by M. K. Hume
Nor was it difficult to find a suitable vessel to continue their journey. The ship they chose was captained by a dour northerner who plied his trade between Dubris and the Frankish lands to the east, and was more than willing to bear passengers who wouldn’t need to fill his wide-bellied ship with their own goods. Prudently, Myrddion paid a quarter of the agreed price in advance and sealed the deal with a handshake.
A week later, Dubris became a disappearing line of dirty haze in the charcoal skies behind them, and the Frankish port of Gesoriacum became an equally vague suggestion in the heaving seas before them. They were about to enter foreign climes, and Myrddion was still boy enough to feel his heart lighten with excitement. His mother might detest him because of the violence of his conception, and his beloved Olwyn had been buried on the sea cliffs above the straits of Mona isle, but Myrddion was still young and vigorous. Somewhere beyond the haze on the horizon were libraries full of learning, new ideas that would fire his questioning mind and a whole new world of sensation. Somewhere, out in the far-off corners of the world, the object of his quest might lead him to his destiny.
The seabirds followed the wallowing vessel and squabbled over the food scraps that were tossed overboard. Like all scavengers, they were careless of the needs of their fellows, so they fought for their spoils with the intensity and ferocity of starving beggars. Even their cries were like eerie curses that followed Myrddion, sending his thoughts winging onwards towards the east and to the man he sought out of all the millions who populated lands that bordered the Middle Sea.
And yet his reason called him a fool for allowing himself to pursue such a useless undertaking. An old cliché echoed in his brain, full of warning and threat, so he spoke the words aloud to rob them of their sting. ‘Be careful what you wish for . . .’
MYRDDION’S CHART OF THE ROUTE FROM GESORIACUM TO CHLONS
CHAPTER II
ON THE ROAD TO TOURNAI
All journeys end, especially short, wind-driven dashes across the narrows of the Litus Saxonicum. As the sailors responded to the barked orders of the weather-beaten ship’s master, expertly using the single patched sail to catch the wind, Myrddion marvelled at the skill that drove the wallowing, wide-bodied vessel to tack ever nearer to the docks of Gesoriacum. The ravenous, noisy gulls, their constant companions on the journey, cursed the ship as it made its untidy arrival at the battered wooden wharves of the old Roman port. With one last chorus of pungent insults, the seabirds departed for mud flats that promised mussels, cockles and the detritus of a very dirty seaport.
Gesoriacum was still ostensibly Roman, although the filthy inns on the seafront were home to men of all races, sizes and degrees of bad temper. While the three women who served the healer protected their master’s possessions and made vain attempts to ignore the lewd invitations uttered in half a dozen equally incomprehensible languages, Myrddion and Cadoc sought out a trader who was prepared to sell them two stout and weatherproof wagons and the beasts to power them.
Like all ports, Gesoriacum was grimy, mud-spattered and vicious, offering every form of vice that brutal men could desire. Dispirited prostitutes of both sexes stood against the salt-stained buildings trying to keep themselves dry in a steady drizzle of rain. Drunkards cluttered up the roadways and reeled argumentatively out of wine shops, eager to take offence if a stranger crossed their path. Ferret-eyed men promised good sport with dogfights, cockfights and even illegal scrimmages between desperate men who would win a few coins if they could beat their opponents into a bloody pulp. The air was stale with the smell of seaweed, drying fish, excrement and desperation, so Myrddion walked carefully with one hand on the pommel of the sword he had inherited from Melvig.
‘Shite! Watch where you be putting your clodhoppers, you horse’s arse,’ a half-drunken sailor cursed before he spotted Myrddion’s sword and noted Cadoc’s angry eyes. ‘Your pardon, master,’ he muttered and would have scurried away, suddenly sober, if Cadoc hadn’t gripped his torn tunic with a muscular, scarred hand.
‘Do you know of any place in this flea-bitten billet where we can purchase wagons and horses?’ Cadoc rasped in the Celtic tongue.
Nonplussed, the sailor shook his head, and Cadoc was forced to repeat the question in sketchy Saxon, backed with Myrddion’s Latin, which was almost too pure for the man to understand.
