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

by M. K. Hume

  His oily smile enraged Flavia, but she kept her expression calm. ‘Very well, Gwylym.’ She smiled softly. ‘The strongbox is in the villa forecourt. Come with me.’ With her usual grace, she led the way back to the entryway to the villa, where she paused before her steward, a tall and grizzled Hun.

  ‘Fetch me my wrap so I can be protected from the chill,’ she murmured softly.

  Gwylym waited impatiently while the steward glanced down at the visitor with blank eyes before disappearing into the bowels of the house. Then Flavia passed through the double doors and into the forecourt. Her demeanour was icy, so Gwylym should have been warned, but the old Celt warrior had lived violently for five decades, and still trusted to his ruthlessness to save him from the consequences of his actions.

  ‘Wait here!’ Flavia ordered him imperiously, and strode towards the carriage, where three burly menservants waited.

  ‘Take him,’ she whispered quietly, and Gwylym immediately found himself surrounded. Unsurprised, he drew his sword with a wicked hiss and dropped into a fighting crouch. His face was bland and unconcerned because he still saw no difficulty in coping with unarmed men. After all, he had killed more capable men than these oafs while armed with lesser weapons than his fighting sword.

  ‘You’re making a mistake, Lady Flavia,’ he hissed as he backed away slowly, keeping his opponents in view. ‘I expected you to try some form of treachery, so tell your bully boys to step away. I still insist on your coin for my silence, but I’m feeling far less friendly than I was when I first arrived here.’

  ‘Kill him,’ Flavia ordered crisply, and Gwylym raised his sword ready to cut through the unarmed bearers to make a dash for freedom. Then he noticed that her eyes were fixed on a point behind his left shoulder. Gwylym began to turn.

  But Flavia was as quick-witted as her father.

  Her steward had become alarmed as soon as he heard from the maids that the mistress was closeted with a barbarian. Then Flavia’s request for a wrap she was already wearing had sent him into action. Fetching his hunting bow from the storeroom, he had positioned himself directly behind Gwylym’s broad back with an arrow notched and ready for release. As a former Hun warrior, he was expert with the weapon and was oath-bound to protect Flavia from all harm. The bow string sang, and the black-fletched arrow struck Gwylym’s back, burying half its length into his flesh. As the Celt fell forward on his face, his last vision was of Lady Flavia’s sandals as she approached him across the cobbles. He heard her voice as if it came from far away, through a river of pain that radiated out from his left shoulder blade, and he swore crudely. ‘Fucking slut! You’ll pay!’

  ‘Cut this creature’s throat and continue loading the carriage. I must be at the docks within the hour.’ Flavia’s voice was bored, as if the Celt had been an annoying interruption to her urgent plans for the day’s entertainment.

  Then Gwylym had joined his master in the far-off, frozen place where that unquiet spirit had chosen to dwell.

  Myrddion and his party avoided the city of Ravenna, choosing instead to travel directly to the port. The sooner they found a ship leaving for Constantinople, the faster they would be safe.

  Ravenna’s port was very large, capable of mooring two hundred and fifty naval fighting galleys at the height of the Empire’s power. Now, the port hosted a steady stream of trade goods to and from Constantinople, Greece and Asia Minor.

  Like all major ports, the town was a refuge for sailors who were seeking new berths or were running from the consequences of their crimes. A slew of disreputable men could be found at any of the dirty, primitive inns that lined the wharves and these villains could be hired to commit almost any wickedness. Unlike Massilia, which had been colourful and exotic, the port of Ravenna reeked of danger and dead fish.

  Myrddion planned to pay for passage on the first available galley travelling to Constantinople. In a stinking, sod-floored inn on the edge of the harbour district, the three healers finally found a captain willing to take them aboard, but Myrddion was shocked at the price the man demanded.

  ‘You can take it or leave it. You’re not the only fellows eager to escape Italia, now that Valentinian is dead. I’ve several passengers who are fearful for their lives and desperate to leave Ravenna. If you don’t take the berths, someone else will.’

  ‘Very well, but I insist on two cabins if we are to pay this huge amount,’ Myrddion snapped, his face showing his exasperation.

  Cadoc realised that the captain was about to refuse Myrddion’s peremptory demand, so the Celt donned his most obsequious manner.

