by M. K. Hume
Boom! As flags of light rose over the darkness of the city, Myrddion left his quiet domain and climbed a low rise. From this vantage point, he would know when the gates submitted to iron and muscle, and then Praxiteles and Aude would take the empty wagons to the city walls. Then, as the inevitable casualties mounted, Myrddion would lose any visual perspective of the course of the battle as he fought his own fierce struggle against death. Now, as golden light spread in thin sheets over the forests, the Roman road and the humped shapes of the city, Myrddion experienced the tranquillity of a man who knows his purpose and is content. But such peace is fleeting in the affairs of men.
A grey and foggy dawn was followed by a clear and cloudless morning, as if the gods wished to observe the sport of mortals unimpeded by clouds or rain. The battering ram destroyed the gate at last, and the engineers drew the iron-shod machine back while the cavalry forced their way through the smashed obstruction with scant regard for life or limb. Uther led the charge, and even Thorketil hesitated to confront a warrior, taller than a Saxon, who wielded weapons with the ferocity of his namesake – the dragon.
With Ambrosius at their head, the foot soldiers attacked immediately after his archers turned the sky black with a protracted rain of arrows. While the Saxons on the parapets were forced to keep their heads down and their shields up, the centuries began to pour through the ruined gates and fan out into pre-planned formations that Ambrosius had devised during the night after his face had been stitched and dressed by Myrddion. One group of warriors, experienced climbers, scaled ladders with their shields held above their heads, while a small contingent of archers continued to pepper the defending Saxons on the walls with arrows. Then, once the walls were swept clean of the enemy, the archers recovered what arrows they could and mounted the parapets to rain death down on Saxon heads in the long, straight streets below.
Ambrosius had pored over the old plans of this ancient Roman civil centre. From his patient studies, he knew every thoroughfare in Verulamium, and Thorketil’s defensive positions soon became apparent. While Uther used his cavalrymen like a cudgel, and rode down citizens and enemies alike, the foot soldiers used the old strategies of the legions to clean out every nest of Saxons with calculated efficiency. The Tortoise, the Wedge and the Fighting Square were all employed by Ambrosius as a net of iron tightened around the Vessel of Thor.
Once Uther secured the eastern gate, the battle was effectively over. Thorketil had no intention of surrendering, and nor had his warriors, who set fire to every building they relinquished to the advancing foot soldiers. Perhaps the thane intended the blaze to trap the Celts between stone and fiery death, for the wind initially favoured the Saxons and blew filthy smoke to blind Ambrosius’s eyes, but then it changed and sent disaster leaping to the east, from building to building and then from thatch to rafters, as the fire drove the Saxons back towards Uther’s waiting cavalry.
From his vantage point on the small knoll Myrddion watched the carnage, distanced from the screams, the roaring of flame and the howls of defiant Saxons. The city was burning fiercely, and the Saxons fled from this enemy that was far more potent than Ambrosius’s troops. When Uther eventually trapped them in the old forum, Thorketil screamed defiance from lungs that were hoarse with smoke.
‘To me! To me! No surrender!’ the thane howled recklessly, and swung his axe and sword like a berserker, careless of the safety of friend or foe.
‘No mercy,’ Ambrosius roared in response. ‘Kill them all.’ And so, with ruthless efficiency, his soldiers killed every Saxon they could find.
Myrddion laboured for two days with Cadoc and Dyfri by his side, sleeping in snatches as they struggled to save whatever lives they could. Of that time of sorrow Myrddion remembered very little, not even the faces of the men who were carried in extremities of pain to his surgical table. If he thought at all while his deft hands worked in the old familiar patterns, he was focused on the treatments available to him and the alleviation of pain, for a field surgeon knows that shock kills more quickly than the grossest of wounds. And so the long day passed, in the rumble of wagons, the smell of cauterised flesh and the sharp, metallic reek of blood.
After the warriors were treated, he turned his skills towards the civilians who had been used as human shields during Thorketil’s final stand. The children with their hair burned away and their throats so blistered they were unable to cry tore at Myrddion’s heart more than any adult could. As one by one they suffocated and died, he stood in blood and ministered to the dying until the poppy juice and the henbane were spent and Cadoc was sent to scour nearby villages for any replacement drugs that might still be available.
