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

by M. K. Hume

  ‘Damn! I didn’t undress last night, so I feel dirty and gritty all over.’ Myrddion shook himself like a dog or a small boy, and the waves of his black hair flew around his face disarmingly. ‘I will miss you, friend. You’ve made the task of healing infinitely easier in many ways. You have also taken the time to explain the battlefield to me. I’ll not forget your lessons, Captus, you can be very sure of that.’

  The Frank captain thrust out his sword arm in the ancient gesture of friendship between warriors. Each man gripped the wrist of the other and Captus expressed surprise at the strength in Myrddion’s deceptively slender fingers.

  ‘You’ve watched me at work, Captus, so you know the strength it takes to set a broken limb or to remove an arrowhead that is deeply embedded in muscle. Healers must be strong, not in the way of warriors where heavy muscle is needed, but with whipcord and wire.’ He paused and smiled across at his friend. ‘But I’m lecturing you again, which is fast becoming one of my worst sins.’

  ‘I’ll miss your jibber-jabber, Master Myrddion. I’ve learned things that I never thought possible and I’ll try to keep your patients alive until we reach the north. Cadoc has given me clean bandages and I promise to boil them after each use. He’s even given me some of his precious salve to promote healing, and I know what to do with radishes. I won’t be eating them again, which is unfortunate as I used to really enjoy them.’

  ‘Take care of yourself and your new master, Captus. He’ll need loyal servants with good heads on their shoulders.’

  Embarrassed, Captus drew a small wrapped bundle out of a leather pouch at his waist. ‘This gift isn’t much, I fear, but fighting men don’t have the leisure to acquire many belongings. I’m told it came from Constantinople, and as you plan to visit the heart of the Eastern Empire it seems appropriate that you should take it back to its homeland. Use it, and remember Captus, who served you well, even though he whined continually.’

  ‘That’s not quite true, Captus. In fact you hardly ever complained.’ As he spoke, Myrddion unwrapped the small scrap of wool and found a delicate eating knife of intricate design lying within.

  The haft of the knife was decorated with hard paste glass that had been fired in a kiln at a high temperature. An artist had depicted a hunting bird on each side, one with its wings spread and its claws extended towards an invisible prey, the other at rest, but with its talons buried in a dead coney. A clever folding action enabled the blade to be thumbed into the haft when the knife was not in use. When the blade was open, it locked into position and became a wicked, double-edged toy for peeling fruit or eating meat. Yet it was quite sufficient to bury itself in a man’s eye and kill.

  ‘This is a beautiful thing, Captus. And it’s far too valuable to be given away. Please take it back, for I really can’t accept such a princely gift. I’ve never seen its like.’

  ‘Can you imagine me holding such a toy in these great, clumsy paws of mine? No, Master Myrddion. Take it with my best wishes, and remember Captus whenever you use it.’

  Myrddion realised that he would insult the Frank if he remonstrated any further. Besides, his hands itched to examine the clever mechanism that made the knife a miracle of design, small enough to fit in a waist pouch and free of the need for a scabbard.

  ‘Very well, I’ll take it to Constantinople, gladly and gratefully. I thank you, my friend.’

  Myrddion walked with the captain to his horse and helped him to mount.

  ‘One more thing remains to be said, my friend,’ Captus added as he climbed into the saddle. ‘Keep your eyes peeled for that bastard Gwylym. I know he’s a Celt, but he’s a Breton and hails from Brittany, which the Romans called Armorica. They’re a strange, prickly people. Childeric has never liked him overmuch, but Gwylym could have continued in his service for life had he wished, because he served Merovech well. But the bastard has been bought by General Aetius for some unknown purpose. One thing is certain: your countryman’s not overly fond of you.’

  Myrddion shrugged. ‘Gwylym told me that he came from Britain thirty years ago.’

  ‘Then either he lied, or he had to leave Brittany in a hurry, because I know where he was born,’ Captus said dourly.

  ‘He has no reason to cause me any harm,’ Myrddion murmured. ‘I doubt that our paths will cross again.’

