Prophecy: Web of Deceit (Prophecy 3)

by M. K. Hume

  When he spoke, he revealed yellowed fangs and several missing teeth, especially in the front of his mouth. Myrddion noted the ridged scar tissue on the man’s knuckles and swiftly concluded that this thug loved to fight.

  ‘I’m Hrothnar of Dubris, master of the docks, and you owe me a gold coin for landing.’ The large man grinned as a small group of shifty dockworkers moved into position behind him. ‘Pay up, my fine cockerel, and I’ll guarantee your women will go untouched.’

  Myrddion sneered back at the hulking brute with a contemptuous twitch of his lips. ‘Is this the way that Dubris greets travellers, Hrothnar?’ He smiled as he waited for the big man to make an aggressive movement against them. ‘What law permits you to levy these ridiculous charges?’

  ‘It’s not a charge – it’s a donation to the poor workers of the docks. And it’s your choice if you pay or not, but three men won’t stop us from taking what is ours to confiscate. What have you got that’s so precious, I wonder.’

  Myrddion continued to smile reasonably, but he felt his slow anger eating away at his common sense, and he bit his lip to mitigate his rising fury.

  ‘Beware, Hrothnar of Dubris, for I have friends in high places.’

  ‘You? You’re a damned Celt! No matter how fine your clothes might be, you’re nothing but a stinking, Rome-loving shit-eater like the rest of your cowardly tribe. What are you going to do that would stop us taking what we want from those packs of yours?’

  Little Willa began to cry at the raised voices, so Brangaine rummaged in a nearby pack and produced a small cake, drenched and sticky with honey. The lout barely spared the widow a glance, which was foolish, for Praxiteles saw her palm one of her master’s scalpels in her right hand.

  ‘I have served many kings. Among them were High King Vortigern of the Britons, King Merovech of the Frankish lands and King Theodosius of the Visigoths, and I am owed a debt of honour by your thane, Hengist, who carves a kingdom out of the northern lands of Britain. You would be foolish to presume that I, Myrddion Merlinus, or my companions, are harmless.’

  Myrddion had difficulty framing the prideful words with their necessary disdain for lesser mortals, but if he read his adversary correctly, Hrothnar would only be dissuaded from violence if he feared personal repercussions. Unfortunately, greed was too powerful an incentive for the thug.

  ‘Hengist is far away, and he grows old and weak in the north, Myrddion whoever-you-are. I’ve not heard of you, young cock. But you will hand over a gold coin, or I’ll take everything you’ve got.’

  ‘Not easily,’ Finn said softly, and drew his sword. Praxiteles produced a stout club from beneath his cloak and Myrddion hefted his serpent staff.

  ‘Oh, I’m so frightened!’ Hrothnar scoffed, beginning to move forward with five of his thugs spread out behind him. He was swinging a leather tube filled with sand, a deadly and effective weapon in knowledgeable hands. The weighted sap hissed through the air as Hrothnar swung it with the proficiency of much practice.

  But it never reached its target. The Saxon had chosen to attack Myrddion because he was the leader and seemed to be the weakest among the men in his party, but Myrddion had been underestimated by many adversaries. The serpent staff, purchased at Marathon, was swung in a backhanded movement that caught the lout squarely on the side of his jaw. By luck rather than good management, the blow connected with sufficient force to fell Hrothnar like a slaughtered ox.

  With their leader lying insensible on the ground, his followers continued to move forward threateningly in the belief that five men were more than enough to smother any opposition. Perhaps this assumption would have proved to be correct, but Brangaine sensed their distraction and leapt off the pile of baggage with a blood-curdling, tribal scream. She slashed at the foremost bully with the scalpel she had palmed and the razor-sharp tool caught him across the arm, slashing through cloth, skin and muscle as if it were slicing its way through butter.

  As he stared foolishly at the sudden rush of blood that began to gush down his arm, the man was easily knocked unconscious by Praxiteles’s club, while Finn advanced towards the four remaining thugs with eyes that were reddening with rage. As they saw the blood pouring from their felled accomplices, the louts wavered in their attack and then, confused by the speed at which their fortunes had been reversed, they turned and took to their heels, leaving Hrothnar and his bleeding companion to their fates.

