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

by M. K. Hume

  ‘I’ve heard of you, Myrddion Emrys of Segontium, and so far I’ve not asked for a share of your profits as my price for the safety of your business. Fortuna told me you’d be useful to me.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’ Myrddion replied drily.

  ‘Can you treat this wound?’ A reckless grin, of either pain or devilry, twisted Osculus’s well-shaped mouth to expose yellowing teeth, at odds with his impeccable dress and clean hands.

  Myrddion examined the shoulder carefully. The knife had been driven up to the hilt in the hollow between the shoulder bone and the start of the breastbone. Fortunately, the blade appeared to be short, although Myrddion worried that it might be barbed. Such a weapon could easily kill because flesh and muscle had to be radically torn to extract the barbs from the flesh. Even unbarbed, this blade was likely to cause major difficulties if it was close to the complex arteries associated with the shoulders and chest.

  As if reading his mind, Osculus assured the healer that the knife had a smooth blade. Myrddion carefully withdrew the knife, staunched the rush of blood and doused the wound with spirits while Osculus suffered his ministrations without complaint. The street criminal did become a little pale when Myrddion produced his needles and asked for an open flame, but the man was courageous and tolerated the five stitches needed to seal the wound without a sound. Once a poultice was in place to guard against infection, the wound was bandaged and the arm was immobilised.

  Osculus tried to pay Myrddion with a gold coin, but the healer refused.

  ‘No, I thank you – I prefer my money to be clean of suffering. However, I might need your assistance at some time in the future, so I may want to call in this debt.’

  Osculus was insulted by the bargain, but he was forced to accept it to maintain his uncertain reputation for gentility; and from then on other associates of Osculus had occasionally made their way to the door of the healer’s surgery, seeking treatment for knife wounds, broken bones, smashed teeth or head injuries, all of which Myrddion duly treated at no cost to the gangster.

  Now the time had come for Osculus to repay his debt. With the beginnings of a plague in his subura, Myrddion came to the Inn of the One Armed Man once again, and found Osculus sitting in the small room like a king amid his brutal courtiers. Economically, the healer explained the situation while Osculus yawned delicately and sipped on his sweet wine.

  ‘So? What has this plague to do with me? Do you expect me and my men to shovel shit? If so, you may go to Hades and rot.’

  ‘No, Osculus, I know better than to ask men of your repute to undertake such menial tasks. However, you are the only person who could marshal the able-bodied men of the subura and force them to clean up their own streets – which they should do anyway. You have the power to undertake this task, if you have the will. The plague will kill many of your men, and your customers, which is very bad for business.’ He smiled thinly. Myrddion was learning diplomacy at the feet of violent men. ‘It might even kill you – and yours.’

  ‘Agreed, healer. Life is fraught with chance accidents and diseases. I could be dead tomorrow, so why should I do this thing?’ Osculus feigned indifference. ‘What’s in it for me?’

  ‘I remind you of your personal debt to me, Osculus. I told you I might call on you one day and I believe you to be a man of your word. I’m asking for something that is of far more importance than money: the lives of those who look to you for protection.’

  Myrddion’s voice was hard and demanding, for Osculus was his only hope to defeat the stomach disease. Osculus must be shamed into stirring himself to action.

  Osculus shrugged. ‘This request goes considerably further than anything I owe you.’

  ‘Do you remember Ferreus? Would you like me to look into your eyes and tell you your future? If you deny your debt, that’s precisely what I will do.’

  Osculus blinked and his pale eyes burned with an internal fire. ‘I’m not afraid of you, healer, but in view of our association I will help you . . . this one time. After that, you’d be wise to stay out of my way.’

  Myrddion instinctively thrust out his hand in the universal offer to seal a struck bargain. Osculus was nonplussed by the gesture at first, but quickly became amused by it.

  ‘I’ll say one thing for you, master healer – you’ve got balls. It’s been years since anyone dared to threaten me. Very well, you can stay in the subura for a little while longer.’

  As Myrddion turned to go, Osculus called out to him with a mocking grin on his well-shaped lips. His eyes were as ancient as sin. ‘Don’t ask me for anything else, healer. I might not be amused next time.’

