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

by M. K. Hume

  ‘But we must not harm the sufferers of injury or illness in our care when we have the means to help them. Healers are obligated to do everything in their power to make patients well, not watch them while they die.’

  ‘Oh, I’d far rather be treated by you, Myrddion, than by Isaac or his ilk, regardless of his skill.’ Cleoxenes allowed the topic to lapse. Then he leaned forward, gripped Myrddion’s arm and forced the young man to listen to him.

  ‘You have a far larger problem than arguments about healer ethics. I can understand the temptation to strike Aspar where it hurts, but you don’t know the man with whom you’re dealing. In the last decade or so, he has used his religion as an excuse to defend his manipulative nature. He is a king-maker and has been the power behind the throne for over thirty years. He has dominated the emperors of the east for most of his life and wields power beyond our understanding.’

  ‘I don’t care how powerful he is. If I could, I would strike him publicly for his treatment of my mother,’ Myrddion snapped. Obviously, the healer was still seething with resentment.

  ‘For anyone with eyes to see, namely Aspar himself, you made your sentiments perfectly plain. Unfortunately, you are not in a position to negotiate with him, or threaten him with any semblance of impunity. I myself am always careful in my dealings with the magister militum.’

  Myrddion stared at Cleoxenes. Rarely did the sophisticated aristocrat show any strong emotion, being usually almost preternaturally calm. ‘I don’t understand, Cleoxenes. What can he do to me?’

  ‘Must I elaborate?’ Cleoxenes frowned irritably. ‘He can have you killed in secret. Why not? Who cares about one more missing outlander? Really, you are being quite naive.’

  Myrddion’s jaw dropped for a moment before he snapped it closed again. Of course, fathers also killed their sons in Britain. Vortigern, in particular, would have murdered all of his sons, if he could have. Like Cronos, who devoured his children, powerful Roman noblemen often went to great lengths to remove a younger rival. But until Cleoxenes had mentioned it, Myrddion had never considered that he was imperilling himself, or his friends, by his intemperate actions.

  ‘What do you really want of Aspar, Myrddion?’ Cleoxenes asked. ‘Really?’

  ‘To . . . to . . . be acknowledged, so that he admits that he caused harm to me and to mine.’

  ‘And do you think he will?’ Cleoxenes was inexorable.

  Myrddion examined his hands and the sun ring that his busy fingers turned and turned. He sighed, and a world of self-knowledge was in that exhalation of breath. ‘No. He won’t do that. He’d be a fool to acknowledge me in any way. After seeing him, I have no doubt that he also has legitimate sons.’

  The finality in the young man’s voice comforted Cleoxenes. Perhaps the whole game of cat and mouse at the palace would pass unnoticed.

  The two friends talked into the early hours of the morning, for although twenty years separated them in age both were contemplative in nature, and both were natural observers. Art, music and even the games in Rome and Constantinople were discussed, although the Eastern Empire rarely needed to descend to such barbaric methods to appease the population. Cleoxenes agreed that watching men fighting to the death for pleasure was reprehensible, but as a citizen of a society that sanctioned murder and war as entertainment he was inured to the idea, although he had vowed never to attend these entertainments himself. Myrddion sighed again. It was very difficult for anyone to resist the pressures of a world that had nurtured him, even for the best of men.

  Cleoxenes and Myrddion parted company as good friends do – conscious that each had flaws, but able to accept the weaknesses as well as the strengths that existed in the other.

  The next day, the three healers rose early for their impromptu surgery in the forecourt of the inn in the hope that they could keep the queue of patients to a minimum. Myrddion felt guilty that his absence in the afternoon had denied care to sufferers, but Cadoc pointed out that Constantinople had many other healers and he was simply a novelty. The citizens were coming to see the young men from beyond the fabled Pillars of Hercules rather than have their medical conditions diagnosed and evaluated.

  ‘They’re just curious, master. Boils, toothache, warts, cuts and bruises? None are fatal illnesses. They really only want to see you.’

  ‘I don’t like us being compared with market-place animals,’ Myrddion complained.

  ‘Well, we are,’ Cadoc grumbled. ‘But I must say that Constantinople seems a beautiful place to be on show, so I plan to enjoy the circus.’