Finally, he pointed one grimy paw down a darkening back alley. ‘Try that Roman pig Ranus. He deals in horseflesh, if he hasn’t sold them all to the army. And if there are any wagons to be had, he’ll know where they can be found – at a profit to him.’
Even before Myrddion could thank him, the sailor had slipped eel-like out of Cadoc’s grasp and scampered down a dark lane like a sleek, black rat. Cadoc wiped a greasy hand on his jerkin with an exclamation of disgust. ‘Doesn’t anyone wash in this hellhole? That bastard’s sweat reeks of cheap ale, and my hands will stink for weeks.’
Myrddion ignored Cadoc’s complaints and entered the indicated alleyway cautiously. The few cobbles were slick with rainwater, urine and congealed grease that had been dumped out of a nearby kitchen. The smell almost took his breath away with its rancid, sharp tang.
The shadows were oppressive where the two-storeyed shanties leaned together like drunken friends holding each other upright. Where the last of the dusk sent a little light into the shadows, Myrddion swore he could see the gleam of eyes. He loosened his great-grandfather’s sword in its scabbard with a dangerous hiss of tempered metal. Avoiding the filthy sludge on the cobbles, the two men picked their way carefully through the looming darkness and the piles of half-visible rubbish. A rat scuttled over Cadoc’s foot and he cursed in sudden alarm, but the alleyway was empty of human scavengers and the two healers soon found themselves on a mean, narrow street that was empty and silent.
‘Our hasty friend seems to have directed us on a fool’s errand,’ Myrddion murmured, but almost before he had finished speaking, he heard the whicker of horses at the end of the muddy thoroughfare.
Without bothering to waste more words, he jerked his thumb in the direction of stamping hoofbeats and the stench of horse-dung. Keeping to the very centre of the dark roadway, master and servant picked their way through the ordure-fouled mud until they came to an enclosure in which horses loomed out of the shadows like solid, black standing stones. The presence of the men set the beasts to jerking and snorting in panic, but Myrddion passed them by until he came to a rough building built of split wooden slabs with a roof of crudely shaped, fired-clay shingles. Even in the darkness, the fitful moonlight showed that the tiles were furred with bright green moss and the walls of the stables and outbuildings were so poorly built that lamplight shone through the many cracks and splits in the structure.
‘This must be Ranus’s establishment,’ Myrddion grunted. ‘Let’s hope that his beasts are sounder than his building skills.’
Cadoc used the pommel of his knife to pound on a flimsy-looking door that proved to be surprisingly sturdy. A string of muffled oaths served as the only response to his knocking, but Cadoc was persistent. Eventually, the door was unbolted and the light from the gatekeeper’s oil lamp revealed a prominent, ruddy nose in a face that sloped away into a chinless jaw and an equally narrow, receding forehead.
‘What do you want, waking a body in the middle of the night?’ The chinless man exposed a set of broken, blackened teeth and large canines that gave his mouth a predatory cast.
‘It’s barely dusk,’ Myrddion retorted in a high-handed fashion, speaking in his purest Latin. The doorkeeper raised one ginger eyebrow at the young man’s accent.
‘So? What do you want me to do about it? All decent souls are about their supper and preparing for their beds rather than annoying citizens who are minding their own business.’
‘We wish to speak to Ranus about the purchase of some horses and wagons.’ Myrddion was curt to the point of rudeness, but the doorkeeper seemed incapable of digesting the healer’s tone.
‘You can tell your master that we h
ave coin to pay, but we won’t waste our time talking with ostlers,’ Cadoc added in his Saxon argot.
The doorkeeper grumbled into his thin beard and moustache, ordered them to wait and then promptly latched the door behind him. Master and servant cooled their heels on the doorstep for ten minutes and Cadoc would have put his shoulder to the warped wood had Myrddion not ordered him to be patient.
Just when the healer too was considering intemperate action, the door was thrust open and a plump figure beckoned them into a narrow corridor lit by a single oil lamp. Myrddion’s nerves twitched with a presentiment of danger, but he followed the man over a well-worn step which was enlivened by a rather picturesque design of a horse laid out in coloured pebbles and shards of tile.
‘Greetings, good sirs! Forgive my servant for his caution, for it’s not often that traders come so late to do business. But I say that coin is coin, regardless of when a buyer comes knocking.’
