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

by M. K. Hume

  The journey through the wide, paved streets passed amicably as the young healer was instructed in the subtleties of the Greek language by his new servant. Praxiteles was an interesting man. Having been born in the country as the son of farmers, he had risen to prominence in the trading community through a wily, but honest, approach to business. When he had been reduced to penury he had begun again, thereby showing his courage and resilience. The more they talked, the more Myrddion warmed to him.

  Open carpets of verdant grass were broken by groves of flowering and fragrant trees that were alien to British eyes, and all around them fountains splashed water melodically into deep ponds where large carp broke the surface and even turtles sunned themselves on ornamental rocks. Flowers bloomed everywhere in ordered profusion, while half-naked gardeners worked in the sunshine, shaded by large woven hats to ward off the bite of the sun.

  Sunburned to a reddish hue and sweating in their dark, heavy clothing, the women fanned themselves vigorously as they attempted to assist the fitful breezes from the Golden Horn.

  ‘The inn is past the inner wall and is a little inland, but the hostelry catches breezes from the water and is noted for the skill of its cooks,’ Praxiteles assured them, and the women thanked him in hesitant Latin. ‘You can see Hagia Sophia and the emperor’s palace behind you from the top of the hill. The basilica is a wonder.’

  ‘What is Hagia Sophia?’ Myrddion asked. The name was exotic and beautiful, but the healer was unable to trace its meaning.

  ‘Hagia Sophia means the Great Church, and was named when Constantine of blessed memory raised the first holy place of that name on that spot. See?’ Praxiteles turned on the wagon seat and pointed behind them to the tip of the promontory. A long, opulent palace hugged the walls on the edge of the Propontis, and before it stood a Roman basilica. As one, the Celts turned to stare back down the North Road. ‘This Hagia Sophia was built on the foundation of Magna Ecclesia, which was burned to the ground in a riot over fifty years ago. It’s a lovely building, is it not?’

  Myrddion stared at a roughly cruciform church with a large marble portico which was decorated with a frieze of twelve realistic lambs to represent the twelve apostles. The white marble glistened in the sunlight and the short arms of the church crossed at the nave, roughly in its centre. Although the walls were of highly decorated and polished stone, the roof was constructed of exotic woods. Fountains and trees surrounded Hagia Sophia and a nearby structure called Hagia Eirene, or Holy Peace, which Praxiteles explained was the oldest Roman church in Constantinople.

  ‘Very beautiful,’ Myrddion began, only to be struck dumb when his eye moved on to the large colonnaded palace adjacent to the churches. The building backed onto the water, and terraced gardens led down to the banks of the Golden Horn.

  ‘The palace,’ Praxiteles explained unnecessarily. The beauty of the large rambling structure screamed its importance.

  For half an hour, the heavily laden cart drove down wide avenues until they reached a crossroads where an inn breasted the roadway and street markets attracted a steady stream of jostling customers. While Myrddion organised two rooms for his party, the women marvelled at exotic fruit and vegetables, pottery and eggs, while dressed goats, lambs, chickens and calves hung from hooks for the discerning buyer to pinch, prod and admire. Still another section of the market sold wine, a variety of cheeses, fish and crustaceans of all kinds, as well as brassware, carpets and lengths of cloth.

  To the amazement of the women, another section of the market even sold live beasts. For the first time in their lives, they saw a camel.

  Cadoc returned to the harbour with the wagon while Myrddion, the women and Praxiteles stowed their possessions in the two long rooms that Myrddion had procured. The healer was especially attracted by the large flat roof of the inn where guests could enjoy the long hot evenings in the open, fanned by the cool winds of the night. Praxiteles pointed out landmarks as they watched the traders organise their goods and thoroughly cleanse their flimsy market stalls. Even the animal dung was shovelled up and carried away to fertilise garden beds, so that customers never had to soil their skirts or foul their boots.

  ‘Disturbing the peace or bespoiling public areas are punishable offences,’ Praxiteles explained. ‘This law ensures that the people will always keep their city clean.’

  ‘Rome could use some of her sister city’s rules,’ Myrddion said acidly. Praxiteles looked puzzled by his tone, but the healer didn’t explain.

