Death of an Empire (61 page)

Marcian was taken aback. He was Christian and devout, but superstition existed side by side with his faith, and this young man openly proclaimed his demon status as he stood before the court of the emperor.

‘Are you saying that you are allied with Satan, young man? If so, my lands will be closed to you forever,’ Marcian threatened, while Pulcheria made the sign of the cross over her breast.

‘How could I be the son of a demon, my lord? Jesus would not
damn a child, and your benevolent god would never curse an infant for the sins of the father. My mother was a child when she was raped on the beaches near her home. She invented the rest, fearing that she would be put to death because King Melvig ap Melwy, her grandfather, would be angry that her bride price was spoiled. She was a child, and she was deathly afraid and damaged. I was raised to be a decent and peaceful man, and I have dedicated my life to the saving of life – not the ending of it. No Demon Seed would be so magnanimous, if such a man existed. Such a man would want to cause discord and violence wherever he went.’

Sensing that Emperor Marcian was still unconvinced, Cleoxenes stepped forward again and exposed his right arm and the ugly scar that disfigured it. A deep hollow below the elbow showed where flesh and muscle had been removed.

‘I would have died in Rome, Highness, had this young man not struggled to save my arm and my life. It was poisoned, and by the time I called for his assistance the infection had brought me close to death. A prudent healer would have removed the arm as quickly as possible, but I insisted that I must serve your interests in Mantua and forbade him to cut off the poisoned limb. He worked like a saint, rather than a demon, to scour out the taint in the flesh, to nurse me like a baby and then to travel with me all the way to Attila’s camp so I could fulfil my duties to the Empire. He risked his own life, for Flavius Aetius had no love for him, but Myrddion refused to stay safely in Rome. He is not a demon, but is a gift from God to serve your interests. Rather the man who raped his mother is the demon, for such is a man who would cause pain to a little girl.’

So make what you want of that, Aspar Hawk-lover, Cleoxenes thought savagely as he watched Aspar bite his lip at the venom in the envoy’s words.

‘The poor child! So young to be ravaged by such an evil man,’
Empress Pulcheria murmured. More than her husband ever could, she empathised with a noble, female child used as a pawn in aristocratic power struggles. ‘Is she still alive, Myrddion Emrys?’

‘Yes, your highness. My mother still lives, but she has been maddened since the time of my birth. She tried to kill me twice and she has tried to harm her younger children. She carves her own flesh out of guilt and shame, so she must be watched closely at all times.’

‘Oh, my dear! How dreadful!’ Pulcheria exclaimed. She dabbed at her eyes, although Myrddion was close enough to see that they were still dry. ‘The sins of her despoiler were truly meted out to her. Did you suffer too?’

‘Yes, your highness, but I was fortunate to be raised by my grandmother who protected me until Vortigern, the High King, attempted to sacrifice me to satisfy his own whims when I was but ten years old. My grandmother was killed while trying to save me from Vortigern’s barbarians.’

The crowd of notables were riveted by the tale and strained forward towards the young man. Only Aspar appeared unmoved. He had stepped into a pool of shadow so that the light caught only his forehead, the straight line of his nose and the edges of those hatchet-sharp cheekbones.

‘And what did your mother say of this demon?’ he asked. ‘Did she know who he was?’

‘No, my lord. She always used the term, hyacinth beauty, to describe her Triton who was washed onto the shoreline by a storm. She saved his life, sir, for all the good it did her. All I know is he purported to have killed his own mother and I still carry that woman’s ring. I discovered that King Vortigern knew the man and he gave me small snippets of information before he burned to death in his fortress at Dinas Emrys. The High King told me that the man loved hunting with birds and that he was a natural killer – just like
them. But I could never persuade Vortigern to give me his name.’

Aspar grunted, his eyes glowing in the dark hollows of his face.

‘He must have been a cruel man,’ Emperor Marcian said quietly, and Myrddion noticed how the older man’s hands shook from nervousness or illness. ‘You are permitted to stay in Constantinople, but mind you there must be no more talk of demons. Some of our priests take such chatter seriously.’

‘I live to serve you, highness. Should you have need of my services as a healer, I would gladly place myself at your command.’

Marcian nodded. Myrddion had been quick to notice the lack of colour in the emperor’s pallid face. ‘You may call on me on the day after tomorrow, healer. Although, no doubt, my dear wife will prefer to have her Ishmaelite healer treat me.’

Marcian turned away and Myrddion’s part of the audience was over.

As other notables pressed around the dais, Myrddion and Cleoxenes backed away, their heads bowed, until they could lose themselves in the crowd. Then, relieved of any need for courtesy, Myrddion spun on his heels and strode out of the great and glittering hall, his hands clenched tightly by his side.

‘Where are you going, Myrddion? Stop. Or at least slow down. Your legs are too long for me to keep up with you,’ Cleoxenes shouted as he hurried after his young protégé.

Myrddion ran down the steps of the portico and skidded to a halt on the empty roadway where the litters had disgorged their passengers. He turned to face his friend with a stormy face.