And even then, Myrddion wasn’t permitted the luxury of sleep.
On the first night, he received an unexpected visitor. The veteran who had shared Myrddion’s night of musing on the goat track opened the tent flap and limped into the surgery. The ageing soldier had not come alone, for he carried the senseless body of a woman who had been crushed by falling masonry during the siege.
‘I’ll wait till you’ve treated the lass’s injuries, healer. See to her first, because she has little ones who need her.’ The Roman mercenary’s face was a sickly yellow in the dying light.
‘How do you know, soldier-no-name?’ Myrddion asked briskly as he assisted the smaller man to heft the woman onto his surgical table.
‘Because they followed me the whole way. There’s a boy, who’s no more than five, and a girl who’s about eight, I would guess.’
Myrddion cursed under his breath, but his hands were very gentle as he cut the woman’s robe away from her back. A huge bruise covered her spine from the back of her neck down to the tailbone.
‘I think her spine is broken, and if I’m correct she’ll die no matter what I try to do for her,’ Myrddion whispered, as he checked the feeling in her legs. The limbs were unresponsive. ‘I think her skull is broken as well. But at least she’s not in any pain.’ Turning to Brangaine, he nodded at his assistant. ‘Prepare a pallet for this woman, and let her children remain with her. There’s nothing we can do.’
The soldier peered into Myrddion’s face. ‘Tears, healer? Is death so sad when it comes in sweet oblivion?’
‘No, damn your eyes! I’m not saddened, I’m furious! I wish I knew enough to treat her, but the broken spine is beyond the skills of any healer. Only the gods could save her now, and they never choose to help the innocent.’
As if to avert the tears that threatened to unman him, Myrddion roughly ordered the soldier to remove his sandals and greaves so that his burned leg could be treated.
‘I’ll need to open the flesh or the blisters will split. It’s better to do the job with a clean scalpel than risk infection. The skin will be breached, even if I do nothing.’
‘Cut away then, healer,’ the soldier said. ‘What will happen to the lass’s children?’
‘If no relatives can be found to take the little ones into their home, my women will take them back with us to Venta Belgarum. I’m beginning to collect a whole menagerie of children as we travel from one battle to another. I don’t seem able to leave innocents behind when we collect them on the road.’
‘I would have felt obliged to take care of the children myself if you hadn’t out-volunteered me. I must be growing old and soft. In past times, I always understood that the Fates have mapped out our lives before we are born, which explains why children often die before they’re fully grown. I never worried myself over civilians in those days. The legions keep a man occupied, and the newest recruit soon learns that it doesn’t pay to dwell on situations that simple soldiers can’t change. Arggh, but I’m sick of marching, killing and then marching away again. I want a fireside of my own before it’s too late, and a woman to warm my feet in the winter. I think I’ll head off north when I’ve served out the year. I’ve had a gutful of Venta Belgarum and places like Verulamium, because I’ve learned the hard way that a soldier whose heart isn’t in the fighting any more is a dead man walking.’
This is an unusual man, Myrddion decided. Most patients watch their treatment studiously, as if close scrutiny will dispel the possibility of further injury or death. The soldier stared straight ahead, and his voice never wavered as Myrddion cut the blisters and cleansed the charred edges of skin.
‘Verulamium is finished, healer, and it will become a place for wild dogs, madmen and dead Saxons,’ the veteran went on. ‘I doubt the town will be rebuilt, for the heart of the people has been ripped out.’
‘There, and your treatment is also finished! The wound is clean, and you’ll heal well, my friend.’ Myrddion tied down the end of a bandage that now covered the veteran’s leg from ankle to knee. ‘Cadoc will give you more salve, and I’d like to check the burns in two days’ time. You must keep the injuries clean.’
The soldier looked down at his bronzed leg with its incongruous white dressing and grinned crookedly. ‘You’re very good at what you do, Myrddion Merlinus, I’ll say that for you. I hope you find an answer to your puzzle over baggage trains.’