  Myrddion sighed and turned to Finn. ‘See if you can find someone in charge to arrest these two idiots. They obviously practise their trade on any newcomers who arrive at the docks.’

  Wary of reprisals, he scrutinised the wooden wharves for further danger, but none of the sailors, traders or merchants showed the slightest interest in the small, bloody battle that had taken place. Here, wise men walked abroad with their eyes closed. ‘It’s obvious that there’s no rule of law in Dubris. I’m beginning to wish we had wings to spirit us out of here.’

  Finn returned, but without any person of authority. With an expressive shrug of his shoulders, he explained that various thanes controlled different sectors of the city, and these lords would need to know whom Hrothnar served and what his normal duties were before they could take any action against the two wounded captives. Hrothnar was a citizen of the city, and the party of healers had no standing in this new, lawless community.

  ‘We are unlikely to see these scum placed into any sort of custody, so they feel safe to prey on strangers,’ Finn explained. ‘Dubris is much changed since we were last here, master, and the Celts have abandoned the town and its administration to the Saxon traders. To add to my frustration, I barely understood what anyone said. The languages spoken here are quite different from the Frankish tongues.’

  ‘There are superficial differences, but I understood Hrothnar well enough, and heaven knows what race could lay claim to him.’ Myrddion frowned with irritation. ‘What are we supposed to do with these beauties?’ He thought briefly, shrugged, and began to hunt for his satchel. ‘Brangaine, do we have any clean water in our flasks?’ he asked. Used to his eccentricities, she nodded. ‘Good. Then find some clean cloth and we’ll attend to their bumps and bruises.’

  Now that Myrddion had decided on a course of action, he turned and spoke over his shoulder to Finn and Praxiteles. ‘Keep an eye on our sleeping beauties while I stitch them up, although why we should repair them so the damned idiots can rob other respectable travellers is more than I can fathom.’

  Grumbling like an old man, the healer cleansed and stitched two broken heads and one slashed forearm. He had barely finished when Hrothnar began to stir, his hands swatting ineffectually at the empty air. When he came to his senses, Myrddion dragged the wharf rat unceremoniously to his feet. The man was heavy and the stink of his body odour made the other flinch.

  ‘I neglected to tell you that we are healers, Hrothnar, not that you’d have cared while you were robbing us. However, no matter how harmless our group of travellers might seem, we couldn’t have journeyed through the strife and warfare we have seen in the land of the Franks without being able to protect ourselves. If I were you, Hrothnar, I’d consider another trade if you want to survive to make old bones. Or learn to see beyond superficial appearances.’

  Hrothnar tried to focus his blurred vision while keeping his aching head perfectly still. His green eyes were puzzled and almost childlike. ‘Why haven’t you killed us? Why have you stitched my head? I could still turn on you before you have an opportunity to leave Dubris.’

  Myrddion grinned ruefully, for Hrothnar was correct in his analysis. A party containing three women and two children, one of whom was a babe in arms, was vulnerable while travelling through narrow, dangerous streets.

  ‘If you can understand the meaning of what I am about to explain, you may learn something that is of lasting value to you. As healers, we are duty bound by our oaths to our profession. Those who perform our trade swear to do no harm to others, even to persons who threaten our safety. I am obliged to repair the dam
age I have done to you, so you can have no reason to fear us. Nor will you suffer any ill effects from your attempts at extortion, although we have served in the armies of great and ruthless men. We have stood in blood to our ankles as we plied our craft, and we’ve learned from bitter experience the tricks that are needed to protect ourselves from armed enemies. Now, collect your friend and leave us in peace.’

  Hrothnar stared blankly at Myrddion as he tried to puzzle out the underlying motives behind the healer’s generosity. Harsh experience had taught him that strength and brutality filled his belly, rather than dispensing mercy or kindness. He knew that the healers could have cut their throats while they were unconscious, and he was certain that he would have removed any fallen opponents in just this fashion. So, in lawless Dubris, that the healers should allow their captives to depart seemed madness . . . unless there was a deeper purpose at work.

