Death of an Empire (12 page)

Accompanied by their guard of barbarian warriors, the three healers were forced to await the arrival of their noble inquisitors. As they stood before the dais, Gwylym ambled into the audience chamber and whistled softly when he noticed Myrddion’s long, glossy hair. The older Celt strolled around the three men, taking in their attempts at finery, before he whispered in Myrddion’s ear.

‘You’re very pretty, healer. Were we in Rome or Ravenna you’d be in no danger from the nobles – for the citizens of the Empire worship young male flesh.’

Myrddion’s face spasmed with disgust. ‘Faugh!’ he gasped. ‘Pederasts sicken me.’

Gwylym laughed. ‘How very intolerant of you.’

‘Perhaps,’ Myrddion hissed, and Gwylym walked away, whistling through his teeth.

Flanked by his friends, Myrddion tried to avoid fidgeting as he
stood in the centre of the chamber and faced the empty stools. Five minutes went by before a door was ceremoniously opened, admitting five men who radiated the kind of power that only kings could muster.

The eldest man mounted the dais first and seated himself with considerable care, as if his bones were aching. He possessed a shock of thick white hair that was cut militarily short at the sides, although his domed forehead was bald. From his laced army boots to his spotless white toga, the ageing warrior was the epitome of a Roman soldier. Yet there was something foreign about the slightly slanted eyes and the high cheekbones that jutted through the man’s skin like knife blades.

The second man appeared to be about forty years of age and was very fair in colouring. His uncut hair was wheat yellow, as was a large, luxuriant moustache. His eyes were pale blue, but the profile that accompanied this typical Frankish colouring was unexpected. His nose was strong, high-arched and aquiline, with flaring nostrils. By comparison, his mouth was thin and almost cruel, with downturned corners that matched the deep crevices running from each nostril almost to his jaw line. With narrow, dark brows arching over his deep-set eyes, Merovech’s appearance suggested that under his conventional Frankish good looks he was a man of stubborn pride and a freakish, inflexible will.

The three accompanying kings sat directly behind Aetius and Merovech, gathering their cloaks about themselves as if they could be contaminated if they touched each other. Each was a man of middle years; each was dressed with gorgeous, barbaric magnificence and each possessed a face scoured by power, ruthlessness and ferocity. Later, Myrddion discovered that they were King Sangiban of the Alans, King Theodoric of the Visigoths and the king of the Burgundians. Elsewhere in the room, lords of the Alan tribe, the Saxons of the north, Amoricans and Sarmatians rested
on soft cushions and tried to conceal their growing concern at the prospect of defeat in the coming battles.

One other man was present, standing deferentially to Myrddion’s left, and positioned so he could watch the reactions of every man in the room. He was tall, almost cadaverous in appearance, and was dressed with exotic opulence in silks of brilliant blue and green. Myrddion had never seen the like of the man’s exquisite, almost feminine jewellery, which included earrings of finely wrought gold basketry set with blood-red precious stones. For the first time, Myrddion gazed at the face of Cleoxenes, the emissary of Theodosius, emperor of Constantinople and the sole ruler of the Eastern Empire.

Aetius coughed briefly, and all eyes in the room swung to focus on him.

‘We are here to consider several weighty matters, including the incursions of Attila into the lands of the Salian Franks, the Visigoths and the Burgundians. We shall also discuss his siege of Aurelianum, which you call Orléans. But before we commence our deliberations, we must decide on the fate of these travellers who have entered our lands without our express approval. We find it suspicious that they have followed a wing of Attila’s army from Tournai almost to the gates of Aurelianum.’ He turned his eyes directly onto Myrddion. ‘What are your names, and what is your purpose in entering our lands?’

Aetius’s eyes were a greenish-brown, and ice cold. They held no pity or empathy as they scanned every inch of Myrddion and his apprentices in a careful, dispassionate examination that missed no detail of their appearance.

Myrddion stepped forward cautiously. No one thinks to inform us of their names, he thought irrelevantly. They presume that all men here will know who they are. Like father, like daughter.

