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

by M. K. Hume

  Myrddion’s reverie was broken by a loud salute and a quiet voice speaking in response. Flavius Aetius was leaving his tent. Having instructed his guard to stay in place, the general strode off into the shadows.

  As quietly as he could, Myrddion stood, allowing the leaves to fall from his lower body. Fearful of alerting Aetius as he followed in the general’s wake, for ten minutes he kept to the tree line, observing but remaining unobserved.

  Suddenly, out of the half-light, Myrddion heard a horse whicker as it pushed its way through the underbrush. Holding his breath, the young Celt pressed his body against a tree trunk while a Hun rider passed in front of him like drifting smoke. As soon as the guard was out of earshot, Myrddion swung up into the branches of the tree, rising as high as he dared so he could observe Aetius’s movements from above.

  He soon realised that Hun riders were patrolling a large circle round Attila’s tent, while more sentries guarded the camp on foot. Aetius walked up to the nearest sentry and, judging by his pugnacious stance and fiercely gesticulating arms, demanded an audience with Attila. Eventually, the Hun entered the tent, and after a moment or two Aetius was ushered into the king’s presence.

  Hunched in the fork of his tree, Myrddion tried to ignore the cramps in his feet and the pain in his tailbone, which was wedged against a protuberant bole of wood. The light from the flares round the tent allowed him to see Aetius’s shadow before he disappeared. The long shapes of the sentries danced on the hard ground, but Myrddion had no chance of hearing the brief conversation that took place. Within ten minutes, Aetius reappeared and strode away, while Attila bellowed for a guard.

  Aetius’s posture and his rapid, angry walk suggested that his impromptu meeting with Attila hadn’t gone according to plan. If the Roman general had planned to use the Hun king for his own purposes, then he had failed. He had barely disappeared into the gloom before the mounted guard reappeared and trotted off into the darkness towards the Hun bivouac.

  ‘What’s Attila up to now?’ Myrddion whispered to himself.

  Within minutes, a handful of Hun officers came running, straightening their dishevelled clothing outside the tent before ducking in through the flap. The sound of raised voices floated to Myrddion on the night wind, but the distance was too far and the language too unfamiliar for clarity. Then, hastily, the Hun officers reappeared through the tent flaps and returned to their lines.

  There was very little noise and very little movement that wasn’t strictly necessary. Suddenly, Attila swept out of his tent and every gesture spoke mutely of rage and chagrin. He mounted a superb horse that had been brought into the light by a member of the guard, and as it bridled and flinched he used his quirt impatiently. Once the animal was forced into sullen obedience, a number of servants appeared and fell on the tent like a swarm of ants. The tent poles were removed and the leather panels collapsed and folded before being stowed in a cart and driven away before Myrddion could fully absorb what he had seen.

  With the awesome speed that had brought the Hungvari huge success in battle, Attila and his guard were leaving and, surprisingly, they were heading in a northerly direction. For reasons that Myrddion had no way of discovering, Attila had broken camp in the teeth of heated opposition from his captains. If the Hun contingent was making for the north, and this sudden departure wasn’t a ruse, then Attila was about to re-join his main force and abandon his attack on Italia and the Roman Empire.

  Like well-trained and diligent servants, the Hun guard and attendants stripped, packed and loaded the whole bivouac. Within two hours, the entire horde had vanished like smoke into the forests surrounding Mantua.

  Myrddion crouched in his tree and thought very hard as the disciplined Hun troops trotted quietly into the night. Behind them, only dust remained on the silent, black plain to indicate they had ever been there.

  Attila had been angered by Aetius’s unannounced appearance. His state, his crown and his jewellery put aside, the Hun king had been resting his ageing, arthritic bones on a camp bed. Years in the saddle in inclement weather, a hundred falls onto the hard earth in practice and in battle, had all served to produce bone and muscle damage that exacerbated Attila’s fragile temper.

  And now Flavius Aetius had interrupted his rest. Stifling a wince at the nagging pain in his knees, Attila climbed to his feet with a face that was thunderous with distrust and irritation.

