by M. K. Hume
‘Don’t berate yourself, my lord. I suppose that we’ll learn more when we make our next landfall, for I’ll wager that the towns of Italia will be speaking of nothing else.’
Sea journeys never seem to end when travellers are eager for news that will reshape their lives. To starboard, the healers could see the blue waters of the Middle Sea, unvarying, stretching to the horizon without blemish or change. Cadoc swore that staring at the ocean gave him the drearies, even though he had mastered his illness.
‘There’s not enough to amuse us when birds have become the chief topic of interest,’ he complained.
‘You can amuse yourself by helping Finn to chop the herbs we purchased in Massilia,’ Myrddion retorted. ‘When we disembark, we’ll need to be ready to earn a living.’
Privately, however, the young healer agreed with Cadoc. He preferred to stay to landward, where the shield of mountains was gradually giving way to wide green plains. The Roman town of Luna passed by, and small fishing boats surrounded the galley like a flock of impudent sparrows teasing a raven. They milled and swooped around the larger ship, chasing shoals of silver fish while brown-skinned, half-naked little men cast their nets and grinned up at the sailors and delivered rapid-fire, ribald jokes.
Pisae passed by on the port side, and the occasional river mouth opened into the waters of the Middle Sea, staining the waters brown with silt and the detritus of human habitation. The mountains had retreated, and the galley had turned southward to follow the coastline. Triturrita and Vada passed and Myrddion’s young eyes could just make out the wide Via Aurelia as it wound along the coast like a serpent before disappearing inland.
The view on both sides of the galley now showed smudges of land as the great island of Corsica rose out of the ocean with a spine of mountain peaks. The galley slid between the island of Ilva and the coast and Cleoxenes informed the healers that the captain planned to take on more fresh water at Telamon, little more than a flyspeck on the land mass of Italia, lacking even the virtue of a decent harbour.
‘Why do we pause, then?’ Myrddion asked logically, having adjusted to the rhythms of life on a sea voyage. ‘Why not head towards a more hospitable spot to collect our water?’
‘Actually, we aren’t really stopping. The captain has received a message from a fishing boat that an important personage needs transportation to Roma, and will come to us on a smaller boat that will also deliver our water barrels.’
‘Who in their right mind would sail south, when Roman roads would take them directly to the capital much faster than sail or oars? In their place, whoever they are, I’d have ridden.’
‘So would I,’ Cleoxenes answered with his secretive smile. ‘But I suppose they believe the sea is safer than the land. Perhaps our journey will be enlivened by a convivial companion or two.’
When the galley hove to, the passengers could see that the village was a collection of white and pink buildings clustered above the shoreline. No sooner had the galley dropped anchor than a fishing boat left the rudimentary wharf and began to scud out beyond the breakers with the land breeze filling its sails. The crew of the galley clustered on the deck, staring towards the land, and treating this unexpected pause in the voyage as a brief holiday from the unvarying sameness of their duties.
The healers stood with them, eager to be diverted by any change in the predictable rhythms of life on the ship. Even Bridie left the widows’ cabin to join them, leaning on an elaborate stick that Finn had fashioned for her on the voyage. He was inordinately proud of his gift, which was rich with carvings of fish and sea serpents and adorned with glowing pink and white slivers of shell.
A rope ladder was cast over the bulbous side of the galley and Myrddion decided that he was glad he didn’t have to make the awkward climb on the heavy, twisting rungs of woven sisal. A man clambered up first, a soldier wearing Roman armour that was much decorated with rich embossing and gilding under a heavy red woollen cloak.
‘It seems our visitors are persons of some importance,’ Cleoxenes informed the healers as the Roman officer heaved his body over the rail. ‘The tedium of our journey might be broken.’
Myrddion looked at the climbing ladder and saw only the covered heads of two women who struggled with their robes and peplums as they clung to the ropes with beringed fingers. One of the fishermen assisted them from below while a limber seaman climbed down to offer them a strong brown arm on the way up. Such was the obvious wealth of the new passengers that the sailors, clustering on the rigging and rails, resisted their usual urge to make ribald comments, even when a gust of wind revealed a shapely calf and thigh to their interested stares. The women had barely reached the deck before brown fishermen, as dexterous as monkeys, began unloading chests of possessions and pitch-sealed barrels of water.