He coughed apologetically. ‘As you have no doubt been told, I
am Myrddion of Segontium in Britain and these men are my apprentices, Cadoc ap Cadwy and Finn ap Finbarr, who is also known as the Truthteller. We are healers, come to Gaul on a quest to learn the finer details of our craft.’

Aetius sucked on his teeth in an action that appeared to be habitual whenever he was thinking. Like his daughter’s, his voice was husky and imperious, and possessed an edge that abraded the nerves of any listener.

‘That does not explain why you were following the Hun army, unless you were in their pay.’

‘No sir, we are not in anyone’s employ. We took a route that we were advised would keep us away from the fighting. Our destination is Ravenna, and having served Vortigern, the High King of Britain, we have no desire be in the service of any other king.’

‘You are arrogant!’ Aetius snapped. ‘Who are you to choose your employer? Nor does your explanation satisfy me, so I repeat the question. Why did you follow in the tracks of Attila’s army?’

In his eagerness, Myrddion took a short pace forward, and immediately heard the sinister hiss of a sword sliding out of a scabbard in the hands of one of the guards. He stopped immediately.

‘We weren’t certain of where we were most of the time, my lord. We had been advised to follow the old Roman road, so we did. As we travelled, we met refugees from Tournai and realised we were indeed on the track taken by Attila.’

Aetius turned and faced King Merovech. ‘Do you have any questions, Merovech, before we arrive at our decision?’

‘Aye! Tell me about your father, Myrddion ap Nobody.’

Merovech’s eyes were as hard as chips of ice under a northern sun, so Myrddion knew he would be unwise to lie, for Childeric had obviously told Merovech about the healer’s claims of demonic birth. However, to be completely honest about his father could be equally dangerous, so Myrddion decided to speak with the spirit of
truth, using the broadest possible definition of honesty.

‘Your son has obviously reported my words, great king. Therefore, I am obliged to tell you the truth as I have been told it. My father was a chaos-demon who raped my mother and begot me on her young and innocent flesh. She was a princess of the Deceangli tribe and the daughter of the High Priestess of the Mother – so I was permitted to live. I cannot vouch for the truth of this birth, as I can only repeat what my mother vowed were the circumstances of my conception.’

Merovech frowned. Myrddion understood that the king would be struggling with the knowledge that another man shared the same extraordinary birth as himself.

‘A princess! So your family was of royal blood?’ Merovech clutched at the one detail that could link them both and underscore their superiority to the ordinary run of men.

‘Aye, my Lord. My great-grandfather was Melvig ap Melwy, king of the Deceangli tribe of Cymru. He left me his sword when he died.’

‘Bring it to me!’ Merovech demanded peremptorily, and he and the Roman general were soon examining the short, utilitarian blade and the gold-chased pommel with its single, carved stone with the interest of professional fighting men.

‘Aye,’ Merovech decided. ‘This is surely the sword of a king. But how am I to know that you speak the truth? You could have stolen this sword, filched it from one of your masters.’

‘But you know in your heart that I didn’t steal it, King Merovech. I am demon born, so I have the skills of my sire, although I would prefer that I were free of them. At times I see what will be, as well as what was, just as clearly as if past and future were a scroll that I could unroll and read.’

Two spots of colour mounted on Merovech’s cheeks. His jaw clenched and jutted aggressively and Myrddion shuddered
inwardly at the king’s reaction. Obviously, Merovech did not have the sight, and the healer hoped that he had not overplayed his hand.

‘You are a soothsayer?’ the king growled menacingly. ‘So you knew you would be captured.’

‘No, my lord, I did not. When I prophesy, I have no recollection of what I say, although I sometimes catch glimpses of dangers that are present in the air around me. I would surely be free of this cursed birth-sight, if I could.’

Even Aetius, who believed very little that he was told, was forced to admit to himself that Myrddion seemed sincere. The young man’s eyes had shown the first flashes of emotion since the questioning had begun. As a good Roman, Aetius paid lip service to many gods, and took part in the rituals invoking the blessing of the soldiers’ god, Mithras. But his duty required him to bind the northern pagans to Rome’s cause, so pragmatism as well as a natural scepticism ensured he remained detached in the face of all religions.

