Prophecy: Death of an Empire: Book Two (Prophecy Trilogy)

by M. K. Hume

  While Cleoxenes stared out through the opened hatch of the carriage with interest, Myrddion felt his stomach roil as he surveyed the aftermath of slaughter on such a scale. He tried to imagine Rome in a comparable plight, but the vastness of the resulting loss of life beggared even Myrddion’s vivid imagination.

  Ahead, the mountains were tall and rugged, inhabited on the lower slopes by hill people who eked out a precarious existence by raising sheep and goats, and tending vines and olive trees. The Roman engineers had cunningly used the natural landscape as their greatest ally, seeking out the sources of rivers and the tablelands between peaks to find a usable route for their road to cross a mountain range that looked almost impassable. And so Cleoxenes’s wagons continued their slow, inexorable journey through Rome’s greatest protection, the tall mountains that bisected Rome’s most valued ally and traitor, the Via Cassia.

  When they reached the last high point before the road gently sloped down to the plains, the vast valley of the Padus river lay before them like a blanket. Far beyond, the Alpes Venetae raised their snow-crowned heads in a great encircling bowl. Even in a fierce, steamy summer, the great plain was a patchwork of green and gold, full of verdant, bursting life created by a network of tributaries that fanned out from the Padus. If Italia had a vascular system, this was it, and, from a distance at least, the signs of decay and moral dissolution that affected the body were not evident in this part of the peninsula.

  Myrddion was very tired but he felt his spirits revive as they approached the end of their arduous journey. Bononia lay at the entrance to the swelling landscape of natural beauty that the rivers had carved out of the primeval mountains that enclosed and protected these ancient lands.

  ‘Praise to the Mother,’ Myrddion whispered, when he saw Bononia for the first time. ‘For here she has birthed a place to nourish even the poorest of her children, where the earth is always replenished from the high mountains and the water is as clean and as sweet as the first springs that She brought forth out of Her sacred earth.’

  The young Celt looked down on the ravaged city that marked where two roads crossed: the Via Cassia, running from north to south, and the Via Aemilia, running from east to west. From the Mare Adriaticum to the borders of Gaul, the people of Italia could move at will across many hundreds of miles with ease, because Rome had created the fastest and most efficient communications and transport system that the world had ever seen. In pride, arrogance and hubris, Rome had birthed a strong, stable society that had been impregnable for a thousand years and was only now beginning to crumble. Ironically, the great roads had proved as advantageous to her present enemies as to Rome herself, for Attila had used them to drive a great wedge into Italia, sending the feared Hun cavalry along Rome’s arteries until her whole body was poisoned with his threat.

  For the first time, Myrddion found himself imbued with the same desperate urgency that drove Cleoxenes and the rest of the delegation. Italia was an over-ripe bunch of grapes that Attila held in his mailed fist, and one by one he was smashing each bursting piece of fruit as his internal demons demanded. Rome couldn’t defeat him, because her arteries were so clogged with the flow of Hungvari cavalry that the whole body of the Empire was choking.

  Across the Renus river and over the Panaris tributary, vast Roman bridges eased the journey. Myrddion stared at these structures with their elegant, curving spans, and marvelled at the simplicity of the designs. Such feats of engineering made the healer’s head spin. How could stone give the illusion of hovering over space as if marble and granite were as insubstantial as smoke?

  ‘The stone is only a superficial decoration,’ Cleoxenes explained from his carriage. ‘Concrete is the secret to those great, arched spans – concrete bolstered and strengthened with rubble and iron. Roman engineers can build almost anything by pumping this mixture into wooden shells and then giving it time to harden in the open air. Stone is used to face the raw concrete to add beauty, but the real miracle is unseen – in the foundations and the structure of the framework.’

  ‘It’s hard for a Celtic barbarian to even imagine such building methods. In Britain, we can barely raise simple stone structures, and the Saxons only use wood. These . . .’ Myrddion’s arms embraced the whole panorama of the bridge over the Renus river, ‘these techniques are far beyond the skills of any of the peoples of the northwest.’

  ‘And it could all disappear like wood smoke if the barbarians succeed,’ Cleoxenes whispered.

  The countryside unscrolled under the hooves of their horses with all its natural, panoramic lushness, but evidence of a vicious, one-sided war was everywhere for even untutored eyes to recognise. Farm cottages stood empty, and many of them were burned. The absence of fowl, cattle, sheep and other farm animals spoke eloquently of Hungvari pillage, but even human beings had disappeared, so that the landscape was completely empty.

  By contrast, Hostilia was filled to bursting with refugees sheltering behind its inadequate walls or trudging south through the town in long, dispirited family groups, carrying all their worldly goods. The people of the Padus valley knew that Attila was primed to attack in the near future.

  Finally, outside Mantua, Cleoxenes’s cavalcade reached the camp of the delegates. Their arrival caused a stir, for Flavius Aetius had informed the other patricians that the Byzantine envoy was too ill to travel. Cleoxenes had barely enough time to settle into a snug pallet in the travelling tent brought for that purpose before his noble colleagues visited him.

  Pope Leo wore the vestments of his office, liberally decorated with gilt and silver embroidery that featured fish, lambs and doves, all of which were sacred symbols of Christianity. His cloak was woven of dyed purple wool, for he was a prince of the church and, therefore, entitled to the royal purple. Myrddion had heard in Rome that this dye, called Tyrrhenum Purple, was extracted from small, toxic shellfish that poisoned the dye makers during its production. The first symptom was a form of madness, followed by blindness and a rapid deterioration in bodily functions. Death was inevitable. A cloak of Imperial Purple was grossly expensive in the human lives expended to produce it. Under his ostentatious, costly dress, Pope Leo was a narrow-faced, slender Roman, with blunt white fingers that were heavily decorated with rings of great value. His brown eyes were intense and clever, but his voice was soft and unassuming.