  Before their labours began, the three young men wandered through the market place and along the broad avenues. There was so much to see, to taste and to experience. The sun shone brightly with only a tiny sting in its heat, while the skies seemed wider, deeper and vaster than the dense, soft-grey skies of their homeland. From high points of land, they could see how the Propontis stretched away in dark blue waves, broken by small squares and triangles of coloured sail.

  Finn bought a tiny manikin of bone, carved and dressed to represent a woman, as a gift for Bridie. The three healers were amazed at the skills represented in the market place, and Myrddion felt the coins in the pouch at his waist weigh heavily. Then, on a far stall, he saw a shimmer of glass and decided to take a closer look.

  The stallholder specialised in glassware, so fewer people clustered around his expensive products. The array of gorgeous shapes, decorated and stamped to represent grapes or profiles of the emperor, glittered with a special brilliance in the morning sun. Although the stallholder frowned above his huge moustache, Myrddion stretched out his hand to stroke the surfaces. Then he saw the glass jars.

  Compared with the other wares, these jars were plain, coarse things, clear in colour and rough in manufacture, and obviously moulded for domestic usage. They were approximately twelve inches high and six inches across the base, with a wide, open top and a rolled edge. Myrddion was fascinated. Already, he could picture his herbs, tinctures and specimens stored in those jars, so clear that the contents could be seen at a glance.

  ‘Those jars . . . how much are they?’

  The crafty eyes of the artisan scanned Myrddion’s eager face before he set a figure so enormous that the healer gasped and turned away in feigned rejection. Quickly and smoothly, Cadoc took his place.

  ‘Sir, your jars are very dusty, so it is obvious to me that you’ve had them for some time. My master admires them, but he can be soft in the head, because we both know that they are the simplest and cheapest glass that you make. Am I not right?’

  The stallholder protested loudly and volubly with much waving of animated hands. His moustache managed to look aggrieved and insulted by turn as Praxiteles translated Cadoc’s astute observations.

  ‘What were they really for, hey? Were they a commission that went wrong? We lived in Rome for several years and I’m not as green as grass like my master. I’m curious and I’ve got no coin to spend, but my master usually takes my advice on matters of the purse.’

  Cadoc grinned engagingly despite his scars and winked at the stallholder, who tried to look offended at first, then grinned in turn.

  ‘You’re right, young sir. A high-born lady ordered jars for her kitchens, although why she should bother surprised me at the time. She had more servants than fingers and toes. When the jars were finished, she decided that they were plain things and without merit, so she refused to take them. Stupid cow! Glass containers are too precious for household items. In truth, she probably changed her mind and simply left me to carry the loss.’

  Even in Constantinople, common people nurtured a healthy disrespect for their masters, regardless of how low they bowed or how polite their words might sound. Praxiteles grinned knowingly and translated the glassmaker’s statements carefully. Cadoc’s reply was predictable.

  ‘So you’re stuck with them, right? All of them. Who’s going to buy glass jars for storage? You’d be better off smashing them for reuse in your furnaces. Is that true?’


  ‘No! No! No! My price was fair,’ the stallholder protested.

  ‘Yes! Yes! Yes! You tried to cheat my master,’ Cadoc retorted. ‘My master will now spend his gold coins on something useless such as carpets or golden jewellery, when my tasks for him would be far easier if he had purchased your jars. We might be from Britain – which I dare say you’ve never heard of – but my master is a healer of renown called Myrddion Emrys. Ask after him at the emperor’s palace, if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘So? Is it better that I should break and grind these jars for reuse of the material, as you say? Or should I sell them to you for a silly price?’

  The stallholder smiled, finally showing a flash of genuine feeling and not the glib, easy patter of the market place. Praxiteles sensed a weakening in his argument, as did Cadoc, and the two men had to hide triumphant grins.

  ‘I could have used them,’ Cadoc whispered to the man. ‘You’ve no notion how many mushrooms, chopped basil, rosemary, rue, lavender, mandrake, henbane, et cetera, et cetera, I have to find in a moment among our pottery jars. And my master always wants it immediately, like all masters. Glass jars would have been so very useful. Ah, well! You’ll no doubt find another buyer, for all of them – one day.’ Cadoc grinned wickedly as Praxiteles translated accurately, right down to the pregnant pause.