‘You are Master Ranus, I presume?’ Myrddion began, and then his words withered in his throat when he saw the tawdry magnificence of the room at the end of the corridor.
Ranus was obviously a man of means, if his triclinium was any indication. Although the building seemed ramshackle on the outside, the inner walls were of polished lime render and covered with paintings that aped the old glories of the Empire. Fanciful trees and birds were displayed in a landscape that could never have existed on this earth, while partially clad dryads cavorted lewdly around a drunken Dionysius as he pressed grapes against their naked breasts or caressed their plump thighs. Myrddion shuddered at the thought of dining with such murals as a backdrop.
‘They’re fine works, aren’t they? I spare no expense when I entertain in my house. And I’ve no doubt that you also believe that quality is worth paying for.’ Ranus aimed an oily smile at Myrddion and directed him towards a splendid dining couch with magnificent scarlet upholstery, trimmed with gold fringing that was beginning to tarnish. The healer seated himself with easy grace, trying not to touch a fresh food stain that had left a greasy trail across the head of the couch.
‘Of course, my friend. It’s only sensible to pay well and pursue the very best, if one is to get lasting value from one’s purchases.’
‘So how can old Ranus help a young lordling like you, sir? A horse for riding, perhaps? One to impress the ladies? Or are you off to the wars?’
Myrddion explained his needs succinctly and carefully. Now that he and Cadoc could see the horse trader more clearly, they were unimpressed by their host’s appearance and manner, even when he clapped his hands imperiously and the doorkeeper shuffled off to find wine and sweetmeats for the guests.
Ranus was a short, thickset man with a colouring and a greasy toga that shouted a mixed Roman heritage. His eyes were very black, like his dusty hair, and were too close together for him to appear trustworthy. A single bushy eyebrow wound above them like a rather nasty caterpillar. His feet in their rough cobbled sandals were none too clean, although his hairy fingers were covered with large rings that had eaten into the puffy flesh. A costly pin of northern workmanship held his toga and tunic in place, while his hair had been forced into a series of curls that trailed across his forehead in an unsuccessful copy of the epicurean style.
Before business began, Ranus insisted that his guests take a draught of Spanish wine in real glass goblets. From Ranus’s airy, casual use of the glass, Myrddion saw that the horse trader was inordinately proud of his imported possessions. Cadoc almost choked when he took a deep quaff, and only managed to swallow the vinegary liquid with difficulty. Wisely, Myrddion forced himself to sip his wine and praised Ranus on the quality of his choice. The Roman flushed with pleasure and thrust a salver of sticky honey concoctions upon his guests, who managed to eat without revealing their distaste.
‘So you will need four carthorses rather than mounts for yourselves. You’re lucky, young sirs, for I don’t have a horse suitable for riding, no matter what price you offered me. All the young warriors have purchased any beast that is even remotely battle-ready so that they can join Flavius Aetius in his campaign against those damned barbarians. The gods alone know what’ll happen if Aetius fails. I suppose our skulls will be decorating Attila’s hall.’
Ranus paused dramatically, hawked, and then spat onto his pebbled mosaic floor. Myrddion tried not to wince, or to betray his ignorance of local politics.
‘At any road, I can sell you some carthorses that are too damned slow for battle, but quite capable of towing the heaviest of wagons. They’re not young, mind, but they’re not likely to die on you either. You have my word on it.’ Then Ranus named a sum that left Cadoc gape-mouthed.
The horse trader quickly explained. ‘You can search through Gesoriacum all week, my fine sirs, and you’ll not do better. A man would be a fool if he didn’t take advantage of the times. As my old father used to say, only an idiot ignores supply and demand, so it’s up to you. But if you wait too long, these beasts will be sold to a cook from the kitchens who’s anxious to make a name for himself.’
‘Show us your horses then, Ranus. I’ll not buy any animal sight unseen,’ Myrddion said. His dark brows were drawn together and Ranus saw a flicker of irritation lurking at the edges of the healer’s eyes.
‘Certainly, young sir, come along with me. I never cheat anyone, least of all young lordlings such as you. It’s bad for business, for a start. Mind the step! Horses are mucky creatures, all told, and their real talent is turning fresh hay into horse shit.’