‘But you must have some inkling of the future,’ he said with a sardonic grimace. ‘Tell us, then, what your demon has whispered into your mind regarding the outcome of this war – if you dare!’

‘Lord, do not ask,’ Myrddion whispered, but he saw Aetius lower his eyebrows and could tell by the suspicious twist of the general’s lips that his gambit had failed. To mention his fits had been risky, but he had gambled that it might save their lives if Merovech and Aetius had been impressed by the account of his demonic powers. Instead, the healers were now in grave peril.

‘Do you fear to demonstrate your skills? Or do you lie to us, because you believe us to be credulous barbarians who will believe anything you say? Perhaps you need persuasion?’ Merovech gestured with one hand, and a guard stepped forward. ‘Choose one
of the apprentices and cut his throat. Then, perhaps, this young charlatan will recover his powers.’

‘No, my lord! No,’ Myrddion cried. ‘I’ll try. But for the Mother’s mercy, hold your hand.’

‘Very well, healer. Entertain us! Show me how a demon’s son can master the ribbon of time.’ Merovech’s craggy, handsome face was stiff with scorn. ‘Demonstrate why you are no ordinary man. And hurry, because we impatiently await your pleasure.’

With his mind racing and his heart pumping as if he had just completed an exhausting race, Myrddion looked round at each of the barbarian kings. In the many pairs of eyes that were riveted on him, the healer saw no sympathy, but he did recognise an avid curiosity and a hunger for bloody diversion. Cadoc and Finn reached out to him with their hands and hearts, but Myrddion was powerless. His fits did not come at the bidding of a mere king. Nor had his gift ever responded to any attempts on his part to master it.

With a suddenly dry mouth, Myrddion stared fixedly at the narrow strip of light that crawled across the tiled floor, as he tried to dredge up the curse of his birth. The light was fading as the afternoon died; each regal face already had deep shadows about its eyes and mouth as if the skull were trying to burst through the skin.

Myrddion felt the old, hated darkness begin to push through the angled light until the room in Châlons began to shrink, becoming smaller and smaller until it was just a pinpoint of light in the blackness of his skull. He had a sensation of falling, and then his consciousness was swept away in a dark tide of great wings.

He knew nothing more.

CHAPTER V

THE SINGER AND THE SONG

Roman, Goth, and Hun,

And Scythian strength of chivalry, that tread

The cold Codanian shore, or what far lands

Inhospitable drink Cimmerian floods,

Franks, Saxons, Suevic, and Sarmatian chiefs,

And who from green Armorica or Spain

Flocked to the work of death.

Herbert,
Attila
, Book 1

When Myrddion opened his gummed eyelids, some hours later, he lay in inky darkness. As his eyes gradually adjusted to the gloom of this lightless room, his sensitive fingers fumbled over the surface on which he had been laid out, almost as if he were a corpse. A pallet had been spread on a wooden framework strung with sturdy rope, and someone had flung a woollen blanket over his supine form. He recognised the distinctive smell of horse.

Then the memory of his dilemma came flooding back in an uncomfortable tide. What had he said? Where were Cadoc and Finn? Had he made the situation worse, or had he promised the success that would cement their survival? In his distress, he groaned
aloud and shifted on his bed, hearing a complaint of stretched rope.

A shape suddenly loomed out of the dimness. His pupils at their widest, Myrddion made out a silent servant who had been standing beside what he could now see was a barred doorway. A flint was struck and a crude pottery bowl of oil was lit and leapt weakly into life.

‘I am instructed to bring you a restorative draught, but you must stay lying down in case you feel nauseous,’ the prim, disembodied voice instructed.

Myrddion felt like a child who had soiled his loincloth and was now being lectured, firmly but censoriously, on his behaviour.

The dark shape moved easily to the doorway and a slice of light provided enough visibility for Myrddion to see the far wall of a small, windowless room. Then the door was closed once more and the wall vanished into darkness. Only a brief period elapsed before the servant returned, bearing a horn beaker filled with warm milk to which some powerful liquor had been added. Myrddion coughed as the raw spirit hit the back of his throat, but the initial burning sensation was almost immediately replaced by warmth that radiated outwards from his belly.