  ‘Just keep it that way, lad. I’ve always believed that you can’t trust a man whose loyalty can be bought with coin.’ Captus looked around him and saw that the last of the patients had been helped into the wagons, so he gave a shrill whistle and the cavalcade pulled away from the field hospital. Regretfully, Myrddion stood and watched until the dust of their passing had dissipated on the morning breeze.

  On the heels of the Frank departure, the news came that Attila was on the move. Dust marked the passage of many horses and a token effort to burn the campsite sent plumes of smoke up into the sky that were torn to shreds on the morning breezes. Aetius had given orders that the Hun were free to depart without hindrance, although the minor tribal kings who remained argued over the merits of such rank stupidity. Even Finn Truthteller voiced an opinion on Aetius’s decision and Finn rarely bothered to speak his mind, preferring to keep his thoughts to himself.

  ‘This general is supposed to be the most able strategic thinker in the Western Empire. So why does he allow the greatest threat to the west to just walk away? The man’s daft!’

  Myrddion could only shrug, for Truthteller was right. ‘I can’t believe Aetius doesn’t understand exactly what he’s doing. He’s too astute, and too good at battle strategy not to understand the implications of letting Attila go free. Wild boars don’t turn into domestic pigs: they will always be savage. Aetius knows that the Hun will return with a fresh army.’

  Finn pursed his lips. ‘All true, master. In short, he could have killed Attila but he hasn’t. He’s either a traitor or there’s some advantage to the general in letting the Hun go.’

  ‘Yes. Either greed or admiration fires Aetius. I wonder which?’

  Before the day was half over, Myrddion was to discover part of the motivation behind Aetius’s inaction. A Roman centurion arrived at the field hospital within half an hour. Attila’s dust had barely settled and black smoke still hovered over the Hun campsite.

  ‘I seek Myrddion of Segontium, sometimes called Emrys,’ the hard-bitten veteran demanded. He was taller than the usual Roman warrior and his face, under hair cropped close to accommodate his helmet, was more Goth than Italic in shape and bone structure. Many, if not all, of the Roman soldiers were auxiliaries called librones, mixed-blood warriors who had once been regular troops, but were now called on in times of great need when manpower was short.

  ‘I am the healer, Myrddion Emrys, whom you seek. What can I do for you, centurion?’

  The Roman was forced to look up into Myrddion’s face, an experience that the man obviously found intolerable, for he visibly bit his lip and stood at attention with both fists clenched.

  ‘I am instructed to accompany you to the Hun camp in case there are living casualties left behind. Be quick! I have a horse ready for you, if you know how to ride.’

  ‘One moment,’ Myrddion murmured, although Finn’s face was stiff with insult. ‘I’ll need my tools.’

  ‘Master, are you are sure you wish to accompany this . . . person . . . sight unseen?’ Finn whispered. ‘Why would Aetius want to save the lives of wounded Hungvari? After the battle, the Romans killed all the Hungvari prisoners.’

  Myrddion smiled at the centurion. ‘The magister militum has no plans to hurt me, does he, centurion? He’s a clever, able general who would never publicly harm a non-combatant, even if he had some issue with me. And he doesn’t, does he?’

  ‘Of course not,’ the centurion replied dourly.

  ‘See, Finn? Of course not! I shall be back very shortly. General Flavius Aetius is simply concerned about any wounded men who might inadvertently have been left behind.’

  Carrying his satchel, Myrddion trotted behind the centuri
on until they reached two horses tethered to a small shrub. Out of bravado, Myrddion loosened the tied reins and vaulted into the saddle, checking the beast’s instinctive dance without the slightest sign of difficulty. ‘As you can see, centurion, some Celts do know how to ride.’ Then, without a backward glance, as if he was free of care, Myrddion kneed his horse into a gallop and headed towards the Hungvari encampment. He suspected that Aetius was exercising his power over the field hospital simply to waste Myrddion’s time and demonstrate Roman superiority.

  If that’s his plan, then he’s out of luck, Myrddion thought, for I’ve been longing to see how the Hungvari set up their bivouacs.

  The stench of unburned bodies was sickening – a vile, greenish smell that seeped into the pores of the skin and lingered in the folds of garments. Attila had sought to delay pursuit by leaving a wall of dead surrounding the huge encampment. Even now, allied warriors were using wild-eyed horses to drag away rotting bodies piled high on wagons, sleds and other makeshift vehicles and dumping them in a dry watercourse some distance away, preparatory to burning. Only fire would kill the threat of disease.

