by M. K. Hume
Of the whole throng who passed before them, a group of northerners who disembarked from a primitive pegged wooden boat were the most exotic. White of skin and pale of hair, with eyes so blue that many men of a superstitious bent stepped aside from their paths, they strode through the throng as if the crowd were invisible.
‘Who are those hulking brutes?’ Cadoc asked, with nervous respect for the height of the northerners. ‘They must stand inches taller than you, master. And look at the size of their hands and feet.’
Myrddion relayed the question to a stallholder who was selling roasted chestnuts. Although the short, dark man frowned a little at Myrddion’s Latin, he replied with much gesticulation and animation.
‘They are Jutes from a country called Jutland,’ Myrddion explained to Cadoc. ‘They rarely reach the Middle Sea, but they are great sailors and fishermen. I can add that they pose a threat to the north of Britain where they have taken to raiding in the spring. Heaven help us if they make treaties with the Saxons and invade in earnest.’
‘Shite! And I thought the Saxons were large,’ Cadoc muttered, and a pall was cast temporarily over the brilliance and excitement of the day.
Massilia had a large marble forum and a plethora of Roman buildings of all kinds, including a hospital for the Roman auxiliaries who kept the peace. Warehouses, inns, shop-fronts of every kind, tanneries, slaughterhouses and the slums of the poor made Massilia a port of both beauty and ugliness, with over it all a great vividness that reminded Myrddion of a huge human body that was bursting with life.
After purchasing some essentials at the open-air markets, the three men returned to the outskirts of the city where they had erected their large tent and settled in to earn coin by offering their skills to the public. The widows were impressed by the men’s tales of the waterfront, the fresh vegetables they had purchased and a gift from Myrddion of roasted chestnuts and strange sweetmeats made of pastry, honey and almonds. With sticky fingers and beatific smiles, the women set about preparing their evening meal.
After three days in Massilia, Myrddion’s cash box was fully replenished. On several occasions he was asked to present himself at the mansions of the wealthy where his cleanliness, his pure Latin and his male beauty quickly earned him approval. When he lanced the infected wound of a young man who had been treated by a charlatan attempting to fleece the family of a wealthy trader, Myrddion suddenly found his skills in great demand. Master and apprentices discovered that there were not enough hours in the day to respond to the queues of poorer patients and the new, wealthy clients who clamoured for attention.
Myrddion was already feeling restive because he knew he was drawing attention to himself and creating a trail that Aetius could follow, when fate conspired to change his plans once again. The healers were about to eat a frugal evening meal of rich stew, hot griddle bread and fresh fruit when several men entered the encampment.
‘Who goes there?’ Cadoc called, as Finn drew his sword from behind his seat.
‘Come into the light where we can see you,’ Myrddion shouted.
Two servants bearing torches came first, followed by two brawny bodyguards armed with long wooden staves. Last of all, Cleoxenes strolled into the cone of light surrounding the fireplace and gazed around the encampment with interest.
The demeanour of the envoy had scarcely changed, although his clothing was more dishevelled than usual and his boots were filthy from the dust of a long journey. His narrow, clever face was as indolent as ever, but a new urgency underlay the courtly exterior.
‘Well met, friend Myrddion. I see you are continuing to practise your craft – and are doing quite well at it, or so I’ve been told. I’ve come with the coin I promised for Bridie and to advise you of the changes that have beset the world since last we met.’
Myrddion leapt to his feet, his face falling into a smile of welcome. He gripped the envoy’s hand with affection. ‘I am pleased to see you, Lord Cleoxenes, and grateful you remembered your promise. And yes, we have found Massilia to be a very profitable city in which to ply our trade. However, I have begun to believe that we are attracting too much attention and should prepare to depart on our journey to Italia. Another day and we would have missed you.’
Cleoxenes grinned as he gripped Myrddion’s shoulder, and the healer noticed the whiteness of the envoy’s teeth. As their visitor was introduced to the women, Cleoxenes kissed the hand of each in turn, a gesture that sent them into embarrassed fits of giggles. Bridie, in particular, was treated with touching gallantry when Cleoxenes pressed a leather drawstring bag into her unresponsive hands. When she pulled open the thong and upended the purse, a cascade of golden coins fell into her lap, making her gasp with surprise and delight.
