by M. K. Hume
‘Check his eyes, Cadoc. Look for anything unusual about the pupils. Do you remember the sailor who fell on his head from the mast outside Colchis? If you recall, that man’s pupils were different sizes? Something must have bled inside his head, because he died within hours of falling. I wish now that they had permitted us to explore the man’s head wound after he died.’
Fortunately, Myrddion had spoken in Celt. Finn was certain that Yusuf’s uncle would have been disturbed if he had understood the gist of the conversation.
‘The pupils are the same size, master,’ Cadoc reported after prising open the young man’s eyelids.
‘Good. If we ask Mistress Phoebe to make up a bed for us, one of us will stay with him until any danger passes. If he improves, we’ll allow him to wake naturally.’
And so the night finished as Myrddion had decreed. It was fortunate that he couldn’t hear Mistress Phoebe’s comments on his skills, for his head would have been in danger of swelling. Phoebe praised him to everyone in the inn, speaking of his deftness, his cleanliness and the organisation of the three men who worked together as one.
‘And so nice . . . and so handsome! I’m not ashamed to say that my heart flutters when I look at him. His hair, Mistress Dorcas! But he’s no boy . . . and he gives orders like a general, even if it’s done in a heathen tongue.’
Later in the morning, Myrddion broke his fast with a gigantic meal prepared by Mistress Phoebe’s favourite cook, while the guests at the inn, the servants and various passers-by casually dropped into the public rooms to catch a glimpse of the foreign healer who had saved the life of young Yusuf el Razi. By the time Praxiteles arrived with welcome news, Myrddion and his assistants had treated a suppurating ulcer, drawn two teeth, provided a tonic for a child with colic, set a broken finger and removed a collection of warts. The healers’ funds were growing already, as was their fame, while Ali el Kabir had sworn that he would assist them in any way he could.
Several officers of the city guard arrived at the same time, to report the result of their investigation into the attack on a prominent visitor. Fortunately, the innkeeper had insisted that the blood trail should not be washed away until the authorities had examined it, so they were able to trace the blood spoor back to a house where high caste prostitutes plied their trade for discerning customers. Yusuf had been attacked and robbed when he left the warm arms of one of the brothel’s most expensive girls.
‘Stupid boy,’ Ali complained, but his voice was affectionate. ‘The priests and rabbis would be most annoyed to discover that Yusuf had acted so unwisely.’ Then he explained that Yusuf was the scion of a wealthy Syrian family who followed the Jewish faith rather than the pagan gods of the Amalekites. Finally, after giving Myrddion a purse of gold coins as an expression of his heartfelt gratitude, Ali went back to sit with Yusuf, and Myrddion was able to turn his attention to Praxiteles at last.
‘I have found Lord Cleoxenes, master. He is at the royal court, and asks that you join him tomorrow evening for a private feast of celebration after he has introduced you to the emperor and the notables of Constantinople. If these arrangements are suitable, he will send a litter at dusk tomorrow to transport you to the palace. I am to return to Lord Cleoxenes’s apartments as soon as possible and let him know your answer.’
Myrddion was elated. He thanked Praxiteles and asked him to pass on his acceptance to Cleoxenes, and then went back to treating the needy of the city. News that he would be visiting the palace on the morrow spread through the inn like wildfire, adding to his growing reputation.
The rest of that momentous day passed in a blur of patients, praise in a number of languages and regular monitoring of Yusuf, who remained in a deep, unnatural sleep. He went to his bed with a heavier purse and a sense that his journey to Constantinople had been ordained by the gods.
The next morning dawned with a glister of golden light that turned even utilitarian buildings into beautiful, romantic structures. Myrddion woke early and ran up the stairs to the flat roof so that he could watch the sunrise etch the many palm trees and other unfamiliar shrubs with pellucid light. His heart sang with joy and excitement when he contemplated the evening that lay ahead, and the only blot on his happiness was Yusuf’s deep, unchanging sleep.
Later that morning Myrddion discovered that his fame had spread even further afield. Outside in the forecourt a line of patients was waiting, and Myrddion was kept busy for hours. Emilio and his wife were quietly ecstatic at the influx of citizens who crowded the inn, for they also spent coin on cordials, juices and food while they awaited the ministrations of the healer.