  ‘I doubt I’ll find anything living in this charnel house,’ Myrddion grumbled at the centurion, but curiosity still made him eager to see the disposition of the enemy camp. ‘From the look of this place, you will be burning Hun corpses for weeks.’

  Attila had fled leaving everything behind, having come to the conclusion that the lives of his warriors were of greater worth than the gold and plundered wealth taken from the cities he had sacked in his earlier campaigns. This great accumulation of wealth, piled onto huge wagons, would only have slowed the retreat.

  With a jolt of active dislike, Myrddion watched a crew of Roman librones who had obviously been trained in clerical skills as they unpacked, counted and then repacked chasubles, crosses, reliquaries, caskets and precious paintings that had been looted from the Christian churches in the East. In other strongboxes, belted with beaten iron but opened for counting, the healer could see Roman coins, jewels and golden ornaments spilled in a tangle of unimaginable wealth. Still more slaves were collecting camphor-wood chests from the Orient containing fine fabrics, silks, pure wool and dyed linens that were almost as fine as spun spiders’ webs. The treasure of Attila had been captured and Aetius had avoided sharing it with the Visigoths and the Salian Franks, his major allies, who had been encouraged to leave the plain.

  ‘Will such wealth buy a throne, I wonder?’ Myrddion asked the empty air guilelessly. The centurion stared dourly at him, but held his tongue.

  The healer rode through the huge campsite, seeking any wounded warriors as he had been ordered, but Attila had left nothing alive behind him, not even stray dogs. The cooking fires were stone cold, so food had been perilously short by the time the decision to retreat had been made. Myrddion was quietly glad that he didn’t live in the path of the vast horde of hungry Huns and their allies, who were far from their homes and short on supplies.

  One memento of Attila’s presence had been abandoned intact, like an impudent finger, to dominate a landscape that had been laid waste by men. Attila had left his tower of saddles in place, a mad, teetering affront to the Catalaunian Plain and the thousands who had perished there.

  ‘That . . . thing . . . should be torn down and burned,’ Myrddion snapped, pointing at the offending tower. ‘Attila meant it as an insult.’ What am I doing here, if Aetius doesn’t plan to kill me? he thought. Is this excursion really just a sham to humiliate me?

  The sound of raised voices suddenly shattered the oppressive noonday heat. Myrddion’s eyes sharpened.

  ‘Have you finished then, healer?’ the centurion demanded. ‘There are no wounded left for you to treat, which makes you superfluous to our needs.’

  ‘Just a moment!’

  ‘We leave right now, healer. The day won’t wait for you to be deciding what should be done by your betters.’

  But Myrddion held his horse on a tight rein on the softly rising slope.

  In what was left of Attila’s burned tent, an argument in purest Latin was in full spate. The raised voices carried to them easily, although the centurion seemed oblivious of the shouting. The young Celt knew at once that the magister militum owned one of the heated voices, although he couldn’t recognise the other, and was riveted to the spot as he listened to the dispute. The centurion, for all his status as a Roman officer, appeared unable to understand what Aetius and his companion were saying, and Myrddion was reminded that most men in Gaul spoke a bastardized patois, a combination of Goth, Frank and Latin words cobbled together for convenience. The bulk of the population also spoke Gaulish, a language very similar to Celt. Myrddion considered how useful it was that Aetius was ignorant of his proficiency in Latin.

  Within the half-burned tent, the two men were very angry.

  ‘Do you plan to rob the two empires of their share of Attila’s treasure? You already appear to have more than enough, having removed the Visigoths and the Salian Franks from your encampment.’

  ‘It’s none of your business what I choose to do with the spoils of this war, envoy. Valentinian charged me with saving Gaul from Attila’s hordes – which I have done – so I’d be obliged if you minded your own affairs.’

  ‘As magister militum, and the greatest general of this age, I expected better of you, Flavius Aetius. You allowed Attila to go free after he had murdered thousands of innocent peasants and civilians. How many more innocents will feel the lash of the Hungvari so that your clerks can count his treasure? In Constantinople, we know the Hun well. The sacred icons out there came from our churches, and our priests were butchered at their altars. Attila will expect to regain his booty in the spring – probably at the expense of our hides.’