  Aetius began the conversation baldly as soon as the two men were alone. ‘How much gold do you want to shore up the power of the Hungvari nation in the north and the west?’ he asked.

  Attila was silent.

  ‘I can show you how to fight the Battle of the Catalaunian Plain again, and win – without the loss of a single man.’

  ‘And what makes you think that I’d listen to anything a turncoat like you would suggest, Aetius, master of nothing and no one? You were one of us – you are one of us – but you have tied yourself to Roman curs. I cannot believe a word you say. However, you can spit out your proposal and I’ll consider it, taking into account your capacity for changing sides.’ Attila’s face twisted as he strode across the tent and poured himself some wine. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t offer anything to Aetius.

  ‘I plan to rule in Rome and Ravenna, either through my son or by myself. As you have said, Rome is dying and its political system is rotten. I’ve served them for a lifetime, but I hate them even more than you do. I’ve bowed my head, I’ve bent my knee, I’ve plotted, manoeuvred and lied – and I will have my way or die in the attempt. And if you leave Italia be, and wait for the fruition of my plans, you shall have that stupid bitch Honoria and your kingdom will be secure forever. More important, as my ally I will cede to you the position of Overlord of the West. Gaul and the lands of the Visigoths will be yours without a single blow.’

  Attila watched Aetius narrowly. ‘You are giving very little away, at least initially, and I’m expected to give up everything, including the spoils of Rome, on a vague promise of possible future gains. You might die in the interim. So might I, for that matter, or you can fail in your ambitions through random chance. Why should I take such a risk?’

  ‘You and I are alike, Attila. We both hate the patrimony of those Roman patricians who honour us to our faces, yet laugh at us behind our backs. They only show a modicum of courtesy because we fight and die in their place while giving them the wealth and leisure to pursue their pleasures. We have gambled all our lives or we’d not be here at Mantua, or in Hades, if you like. We both know what Hades really is, because we’ve both lived by the sword. What does Leo know? He prays and schemes to make his Church the real power in Rome. And Cleoxenes, an epicure who enjoys an effete life in Constantinople, has rarely lifted a sword in anger. They live in peace while we suffer the pangs of a life of struggle. My heart is sick from having to kneel before my masters. What of you?’

  For the first time, Attila sipped his wine and examined Aetius dispassionately over the rim of his cup. His arched brows rose, but Attila recognised a fellow campaigner, regardless of the alliances that had been chosen in the past. In truth, Attila was tired of war. Perhaps a new strategy would spare his aching bones.

  Attila laughed softly and maliciously, causing Aetius to experience a nasty little pang below his breastbone. Attila was dangerous, like all his brethren, even when he was tired and ageing. The general would be a fool to underestimate the Hungvari king. He waited as calmly as he could while Attila examined all sides of his proposal.

  ‘Very well, I will do as you suggest, Aetius. But I have no intention of dying and leaving you as the undisputed master of the world. Cross me, or betray me, and you’ll discover that I, too, can be a ruthless and secretive enemy. To date, I have never had recourse to the assassin or the spy, but I can change my methods, depending on how you treat me. In that event, the world will not be wide enough to save you from the Hun.’

  ‘I’ll not give my hand on the bargain,’ Aetius replied, his heart singing with joy barely concealed. ‘Amicable enemies like us
need no empty gestures of friendship or loyalty. We’ll deal with any breach of trust expeditiously. I will hold to my bargain, but I tell you now that this plan with be three years in the shaping.’

  ‘I can easily wait for three years, Aetius. The question is – can Rome survive that long?’

  Myrddion clambered down from the tree with a shriek of cramped muscles, resting only long enough to stamp feeling back into his numbed feet before returning to the Roman camp at speed. Thrusting his way into Cleoxenes’s tent, the Celt breathlessly gasped out his news. The whole camp was soon roused and the information was confirmed – Attila had, indeed, departed into the darkness.