  Somehow, with maximum coercion, Osculus persuaded the men of the subura to embark on a prolonged period of hygienic cleaning. Using wide-bladed wooden shovels, rakes and twig brooms, they filled cart after cart with accumulated filth and then removed it to prepared dumping grounds remote from the living areas. As they worked, Myrddion warned them to cover their noses and mouths with cloth and to wash their hands and feet thoroughly at regular intervals. At first the healer was met with stubborn resistance, but as the illness slowly declined over the ensuing weeks, rumours began to circulate in the alleyways that the young healer was a miracle worker and Osculus was a kindly patron who had always had their best interests at heart.

  Myrddion smiled to see Osculus treated with the respect usually accorded to Emperor Valentinian, while Hadria was even moved to kiss the criminal boss’s hands – to his confusion and pleasure.

  Life returned to a semblance of normality and Arrius slowly recovered from the stomach disease at last, but he had begun to exhibit the first signs of the strange malady that so frustrated Healer Isaac. Myrddion pondered the puzzle for many weeks, but nothing in this set of symptoms made any sense. Hadria and her children showed no signs of the malaise, yet they ate and drank precisely the same food and drink as Arrius. Finally, Myrddion was left with only one other variable to consider – Arrius’s workplace. Before his rational mind could persuade him to ignore his instincts, Myrddion organised a visit to the large ironworks where Arrius was one of the most proficient metalworkers.

  The workshop of Claudio the Metal Manufacturer was large, run-down and reminiscent of a small slice of an inferno. Myrddion could imagine Vulcan, the Roman god of the forge, presiding over the workshop, his body running with sweat, his face red with fire burn and his teeth bared in a rictus of flame. After making enquiries, he found Arrius at his station at the far end of the foundry. The plebeian was wet with sweat, and had stripped off his tunic. Padded gloves protected his hands and forearms and more padding protected his legs from accidental splashes of molten metal.

  In the lee of the huge brick ovens, Myrddion watched soot-streaked men stoking the firebox so that the heat built up to a white-hot intensity. Within the oven, crucibles of iron filled with a fast-liquefying metal had been placed on brick benches. Arrius demonstrated the sure touch of a master as he swung huge calipers to lift first one crucible and then another out of the oven and then, with infinite care, pour some of the molten metal into a large, pot-shaped mould. A deft twist of the calipers swirled the metal inside the mould so it covered the inside walls with an even coat before the excess was poured away. Then the pots and the cauldrons were set aside to cool.

  Arrius was far from finished with the cauldrons. Myrddion watched him take up a cold one and use a coarse chisel to chip away the excess of metal at the lip, then clean the whole receptacle with an odd rasp so that it had a smooth finish. As he worked, Myrddion could see a cloud of grey dust in the air, and began to wonder.

  ‘What are these vessels used for, Arrius?’ he asked pleasantly.

  ‘They’re vessels to hold defrutum and sapa, master. Lead is perfect for these containers as it melts quickly and is quite soft. Defrutum is usually made in the leaden vessels, but the other iron cauldrons are used where a greater heat is needed to boil a distilled spirit called sapa. The heat can’t be enough to melt the lead, though.’

  Myrddion d
ecided immediately that he would discover what defrutum and sapa were, as he’d never heard of either. Then, thanking Arrius for his lesson, he escaped the heat and stench of the foundry with his mind churning over a number of very unpleasant possibilities. For the rest of the day he tried to settle back into the numbing routine of his surgery, but his mind kept wandering until he realised he was offering poor treatment to his patients. Excusing himself, he plunged into the street and headed to Healer Isaac’s rooms by the shortest possible route.

  When Myrddion knocked, the Jew was bent over a scroll, trying to read notes that he had made some years before. He looked up, his caterpillar brows expressing surprise and his tousled hair standing on end where he had dragged his hands through his salt and pepper mop.

  ‘Oh, Myrddion! I wasn’t expecting you, was I? By the Most High, I sometimes delve so deeply into my notes that I forget if it’s day or night.’