  The stallholder was a pragmatist. Some coin is always better than no coin at all, so Myrddion found himself the owner of a score of glass jars for a tenth of the original asking price. What was more, the stallholder was perfectly prepared to transport the jars to the healer’s inn, without a delivery charge, payment to be made in cash on delivery.

  Below his elation, Myrddion was alarmed. ‘I don’t like to cheat a man out of his legitimate profits, Cadoc, no matter how much I long to possess those jars.’

  ‘What is glass, master? It’s mostly sand, right? And the world has more than enough of that, all for free. He would have made an enormous profit out of the aristocratic lady if she hadn’t thought better of her whim. But, let’s face it, master, who else was he going to sell them to, if not to us? He’s happy. We’re happy. And the world is good.’

  With this homespun wisdom Myrddion was forced to agree, and his heart lifted with the thrill of his wonderful find.

  And as the weeks passed profitably, the only blot on Myrddion’s horizon was the lack of any word from Flavia. To all intents and purposes, she had vanished into Constantine’s city as if she had never existed.

  One day, after a strange lunch eaten piecemeal from market stalls, the three healers returned to the inn to find a messenger irritably cooling his heels. Myrddion insisted on washing off the dirt of their morning jaunt and checking on the condition of young Yusuf, who was almost healed, before he was prepared to listen to what the messenger had to say. When he came back, the messenger wiped his face clean of stormy exasperation and began to recount his memorised tidings.

  ‘Greetings to Myrddion Emrys, healer, of Segontium, from his honour the magister Militum of all Constantinople and its lands, Flavius Ardabur Aspar. My lord begs that you will accept an invitation to wait upon him next week, to break bread with him and to learn something that is to your advantage.’

  The messenger bowed deeply and waited patiently for an answer.

  Do I go? Myrddion thought furiously. I would be walking into Aspar’s territory and that, on the face of it, would be crazy. For my own safety, I’ll need someone with me who can ostensibly be my witness and translator. But whom can I use? Anyone I choose will be placed in danger.

  But not if they know nothing, Myrddion answered himself inwardly.

  ‘Of course,’ Myrddion whispered aloud. ‘Of course! I will beg the magister Militum’s indulgence and take an interpreter in case my skills fail me.’

  He turned back to the messenger. ‘Wait here and I’ll re-join you shortly.’

  Once Ali el Kabir had been found and the situation had been explained to him, Myrddion returned to the magister militum’s messenger with a polite acceptance of Aspar’s invitation. Ali el Kabir had not hesitated. If this outland healer needed his presence, then he would comply. His family owed the young man a debt that could never be repaid, for Myrddion had informed him that Yusuf would almost certainly live and have full use of his arm.

  The intervening week passed uneventfully, with work, visits to various places of interest and another audience at the palace. Cleoxenes had warned Myrddion that Marcian was probably motivated more by curiosity than by medical need, but the young healer was still looking forward to meeting the empress’s healer, the Ishmaelite. Although several weeks had passed since the original invitation, Myrddion understood that kings live to different time patterns from ordinary men, so he wasn’t offended by the long wait.

  Unaware that he was being singularly honoured, Myrddion was escorted by armed guards to the emperor’s private apartments, where Marcian awaited his arrival. The emperor was accompanied by a lean, swarthy man dressed in garb that seemed more suited to the southern lands of shifting sands and terrible heat than to Marcian’s palace. His white, flowing robes and burnous were ideal for counteracting the extreme conditions of the desert. Myrddion grinned as he considered how differently the two healers were dressed.

  ‘Myrddion Emrys, you have come,’ the emperor exclaimed, rather unnecessarily, as he rested on the edge of his sumptuous bed. ‘I suppose you want to poke and prod me, like Eleazar here?’

  Marcian was dressed in a simple robe of indigo linen, so a physical examination would be relatively easy. Eleazar, who was an Amalekite, stood to one side of the emperor’s bed and watched sardonically as Myrddion lifted Marcian’s eyelids and peered into the emperor’s rather yellowish eyes. He noted the grey tinge to the old man’s complexion and, with an apology, placed his hand over the emperor’s heart, frowning as he felt the heart stutter irregularly under his sensitive fingers.