  They ate an early afternoon meal of goat stew, white cheese, dates and apples, washed down with a crisp white wine that lacked the cloying sweetness of the Roman vintages. Myrddion heaved a sigh of relief. One less problem to worry him. The wine was probably free of lead. Then, as was customary in the east, the population of the inn took a period of rest during the hottest part of the day.

  Puzzled by the concept of an afternoon sleep, Myrddion decided that, as a custom, it probably had much to recommend it, especially as citizens were expected to work much longer into the evening than in other parts of the world. Some unpacking of baggage was necessary, but the search for Cleoxenes was an urgent matter and couldn’t be postponed, so Myrddion apologised to Praxiteles and asked him to labour during what was the traditional rest break for most of the citizens of Constantinople.

  ‘I must find an aristocrat called Cleoxenes who has served as an envoy to the Western Empire,’ Myrddion explained to his new servant, while slipping several base coins to the porter to cover his expenses. ‘See if you can find him after we have finished with the unpacking. I’m sorry to send you on such an onerous task in the middle of the day. I don’t know where you should begin to search, but he is an important man, so someone in the bureaucracy must know him.’ He paused. ‘You’re welcome to sleep at the inn if you wish, Praxiteles, and you may come and go as you choose while you are in my employ. My only requirements in this regard are that you should be available when I need you.’

  Praxiteles bowed in agreement, his blue eyes expressing his gratitude.

  ‘There’s no need to bow all the time, Praxiteles. If I ever fell on hard times, I would hope that someone would help me, so there is no need for all this nonsense. I’m simply grateful to have found an honest man in a strange city, so if you serve me honestly you owe me nothing more.’

  Praxiteles bowed once more and left. Myrddion raised his eyebrows questioningly at Cadoc, and his assistant grinned with his usual amusement at the follies of the world. ‘He’ll take a while to become accustomed to our ways, master, but he seems a good man. These eastern Greeks seem to bow and scrape endlessly. From what I’ve seen, you can’t buy a loaf of bread in this city without bowing to the seller as you hand over the money. I swear they are the most polite people we’ve met – they’d probably be courteous to enemies who were murdering them.’

  Without Myrddion’s knowledge, Praxiteles had already told the innkeeper that his new guests were healers, albeit pagans. As a devout Christian, the innkeeper had initially been reluctant to rent rooms to a mixed group of men and women, so Praxiteles had explained the dynamics of the healer’s extended family, emphasising the account of how Willa had come to live with them, because the innkeeper had been alarmed that a child should sleep with grown men. Once the innkeeper’s mind had been set at rest, and he had acknowledged the generosity of Myrddion in providing refuge for such a motley collection of people, Praxiteles had left the inn with an inward smile of satisfaction. The innkeeper now accepted that Myrddion was a benefactor, so given his strict moral code Praxiteles was sure that his new master would remain respected and safe.

  But no city is entirely free of crime, regardless of the firm hands that guide the reins of authority. In the darkest reaches of that night, Myrddion was woken by a hurried knocking at his door, followed by the entry of the innkeeper’s wife, a plump matron who was encased in a huge nightgown that swathed her diminutive body in yards of pink-dyed fabric. Visibly upset and trembling within her voluminous gown, she carried a potte
ry oil lamp in her left hand and was fluttering the right in anxiety.

  Half asleep, but fortunately still modestly clad, Cadoc and Myrddion tried to decipher the lady’s garbled pleas.

  ‘Come, sirs! Please come! Praxiteles has told us . . . no, that’s not important at this time . . . but if you’re a healer, and I’ve no reason to doubt Praxiteles, as he’s a good Christian and a gentleman fallen on bad luck . . . you’ll be able to discover what’s amiss with the trader. Well, if you can’t, I’m blessed if I know who can. My man is a good innkeeper, honest as the day is long, but . . . well, such injuries! . . . You understand that a violent death in our house . . . heavens, how could we explain to the law courts? Or his poor parents? You understand, I’m sure, why it’s vital . . . vital . . . that we find aid for the poor young gentleman.’