  As if reading Hrothnar’s mind, Myrddion replied by throwing the lout’s leather purse, which had been dislodged from his belt when he fell, back at him. Hrothnar caught it awkwardly with one hand and hefted its weight. The coins were still in place.

  ‘Why?’ Hrothnar muttered thickly. ‘To be blunt, you have us at your mercy. It would have been easy for you to keep my money and refuse to give it back to me, yet you’ve returned it in full. I don’t understand you, Myrddion Merlinus.’

  Puzzled, Finn also gaped at Myrddion in surprise. At the very least, Hrothnar’s purse would have recompensed the healers for the inconvenience that the man had caused.

  ‘If I kept your money, I’d also be a common thief,’ Myrddion retorted grimly. ‘Just like you.’

  For the first time, Hrothnar replied with a cynical approximation of humour. ‘No, you’re not a thief like me, are you? But you are something odd and dangerous, so I’m beginning to wonder just what you are.’

  ‘I know nothing about you, Hrothnar, or what has driven you to earn your bread by a brutal and vicious trade, but I’ve learned much about the world during my travels, especially of its cruelty and the hardships it places on the poor. Once again, Hrothnar, I hope you’ll benefit from this experience and trouble us no more.’

  Hrothnar remained silent, for the young healer puzzled and confused him. This young man was either a fool or very dangerous. In either case, Hrothnar wanted nothing more to do with the healer or his party. As he struggled to lift his companion, he bowed his head to replicate a respectful, obsequious nod. Silently, he hefted his unconscious confederate over one shoulder and turned to trudge away, while around him the bustle of the docks swirled and scuttled along as if nothing had happened.

  Cadoc returned before noon with a lugubrious face and two wagons, one of which was driven by a bluff young Saxon whose accent was so broad that even Myrddion had difficulty understanding much that he said. The reason for Cadoc’s dismay was immediately obvious.

  Oxen!

  A single, dun-coloured horse was tethered at the rear of the leading wagon, but the beasts between the traces were huge brown oxen with brass-tipped, sawn-down horns and dull eyes. Cadoc loathed oxen because they were slow, stupid and difficult to master. In emergencies, they had only one pace, regardless of how harshly whips were applied, and the time required to turn them could be fatal if the wagons were under attack. Even Myrddion, who was unbiased, disliked travelling behind a team of oxen as their broad hooves stirred up a fug of dust.

  ‘Would you credit that horses seem to have vanished from Dubris? The best I could muster was this spavined creature from a Dumnonii trader who needed extra funds to return home. The Celts are deserting Dubris in hordes, but there’s no lack of migrating northerners eager to take their places.’

  ‘Aye, Cadoc, we’ve already established that the docks here are more dangerous than those of Ostia, and I thought that was bad,’ Finn added. ‘I’ve dreamed of home every step of the way from Constantinople, and now that we’re here, home is stranger and more threatening than most of the outlandish places we’ve been to.’

  ‘Let’s get out of this foul place.’ Myrddion sighed gustily. ‘I can’t believe that six years have wrought so many changes in Britain. We’ve seen the movement of the tribes in Gaul and we know from first-hand experience what violence has filled the void created by the Roman retreat. Somehow, I never expected to find it here, in Britain, so we’ve missed astonishing changes during our wanderings.’

  ‘Nothing much of benefit to the people has happened, master, and that’s for certain,’ Cadoc grunted as he climbed down from the primitive, poorly constructed wagon, which lacked even the refinement of leather covers. ‘Look at this thing! Even the wheels are made of wood. Remember those metal rims on the wagons in Rome?’

  ‘We’re not in Rome now,’ Finn snapped back unnecessarily.

  ‘I have a strong desire to see broad skies and breathe clean air,’ Myrddion muttered under his breath. ‘Let’s dust Dubris off our backs as soon as possible.’

  With the economy of long practice, the healers packed the wagons. They were conscious of the hard, envious inspection of the watching dockworkers so, nervous of further interference by footpads and thieves, the men worked with dispatch. As they laboured, Praxiteles asked numerous questions about the size and quality of Britain’s largest port, and the healers felt a certain embarrassment as they compared grubby little Dubris with the wonders of Constantinople.