Cleoxenes and Myrddion examined the newcomers with frank curiosity, and even the apprentices and the widows gawked covertly from under lowered lids at the two women, who wore hooded cloaks to hide their faces from the open stares of plebeians. The captain appeared, bowing obsequiously even before he reached his wealthy clients, and the Roman officer proceeded to demand his best cabins for the accommodation of the ladies. As Cleoxenes had the biggest one and Myrddion shared the other good-sized compartment with Cadoc and Finn, the only available space was either the widows’ inadequate quarters or the captain’s odorous, fish-tainted cabin. Myrddion sighed. ‘Unless we want the widows to be turned out to sleep on the open deck, I imagine we’ll be giving up our cabin.’
The captain of the galley had already come to the same conclusion. The noble Roman officer was induced to share with Cleoxenes, an arrangement that neither man welcomed, and the healers packed their few possessions and took up a position at the stern of the vessel where they would be protected from the weather. The captain offered them space in the crew’s quarters far below the deck, where Cleoxenes’s bodyguards and manservant had stolen the best hammocks by virtue of their size and nasty dispositions, but the healers had already experienced the foul smells and stygian darkness of the lower decks and Myrddion announced that a little rain would be far better for their health than hammocks strung in tiers under low ceilings and overfull slop buckets fouling what little air there was and the grimy planks alike.
If the healers expected any thanks for their generosity, they were out of luck. The two women never so much as looked in their direction before they hastened to their new quarters.
‘They won’t like their new accommodation overmuch,’ Cadoc predicted drily.
‘They’ll like the bunks even less,’ Finn added. ‘I swear they have lice.’ He scratched reflectively at his forearm, and Myrddion and Cadoc immediately began to itch.
‘Perhaps they’ll have some news to share with us,’ Myrddion suggested, his curiosity piqued by the arrival of the Roman party. ‘I wonder where Attila is now? We all know how fast the Hun army can move, so they could have taken Rome already.’
‘Judging by their friendliness so far, they’ll not be talking to us,’ Cadoc replied sardonically. ‘I doubt even Cleoxenes will learn much from that gilded bag of wind he’s stuck with. Cleoxenes may be noble, but he’s become very brown in his travels and he’s not as fussy about his dress as he was at the start of the journey.’
Myrddion was inclined to agree. Considering the difference in their stations, he had found Cleoxenes to be a charming, erudite companion to whom he owed much, not least his life. But weeks at sea had relaxed the older man’s personal dress code and made him less starchy in his manner than in previous meetings. It was indeed possible that Cleoxenes would also be judged as being beneath Roman consideration, unless he dressed as if he were at the imperial court at Constantinople.
‘Perhaps we’re judging our fellow travellers too harshly,’ the healer murmured without much conviction.
‘I doubt it, but you could be right,’ Cadoc replied. The servant’s face suggested that he wasn’t the least convinced.
The healers had much to occupy their time, now t
hat Ostia, the port of Rome, was only a few days away. Myrddion’s clothing was becoming decidedly shabby, so the widows had purchased several lengths of wool and linen in Massilia with the intention of making garments for their master during the sea voyage. There had been much giggling over their needlework, while the cloth had always been hidden whenever Myrddion came within their ambit. He had no idea what they would create for him from the black, grey and white fabrics, but until their agile fingers had finished wielding their needles he must make do with the ragged, over-washed and faded garb that had travelled with him from Cymru. He was still young enough to feel shame at his dishevelled appearance, and hoped he would cut a more imposing figure once he reached Rome than he did now.
He had decided to seek out the Jewish healer, Isaac, whom the dead Theodoric had praised in their fateful discussion outside Aurelianum. So far, in his quest to find his father, he had gained neither knowledge nor gold to validate such an upheaval in his life. Perhaps Isaac would take them all on as apprentices and share his knowledge with them. Excitement briefly surged through him, but was soon replaced by self-doubt. Wiser to the Roman world than he had been in Britain, Myrddion doubted that three shabby Celts would be acceptable servants for a man of such fame as Isaac, even if he was a Jew and derided by the nobility of Rome – unless they needed his services urgently. Respectability in Rome, it seemed, increased considerably with usefulness.