  After a few more questions and a measured observation of the emperor’s laboured breathing, Myrddion hazarded a diagnosis.

  ‘Your heart skips a beat occasionally and it is a little rapid, my lord. I am sure my respected colleague has told you as much.’

  Eleazar nodded with a slight smile.

  ‘I have observed that the heart can grow old faster than the rest of the body, and when this occurs the lungs weaken and sap the patient’s strength. I would suggest, your highness, that you avoid too much wine, because it exacerbates the problem. Also, your eyes indicate that you have internal problems, so you would do well to avoid prolonged periods of heavy exercise. A little walking, however, is always good for the circulation. You must avoid rich foods, too much sweetener and very large meals. Finally, you must rest for several hours every afternoon, and sleep in a propped-up position with pillows behind your back.’

  Marcian almost pouted at the thought of all the rich foods that were barred to him. ‘Do you also want me to live like a priest, healer? Eleazar has already pronounced that I must rest and live an abstemious life.’

  ‘Better to live like a priest than die before your time,’ the Amalekite stated baldly, and Myrddion’s innate honesty forced him to nod in agreement.

  A little more time was spent as Eleazar and Myrddion decided on the most effective tonic to prescribe to their patient, after which Myrddion was presented with a gold coin bearing the emperor’s profile by a rather sour Marcian. The audience was over.

  The rest of the week passed slowly and tediously, although Myrddion fretted because there was still no news from Flavia. Heartsick, he was certain that he had been supplanted, and he tried hard not to imagine the red-haired witch in the arms of another man. Regardless of his efforts, jealousy seared him, and only the approaching meeting with his father, Flavius Ardabur Aspar, distracted the young healer’s mind.

  One surprising incident served to briefly lift Myrddion’s flagging spirits. A patient came to the inn, a hawk-nosed trader from far to the south who was suffering from a persistent cough that disturbed his rest. As Myrddion prescribed a cleansin
g tonic for Finn to prepare for the merchant, he noticed a curious, leaf-shaped knife hanging from the patient’s belt. Suddenly, Myrddion’s fingers recalled the blade picked into the stone of the Giant’s Dance, and his previous recognition of the Phoenician knife. His curiosity was piqued.

  ‘Praxiteles, my friend, could you ask the gentleman if he would allow me to examine his knife?’ he asked softly.

  When the weapon was handed to him, hilt first, the young healer saw that the blade was identical to the ancient carving.

  ‘Could you ask the trader if he would tell me the place that he calls home, and who his people are? Is he Phoenician?’

  Praxiteles spoke quickly to the merchant in a strange tongue, and the trader responded just as rapidly as he resheathed his weapon.

  ‘Yes, he is a Phoenician, master, and he hails from Tyre on the edge of the Middle Sea. His people are great sailors and traders who have travelled throughout the waters and beyond. Or so he boasts,’ Praxiteles reported doubtfully.

  As if Fortuna’s wheel had once again begun to move in earnest, Myrddion sensed that fate was closing the circles of his life and proffering the answers that he had sought for many years. He sighed as he contemplated the future.

  ‘Give him my thanks, and explain that his people once reached my land, which lies beyond the Pillars of Hercules. Express my gratitude, for he has solved a mystery that has eluded me for many years.’

  CHAPTER XXII

  THE SINS OF THE FATHER

  Gorlois was riding to Sorviodunum from his summer palace at Isca Dumnoniorum when he chose to detour to the Giant’s Dance. Time after time, he had seen the huge and ancient monument from a distance, for the route to Venta Belgarum passed close by the enigmatic circle of stones, cradled within the huge mounds that surrounded them. He had never examined the Dance closely before, deeming it to belong to the ancient, barbaric time before his people had travelled across the Litus Saxonicum from Armorica.

  The last years had been difficult for Gorlois and his beautiful wife. Beside Ygerne’s miscarriage, their younger daughter, Morgause, had married Lot, the powerful king of the Otadini tribe who ruled the fertile lands between the two fortified walls in the distant north. Ygerne had wept inconsolably at being parted from Morgause, although the vain and self-willed girl was often a trial. Almost immediately, Morgause had fallen pregnant and had borne a son, while the tyranny of distance had prevented the new grandparents from meeting their first grandson.