Death of an Empire (33 page)

‘It’s mostly done now, Ferreus,’ Myrddion whispered. ‘My patience is at an end, as is your fate. I’ve done with you.’

‘But I’ve not done with you!’ Ferreus screamed, and Myrddion would have been pummelled into bloody strips had not a burly soldier grasped the boxer round his arms, effectively pinioning him. As more members of the guard came thudding up the street, Myrddion turned on his heels and fled.

He reached the subura without pursuit and, clutching his side with one hand, rang the brass bell with the other.

‘What has happened, young sir? Your face is as white as winter snow. Come in! Come in! Did you lose your key?’ Pulchria fussed around him like a speckled hen, but she let him in swiftly, checked the street behind him and then locked the door in his wake.

Myrddion apologised. ‘I still have it, mistress, but I forgot to use it.’

His rapid breathing, and the hand planted over his ribs as though to protect them, caused Pulchria to pull the inner door wide and place a supportive, plump hand round his shoulders, allowing the healer to stagger into the long corridor and lean against the wall.

‘Could you call for my apprentices, mistress? I’ve been caught up in a public brawl, so I hope the watch doesn’t come to your door to disturb the peace of the house. I’m sorry.’

Pulchria swallowed a lump in her throat. She had borne children, but she had been a slave in her youth, working in a house of ill repute and saving desperately to buy her freedom. Her sons had been sold, as was the way of the world. And now this boy-man was looking at her with a child’s wounded eyes and she melted – although she told herself that she ought to know better. ‘Wait here, young master. I’ll fetch your boys straight away.’ She paddled off on her tiny feet, scrambling up the stairs with as much speed as her bulk permitted.

Cadoc and Finn appeared at Myrddion’s side within moments.
With relief, the healer leaned his head against Cadoc’s shoulder as his apprentices picked him up bodily and bore him up to their apartment and his newly made bed.

‘Where are you hurt, master?’ Cadoc whispered, for Myrddion’s fingers were red with blood.

‘It’s not mine, Cadoc. Ceridwen forgive me, for I’ve marked an unarmed man with my scalpel. But I think he’s broken some of my ribs and a bone in my shoulder.’

Finn gently cut Myrddion’s ragged shirt and sleeve away and bared the healer’s chest. Unnoticed, Pulchria had followed the men, and now she gasped aloud to see the ugly, purpling marks of Ferreus’s fists on Myrddion’s left side and shoulder.

‘Gods be!’ she exclaimed. ‘Someone who knows what he’s about has tried to hurt him. I’ve seen injuries like these before, when I was a young girl. The nobility like sex and blood with their wine. Oh, yes, masters. Men fight to the death with their bare knuckles while fine ladies and gentlemen eat fruit and chatter, or lay wagers. If you’d seen what I’ve seen . . .’

‘What this man has done to our master is more than enough, thank you, mistress,’ Finn protested. ‘But why would anyone want to hurt him? I’d have thought that the people of Rome would respect healers, not harm them.’

Myrddion flushed with shame and Pulchria knew at once the reason for his injuries. Her hand lingered gently in his damp hair as she smoothed it back from his forehead. ‘Your master is too handsome, lads. He excites envy and lust just by being alive. I think someone with fighting skills has tried to seriously hurt him.’

Cadoc’s blunt, soldier’s fingers had found small green-stick cracks in two of Myrddion’s ribs and the bone across his shoulder. He shook his head, unable to fathom how a man’s male beauty could bring such punishment down on his head.

‘In your own words, master, I’ll have to hurt you just a little.’

‘But no poppy, Finn. I want to watch what you two are about when you’re working on my body,’ Myrddion hissed through gritted teeth.

Quickly and efficiently, his ribs were bound tightly, no other treatment being possible for such injuries. The shoulder bone was manipulated back into line, and his upper arm was strapped against his body and then eased into a sling. Myrddion only groaned when Cadoc hurt him, but Pulchria felt his pain more acutely than he did and wept silent tears of sympathy. She had become very fond of this beautiful young man after only a few hours in his company.

‘I managed to cut Ferreus with my scalpel – twice. I made a very obvious cross with the blade so I would recognise him if ever I saw him again. I lost my temper, Cadoc, and said such dreadful things to him. I told him that he’d be thrown from a rock and the fish of the Tiber would be eating his eyes within a week. How could I place such a prediction on anyone?’