Myrddion raised his eyes to the older man’s face and saw wisdom and humour reflected in the brown eyes that studied him so closely. ‘I hope you find the fireside you seek, my friend. In many ways, I wish that I were in your shoes.’
‘Those long feet of yours wouldn’t fit.’ The veteran clambered to his feet without wincing, and offered Myrddion his hand. ‘I’m Targo,’ he said. ‘We may not have fought together, and I seem to have done the bleeding for both of us – but we have served together, haven’t we? I’ll listen for word of you in the years to come. Perhaps we might meet again some day.’
‘And I will listen for your name, friend Targo.’
The days passed slowly as Verulamium was cleansed and the civilian population began the long trudge into the west with everything that the fires had failed to destroy. Myrddion received no word of the innkeeper Gron and his cheerful wife, Fionnuala, while the Flower Maiden inn was a blackened shell when the healer sought out his erstwhile hosts. The young man recalled that the sojourn with them had been the last time the company of healers had been together before Finn and Bridie departed for Segontium. He felt a longing for those relatively carefree days before he had become embroiled in the games of kings once again but, like the inn, the past was a slate that had been wiped clean, and he knew that no man or woman can totally recapture their past.
If Myrddion was harried and sad, Ambrosius was ebullient. When the healer arrived to check the deep furrow that now bisected his face, the High King insisted that he take a cup of wine with him while he gave a full report on the condition of Ambrosius’s wound. Myrddion did his best to employ layman’s terms, but the king was no ordinary patient. The healer was soon explaining the efficacy of radish paste, seaweed, poultices of berries and mashed leaves, and the relative merits of henbane, mandrake, and other sundry poisons.
‘In future, I’ll take care to remain on good terms with you, my friend,’ the High King murmured. ‘You could poison us all, even if Ulfin tasted every dish, if what you say is true.’
‘Of course. The very simplest poisons are pretty mushrooms, harmless-looking berries and innocuous roots that resemble parsnips. They all kill over a period of time, and there’s no real cure to save those unfortunates who ingest them. But poison isn’t my way, lord. It’s a filthy death and my hands were not fashioned to kill.’
Ambrosius laughed merrily, but Myrddion felt the shadows of doom hover over his head once again. Not Ambrosius, he thought desperately. Not poison! Heaven help us!
‘Bring Pascent to my tent, Uther. I’d like Myrddion to meet him and form an opinion about his malady. A promising young man needs all the friends he can find.’
As Uther stalked out of the High King’s tent, leaving a strong waft of disapproval in his wake, Ambrosius continued to speak animatedly as his clever mind clutched at a new diversion.
‘We found Pascent chained to a statue of Mars in the old forum. He’d obviously been caught in the city when the Saxons overran it, and Thorketil was keeping him for later amusement. He’d been cuffed around a little and was parched with thirst, but has suffered no lasting hurt. However, he claims to remember nothing of his captivity in Verulamium. Perhaps you can find a way to open the doors that are chained shut within his memory.’
‘Perhaps, lord. I have noticed that sudden shocks, terrible brutality or even guilt can wipe the brain clean of every detail, even the previous life of the sufferer. And although he retained his memory, an apprentice of mine was afflicted by dreadful dreams for years after he was forced to watch and report on Saxon justice. The mind is an amazing instrument, my king.’
Ambrosius’s eyes sharpened, and he insisted on a full recounting of the story. Myrddion entered into Ambrosius’s spirit of curiosity and embellished the saga of Finn Truthteller with such vividness that Ambrosius sat like a child, transfixed by the fascination of the tale.
‘Of course I’ve heard of the Night of the Long Knives. Who hasn’t? And Catigern was acting for me when the brothers drove the Saxons out of the Cantii lands. I never liked Catigern overmuch because he allowed his hungers and ambitions to show in his eyes – I’m certain he’d have turned on me after he had assassinated his brother. Gods, but he was a true son of his twisted father! Still, no matter what vices Catigern possessed, it must have been a gruesome death to suffocate under the body of his victim.’