‘Thank you, Lord Cleoxenes,’ Myrddion said. ‘With this coin, Bridie will never have to fear for her future.’
‘I only paid what was due. I’m offended by wanton cruelty, so offer me no thanks for doing what was a duty. Fortuna favours us both, although I prefer to think that my lord, the Christos, has helped me to find you at a time when we have an urgent need to speak together. The political situation is grave, and we must change our original plans and take the first available ship to Rome.’
Myrddion frowned. ‘Why? What has happened to make such a change imperative? We would leave a clear path for pursuit once we set sail for Rome.’
‘Flavius Aetius has more to occupy his mind than the fate of a Celtic healer, no matter how irritating he might find you. Everything we feared has come to pass, for Attila did not return to Buda. He has set the whole of the north of Italia aflame and now he threatens the heart of the empire. Yes, Myrddion. We are part of a new and deadly war.’
MYRDDION’S CHART OF THE VOYAGE FROM MASSILIA TO OSTIA
CHAPTER X
INTO THE WESTERN EMPIRE
‘Why did you become a priest, Father Lucius? You are obviously a man of culture and learning, and you sometimes make me feel like an ignorant savage. How did you find your way to Britain?’
Queen Ygerne smiled with a delicate curve of her well-shaped lips. She knew she was being overly intrusive, but in the months that Father Lucius had lived in Tintagel, through autumn and into winter, she had poured out her heart and exposed her deepest, most private fears to him. Her natural curiosity fired her, now that her mind was slowly beginning to mend.
Lucius smiled in turn, and considered his loosely folded hands as if some mystery lay within his intertwined fingers. Should he answer, or should he retain his secrets? The priest was a man of intense, contained emotions and was unused to the pain of memory. Twenty years ago, he had fled from his past as if from a plague.
‘To remember the man I once was causes me to regret one third of my life, my lady,’ he began awkwardly, without his usual measured calm. But as Queen Ygerne’s eyes moistened with sympathy he crushed his pride for the folly it was, and lurched back into speech.
‘I have listened to your secrets, Queen Ygerne, so I should repay your honesty with frankness of my own. I grew up where the Seven Hills pierce the blue skies of Italia. My family was immeasurably old and full of arrogance, for their scions enriched Rome and themselves during the Republic and the Empire. I’ll not tell you my gens, for I still owe something to my family and I’d not drag their name through the mud of my own folly, but I can assure you that consuls and senators fill their death masks and our history can be traced back to the early days of the Republic.’
‘I understand, Father Lucius, or at least as much as any woman can who claims nine generations of Britons in her heritage. Family name is a great burden, isn’t it?’
Lucius grimaced with weary self-knowledge. ‘I agree, although I enjoyed a childhood of privilege and power as an eldest son. I would be a liar if I denied the casual arrogance that my birthright entailed. I drank and whored as do all young men, I practised swordplay on the Field of Mars and thought little of the future, understanding the duties that my position demanded. I was mad to win honour on the field of battle, so m
y father sent me to the east where I served under various commanders from Constantinople. I never understood what it really meant to be a noble Roman until I killed my first man.’
Ygerne saw the dark shadows of unwelcome memory cluster behind Lucius’s eyes and regretted her curiosity and the pain it brought to the priest. He had helped her to understand her place in the world, and to appreciate the love that enlivened her life. Her darker gifts were overborne by the devotion of her husband and daughters, so that Ygerne had put aside the mourning that had terrified her family. Prayer had brought serenity and opened her eyes to a life beyond the frail grass of flesh. Under Father Lucius’s gentle gaze, she had explored the promise of heaven and the gentle nature of the Christos.
‘I was wrong to awaken painful memories, Father Lucius. In truth, I also know the privileges and disadvantages of high birth. I was immeasurably lucky that my father, Pridenow, hand-fasted me to a man who loved me, so my life has been blessed.’