  ‘You’re fortunate, sir, to be in the presence of Myrddion Emrys of Segontium. He is a healer of great renown. We travel to Constantinople to serve a noble patient, Lord Cleoxenes of the royal court, the senior envoy of the Eastern Empire and a favourite of the emperor himself. You need have no doubt that if you oblige Master Myrddion, then Lord Cleoxenes will be very grateful. I am quite certain that if you should have problems with the authorities at any time in the future, Lord Cleoxenes will prove to be a valuable mediator on your behalf.’

  Even this blandishment would not have worked, for the captain was three parts drunk and inclined to be belligerent. Myrddion took his cue from Cadoc and promised to add a free bonus for the captain and his crew. ‘Of course, we would agree to care for the health of yourself and your crew, at no charge, during the voyage.’

  The captain stared at Myrddion craftily. ‘The whole crew? Including the cook and the galley slaves?’

  Myrddion sighed. The men who powered the oars on these galleys died like flies because of cramped quarters, poor food and bad hygiene. But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and two cabins were necessary if any comfort were to be had on what could be a long and arduous voyage.

  ‘Very well – all!’ A quick handshake sealed the bargain, and the healers returned to the campsite.

  Once again, Cadoc sold the horses and the wagons, and the fears of the population of Ravenna served to make him a good profit from the transactions. Whole families who lacked the price of a sea passage out of Italia were seeking to head northward as quickly as they could, so the healer’s wagons were fought over and the funds that Cadoc obtained helped to redress the exorbitant cost of the voyage. Finally, with all their possessions stowed in their two cabins, the healers and their women prepared to embark.

  With a clatter of iron-tipped sandals, four burly men carried a litter down to the quayside. They were followed by a large carriage piled high with boxes and trunks, all firmly tied down with rope. In response to barely polite requests from the cavalcade’s servants, who were armed with long staves, the healers and the widows stood aside so a lady could disembark from her litter and climb the gangplank onto the ancient galley, which sported the imposing name of Neptune’s Trident.

  The watchers’ first sight of the lady was a perfumed foot in a fine, high-laced sandal. Myrddion noticed that the soles of her feet had been rouged. The slim, tall form slid down from the litter and rested one hand on the arm of the nearest servant for balance. Her features were hidden behind a gauze veil of sea green that matched a peplum and robe of an exceptional fabric. The hand that rested briefly on her servant’s bronzed arm was slender and beautiful, although slightly large for a woman. The nails were neatly maintained and stained a rosy shade of pink, and the palms were hennaed.

  ‘Eeeeyaah!’ Cadoc breathed. ‘Now that is one perfect piece of woman flesh.’

  The woman threw back her veil as she climbed the gangplank and Myrddion recognised the mass of red and auburn hair that cascaded down her back. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the broad shoulders set above the delicate breasts and the ridiculously tiny waist. Then, as his eyes pounded with the blood in his veins, the lady turned and revealed a proud, long-nosed face softened by the expert use of cosmetics.

  ‘Yes, and the woman you see is Flavia, wife of Thraustila and daughter of Flavius Aetius,’ Myrddion whispered, as Flavia met his eyes and smiled slowly. ‘May Fortuna save us.’
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  For an instant, the world reeled round Myrddion and he felt like a beardless boy in love with his first girl. Flavia had changed in the three years since they had first met, and now she was a miracle of beautiful artifice. Once again, Myrddion smelled the hot scent of sweet oranges, pine needles and warmed marble, and he was transported back to a garden in Châlons.

  ‘In that case, Constantinople can’t come soon enough!’ Cadoc exclaimed under his breath as he herded the women up the gangplank. Boxes and trunks were unloaded from the carriage and prepared for storage on the galley. Myrddion followed and went straight to the men’s cabin, where he prayed that Flavia would leave him in peace.

  But the youth who still lived under his natural solemnity sang with excitement while, despite his most earnest wishes, his loins began to tighten. A sea voyage was just the place to learn to know Flavia better – and, perhaps, to remove her from his thoughts forever.