  She paused and took a deep, shuddering breath, but only because Myrddion had raised both hands in utter confusion. As the mistress of the house was speaking rapid-fire Greek much embellished with words in another language that Myrddion didn’t know, her rambling request had fallen on deaf ears.

  ‘Now, mistress. Slowly, please, because I can’t understand you if you speak too fast. Is someone hurt?’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying, sir. I’m sorry if I speak in my mother’s language, but she came from Armenia, you see, from Tripolis where I grew up. When I get excited I lapse into Armenian, although my husband says people don’t understand me even when I speak good Greek.’

  Myrddion turned to his assistant. ‘Cadoc? My satchel, please. You and Finn will probably be needed as well.’ He shrugged on an old tunic and then nodded towards the woman. ‘Show us to our patient, mistress, for time is wasting.’

  As they followed her down a dark corridor to a large room far from the public parts of the inn, the lady continued to talk . . . and talk. Myrddion discovered that the innkeeper was called Emilio and had been born in Ephesus, while her own name was Phoebe and they had five grown sons and four married daughters, as well as a number of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. As he tried to filter the mass of information she was giving him, he also learned that the inn served the needs of travellers of distinction, that the streets in this district were generally very safe and that Mistress Phoebe had a natural aversion to grapes so she must beware of wine. Myrddion was still shaking his head in confusion when she pushed open a door and ushered him in to a scene of panic and confusion.

  Even as he dragged his satchel down from his shoulder and demanded a supply of newly boiled water, Myrddion registered the fact that a middle-aged man, his face streaming with tears, was cradling a wounded youth. The landlord was standing helplessly on one side, looking pale and anxious.

  With some difficulty, Myrddion managed to persuade the older man to let go of the injured youth so that he could begin his examination.

  ‘Strip him, Cadoc. There’s blood everywhere, and I can’t see a thing.’

  Without looking up from his task, Myrddion switched to Greek. ‘What is the young man’s name, Master Emilio? He’s unconscious, but I must try to bring him back to his senses, so knowing his name will be useful.’

  ‘He is called Yusuf el Razi and he the son of a rich trader from Damascus. The older gentleman is his uncle, Ali el Kabir, who is a regular visitor to this establishment where he is an honoured guest.’

  ‘Thank you, Master Emilio. Now, some clean cloths are needed. And that water, please – and hurry, for young Yusuf is losing too much blood.’ He switched languages smoothly. ‘Finn, find the preparation of radishes, my best needles, the usual poultice and the powdered root that enriches the blood. Oh, and the oil lamp we use to sterilise the blades. Quickly, Finn, there’s blood everywhere.’

  ‘He’s been stabbed, master,’ Cadoc said crisply, as Finn left the room at a run. ‘See? He’s taken a nasty pair of wounds, one to the big muscle across the upper arm and another in the hollow of the shoulder.’

  ‘I can see them. Give me that piece of wool, please. Cut it, if necessary. Good. I’ll try to stop the bleeding now.’ He paused to collect his wits. ‘Yusuf! Yusuf! Can you hear me? You’re safe now. Can you open your eyes, Yusuf?’

  The young man was very dark and his hair was as black as Myrddion’s. His beard was still only half grown, while his skin had the smooth elasticity of youth and health. But his face had an unnatural pallor under his tan and the bluish tinge to his lips and nails suggested that he had lost too much blood to survive his wounds.

  The room was mute testimony to this fact. Blood lay in a small pool close to the bed where he was lying and the cloth over the divan was saturated. The young man’s uncle was also covered in gore and Myrddion felt a stab of regret that he might have been called too late. At least the pressure that he was exerting on the worst of the two wounds had slowed the flood to a trickle.

  ‘We should give thanks to all the gods that the assailant missed the great vein in the throat and the one leading to the heart. If he had been struck in either of those two spots, he would have bled to death within a few moments of being wounded. Where was he attacked?’

  ‘I don’t know where the poor young man took his hurt, but it wasn’t here,’ Master Emilio answered, slowly and carefully.

  ‘No. I saw the blood in the colonnade,’ his uncle explained in heavily accented Greek, his hands twisting and turning with distress. ‘I was about to discuss it with our good landlord when I saw that the trail led to Yusuf’s room. Can you save him, healer? I cannot bear to tell his father that his only son is dead.’