  Outriders were dispatched to determine for certain the direction in which the Hun host was headed. The camp of the delegates heaved like an anthill stirred by a child with a long stick, especially when the scouts reported that the enemy was heading northwards out of Italia towards Buda. The Romans puzzled over Attila’s intemperate departure and proposed many diverse reasons for the Hungvari retreat, but no one could fathom a reason why, at the moment of final victory, Attila should leave the diplomatic table without receiving a single concession from his opponents. Myrddion watched Aetius with cold, calculating eyes and wondered anew what such an elderly, unprepossessing man was planning for the Empire. What had sent him out in the darkness of night, in secret, to provoke Attila into intemperate action, when the general wasn’t even born with Roman bloodlines?

  So the delegation of Pope Leo was ultimately successful and the emissaries returned from Mantua to the acclamation of the citizens of Rome. Autumn had come, and those trees that were permitted to remain in the marble city were shedding their leaves like bloody tears, but the population ignored the first signs of the coming winter to enjoy a holiday of feasting, games and pleasure. The priests sacrificed on the Capitoline and the Palatine, and precious food was laid out for the household lares. The world was in a mood to celebrate and only Myrddion saw that blood would wash the holy city clean.

  Myrddion returned to the embraces and back thumping of his apprentices and the widows, who wept, offered him food and proudly displayed the coin they had earned in his absence. Even Willa was excited and jumped up and down like a small puppy in her eagerness, although she remained mute even as she smiled and giggled.

  Within weeks of the return of the delegation, Valentinian ordered a widespread campaign of posters, street speeches and promises of celebration. A proclamation was sent out through the city and its outskirts to advertise a week of free games that were to be paid for by the emperor, in honour of the peace that had been negotiated with Attila.

  Even Cleoxenes was secretly amused at how quickly the delegation had claimed success for Attila’s retreat, although Flavius Aetius was uncharacteristically silent, letting it be known that the marriage of his youngest daughter was demanding all his time. Myrddion grimaced when he was told by a patient of the amusements and free bread that would be distributed by the emperor in ardent thanks for the city’s salvation.

  ‘Will we attend, master?’ Cadoc asked quietly when they had a moment to themselves.

  ‘Should we, Cadoc? I’ve heard such unholy rumours about the games. The stories are so bizarre that I refuse to believe that a civilised people would tolerate such barbarism.’

  ‘I’ve also heard the stories, master, but I was more interested in the free bread,’ Cadoc half joked. ‘Free is about the right price for anything in this stinking city – except for the baths.’

  Cadoc had discovered the pleasures of bathing, so he attended every day, primarily as a treatment for his scar tissue. His visits earned a number of ribald comments from Finn, for the whole of Rome knew that prostitutes frequented the baths for the relief of interested customers. Fortunately, even Cadoc took his new passion for cleanliness as something of a joke, so he forgave Finn and the widows when their jesting became too pointed.

  ‘Perhaps we should see what the fuss is about, master,’ Finn suggested. ‘I cannot credit that men fight for their lives while the crowds cheer them on. And they call us barbarians! Like you, I refuse to believe the stories I’ve heard – they’re far too gruesome to be true.’

  ‘We’ll go tomorrow,’ Myrddion decided. ‘But don’t blame me if your stomach isn’t strong enough for Roman entertainment. We’ll have to leave at dawn if you’re to collect any free bread.’

  Rhedyn was horrified that her menfolk wanted to attend the games. Like most Celtic women, she had a mind of her own and didn’t hesitate to tell Cadoc that she thought he was corrupting her master for the sake of free food. However, like all women of her class, she had a healthy respect for the beneficial effects of a good meal, so Myrddion and his apprentices left the subura the next morning loaded down with enough cold delicacies to feed a large family.

  The companions had no need to ask for directions to the games, because even in the hour before dawn a steady stream of slum-dwellers – men, women and children – were wending their various ways to the great circular amphitheatre dedicated to a long-dead emperor. So many roads led to the circus that the crowd had swelled to fill the streets by the time the companions reached the huge entrance on the Via Nova. Myrddion couldn’t believe that one building could seat this countless throng, no matter how large it was rumoured to be.