‘To be called to an audience with the emperor and empress!’ Emilio chortled, as he exhorted his cooks to prepare the tasty snacks ordered by those patrons who were eager to share in the reflected glory provided by the outland healers. ‘What good news for this house! We must induce this young man to stay for as long as possible.’
‘Don’t be greedy, Emilio. Truly, the Lord God tells us to beware of vanity and the desire to enrich ourselves through the misfortune of others,’ his wife warned him, her face creased with satisfied pleasure that belied her pious warnings. ‘Besides, Master Yusuf is still gravely ill.’
Emilio’s face fell immediately. ‘You’re right, my dear. It would be a tragedy if young Yusuf were to die. His death would become a blot on the reputation of our inn.’
‘But sleep helps to heal the most terrible wounds, or so Master Myrddion assures me. He still has hopes for Yusuf’s survival.’
Ignorant of the ambitions of his hosts, Myrddion worked through the morning and added significantly to his store of coins. Then, after devouring a plate of olives, cheese and cold sliced meats, he prepared to beautify himself for the audience at the palace.
But first things first, Myrddion told himself sternly, and hurried off to check on his patient. Yusuf had finally regained consciousness and seemed much improved, although he was trying to rise from his sick bed and hurting his damaged arm in consequence.
‘If you keep moving that arm, Yusuf, you will cause your wounds to bleed and you’ve lost quite enough blood already. You could easily die if you fail to obey my instructions. I’ll put a sling on your arm to immobilise it, and if you feel better tomorrow I’ll stitch the shoulder wound and let you spend some time in the fresh air – as long as you remain in a chair. It’s that or nothing!’
Reluctantly, after Myrddion had satisfied himself that infection had not set in, Yusuf agreed to behave. His uncle vowed that the boy would not be permitted to stir, so Myrddion left his patient in the Syrian’s capable hands.
The afternoon passed quickly. Myrddion immersed himself in the baths, washing his hair thoroughly to remove the salt and smell of their voyage, and paid particular attention to his nails and hands. He relinquished several coppers for a very close shave to remove all traces of beard on his young man’s cheeks, and also paid for a rather gritty paste of charcoal and something unpleasant that guaranteed sweetness of breath. As an afterthought, trusting to older, less dubious methods, he also used a twig to clean his gums and teeth.
When he returned to the comfortable familiarity of the inn, he found that Bridie, Brangaine and Rhedyn had excelled themselves by brushing his good cloak and his tunic, washing his underwear and cleaning his boots until they shone. His earring, his sword, his grandmother’s necklace and his rings had all been cleaned and polished, although Myrddion put aside the priestess’s necklace as inappropriate for an audience, even with an emperor.
Shortly before dusk, as if conjuring a rabbit from his sleeve, Cadoc brought out a small flat box of aromatic wood and presented it to Myrddion.
‘From Ali el Kabir, master, to do you honour before the emperor and as thanks for saving young Yusuf’s life – so far, at least.’
Myrddion opened the box and saw a cloak pin of extraordinary opulence. Circular in appearance, it was made of buttery yellow gold and had a diameter of some four inches, meaning that it was very heavy. Within the circlet were set
two rows of cabochon gemstones, the outer ring of lapis lazuli and the inner of carved emeralds. The centre stone was a large piece of amber with a butterfly caught for eternity within its rich yellow depths.
‘I can’t accept this,’ Myrddion gasped. ‘This brooch is far too valuable. We’ve already been paid amply for our services.’
‘Perhaps so, master, but you’ll have to take your arguments up with Ali el Kabir, not me. One thing is certain – he will be offended if you attempt to refuse his gift. Moreover, there’s no denying it will look very well at the shoulder of your cloak.’
Suiting the action to the words, Cadoc attached the spectacular pin to the sable cloak on Myrddion’s left shoulder. The young healer was forced to admit that the garment looked far better with the addition of the jewel.
‘If you wish, you can always return it to el Kabir tomorrow,’ Cadoc suggested, ever practical. ‘But for the moment, your litter has arrived and it’s time that you were gone.’