  ‘The boy isn’t dead yet,’ Myrddion said quickly. ‘The first obstacle has been successfully overcome. But now we must discover whether the wounds are clean. His condition is grave, but he does have youth on his side. And we have stopped the bleeding.’

  Suddenly, the room filled with a number of persons. A burly ostler carried in two pails of water, one steaming hot and the other lukewarm, while a young boy was burdened with folded cloths, a knife and several large basins. Finn arrived at the same time with a basket overflowing with Myrddion’s requirements, and he and Cadoc began to spread the healer’s equipment on a nearby table. Forceps, needles and scalpels were cleansed in the lamp flame and then washed in hot water.

  ‘Cadoc, apply continued pressure to the shoulder wound while I wash my hands. Do we have seaweed, Finn?’

  ‘Only dried, master. I brought some spirit, salt and your brush.’

  ‘Mistress Phoebe, can you find me some fresh seaweed?’

  ‘What kind, young man? Do you want broad . . .’

  Myrddion cut her off before she could describe all the various types and told her that he would accept any that she could find.

  By this time, he had scoured his hands with salt in a small basin, and was busy using the boar-bristle brush to clean his nails. Once satisfied with his ministrations, he took Cadoc’s place over the patient.

  When the pad of soaked wool was removed from the deep puncture in the shoulder, no blood flowed with the release of pressure. Myrddion grunted his satisfaction. Using forceps and clean rags, he cleaned the injury thoroughly before drizzling some of his precious spirit into the wound. Although unconscious, the young man still shrieked as the flesh bubbled and hissed from the raw alcohol.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Ali el Kabir cried. ‘Are you trying to kill him?’

  ‘I’m cleansing the wound. Please, don’t touch him. He was attacked with a short, wide blade – thanks to Fortuna.’ Myrddion had inserted a narrow probe into the wound to ascertain its depth and to determine whether any foreign object remained inside. ‘Had the blade been longer a major organ or vein would have been cut, and he’d have had no chance. Nor are there any foreign objects in the breach. You can scrub up now and clean the other wound on his upper arm. It has bled cleanly for the most part, but any infection could kill him while he is in this weakened state.’

  Cadoc obeyed smoothly, while Finn mixed up a poultice of crushed radish, garlic and the seaweed that Mistress Phoebe produced like a conju
rer, with much puffing and panting from her exertions and haste. Thank the gods she’s out of breath, Myrddion thought, otherwise, I’d not get a word in edgeways.

  The seaweed was wide-leaved and was soon cut into ribbons that were plump with moisture. Myrddion later discovered that Mistress Phoebe had collected it from the household cooks, who used it as a vegetable in certain soups. The healer silently thanked the Goddess for her intervention and ordered Finn to pulverise as much as he needed for the poultice and then flatten out the leftover ribbons so that they could be used as a base on which to smear the finished poultice. When all had been carried out to his satisfaction, the whole concoction would be placed over the open wound in Yusuf’s shoulder.

  ‘You’ll not stitch the puncture closed, master?’ Cadoc asked in Celt, his hands busy as he cleansed the slash on Yusuf’s arm.

  ‘No. I’ll want to drain the wound if an infection sets in. Any evil humours will weep out onto the dressings. I can stitch it together at a later date.’

  Yusuf was still unconscious, so with Emilio’s assistance Finn was able to wrap the young man’s shoulder and chest in the ribbons of seaweed. Then, after washing his hands once more, Myrddion turned his attention to the arm wound, which he stitched together quickly and efficiently. Finn applied another poultice and the arm was quickly bound.

  ‘He should be awake by now,’ Cadoc said, his scarred face creased in a worried frown. ‘We must have hurt him badly while we worked over him.’

  ‘Aye. But let me examine his head to see if there are any other injuries.’

  A clue revealed itself when Myrddion found a small bloodstain on Yusuf’s headdress, suggesting that the youth could have suffered a blow of some kind. The healer’s sensitive fingers soon found the knot of a nasty contusion at the base of his skull, and further examination revealed a small area of split skin in the centre of a lump.