  As the sun’s rays touched the great gates around the circus, attendants threw open the entrances and allowed the citizens of Rome to flood in, scrambling to secure the best seats. Great baskets filled with bread of all kinds were distributed to the crowd, but the apprentices soon noticed that some men took more than their share, thrusting whole loaves into their tunics before returning for more. If the attendants noticed the ruse, the men were beaten with cudgels and forced to flee while still clutching their ill-gotten gains.

  The arena was massive, a gigantic circle of white sand with a paved track round the circumference. Below ground level, lifts had been cunningly constructed with winches and pulleys that permitted wild beasts to be transported up to the floor of the arena and, thence, out onto the sand through an ingenious series of trapdoors and ramps. Men destined for the arena entered through large gates that led up from the nether regions, while large wooden gates were lowered behind them to prevent these unfortunates from deserting the area of combat.

  The plebs poured into the amphitheatre and took up positions on the wide tiers of seating surrounding the arena. The hard stone benches could be softened with cushions, and some provident families had brought along a goodly supply for their comfort. Around the arena itself, and close enough to see the action clearly, patricians sat on special cushioned seats, while the emperor, his family and his special guests enjoyed a special viewing box that was fitted with every imaginable luxury.

  For the next two hours, the circus filled with laughing, festive families, groups of young men eager for entertainment, the elderly with rugs, cushions and baskets of food, and girls in their finest clothing, giggling behind their face scarves and endeavouring to show the delicacy of their hands with much fluttering of their hennaed fingers. Even the healers began to feel excitement building in them, as the sun rose over the great open roof and the stone benches warmed pleasantly. Cadoc attacked Rhedyn’s picnic basket with a ferocious appetite and Finn encouraged Myrddion to eat his share or he’d get nothing. In all, with Cadoc cheerfully munching on a folded envelope of bread filled with beef and vegetables, children running up and down the stairs, the noise of thousands of merrymakers and the warmth of the sun, Myrddion felt his reservations begin to drain away.

  Brazen trumpets signified the beginning of the entertainment. A brilliantly cloaked and polished troop of the Praetorian Guard marched into the centre of the arena to protect an oiled, curled and beautiful courtier, who faced the crowd, bowed to the empty imperial box and then made a flourishing gesture to the waiting crowd. They responded with cheers, catcalls and wolf whistles. As the sound of the epicure’s voice rose to the roof of the great structure, Myrddion marvelled at the understanding of acousti
cs that Roman engineers demonstrated through the amplification of this simple, reedy voice. For trivial entertainments such as this, a marvel had been built that trapped sound so that every word could be heard by every member of the audience as the drama unfolded below them.

  ‘Citizens of Rome, proud descendants of Romulus and Remus, know you that Italia is now safe from the ravenous attacks of the barbarian, Attila. Emperor Valentinian gives thanks for the efforts of Pope Leo, Consul Avienus and Prefect Trigetius who acted as our emissaries to Attila. The emperor presents these games for the pleasure of his people as a gesture of gratitude for our salvation.’

  To the sound of more trumpets, the courtier and his Praetorian escort left the arena, to be replaced by a group of muscular gladiators representing the four camps of Retiarii, Thraces, Secutores and Hoplomachi. Confused by the different names and accoutrements of the gladiators, Myrddion entered into conversation with a young, clean-shaven hairdresser from the district of Mons Ianiculus, who happily took the opportunity to share his knowledge as he described the different functions of the combatants.

  ‘They don’t all use swords, yet they’re all called gladiators,’ Myrddion argued. ‘How can anyone follow what’s happening when there’re so many different categories of warrior?’

  The hairdresser shrugged with a toss of his elegantly oiled and curled head. ‘You have a beautiful head of hair, sir. I could sell it for several gold pieces for wig making if you should ever feel the need for coin. My name is Dido, and I live on the Street of Hanging Lanterns. You can find me on the Mons Ianiculus, where everyone knows me.’

  Myrddion reddened but remained polite, resisting the impulse to twist his hair out of sight inside his cloak. ‘Thank you for the offer, Citizen Dido, but I believe I’ll keep my hair for the moment. I’ll gladly consult you if I should change my mind.’