Ranus led the two Celts through a series of small storerooms into a tumbledown stable where two young stable hands had made themselves comfortable in the straw and were playing at dice. With highly descriptive and colourful oaths, Ranus drove them out into the yard to bring in the four carthorses. This task took some little time, for the animals had no desire to be penned into narrow stalls after the relative freedom of the muddy yard, with its supply of nettles and long grass that had been left to grow near the fence posts.
Once the horses were in place in their stalls, Myrddion and Cadoc checked them from head to hock and were pleasantly surprised to find them to be in good condition. Ranus hadn’t lied, and although the animals were a little grey around their muzzles their eyes were clear, their yellow teeth were sharp and strong and their hairy hocks were sound.
‘We’ll take them. Now, do you have two wagons that we can purchase, preferably ones that are watertight?’
Ranus rubbed his hands together with oily pleasure and presented two wagons for Cadoc’s careful inspection. Like the carthorses, the wagons were old and clumsy, but they came with stout leather covers that would protect Myrddion’s tools of trade. A bargain was soon struck and most of Myrddion’s store of gold changed hands. As Cadoc harnessed the horses, Myrddion turned back to face the wily old trader.
‘Ranus, I’ll tell you straight, I’ve no desire to serve in any conflict outside my own land. Commanders always seem to take advantage of healers, so I’ve been dragged into a number of disputes in the past. I’ve found that working for a royal master is never financially rewarding, so I’m sure you understand my reservations, my friend.’
The Roman trader smiled like a shark. In truth, a good war was very profitable for his business, but he took pains to avoid any personal experience of the carnage. ‘Aye, young lordling, I can see that a healer would be a valuable addition to any commander’s army.’
‘How may I avoid the coming war? I wish to travel to the south, eventually to Ravenna, and I don’t wish to be sidetracked by the Huns or the Franks along the way. What route would be fastest and safest?’
Ranus rubbed his stubbled chin with a horny forefinger. Myrddion winced at the rasping sound that resulted, while the Roman eyed the younger man with cunning, insolent eyes.
‘Well, young sir, if I were to gamble on where Attila will attack next, I’d be thinking of the rich lands to the southwest. He’ll pour his warriors into the lands of the Alemanni and strike either at Worms or Strasbourg. He could easily be
holding those cities already, but we’ll never know until his horsemen come knocking at our own gates. The Huns move fast. Attila will carve through the Frankish countryside like a hot knife through cold butter, using the Reno river as his marker to move his troops from place to place.’
Myrddion frowned. ‘So where should I go if I hope to avoid him? This land is foreign to us and I’d rather avoid any pitched battles, if I can – even minor skirmishes. Of course, if I stumbled across wounded men, I’d be morally bound to treat their wounds – but I must reach Ravenna without being delayed by a war.’
‘Then I’d take the main Roman road leading into the east. I’d drive my wagons to the river, where Caesar crossed into the north to defeat the barbarians, then head south to Tournai, Cambrai and the Frankish border cities. With luck you’ll skirt around the fighting.’
Myrddion grimaced. ‘Won’t I be heading towards the Huns if I follow your advice? Why not follow the coastal route?’
Ranus shrugged expressively. ‘It’s true that the best road runs along the coast, but you’re likely to run across one of the armed groups from the defending king’s forces. The Franks and the Goths are just as dangerous as Attila’s warriors, so I’d follow the central route if I were in your position. The roads there are in disrepair and the Romans don’t guard them any more. But, I do know that most of the bridges are still standing, so . . . well, it’s really up to you.’ Obviously sick of profitless chatter, Ranus turned back to his sweetmeats and his execrable wine, trusting his customers to latch the gate as they departed.
The darkness was complete by the time Myrddion and Cadoc had picked up the three widows and loaded their provisions, the tools of their trade, the leather field tents and Myrddion’s precious box of scrolls. Distrusting the local inns along the waterfront, Myrddion chose to travel under the rising moon to the outskirts of Gesoriacum where they could make camp in relative safety. Unfed, but safe beneath the wagons among their furs and woollen blankets, the small party were soon fast asleep.