  Myrddion had the grace to apologise for his abrupt arrival. He quickly explained that Arrius had begun to show symptoms of the Roman malaise, and then revealed his hunch that the foundry worker’s livelihood might be at fault. As Isaac questioned him closely, Myrddion began to feel rather foolish. Surely lead couldn’t be harmful, for it was in plentiful supply and was widely used in all aspects of Roman life. Water pipes, cooking utensils and even face powder were derived from this useful metal. In fact, Britain had supplied Rome with it for hundreds of years. A quick glance at Isaac’s dumbstruck, slightly crazed expression confirmed Myrddion’s fear that he had disturbed the Jew over a wild fancy.

  ‘I’m sorry, Isaac. I fear that I may have raised your hopes over a nonsense.’

  ‘Not so, Myrddion. Tell me, what are these lead containers used for? You must have asked.’ All the hair on Isaac’s head was now standing on end, including his beard and eyebrows.

  ‘They hold some substances called defrutum and sapa. I have no idea what they are and I hoped that you’d know.’

  ‘By the beard of my father! Defrutum, and the Roman passion for sweets? Could it be so simple? Yes, I suppose it is possible.’

  Isaac settled back on his stool and calmed his trembling fingers. He reached for his wine jug, thought better of it and poured water into two cups instead.

  ‘Defrutum is concentrated grape juice that is boiled to produce a sweet syrup used to flavour wine and food. Romans love it. If they concentrate it even further, they produce a sticky substance called sapa, which is even more potent. Heavens, Myrddion! It’s used to make oenogarum that is put into almost all foods, just like salt. With honey, it’s used to preserve fruit and even meat. Do you know what this means?’

  ‘Frankly, I’ll believe anything you say,’ Myrddion replied slowly. ‘The air was full of lead dust where Arrius cleaned the pots and the cauldrons at the foundry. As far as I can tell, that’s the only substance he’s in contact with that his wife and children aren’t exposed to too as well. But lead is used on all sorts of common objects. I must be wrong.’

  ‘Leave it with me, Myrddion. I’ll think your proposal through, but even if you’re right we’ll never convince anyone to believe us.’

  Myrddion looked at him blankly. ‘But if this defrutum is killing people, how can the authorities ignore it? It seems to me that toxins in the metal must contribute in some way to this illness.’

  ‘Perhaps. But will your people in Britain welcome the closure of your lead mines? No. Will the makers of defrutum listen to us? Why should they? Think how much wealth is tied up in the production and use of the stuff. Do you truly believe that anyone will listen?’

  Perhaps Myrddion’s face expressed his horror. More likely, Isaac understood the young healer’s idealism and was attempting to be cruel to be kind.

  ‘No one will listen because women and children won’t give up sweetmeats and everyone in Rome, except the slaves, drinks sweetened wine in preference to water. Perhaps in Gaul, Spain and Britain the wine is safe because it’s allowed to ferment without defrutum, but what if it isn’t? They’ll call us madmen and fools, and avoid us as prophets of doom. No, Myrddion. If you’re right, you’ll have to keep your mouth shut if you want to retain any of your patients.’

  ‘But to remain silent would be wrong,’ Myrddion protested. ‘You know more of our trade than I do, but the first rule of healing is to do no harm. We do harm if we remain silent.’

  ‘Well, lad, what you do is ultimately up to you. I will examine the matter and the properties of lead in any event. My studies might take several years to prove anything, and even then I’d need to be very sure before I warned the authorities. If your conscience is so tender, then speak out, but I can’t give any support to your hypothesis until I am convinced of the dangers.’

  Myrddion felt everything he had believed in shudder and tremble under him, as if solid earth suffered a fit of ague. This Jew was dedicated to healing, but curiosity rather than alleviation of suffering seemed to be Isaac’s motivation. His work was intellectualised, and was powered by a desire to know rather than to save. Behind the booming voice and the comical eyebrows, Isaac’s dark expression suddenly seemed chilly and a little bored.

  But worse yet was Myrddion’s sudden understanding that intellectual curiosity also fired many of his own decisions – unthinking and casual nosiness that was sometimes dangerous to the health of the people around him. What inspired his journey to Rome if not personal curiosity? If he had set out for Constantinople from the moment they landed in Gesoriacum he would have avoided the wars of Attila. Today, Bridie would have two good legs, and even Cleoxenes would not bear a wicked scar on his arm. Had he not insisted on this whole, hare-brained journey, how many lives could he have saved by remaining in Segontium?