Hustled out of the inn by his friends and with the farewells of fellow guests ringing in his ears, Myrddion found himself being hoisted up into an ornamental chair by four huge men whose skins were so black that they shone with the purple gloss of grapes. From their shaven heads to their sandaled feet, they were superb specimens of manhood. Their skins were oiled so they shone like polished agate and their white tunics seemed impossibly clean and starched by contrast. When they began to trot, bearing the gilded poles of the litter on their shoulders, Myrddion was amazed by their strength and co-ordination.
The journey was fast and smooth and a tribute to the skill of the bearers, but Myrddion was embarrassed to sit above their straining bodies. He could have drawn the curtains of the litter, but then he would have been unable to see the passing parade of men and women afoot, shopping, cleaning the streets, gardening or making their way to their own evening engagements.
As the litter approached the palace, Myrddion caught his first close view of Hagia Sophia and Hagia Eirene. He could see the long row of carved lambs, so lifelike that it seemed as if they might frolic out from the marble and crop the grass. A twisted column like his serpent staff rose up on its own plinth and he could tell that it was very ancient, hinting at religions that were far older than Christianity. Myrddion felt a thrill of something very like superstition.
Then, suddenly, they arrived.
Several wide steps led to a grandiose portico, supported by towering, fluted Corinthian columns. Guards in decorative armour, bearing a Roman eagle with spread wings embossed upon their breastplates, lined the stairs and the portico, providing a guard of honour for the guests who were arriving in litters. Unlike the foot soldiers of Rome, these men were tall and barbarian in appearance, and Myrddion remembered that Constantinople drew on a supply of healthy young men from the nearby nations of Samaria, Armenia, Thracia and Pontus. As Myrddion dismounted he thanked the bearers, who were quite puzzled by his reaction to the service they had provided. He found a number of copper coins and pressed them upon the four men, who accepted them with wide, white grins that made a sharp contrast with their wine-purple lips.
Then Cleoxenes was at his shoulder, clapping him on the back and embracing him with genuine affection. ‘Myrddion, my fine young friend! I never thought to see you again, least of all in Constantinople. So, the last of your prophecies has come to fruition and here you are. I am so pleased to see you.’
Myrddion extricated himself from his friend’s embrace and stepped back so he could take in the envoy’s splendour.
‘Gods, Cleoxenes, I swear you must look finer than the emperor himself. Even the late unlamented Aetius would have been impressed had he seen you dressed as you are today.’
Cleoxenes was certainly magnificent. Head to toe, he was dressed in rich silks that had been dyed in vivid shades of blue. His cloak, which he carried over his arm, was dark as the midnight sky, while his tunic was a cobalt shade that gave his regalia a dazzlingly clean appearance. He wore soft dyed boots that laced up to the calf and his golden arm rings were decorated with cabochon turquoise and lapis lazuli stones. Round his neck he wore a heavy golden chain with a solid gold pendant embossed with a profile of Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom. On the reverse was a depiction of an owl with tiny rubies for its eyes.
Under his friend’s amused gaze, Cleoxenes blushed and then began to laugh. ‘You think I’m dressed up like a Roman whore, don’t you, my young friend? Don’t deny it. But in Constantinople, this dress is considered conservative. Wait and see. You’re positively funereal in your choice of clothing, so you’ll cause quite a stir among the notables. Now I come to look at you, you’re sporting more jewels than I am, and some of them are quite fine. That pin is damascene, isn’t it?’
Myrddion nodded, confused by the unfamiliar term but trusting to Cleoxenes’s greater knowledge. While they were talking they had climbed the stairs and passed between the huge, bronze-studded doors that were flung wide to allow entry for invited guests. Just inside, while Myrddion marvelled at the wonders of the tessellated floor, two guards relieved the waiting aristocrats of their weaponry in the way of all courts. Myrddion handed over his great-grandfather’s sword without demur, although he demanded an assurance that the weapon would be returned.