‘He deserved it,’ Finn answered economically. ‘Now you’ll drink this water with a little poppy in it so that you can sleep. No, master, I’ll accept no excuses. I’m your herb apprentice, so you will obey me.’

Myrddion was puzzled as well, a concept that added to his emotional turmoil. The curse had come so easily to his tongue that he had to consider that it came from the same place in his soul as his prophecies, except that in this case he remembered every word he had spoken. His head spun in confusion.

Myrddion drank the draught, but as he drifted off into a drugged sleep it did not prevent him from despairing of setting up his healing reputation with his left arm out of action for at least six weeks. Fortunately, he did not dream.

When Myrddion awoke, not only were the widows fussing over him, but Pulchria was adding her mite as well. Because of her injured leg, Bridie confined herself to combing and braiding
Myrddion’s long hair and binding it with woollen bands, ostensibly to prevent it from knotting at the base of his neck. Rhedyn cleaned the men’s apartment with thorough ferocity that impressed Pulchria mightily, while Brangaine, with Willa in tow, produced a stew and flat bread she had miraculously prepared on her simple iron hearth.

As for Pulchria, she was in charge of gossip. The local streets were buzzing with news of the incident, although such a minor fight would normally have been soon forgotten had it not been for the tragic sequel. Ferreus had struggled with the guard and those fists, so used to dealing out damage to human flesh, had struck a patrician centurion just under the jaw, breaking the young man’s neck. The unnamed officer had died instantly, and Ferreus had been dragged away.

‘I’m sorry that Ferreus killed someone, but I’m not surprised. When he hit me, it felt as if I was being struck with an iron bar. By the gods, he only dealt me three blows and he broke a bone each time. Where is he now?’

‘That’s the whole point, master. You said he’d be thrown from a rock and fish would eat his eyeballs. It is now common knowledge that he’s set for execution at the Tarpeian Rock in the old way.’

Myrddion shuddered. He had never heard of the Tullianum Prison, or the Tarpeian Rock that hung over the Forum, but to die in this way seemed a terrible thing. Pulchria gazed at her tenant with an expression composed equally of affection and awe.

‘The whole district is talking of nothing else, young sir. It seems we’ve a soothsayer and a healer all rolled up in one. They’ll flock to our door just to see what you look like.’

Myrddion closed his eyes with distaste. Without his volition, rage had unlocked something in his head. Well, no matter, he thought. It’s too late now to regret it.

‘Cadoc, get the shop in order with Brangaine. She’s a genius at
putting things to rights. Our first customers will be here shortly, so we need to put on a brave face. I’ll dress and join you. Can you help me dress, Rhedyn? Finn can assist at the door. Bridie, find me something clean to wear. The people of Rome want to see a show, so let’s give them one.’

Bridie hobbled away and returned with a black cloak which sported a narrow collar of fur, a black tunic and a grey robe. Proudly, she presented her handiwork to her master, and Myrddion thanked her with a child’s awe and gratitude.

‘Where did you get the fur, Bridie? It’s beautiful.’

‘You can thank Finn and Cadoc for it, master. When the apprentices were stealing . . . er, finding our horses on the night we left the Catalaunian Plain, they stumbled over the body of a Hun officer wedged into a narrow fissure in the ground. He must have been wounded and crawled away to die. What was one more theft . . . liberation, I mean, after so many others? They stripped the body of its wealth and this fur was around his cloak.’

The fur was thick, soft and the colour of very dark mahogany in the light. Myrddion stroked it and struggled into his new clothes, after Bridie had pottered away with her odd, hopping step to fetch his boots, which had been freshly cleaned. With a pang of affection, Myrddion realised that every tiny hand-stitch in his new clothes had been an act of love. He was humbled.

Once he was dressed, Bridie returned with the boots and a belt of heavy leather, bound with small brass plates that had been polished until they shone like gold. A scabbard decorated with some form of hunting cat was attached, with a knife of particular sharpness and beauty sheathed within it.

‘You’ll not have to use your surgical knives in future, Master Myrddion.’

‘But Bridie, this belt and weapon should belong to Cadoc and Finn. They found them, so the spoils are theirs.’

‘Don’t worry your head about them. They have his purse and jewels. I know they didn’t tell you about the valuables at the time, Master Myrddion, you being a little touchy about robbing the dead, but otherwise that dreadful Aetius would have added these mites to his treasure . . . and he’s got more than enough. Please don’t be angry with them, master.’