  MYRDDION’S CHART OF THE VOYAGE FROM RAVENNA TO MARATHON

  MYRDDION’S CHART OF THE VOYAGE FROM MARATHON TO CONSTANTINOPLE

  CHAPTER XIX

  THE SIRENS SINGING

  For the first week out of Ravenna, a fair wind sent the galley running briskly on the first leg of the journey that would take them to Epidaurus. Myrddion found himself drowning, not in the deep waters, but in his own tangled and confused emotions. The sea was very blue, shading to deep purple, colours that reminded the healer of Homer’s description of the wine dark sea. Then he chastised himself, for Homer had spoken of the Mare Aegeum in the east rather than the Mare Adriaticum.

  The ship ploughed across the wide, empty sea, heading for the coast of Illyricum and Epidaurus, where the galley would take on fresh water and supplies before heading south along the coast of ancient Greece. Catching any breath of wind in its great sail, Neptune’s Trident pounded through the waves with all the grace of a duck, except when the oars were employed and the wide-bellied vessel fairly flew through the turbulent waters.

  For the first few days of the journey, Myrddion was spared the distracting presence of Flavia, for the crossing was extremely rough and seasickness prostrated many of the passengers. As on the Litus Saxonicum, Cadoc suffered greatly and lay below decks, pale, wan and miserable.

  Within her cabin, Flavia and her maid also suffered, but neither lady chose to expose the drawn face of illness to the small society of the galley. At any rate, the treatment for seasickness was always the same, so Myrddion ensured that all the sufferers sipped as much boiled water as they were able to keep down. Without food, a patient would weaken after several weeks: without water, a patient would die within days.

  By the end of the first week, trembling and pale, the sufferers had improved sufficiently to enjoy the cleansing sea air, and as the galley was approaching Epidaurus they staggered above decks for a welcome change from the unvarying boredom of life in claustrophobic cabins. Myrddion discovered quickly that even seabirds on the wing became welcome diversions on days when only blue-green sea could be seen from one horizon to the other.

  When Flavia eventually staggered out of her self-imposed sick bed, she was interestingly pale and seemed to have lost weight, so that she was almost as insubstantial as thistledown. Myrddion was shocked by her pallor under the clever artifice of her cosmetics, and was touched by the bravado that drove her onto the decking, where she leaned against a mast out of view of the busy sailors who were bringing the galley about in preparation for a change of course to make landfall. Her careful coiffure was torn to long elflocks by the land breeze, but Myrddion decided that her beauty was enhanced by the tangle of russet curls around her face.

  ‘Well, healer, we seem to meet under the most inauspicious circumstances,’ she murmured softly, so that he was forced to lean forward to hear her. A heavy, musky perfume was trapped in her hair and in the delicate folds of her flesh, so that Myrddion felt her sexual pull, as potent as an aphrodisiac.

  ‘Yes. We were landing at Ostia when last we met – and you were to be married.’

  He ran his eyes over her tall, slender frame and realised that she had gained in beauty over the two years since their last meeting. She appeared to be more womanly and softer, as if circumstances had worn away her rough and abrasive edges.

  ‘Ah, yes, my marriage to Thraustila. Father was forever scheming, so I became a chattel that could be used to cement an alliance with the Hun nobles. My father was clever, although he was remiss when he ignored your warnings about hubris. How does it feel to have been right all along?’

  Flavia’s mismatched eyes were mocking. He had forgotten the curious attraction of her one blue eye and the other that was a vivid green. Something glinted in the clear depths of those irises and Myrddion’s instincts twitched a sudden warning.

  ‘My prophecy was right, not I. I have no control over what I say at such times.’

  ‘So meek, yet so lacking in vanity, Myrddion? My, how Father would rage if he was alive to see how the game finally played out. He reached too high, didn’t he? Oh, well, Father was always his own man, and if hubris became his downfall, it had worked in his favour often enough in his past.’

  ‘Aye, Lady Flavia, it worked in his favour his life long.’

  ‘Let us speak of more pleasant subjects, for I’m wondering why you’re going to Constantinople.’

  Her full mouth had been stained a delicate rose pink so that her tongue appeared wholly erotic as it moistened her lips. Instinctively, Myrddion decided to avoid telling her of his quest to find his own father.

  As the galley pulled into the wharf, a bronzed, half-naked sailor leapt onto the quay to tie off the rope that tethered it to the land. As he watched, Myrddion wished that affairs of the heart were so easily solved. Flavia was a sweet poison, a clever atrophy of the brain that sought out his reason and numbed it while she ensnared him with her extraordinary eyes. If only he could take her body casually and then have done with her.