  Aetius’s voice was particularly cutting. ‘Attila would not have stopped until he reached the ocean if I hadn’t defeated him here. It was I who halted his advance – not Emperor Theodosius, your master in Constantinople. I stopped him to further the cause of the only true emperor, Valentinian of Rome and Ravenna. To the victor go the spoils, although you may keep the sacred pictures as my gift to your emperor. My master, Valentinian, will be given the greater share.’

  ‘Your words are very comforting, Aetius. But I heard the prophecy given by the Celt in Châlons, and I found it . . . illuminating. He’s clever, that young healer, even if he’s a charlatan. Theodoric of the Visigoths thought highly of him after a very short acquaintance, as did Merovech, your protégé. They fought at the very front of the engagement, whereas you were on the flank. The barbarians bore the brunt of the assault and earned a share of the spoils. Don’t stiffen up on me, Aetius, for it’s been an age since I last saw that cold face of yours register any human emotion. I welcome any sign that you’re still human. I’ll take the golden icons gladly, small recompense as they are, but I can assure you that we’re watching you in the east. You should be careful that you don’t bite off more than you can chew.’

  Myrddion suddenly realised that listening in to a private conversation between the great ones of the world could be prejudicial to his health. He turned his horse with a sudden downward tug of the right rein, ignoring the beast’s complaint and dancing hooves.

  ‘Thanks for the tour, centurion, but as I’m unnecessary now, I’ll return to the field hospital where I can be of some use. I’ll dispatch the horse to your encampment with a servant.’ Before the centurion had a chance to complain, he dug his heels into the flanks of his mount and galloped away.

  Cleoxenes came out of the ruined tent, his narrowed eyes picking out Myrddion’s retreating form as he passed through the entrance flap. Through the cloud of dust churned up by the hooves of the departing horse, the envoy could still see the black banner of the young healer’s uncut hair, and his mouth twisted with wry humour.

  He heard us, the envoy decided inwardly, but does he understand Latin? That young man warrants closer study, especially as he’s not Aetius’s creature. Would he be useful, I wonder? And those eyes! Should
I say aloud what I think?

  Unaware that his fate was prominent in the minds of two great men – for Aetius still harboured a great dislike for the Celt – Myrddion occupied himself for the next two days in the mundane tasks of boiling, washing, herb collection, poultice making and root drying that had to be done if the healers were to continue their trade in peace.

  Each day, he waited impatiently for word that he could leave the ridge of the Catalaunian Plain, and each day he was disappointed as, one by one, the Roman allies took what booty Aetius allocated to them and rode away to their homelands. Summer was hammer-beat cruel and Myrddion’s patience eventually ran out. Fearing that he would alienate Aetius even further if he approached him in person, he sent a carefully worded letter to the Roman general by the hand of the most disarmingly harmless of his widows, the wide-eyed, pretty Bridie.

  In the letter, couched in Latin for a number of reasons, not the least being that the Gallic patois was never written, Myrddion begged Aetius to free him from further obligation so that he could continue his search for knowledge. The healer assured the general, in a self-effacing fashion, that he would ensure that all the remaining patients would be taken to Châlons for recovery.

  Although well aware of Flavius Aetius’s active dislike, the Celt didn’t really expect the reaction that followed. Air that was sweet with corruption fuelled disease, and Myrddion assumed that Aetius would be happy to see the last of the healers and their patients.

  When Bridie limped back to the healers’ tents several hours later, weeping as quietly as she could, it was some minutes before Myrddion realised she had returned. Then he became aware of hushed voices and snatched up a pottery bowl of oil, complete with a burning cotton wick, before easing his way into the smaller tent where the widows cared for the wounded and slept at night.

  ‘What in Hades has happened?’ he hissed when he saw the other two women engaged in the task of dressing a cruel gash across the back of Bridie’s knee. Brangaine was tenderly washing the nasty slash with warm water, while Rhedyn used clean rags to staunch the steady flow of blood that oozed down Bridie’s leg and stained her robe an ugly sanguine.