion glanced towards the tent where the seriously ill patients were housed. The widows were already hard at work, feeding their charges and coaxing them to drink a little water.
‘How are the patients? Can you deal with them for a time?’
‘Aye, master! Why should you trouble to ask?’
With a feeling that he had somehow insulted his apprentice, Myrddion took the time to clasp his friend’s shoulders in a sincere gesture of thanks before hurrying away from the wagons to where Merovech was cooling his heels impatiently in company with a tall, ascetic-looking man wearing a finely-knit woollen robe over extremely fine body armour of barbarian workmanship. Before addressing his visitors, the healer dropped to his knees and bowed.
‘How may I serve you, my lord?’
‘Rise from your knees, Myrddion of Segontium,’ Merovech ordered. ‘We can’t speak to a man if we can’t see his face.’
Myrddion obeyed, and surreptitiously examined the expressions on the faces of the two rulers. Merovech seemed almost boyish with enthusiasm, itching to take to his horse to pursue the Hun until they had been driven out of his lands, thus cleansing his honour of the stain caused by the defeats at Tournai, Cambrai and the other ruined towns. His eyes glowed and his skin bloomed with health and youth that belied his forty years.
But King Theodoric of the Visigoths was a different cut of man entirely. Neither old nor young, neither thickset nor unusually slender, Theodoric viewed the world through weary, cynical eyes. His elaborate armour might be gilded and polished to mirror brightness, but, surprisingly, he appeared uncomfortable with a huge sword slung around his waist. Myrddion had been told that Theodoric was a very able warrior and a brilliant strategist with a wild streak of reckless courage, but the man who gazed around Myrddion’s camp seemed too introverted and measured for such a reputation. The king’s deep-set eyes gleamed with a keen intelligence, so Myrddion peered into the closed face with a healer’s curiosity. With disappointment, he noted the early signs of dissipation in Theodoric’s skin, which had the open, slightly spotted pores of a heavy drinker. The Visigoth bore Myrddion’s calculated scrutiny with the world-weariness of a man who has been weighed down with extreme expectations for all his adult life.
‘Lord Theodoric,’ Myrddion began, unsure of how to address such an important king. ‘May you continue in robust health and rule your subjects well, free from the scourge of Attila and his tribe.’
‘Whatever you are, you’re the master of a pretty sentence and a well-crafted compliment, healer. Perhaps that explains why one so young is able to rule a field hospital. You may show me through your tents, so I can judge your skills for myself.’
Myrddion groaned inwardly and Merovech stifled a grumble of impatience. No matter how tiresome such tours might be, both men knew that Aetius’s major ally would have his way, for he was flanked by a small contingent of the feared Visigoth Guard, soldiers who protected their master zealously. They had killed traitors aplenty over the years, for the king controlled a vast land that stretched from Gaul to Hispania, an expanse that had often seduced pretenders into chancing their luck at assassination. Aetius would support Theodoric of Hispania in almost any endeavour; so important was the Visigoth lord to the alliance. Neither Merovech nor any of the barbarian kings would dare to speak against Theodoric or insult him in any way.
‘You have but to ask, my lord, and I will be happy to obey. My apprentices, my servants and my guard will be caring for the bodily needs of our patients as we speak, and I would normally be dressing wounds and assessing the status of each man in our care.’
‘We’ll not keep you from your duties for long,’ Theodoric replied in a soft voice. ‘You labour hard if the shadows around your eyes are any indication of your zeal. How late did you work over that table?’ He pointed at the bloodstained folding bench that had been constructed to spare Myrddion’s spine. The wood had been soaked in gore so often that no amount of careful scrubbing by Bridie or Brangaine could cleanse the wood of its pungent tint, as obvious as an open wound.
‘The moon was down when the last patient was put to bed, my lord.’
‘He survived your ministrations then. Rare! Very rare! I have seen the work of your ilk more often than I care to remember. Only one healer ever gave me any real confidence, a Jew called Isaac who currently serves Valentinian in Rome. You may use my name should you ever meet him. Isaac saves as many as he kills, although he shuns the acclaim of the world.’
Myrddion felt a tingle in the back of his mind and filed the name away into his capacious memory. ‘My thanks for the recommendation, Lord Theodoric. I’m on my way to the Middle Sea in a search for knowledge from healers such as your Isaac.’
‘How many servants do you have at your disposal?’
‘I have two apprentices who a
ssist with surgery as well as treating minor wounds. Three widows travel with us to care for our patients once they start to recover. All five are loyal and able, but we are stretched to breaking point, my lord. Should future, larger battles require our services, many warriors will die because we are too few to save the flood of wounded.’
Theodoric’s eyes narrowed to gimlet points and even the good-natured Merovech snorted his displeasure. Servants were not encouraged to charge their masters with accusations of callousness, especially towards the plight of casualties on the battlefield. Like the boy who still lurked under the young man he had become, Myrddion found himself gulping at his temerity.
Theodoric scanned the tents and visibly counted the century or so of men who lay or sat around in various stages of recuperation. He stared at his muddy boots for a moment and then offered his hand to the disconcerted healer. ‘My hand on it, Myrddion of Segontium! I will send my personal physician, Vechmar, to your tents to assist you, along with his servants and women. Like you, he chooses to use widows and camp followers for basic labour. I trust that King Merovech will also supply what resources lie within his powers.’ A quick glance under lowered, crêpey eyelids elicited an immediate agreement from the Salian king. ‘Now that your immediate needs are supplied, you may show me how you save as many as you kill.’
For the life of him, Myrddion couldn’t tell if the Hispanic king was joking or not. With mixed feelings, he ushered the kings and their suspicious bodyguards deeper into the larger tent. The apprentices had already drawn up the leather sides to allow the free circulation of air and light, so those warriors who were conscious saw the nature and quality of their visitors at a glance. Men bowed or abased themselves, where possible, and the air was suddenly dense with the low, baritone hum of murmuring male voices.
Cadoc came towards them bearing a large basket of dry wrappings; it seemed that Bridie hadn’t slept until every used rag in the field hospital had been boiled and hung to dry over any available shrub. Quick to respond, Cadoc discarded his burden and dropped to his knees to pay homage to the regal visitors.