‘You were fortunate. Many women, including my sisters, were betrothed to old men whom they would never love.’ Once again, a haunted look appeared in Lucius’s eyes. ‘Anyway, I followed the tides of war across the Empire and I learned what it meant to be a leader of men. The deaths of my soldiers haunted me in ways I could never have imagined. But in Gaul, I learned what war truly was as we fought the Vandals in blood up to our armpits. Bloody slaughter turned us into scarecrows bathed in gore and brain matter, and no soldier who survived those battles was the same man ever again. I still try to wash the memory of that guilt off my arms and face when I rise at dawn. And at night I still fight my faceless enemies through the dark hours until my mind reels in confusion.’
Ygerne sat quietly and listened, as if their roles were reversed and she was the priest hearing a halting confession.
‘I was wounded in the head outside Tolosa twenty years ago and my wits were addled. The surgeons could do nothing for me and I ran wild like a lunatic, sickened by the carnage I had seen and taken part in. I cannot explain this period of madness, or even remember it very well. But I fled from my duties and my life like a coward, and I disgraced myself and my family forever.’
‘But you were ill – your actions weren’t those of a coward,’ Ygerne protested, aghast.
‘I was a deserter, even if I wasn’t in my right mind. Had I not been taken in by a group of penitents heading for Britain, I would have been executed, to the everlasting shame of my family. As it was, I was brought to Glastonbury and nursed back to health within the holy precincts of the church. Somewhere in those lost years, God found me and gave me a new purpose. I forsook the barren gods of my childhood to follow in the gentle steps of my lord, and in doing so I relinquished the sword to labour in the fields like the slaves my family had once owned. I found myself again through the nobility of sweat and toil. I was redeemed in the contemplation of green and growing things and my days are now full and happy. But enough of sad memories. You are well again, my lady, and my heart rejoices in your happiness. It is time for me to return to the monastery at Glastonbury, but you must call for me again if ever you are in need of consolation. I’ll not fail to come if I’m freed by my bishop. I believe that my lord has touched you and His purpose works through you in some mysterious and inscrutable fashion. I cannot say whether your daughters, a child of your body yet unborn, or yourself in your role as queen of a brave people are His tools. But I can feel His touch upon you and your destiny. May He protect you from all harm and bring you His own ineffable peace.’
Embarrassed, Ygerne dropped her eyes and prayed.
On a stone bench on a flagged stone terrace, the priest and the queen sat quietly, wrapped in their own thoughts as the day lengthened towards another cold evening.
Above, the birds of Tintagel wheeled, cried and hunted, in the ways of all wild things.
The galley hugged the sandy shore, keeping beyond the teeth of stone that stretched out into the azure sea in long, fanged jaws. Always within sight of land, the ship caught every breath of breeze in its big-bellied sail, rarely having recourse to the oars that could power the heavy vessel at an astonishing speed.
Once again, and practised from their experiences at Dubris well over a year earlier, Cadoc had sold their string of horses and their wagons in Massilia for a significant profit. Cleoxenes had arranged their passage with the easy elan of a man used to wielding power and charming what he wanted from the world. Almost effortlessly, they had embarked upon the long sea voyage.
Myrddion chafed under the length of the journey. Rough maps of the land between Massilia and Rome showed that a straight line away from the coastline was the fastest route, but few captains dared risk the perils of open waters. ‘But why?’ he asked Cleoxenes with puzzled curiosity. ‘When we follow the coastline, we lengthen our voyage enormously and delay our arrival in Rome. At this rate, Attila will have taken the City of the Seven Hills before we arrive.’
‘Sensible captains fear to lose sight of land. The Middle Sea is capricious and one storm can muddle the thoughts of the most experienced navigator, leaving him unsure as to which direction to take. We could be lost forever. In the Odyssey, the great Greek writer, Homer, describes how Ullysses was lost for years while sailing through the Greek islands. Sailors steer by the stars when they travel at night, but such directions are hardly accurate. Do you want to die of thirst?’