‘I’m becoming as cynical as you are, Cadoc,’ Myrddion confided to his apprentice that afternoon after relating his immediate plans. He was staring idly over the side and watching the cobalt blue depths pass beneath him as a slew of gulls followed the galley, screaming for the slops that the cook cast overboard at this time of day, after the preparations for yet another fish stew had been completed.
‘Never, master,’ Cadoc answered absentmindedly. He was learning to make fishing nets out of very fine twine with a narrow wooden hook, so he was forced to concentrate hard so that he didn’t drop stitches and spoil the mesh.
Before Myrddion could respond, he saw Cleoxenes moving easily along the deck in company with the Roman officer, who had discarded his heavy cloak but was still wearing his magnificent armour. His face was red and puffy, and sweat stained his tunic.
‘Myrddion!’ Cleoxenes called peremptorily, although his voice wasn’t unkind.
Myrddion felt his shoulders stiffen, as their relationship had never previously been one of master and servant. ‘Yes, my lord. How may I serve you?’
The healer’s voice was exaggeratedly servile, and Cleoxenes’s eyebrows rose in surprise. I’m being stupid, Myrddion thought. He realised, with a pang of guilt, that Cleoxenes had probably been unaware of the autocratic tone in his voice. Unfortunately, Roman manners were catching.
‘Ignore my mood, my lord,’ he added. ‘I’m a little on edge, now that our journey is nearing its end. Forgive any lapse of courtesy on my part.’
Cleoxenes still looked puzzled, but as Myrddion was now smiling easily in his customary manner, the envoy from Constantinople put his concerns aside.
‘This gentleman is Flavius Petronius Maximus, senator of Rome, patrician and adviser to the Emperor Valentinian. He is accompanying Lady Flavia, daughter of General Flavius Aetius. Lady Flavia is chaperoned by her noble kinswoman, Heraclea, who is the daughter of Thraustila Major, a cousin of Aetius’s third wife.’ The envoy’s tone was neutral, and he explained later that Thraustila came from a noble Hun family, one whose members were loyal to the interests of Rome. He turned to the senator.
‘May I introduce to you Myrddion Emrys of Segontium, a healer of extraordinary note. This young man is travelling to Rome to extend his knowledge under the greatest Roman practitioners of our age. Myrddion served General Flavius Aetius with distinction at the Battle of the Catalaunian Plain, where he ministered to many Roman warriors and saved the lives of countless wounded.’
Myrddion bowed gracefully, careful not to shame his friend. For his part, Flavius Petronius Maximus gave a haughty nod, so Myrddion decided that he would irritate the great man by introducing his apprentices to him next.
Another Flavius! Myrddion thought irritably. And this one is the right age, give or take a few years. He’s a reasonable figure of a man but no one, no one, could ever say that he possessed a hyacinth beauty.
Fortunately, the Roman was unable to read Myrddion’s mind.
‘Noble Cleoxenes tells me that you are a soothsayer as well as a healer,’ Petronius said.
‘That’s not exactly true, my lord. Sometimes, unbidden, I am afflicted with strange trances during which I utter prophecies, but this state is beyond my control. Nor can I vouch for the veracity of my words for, frankly, I don’t remember them.’
‘Myrddion is overly modest, Petronius. This young man predicted our successes on the Catalaunian Plain in minute detail. Even more amazingly, he foretold the death of King Theodoric of the Visigoth tribes. Myrddion is also literate and speaks and writes fluent Latin.’
Petronius raised one eyebrow sceptically and made excuses to continue his private conversation with Cleoxenes. As the Roman and the eastern aristocrat moved away, Myrddion was free to examine Petronius at his leisure.
Flavius Petronius Maximus was a middle-aged man, and Myrddion guessed that he had lived for at least fifty years. Fortune had smiled on him at his birth and he was sturdy, athletic and handsome in a rough, florid fashion, although good living had thickened his waist and padded his shoulders with a layer of fat. His jaw was a little jowly and the suspicion of an incipient double chin marred a broad, clean-shaven face with regular, well-shaped features. Under a tonsure of fair hair, which Petronius constantly patted down across a central bald spot, the Roman’s appearance was pleasing in spite of a snub nose. Myrddion was particularly impressed by the way the light caught his pale hazel eyes, lending them deceptive depth.