Just as the High King sobered at the thought of dying in the grave of a rotting corpse, Uther shouldered his way into the tent, followed by a handsome young man dressed simply and with distinction in fine wool. The man wore no jewellery, and Myrddion deduced that the Saxons must have stripped him of his wealth. His thumb and the third finger of his left hand bore white marks where rings had been, and a narrow band of untanned skin around his bronzed throat suggested that he had worn a torc for many years.
‘Myrddion Merlinus, this is Pascent, a survivor of Saxon captivity. He has taken this name because it sounds familiar, but he has no idea of his true identity. Uther is sure, from his accent, that he is one of your fellow tribesmen, for his voice has the cadence of your northern accents. He speaks very pure Latin with an odd inflection, so I’m sure he has been well educated.’
Pascent was a tall young man of about twenty years. His skin was tanned to an attractive golden colour that indicated health and vigour, except where purpling bruises marked his brow and jaw. His eyes were as blue as those of Ambrosius, and Myrddion wondered if some Roman ancestry created this extraordinary colouring. By contrast, Pascent’s hair was sun-kissed brown and he wore it in a thick shock that fell disarmingly over one eye. With a rueful grin, he pushed his hand through his thick, blunt-cut fall of hair in an action that seemed to be habitual.
‘Good morning, Pascent. May I ask you some questions and examine your head?’ Myrddion asked courteously.
Pascent looked uncomfortable, but Ambrosius explained Myrddion’s calling and expressed the hope that his renowned healer could restore Pascent’s memory. The young man blushed and then agreed, although he kept his eyes lowered.
Carefully and thoroughly, Myrddion checked Pascent’s skull with his sensitive fingertips for any kind of knot or breach that could account for his memory loss. The young man was visibly nervous and upset, but he suffered Myrddion to peer into his eyes for signs of bleeding or cloudiness. As soon as the examination was over, Pascent lowered his head again.
Myrddion came to the conclusion that Pascent was as healthy a young man as he had ever examined. ‘You have been trained in the ways of the warrior, I see,’ he added, casually picking up each of Pascent’s hands and pointing out the calluses of constant weapons practice on the forefinger, second finger, thumb and palm. Suddenly interested, Uther peered over Myrddion’s shoulder and grunted in agreement.
‘Aye, the boy has been trained to fight with either hand,’ he murmured, and his feral eyes narrowed with suspicion. For once, Myrddion’s sympathies were with the prince.
Pascent answere
d Myrddion’s questions willingly enough, with frankness and an open expression that was almost endearing, but the healer suspected such easy charm, especially when the boy seemed so nervous. Some trick of the light reminded Myrddion of someone else, but for once he could not draw a name out of the past.
By the time Myrddion left the presence of the High King, tiny worms of suspicion were beginning to feed at the back of his mind. He could identify no tangible reasons for his unease, but his instincts screamed that something about Pascent rang false. The young man seemed genuine, but Myrddion had observed the manner and presence of his own father, Aspar, and he had trusted and loved his Flavia to the point of madness. These two powerful persons used charm as an offensive weapon that lulled suspicions and manipulated emotions. To his cost, Myrddion had learned to distrust the easy seduction of a smiling, sympathetic face.
Pascent’s hands were hard and muscular, and were far too strong to be the hands of the pampered prince the absent jewellery suggested. This young man was a seasoned warrior who had been trained from childhood to kill, for his calluses told the tale of his life and such signs couldn’t lie. Pascent was a great deal more than a Celt who had been fortunate enough to be captured rather than killed. But who was it he reminded Myrddion of?
‘Those vertical scars on his right thumb are familiar. For my life, I wish I could remember,’ Myrddion said aloud, causing a sentry to snap to attention behind him. But the healer was too occupied with his thoughts to notice. The morning was crisp and cleanly washed with spring showers, and Myrddion must begin the task of preparing his patients for the long trek to Venta Belgarum. Putting his suspicions behind him, he decided that Uther could be relied upon to watch the new claimant for his brother’s affections through those resentful, untrusting and jealous eyes.