  ‘Did you know that my husband was one of the men who murdered Valentinian? I suppose he’ll be dead soon as well. That’s how I’ll be remembered . . . as Thraustila’s wife and Aetius’s daughter. Is that all I am?’

  Flavia spoke reflectively but even Myrddion’s unsympathetic gaze discerned the bitterness below her words.

  ‘How could anyone hope for more than to be remembered? Most of us will disappear in the great waters of time as if we had never been born.’

  She laughed with all the arrogance of the old Flavia and her tossed head and aura of confidence stirred Myrddion’s admiration. ‘But not you, Myrddion-no-name. You will be remembered for something other than whom you marry or who sired you. In fact, I foretell . . . How does it feel to wonder what your future will bring?’

  ‘I cannot match wits with you, Lady Flavia. I fear you are too clever for me – you always were.’

  She laughed again, and the pleasant, contralto voice was laced with irony. ‘Clever enough to accept Thraustila, a Hungvari simpleton, and to sit in Ravenna watching the Roman world split at the seams like an old tunic.’ She nodded reflectively. ‘Aye, I’m far too clever for you. Oh, to be young and green again, my Myrddion!’ She turned her face away and the healer knew he had been dismissed from her brooding thoughts.

  He walked away and returned to his cramped cabin. Nor did he re-emerge until after dusk fell and Flavia was safely below decks.

  The ship left Epidaurus and took up a southerly heading to avoid the coastal strip where the land rose steeply into the jagged teeth of the mountains without the leavening of a strip of arable land at their feet. Straight from the shoreline, the mountains sheered upward, cut by the occasional river that ran in cataracts into the sea. Lissus passed, and the sapphire isle of Corcyra, followed by Actium and the jewelled islands of Cephallenia, Ithaca and Zacynthus that rose out of the Middle Sea like velvet green jewels on a cloth of deepest blue. The names sang in Myrddion’s head with all the musicality and romance of the distant past. Homer could have seen these mountains and alluvial valleys before he lost his eyes.
The fleets of Darius and Xerxes sailed among these dim islands as they sought weaknesses in the Greek defences. Wondrous names echoed in Myrddion’s imagination, the sound of the marching feet of the hoplites as the phalanxes came to famed Thermopylae or glorious Plataea and created the history of the west, long before the people of Britain emerged out of caverns and raised the stones of the Giant’s Dance at Stonehenge.

  Here was history in every colourful, precarious village that clung to the forbidding coast. Here rang the echoes of conflicts fought in desperation and fierce loyalty over stretches of land too narrow and too mountainous to grow food and to bear new life. Here, history walked and still lived within human memory, although the men who had thought, fought and perished now existed only on scrolls or in the tales of peasants who still struggled as they tilled the soil in the ancient ways. Perhaps it was the dying glory of the land on their left, as it unrolled before their fascinated gaze, that stilled the small voice of reason in Myrddion’s brain. Perhaps the fishermen who passed them in boats so flimsy that the Roman god Neptune could have struck them down with a single, violent wave reminded the young healer that life is fleeting and fragile, so experiences must be grasped and savoured before the sea drowned them all. Perhaps . . . perhaps . . . But Myrddion felt a sea change of recklessness rising in his blood like a hidden leviathan that was fighting its way towards the light.

  One evening, as the galley drove towards the east with the great island of Cythera to the right and the broken teeth of Laconia to the left, Myrddion sat on a folded pile of canvas sails and stared out at the phosphorus-edged wavelets as they moved and slapped against the hull. The galley was quiet and the oars were at rest because wind filled the great sail, causing it to slap and rattle against its rigging. He was considering the wondrous and terrifying history of Sparta, the prime city-state of Laconia, with its dour warriors who had sacrificed their personal freedom to the machine of war. Although his thoughts were of bloody deeds of glory, peace enveloped him in a night that was lit by millions of stars. Had he known the lineaments of the constellations, he would have been able to trace the form of Andromeda, the Archer, or the Naiads as they wheeled in the sky for eternity. Their names filled his mind with resonances of wisdom and tragedies that were long gone, so that his heart was full of magic and sadness.