He’s like Narcissus, in love with his own reflection, Myrddion thought as Petronius Maximus obviously referred to something personal once more, and his beringed hand patted his breastplate. But the senator’s hands had authority and Myrddion saw the calluses that were only built up from years of practice with the sword.
Fascinating as Petronius was, Myrddion had been surprised at his own lack of response when he learned that Flavia was a passenger on the galley. His heart didn’t leap in his breast, and neither did his hands tremble. The young healer smiled slightly, for he had been a little afraid that the daughter of the Roman general still held him in her thrall. With luck, he would not be obliged to see her during their final days aboard the galley.
After the Roman senator had sauntered off to order a decent meal for his ladies, Myrddion rejoined Cleoxenes, who was frowning darkly.
‘Damn that Aetius! I knew his weakness would cause us to lose thousands of lives . . . and so it has proved. The Hungvari have burned the north. Cities have been sacked and churches reduced to smoking ruins. But the worst news of all is that Aquileia has been utterly destroyed. Petronius told me that Attila ordered a wooden fortress to be built nearby from which he could watch the city as it burned with the last of its citizens trapped inside.’
Myrddion shuddered. The cold-bloodedness of Attila’s revenge could not fail to repulse any right-thinking man.
‘Attila now holds the entire north of Italia, while nothing stands between his army and Rome itself. Valentinian has fled from Ravenna, whose swamps and waterways will not protect her this time. So grave is the situation that Aetius has sent his daughter south, and if Rome is threatened she will be packed off to Sicily.’
‘If the Hun are as close as Petronius Maximus suggests, it would make sense to send her to Sicily immediately,’ Myrddion grumbled. ‘A battlefield is no place for a woman.’
‘Master!’ Cadoc had joined them. ‘Where would we be without our widows? Badly fed and half dead of exhaustion, I’d reckon.’
‘I meant gently born females,’ Myrddion said quickly.
‘Worse and worse, master. Are you suggesting that the ba
ttlefield is appropriate for the poor, the indigent and the ignorant? Or do you say that the daughters of patricians are unfit to face the bloodbath of war? The philosophers could call you to task for these assumptions, master.’
‘He still has all the niceties of youth.’ Cleoxenes grinned at Cadoc. ‘Myrddion still believes that women are gentle creatures, whereas we know that they are ruthless to the bone, at least where love is concerned.’
With the laughter of his apprentice and Cleoxenes echoing good-naturedly in his ears, Myrddion escaped to the hard deck and his ragged woollen cloak. Eventually, under a blanket of stars, he fell into a deep sleep.
Now that they were approaching Rome, the population grew denser and the shore became a rich scroll of villages and towns that clustered along the coastal road. Tarquinii passed, and Cleoxenes entertained Myrddion with stories of the warriors who first built the city and ruled this ancient land long before the Romans ventured out of their mud huts. Centumcellae, Alsium, Fregenae . . . historic names that sang with magic, but the galley soon left the towns behind until, in a huge belch of brown and filthy water, the Tiber river emptied itself into the sea and Ostia hove into view.
With synchronised oars, the galley was manoeuvred towards a berth at the port, and with superb discipline the crew rowed towards the stone pylons to which the ship would be tied. Suddenly, they reversed their oars and the ship shuddered and began to back into position. The oars were raised, the galley slid smoothly into place and a strong length of rope was attached to the waiting mooring ring.
Flavia and Heraclea, dressed in their finery, hurried onto the deck, and Myrddion bowed low in the expectation that the Roman party would disembark quickly. However, some feminine capriciousness drove Flavia to draw back the hood of her cloak to reveal her marvellous, curling hair as she approached the healer with a sweet, seductive sway of her hips. Myrddion noticed that her elegant hands were rouged on the palms with henna, her eyelashes and brows were darkened with stibium and her already pale complexion was further whitened to hide her charming freckles. He had difficulty equating this beautiful creature, so poised and autocratic, with the Flavia he had first met in Châlons. That girl had been equally composed of fire, honey and sour wine, but she was now eclipsed. Only Flavia’s extraordinary, mismatched eyes were the same, crackling as they were with life and fierce with a desire to experience everything that Rome had to offer.