‘I’ve travelled across the world to find him. I don’t know what I expected, but I never imagined that he would be the
magister militum
and the most powerful man in the Empire of the East. My father has prospered while he left a storm of destruction and heartache behind him. There is no justice in the world, for the gods must surely be blind.’

‘Myrddion, you can’t really believe that evil goes completely unpunished. You know that most of us eventually pay for our sins in full measure, sooner or later. Look at Flavius Aetius!’

Myrddion stopped pacing and turned his sun ring round and round on his finger.

‘Aetius lived long and well – and his death took but moments. For a person who caused havoc and despair to anyone who stood in his way, he paid a remarkably low price for his vices. It all seems so patently unfair.’

‘Come, walk with me,’ Cleoxenes urged, taking Myrddion by the elbow. ‘My house is adjacent to the palace and a fine meal awaits us. We can talk further after we’ve eaten. There’s an urgent matter I need to discuss with you anyway.’

Myrddion consented to walk with the envoy and the gentle pressure of his friend’s hand on his arm calmed his churning feelings a little. The night was very clear, and although the city was full of light the stars were clearly visible, and seemed so close that Myrddion had only to reach upward with one hand to catch the starlight in the nets of his fingers.

The waters of the Golden Horn provided gentle background music now that the friends were walking down dark pathways far from the noise of the crowds. Aromatic plants scented the air with a heavy perfume that was both sweet and slightly rotten. Although the darkness under the trees should have been threatening, Myrddion felt at one with the breeze, the salt tang of the air and the soft soughing of palm fronds.

Then, suddenly, a villa appeared out of the darkness, brilliant with torchlight and lamps. As Cleoxenes and his guest strolled along the path, several servants left the building to usher them inside.

Myrddion examined Cleoxenes’s villa with avid curiosity. The floors and columns were constructed from rose-veined marble,
while the walls were painted with frescoes. The simplicity of the rooms, compared with the opulence of the palace, was tasteful and elegant. Myrddion noted that comfort was of paramount importance. The colonnade was wide, the rooms were spacious and well ventilated, and the atrium possessed a profusion of sweet-smelling flowering herbs, allowing the air to be scented with a combination of lavender and mint. In the triclinium, the eating couches were antique in design, with plump cushions and understated fabrics. Then, as they entered the scriptorium, Myrddion discovered a well-lit table used for writing or reading. The writing materials were presented in simple cedar boxes that perfumed the air with the scent of learning. One whole wall held cedar pigeonholes containing hundreds of scrolls, tightly bound within leather cases.

Cleoxenes ushered Myrddion out into the gardens, which trod a narrow line between functionality and aesthetics. On steep terraces leading down to the waters, orange and lemon trees glowed with globes of half-matured fruit, while garden beds were filled with cabbage roses and vegetables in equal measure. The night was sweet-scented and fecund with growth.

The promised meal, light and beautifully prepared by Cleoxenes’s servants, proved to be pleasant. Cleoxenes had a preference for savoury foods rather than the cloying sweetness that dominated Roman cooking. Myrddion detected unusual condiments within the sauces, leading Cleoxenes to explain that traders occasionally brought spices from far-off countries to the south, most of which were especially appetising when used with meat and vegetables.

Myrddion was tentative at first with his food choices, but soon found that he enjoyed the spicy chicken and quail. He even drank a glass of white wine. It was very crisp and dry, and he too took comfort from the lack of sweetness.

Unlike the epicures of Rome, Cleoxenes did not provide a
vomitorium, nor did he serve the enormous number of courses that required diners to void their stomachs in order to fit in more food. Myrddion had always considered that such gluttony was disgusting, and was glad that he was freed from the tiresome need to apologise for his lack of a Roman appetite. Now, pleasantly replete, the two men lounged over the remains of a fine meal and spoke desultorily.

Myrddion explained his suspicions about lead poisoning, especially with regard to wine. His words horrified his friend.

‘I can’t grasp the scope of the dangers you describe, my young friend. Every person who drinks sweetened wine, eats sweetmeats or prepares food with the powdered condiments of Rome is poisoning themself. I’ve eaten their food myself. How terrible! And you swear that Isaac the Jew is aware of your knowledge and does nothing because some sections of Roman society wouldn’t believe him? If your diagnosis is true, may he be swallowed by his own Sheol.’

The healer shrugged. ‘I could do nothing to persuade him to support my views on this matter. He holds his reputation to be higher than the lives of other, less fortunate people. You can have no notion how frustrating it is to be forced to stand quietly by while other men who are better placed choose to ignore a dreadful peril. I decided to sever all ties with Isaac once I realised that he didn’t really care about his patients.’

‘Many healers must be like Isaac. My understanding is that a healer isn’t required to have any affection for his patients, just to treat them.’ Cleoxenes played devil’s advocate.

Myrddion’s face flushed with passion and Cleoxenes reflected how different from Aspar this young man could be once his emotions were engaged.

‘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.