Myrddion had never heard of Homer’s Odyssey, although he had read the Iliad in Latin, so he stored this piece of information away as a valuable source of knowledge. However, the notion that ships had no means of navigating their way around the Middle Sea was a revelation to him. Maps seemed to be rarely used except by the better-educated sailors, and even then such aids were rudimentary.
‘So how do northerners cross the wild, cold seas when they come to Britain? Because they do, you know.’
Cleoxenes shrugged expressively. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what methods the barbarians use. I can only explain why no captain will cross the seas between here and the islands of Corsica and Sardinia.’
The names meant little to Myrddion, but once again he filed them away as places of interest should they be discovered on any charts that he might find. He felt obliged, however, to accept Cleoxenes’s explanation and to assuage his curiosity by making his own chart of the coastal route from Massilia to Italia.
Cadoc suffered from seasickness for several days until, almost miraculously, he became accustomed to the motion of the ship and his nausea passed. The sun-bronzed sailors laughed at him and teased him about finally acquiring his sea legs, but the Celt retained his sense of humour, spending all day above deck and becoming quite sunburned, especially around the glossy, damaged areas of his scars. Other than a whole new scatter of freckles across his nose and unscarred cheek, he took no other hurt from the warm spring sun.
Ports and towns slid by daily, linked by the coastal Roman road that was still maintained as a route into the west. Antipolis, Albium Ingaunum, Vada Sabatia, Genua and Segesta passed by as the ship made its ponderous way to the east. Above the towns and the road, the mountains of the Alpes Maritimi raised their craggy crowns towards the heavens. Myrddion was fascinated by the height and imposing beauty of the mountains, which reminded him of his home. The sailors told him that these peaks were part of an even higher range that formed a near impenetrable barrier for travellers who wished to access the headwaters of the Padus river that crossed Italia and spilled its waters into the Mare Adriaticum.
When they called at Portus Veneris for fresh drinking water, Cleoxenes strolled into the town to learn what he could of the troubles in the north. He returned biting his lip and frowning so that his dark brows met in deep furrows on his usually untroubled forehead.
‘The news of Attila is bad – very bad – far worse than I expected. I have also received unsettling tidings from Constantinople that may or may not be true. I pray they are false.’
‘Tell us the worst then, Lord Cleoxenes. We may not understand everything you say, but ig
norance is even more dangerous than a little knowledge,’ Myrddion urged, alarmed by the sadness in the envoy’s voice.
‘Rumours have reached Portus that my master, Emperor Theodosius, is dead and has been succeeded by the Emperor Marcian. I have been absent from fair Constantinople for far too long.’
‘Will a change of emperor mean trouble for you, lord?’ Myrddion asked, his sympathy quickened by the audible upset in the envoy’s voice.
‘No. Definitely not. But Theodosius was a good man, and brave of heart. He was the first to attempt to halt the ambitions of the Flagellum Dei, or Attila, as you from the western countries call him. I regret his death, if the rumours are true.’
Myrddion kept his face under control so that his features only registered polite interest. Cleoxenes wouldn’t welcome overt solicitude.
‘As for Attila, he has counter-attacked and now holds all the lands of Italia down to the Padus river. The north is his and Aetius is forced to mount defensive raids against the Hun outriders. The general can only slow the Hungvari advance, not halt it, for he lacks the troops needed to meet Attila in open warfare. He must surely regret his churlish treatment of the Visigoths and the Franks. If she is to survive another burning, Rome will need all her allies.’
‘Such a response was inevitable,’ Myrddion murmured. ‘Given that tower of saddles I saw on the Catalaunian Plain, Attila was certain to seek revenge.’
‘Attila has such pride that he dared Flavius Aetius to attack him when he was sitting high on that leather tower. As the world knows, he is unused to defeat. He must have been raging as he rode northeast and skirted the mountains until he came to the Roman road that cuts through the Alpes Carnicae. Turning south instead of north would have seemed the only way to avenge his losses at the Catalaunian Plain and regain his power and position. We brought the Hun down on our heads when we submitted to the general’s greed.’