  Once they had loaded the wagons and climbed aboard, the crack of Cadoc’s long whip urged the oxen into grudging movement. And so, with Praxiteles driving the other wagon and Myrddion riding the dun-coloured horse, the journey through Dubris began. The evidence of wide-sweeping and destructive change was all around them and Myrddion, with his new sophistication, told himself that this shift was the way of the world, as natural as rain or sunshine.

  Nevertheless, these fresh scars on his homeland caused him pain. Even the smaller temples had been stripped of stone, while vandals had toppled whole columns in many buildings so that Myrddion could see the clever engineering that had pegged the sections together. Mute, and yet eloquent, naked plinths reminded him that gods of marble had once stood here and blessed the citizens of Dubris with peace and plenty.

  ‘All things change,’ Myrddion whispered aloud in a vain attempt at self-persuasion. ‘To stay still is to rot and die.’

  Then the forum hove into view and the entire party was silenced by its complete ruination. Even more poignant were the ragged children who played with shards of marble in the weak spring sunshine. Like young animals, they were tormenting a starving dog by tossing pieces of stone at it. The poor creature attempted to slink away through a forest of columns, but the children pursued it, screaming with excitement. Across the wide road, the roofless remains of the baths still sported slimy green water within the calidarium, where more ragged children were tossing stones into the scummed depths. Myrddion had bathed here only six years earlier, and now . . .? Stone and wood had been dragged away by the immigrants to create makeshift structures on the edges of the city.

  A brightly coloured object caught Myrddion’s attention from the centre of a thick growth of thistles that were flourishing between slabs of cracked marble paving. Without thinking, he leapt from his horse and thrust aside the spiky foliage to retrieve a fragment of carved and painted marble. He raised it like a trophy and his companions were able to identify his discovery.

  A carved marble hand, painted brick red to simulate tanned flesh, raised an index finger imperiously towards the sky. Miraculously, the fingers remained unbroken. A carved ring on the pointing finger had been painted blue and captured the light as if it were a true gem, rather than a mere simulacrum.

  ‘Perhaps it came from a statue of a god? Or it might have been part of a dedication to an emperor or a noble senator. No matter, for it’s now as dead as its owner, or the Roman Dubris we passed through on our way to Constantinople. There is no point in mourning the peaceful days that fled during our absence.’

  Still, despite his rational acceptance of the natural and o
rganic nature of change, Myrddion stroked the marble hand and asked Brangaine to care for it until he had time to examine it more closely. Equally reverently, Brangaine found a strip of waste cloth and wrapped the hand carefully, as if it belonged to a man who still lived and regretted the loss of his amputated flesh.

  As the travellers passed through the city, hard-eyed men stared at them and recognised something Celt in their plaited forelocks and antique jewellery. But the healers had become hardened and strong from years of travelling, so they carried with them a faint aura of danger that silenced the sullen men and their tall, angular wives. Only the children were either courageous or careless enough to shout insults that followed the wagons through the streets.

  ‘Smelly Celts! Cowardly dogs! Run away home to your smelly huts.’

  ‘Where are your Roman friends now?’ a blonde woman screamed from the steps of a small theatre, as she suckled a child at a brown-nippled breast. ‘They’ve all scurried away, so you’d better hurry after them to the bastard Ambrosius.’

  She shut her mouth eventually when Myrddion drew his huge Celtic sword and rested it across his saddle. With unerring accuracy, she spat at the feet of his horse. The healer stared straight ahead and ignored the woman and the pack of small boys and youths that ran after them.

  ‘We’ll soon need supplies, master,’ Cadoc shouted back to his leader without turning his head. The ever-prudent servant was careful not to lift his eyes from the road while they were passing through enemy territory.

  ‘Speak in Latin, Cadoc,’ Myrddion replied sharply. ‘There’s no need to advertise that we have money.’

  ‘Aye! But we still need supplies – and that soft spot between my shoulder blades is itching. These streets are full of hidden eyes.’

  ‘We might stop on the outskirts if we can find a safe market place. But if we must travel night and day with only water to fill our bellies, then that’s what we’ll do. We’re hated here, so I’ll not pause willingly, even out of hunger.’