Bridie stared up at him with such anxiety that Myrddion felt like a brute. ‘I’m sorry, Bridie. Whatever Cadoc and Finn found on the Catalaunian Plain is theirs, by all the rules of war, since time beyond counting. I’m grateful for the fur collar, and Ceridwen knows how much I need to go armed, so I’m not angry at all. In fact, I’m touched that you all care about me.’

‘But we love you, master. Didn’t you know? You cared for us when no one else saw any value in our existence. You’ve given us a trade . . . so we rely on you. Now, no more of your jibber-jabber. There is only one last detail we have to complete and you’ll begin to set all the tongues in Rome a-wagging. Hold still – for just a moment.’

‘Ow!’ Myrddion bellowed in surprise as well as pain. Bridie had driven a thick needle through the lobe of his ear. ‘What was that for?’

‘Very still, master, and the bleeding will stop presently. There . . . very still. Done. Finn was right. It looks wonderful.’

Myrddion’s ear was hurting, and when he explored it carefully with his right hand he discovered that Bridie had driven an odd-shaped spike through his earlobe. Instead of the usual ring or stud that men sometimes wore, Myrddion’s jewel was a small arrowhead of gold, electrum and ruby chips, with a shaft that went through the lobe and then hooked back to attach to the top of the shaft for stability. When Myrddion examined his reflection in a bowl of water, he felt a frisson of pleasure. With his dark hair and eyes, the bejewelled spike made him appear exotic and dangerous.

Myrddion smiled and Bridie’s face lit up as if a lamp glowed behind her pale skin. ‘Do you like it, master?’

‘I do, Bridie, although it hurts. I hope you boiled the earring and your needle?’

Bridie was so happy that she actually punched her master lightly on his good arm with her small fist. Then, realising what she had done, she flushed with embarrassment. ‘Of course, master. How could I serve you without learning your ways?’

With an urge to preen that was quite new to him, and his left arm loosely resting in a white sling, Myrddion descended the stairs to the shop, which was now laid out as a makeshift surgery and apothecary’s shop. The folding battlefield table was in position and built-in shelves housed Myrddion’s jars of salves, drawing poultices and painkillers. The many bunches of herbs and small pails of chopped roots that had been dried during their journey were either hung from the ceiling or piled in rush containers on a rickety table. The baskets of rolled bandages were neatly stacked along one wall, as were the many boxes of boiled rags that had been prepared for service over the preceding months.

The room also boasted two stools of doubtful origin and strength, another low table that Cadoc had used to lay out Myrddion’s surgical tools, and his precious chest of scrolls. The crudely tiled floor had been scrubbed clean and swept until no dust dared to make an appearance and even the rather dingy walls had been washed. Dimly lit, because the large exterior doors were still closed, the healer’s surgery was as professional and as clean as the three dedicated women could make it.

Myrddion surveyed his small kingdom with elation. His fingers caressed the large pottery water jars and he wondered where Cadoc had found them. The apprentice had also discovered a small terra cotta and iron stove that would be used to heat water or cleanse wounds with fire. Even though the shelves were sparsely
stocked, Myrddion’s fertile imagination filled them with row upon row of the many herbs and simples that his trade demanded. Filled with hope, he was eager to begin purchasing more of the raw materials that were so essential to his craft.

‘Open the doors, Brangaine, and let’s satisfy the curiosity of any patients who need our services. I feel like a king today in this strange and dangerous place, and I’m happier than I have ever been in my whole life. I am deeply in your debt, my friends, and I don’t know how to repay you.’ Then he grinned irrepressibly. ‘But I’m sure you’ll think of something.’

Red-faced, shuffling and pleased, his five companions accepted their master’s gratitude with protestations of devotion and duty. Then Brangaine swung the two doors wide open, letting in the brilliant morning sunshine.

‘And so it begins,’ Myrddion shouted with a joy nearly as incandescent as Bridie’s face and the wide, white smiles of his apprentices.

CHAPTER XII

THE GARDEN OF PAIN

From the moment the wooden doors of Myrddion’s first clinic were thrown open, a crowd gathered, several persons deep, to peer into the premises in order to catch a glimpse of the barbarian who had predicted the death of Ferreus. In the subura, word spread like wildfire from tenement to tenement, and the new occupants of Pulchria’s building were far more interesting than the unvarying routines of poverty. They came – men, women and children – to stare blatantly through the doors in the hope of gossip, entertainment or, in some cases, an understanding of the reasons for their many bodily ills.