  Curiosity and pride! Intellectual or otherwise, he was as bad as Isaac. The difference was only one of degree, so Myrddion could take no comfort from his relative ignorance of the repercussions of his actions. So he hadn’t realised the probable outcome of many of his decisions. No excuse, he thought bitterly. Isaac is simply being honest when he cautions me to wait for my fears to be confirmed. None the less, Myrddion was disgusted with Isaac the Jew, whom he had considered a friend. All Isaac’s learning and all his skills had been acquired to further his personal reputation for brilliance. His patients were a means to an end. With relief, Myrddion acquitted himself of using human suffering for his own enrichment in either coin or status.

  As if pursued by something nameless and ugly, Myrddion backed away from his mentor and took to his heels. As he passed the grand marble buildings and the forums that were so pregnant with history and noble deeds, the disillusioned young man knew that Rome was one huge sepulchre and if he stayed within her rotting walls he’d be buried forever. Like Isaac, he’d relinquish his humanity for the world’s acceptance and acclaim.

  So Myrddion chose his fate and went his own way.

  But how could he tell those people he loved and respected to avoid all food produced in Rome? Or was it already far too late?

  CHAPTER XVI

  RAVENNA AND THE GOLDEN CHAIN

  The night was velvet dark and scented with perfume, moist earth, seaweed and salt. The city of Ravenna was perched on slightly higher ground just beyond the Mare Adriaticum with a huge man-made harbour at its ample flanks. Canals skirted her to provide for shipping, transport and defence, while sweet water crossed many hundreds of miles in a great aqueduct to make her defendable. Around the dark skirts of the city, the firm earth gave way to swamps that further scented the air with the rich aromas of rotting earth, dead water, fecund vegetation and flowering trees.

  The city itself was adorned in finery. Marble and polished stone graced the public buildings, while the churches were rich in mosaics of glass, precious metals, pebbles and shell derived from the styles of Constantinople. In a wholly Asian intricacy, walls, floors and ceilings were decorated with fish, birds, animals and vegetation. But images of Christianity predominated over these rich, naturally inspired decorations, for Ravenna was devoted to the Jewish God and His
Son, and the basilicas were famed for their beauty.

  Two men walked along a marble colonnade and tasted the perfumed night with delicate sensibility. Flavius Petronius Maximus and Valentinian’s chamberlain, Heraclius, strolled slowly over the beautiful floors with the measured tread of men who are accustomed to the exercise of power. Any unwelcome observers would have laughed at the irony of these two unnatural companions walking together, for Flavius Petronius Maximus was a fabulously rich Roman senator and Heraclius was a slave. He was also a eunuch. Yet both men wielded considerable power within these gracious halls, power that extended well beyond the reach of Emperor Valentinian and his pallid, weak-kneed spite. Early winter in Ravenna was slightly cooler than in Rome, so Valentinian usually returned to the Holy City for the autumn and the winter. But the emperor hated Rome, having spent his youth in Ravenna before inheriting the throne of the West, and this year had decided to delay his departure. Ravenna welcomed his presence as Rome never could, for the Holy City was filled with vicious gossip and ambitious patricians who jostled for position at his court. Consequently, his courtiers must suffer the inconvenience of regular journeys across Italia if they wished to jostle close to the throne, allowing a festering resentment to gather around their timid emperor.

  Ravenna enjoyed cool sea breezes to complement its temperate climate. The winds that blew in off the sea cleaned the wide streets and blew away dust, light rubbish and the marks of neglect that human beings often leave on their landscapes. Valentinian’s mother, the sainted Galla Placidia, had ruled in all but name during his childhood and now, in death, her spirit looked down on the court from vivid mosaics that decorated any wall that Valentinian could find to dedicate to her, although no images of her face had been created in her honour. In life, Galla Placidia had ordered that her city should be kept scrupulously clean, and, like any good and provident housekeeper, she had arranged for flowering trees to be planted so that the air would remain sweet throughout the year. Ravenna was small by comparison with Rome, but love had endowed the city with grace, so that remnants of the empress’s devotion still scented the early winds that came in winter from across the Mare Adriaticum.