The large anteroom inside the doors was gorgeously decorated with wall frescoes and mosaics of great naturalness and intricacy. Myrddion found himself gawping like a bucolic at the beautiful fabrics, the gemstones, the decorated tables and stools, and the sheer wealth of glass goblets and wine jugs of beaten gold that adorned the melee of courtiers and were treated with casual disregard. When a woman with an exaggeratedly curled headdress dropped a goblet of wine onto the floor and the precious glass shattered into glittering shards, Myrddion sucked in his breath with shock. A peasant family in Segontium could have lived for years on the value of that goblet. The woman looked accusingly at a servant who had come running to clean up the mess as if he was responsible for the wine stains on her elaborate robe.
Myrddion and Cleoxenes chatted idly, while a number of perfumed and gorgeous men of all ages joined them, ostensibly to renew their acquaintance with the envoy, but covertly studying Myrddion, who was fully aware of their curiosity. The gilded gentlemen were surprised at the purity of his Latin and were fascinated to hear his first-hand accounts of Flavius Aetius, Attila’s meeting with Pope Leo and the situation in Rome. These aristocrats had rarely travelled to the west, for they preferred the more stable political conditions of Constantinople, but they were interested in the murder of Flavius Aetius and alarmed by the rapid decline of the social structure of Rome. Myrddion found his opinion sought by any number of influential gentlemen who marvelled at his youth, considering the vast distances the lad had covered to reach the Eastern Empire.
The healer suppressed his initial distrust of men who were overly concerned with dress and ornamentation, once he realised that every courtier in the anteroom was competing to be the most elaborately garbed. His quick eyes discovered that smooth arms were bronzed and powerful under their golden bracelets, and clean-shaven faces were strong-jawed regardless of the occasional application of cosmetics. Myrddion was still very young, and he had yet to lose some of his provincial misconceptions about how men comported themselves. He was a little embarrassed that he had considered the courtiers to be foppish and decadent merely on the evidence of their dress.
He was also embarrassed by the many covert glances from noble ladies of all ages, who clustered together to talk behind hand-painted fans and to giggle at each other’s comments on his face and figure. The aristocrats here are just as rude and vulgar as high-born people anywhere, he thought acidly. There’s no real difference between nobility from different parts of the world, only the languages they speak and the affectations they adopt.
Then, with a fanfare and a sudden movement of the notables towards another set of brazen doors, the audience with the emperor began. Cleoxenes nudged Myrddion and the two men made their way to the back of the crowd. The doors
leading to the emperor’s apartment opened with a flourish to reveal a small dais at the far end of the room, on which Emperor Marcian sat in state beside his wife, Pulcheria, the sister of the deceased emperor Theodosius.
The emperor was a man in his middle sixties, and illnesses suffered when he was a tribune and, later, when he was taken prisoner by the Vandals had left their mark on his long, large-nosed face. Rumour insisted that Flavius Ardabur Aspar, his magister militum, had engineered his rise to the throne after the death of Theodosius. Despite the emperor’s negligible appearance, Myrddion felt a brief flicker of curiosity as he examined the lean, avian face with its muddy, greying complexion. Marcian was beardless, and wore what was left of his hair in long, curled locks that fell to his shoulders, aping youth, a look that was assisted by a series of suspicious curls that marched across his forehead beneath his domed crown.
Are men in Constantinople so vain as to wear wigs? Myrddion wondered. Probably. Especially if old age has wearied the flesh and the crown weighs heavily on an ageing arthritic neck.
Beside him, his wife was dressed in a robe that was so heavy with gold thread and seed pearls that she looked like a small idol. The enormous headdress, which added considerably to Empress Pulcheria’s height, was obviously a wig, for her face below the tortured russet curls was far too raddled for hair of such an improbable colour. Unlike her husband, who appeared quite meek, Empress Pulcheria seemed comfortable as she called the courtiers into her presence with an imperious wave of her hand. Like her husband, whom she had chosen on the death of her brother six years earlier, she had an almost skeletal face in which forehead, cheekbones, nose and chin were extremely prominent and proud.
Another man stood in the shadows of the throne in such a position that Myrddion could barely see his features.
‘Who’s the aristocrat in grey?’ he hissed in Cleoxenes’s ear. ‘He stands very close to the throne, so he must be a favourite of the emperor.’