  By comparison, Prefect Trigetius and Consul Avienus were archetypal Roman patricians. Trigetius was vigorous, middle-aged and arrogant, a trait clearly demonstrated by his treatment of Myrddion and the other servants who were snubbed as if they were invisible. A man of action, Trigetius was dressed in elaborate mail and armour, and carried a jewelled Roman sword and dagger. Even his manner towards Cleoxenes was curt and rude, as he voiced aloud his belief that a representative of the Eastern Empire had no place in such an important delegation.

  ‘I am instructed to represent my emperor’s interests,’ Cleoxenes informed his fellow delegates. ‘Before Italia or Gaul felt the lash of Attila’s cavalry, my master’s army met the Hun and suffered at the hands of his warriors. Flavius Ardabur Aspar met and was defeated by Attila, as you well know, your holiness. I believe your kinswoman, Leontia, has informed you of her husband’s defeat in detail. For our burned churches, our murdered priests and nuns, and a population that has been butchered or left impoverished, Constantinople demands to be a part of this delegation. Further, we live in close proximity to the Hun homeland, so any agreements you make with Attila will have repercussions for us.’

  ‘You aren’t equipped to bargain with Attila,’ Consul Avienus retorted. ‘You’re not a fighting man. And you’re ill.’

  Avienus was an older man who sported an elaborate wig of carrot-red hair, tortured into an exaggerated band of curls on his forehead. His purple-edged toga, a jewel of astonishing size that was used to secure his tunic and a quantity of rings and bracelets on both arms proclaimed his wealth, if not his good taste. He reeked of heavy, cloying perfume. Even Cleoxenes, who was accustomed to such epicures, wr
inkled his nose at the overpowering scent.

  ‘I am a diplomat, Consul Avienus, and am trained for just such negotiations. I am probably more experienced than you are.’ Cleoxenes’s face was flushed with annoyance, and Myrddion placed a cautionary hand on the envoy’s shoulder.

  ‘May I offer you wine, my lords? Or water, if you prefer? We were about to eat a simple repast, so my lord Cleoxenes would be honoured if you would dine with him.’ Myrddion spoke soothingly, with just the right balance of courtesy and subordination.

  ‘Who is this person, Cleoxenes? He appears to be even more barbaric than Attila with all that hair,’ Trigetius drawled, ignoring Myrddion’s invitation. ‘His Latin is very good for an oaf from Gaul.’

  Cleoxenes presented Myrddion to the three dignitaries, but Pope Leo was the only one who acknowledged the introduction.

  ‘He cannot be trusted, whoever he is,’ Avienus sneered. ‘How do we know he’s not in league with Attila?’

  ‘This young man was the chief surgeon at the Battle of the Catalaunian Plain. He served our cause with great distinction, so you speak nonsense if you try to blacken his name simply because he wears his hair long, as is the custom in his lands.’ Leo examined Myrddion closely. ‘Your Latin is very pure, Myrddion Emrys, so I presume you have read the classics.’

  ‘Some, my lord. But my study has been largely confined to tracts concerned with healing and herb lore. I also read Greek.’

  The three delegates raised their eyebrows, for not one of these notables had so high an educational pedigree as this outlander from the Western Isles. Out of embarrassment, annoyance and, on Leo’s part, an earnest desire to spare Cleoxenes’s feelings, the conversation was dropped. Myrddion excused himself and left the tent to instruct the menservants to present the best cold meal available to their guests, including the sweet wines that the Romans craved. The healer in him was thankful to see that his patient continued to drink water.

  Outside, on a makeshift bed under the carriage, he watched the shadows of the Romans through the tent flap as they gesticulated and argued in raised voices. Even while the servants were offering them cold delicacies, the consul and the prefect continued to browbeat the envoy as they tried to convince him to stay out of the negotiations with Attila. Quietly and with little inflection, Cleoxenes refused to accede to the Romans’ wishes, and his clear, light voice remained adamant through the simple meal.

  At last, Cleoxenes made his final declaration. Should the Eastern Empire not be represented in the delegation, Constantinople would refuse to recognise any agreements reached during the conference. Further, Cleoxenes assured the delegates that Attila’s expressed position was that he wanted to make a binding agreement with all the parties involved. His ultimatum had teeth, for Rome depended on grain from the Eastern Empire and soldiers to bolster their armies.

  Eventually, after eating and drinking Cleoxenes’s bounty, the delegates bade the envoy good night. Dissatisfied with the outcome, they strode off in the direction of their luxurious tents.

  Sleep eluded Myrddion, regardless of his exhaustion. Under his irritation, a surge of excitement kept his mind chasing ideas long after the fires were banked and the lamps extinguished. Tomorrow, he would see Attila with his own eyes and the fate of Rome would be decided by the diplomatic skills of four clever men and the mailed fist of another. And he, Myrddion Emrys from a small Celtic settlement in the north of nowhere, would be present at this historic meeting. Eventually, lulled by the snores of Cleoxenes’s servants, Myrddion surrendered to the sweet anodyne of sleep.

  Above him, the stars burned and wheeled in constellations named after the gods and goddesses of antiquity. Cassiopeia, the archer and the long river of light from the girdle of Orion glowed above the camp while the gods laughed and moved their human chess pieces into new patterns for their own vast and unfathomable amusement. The darkness was warm and enveloping, and Myrddion caught the elusive scent of his grandmother’s hair as he surrendered his consciousness to the valley of dreams.

  CHAPTER XIV

  ATTILA’S BANE

  Gorgeous litters, liberally decorated with rare woods, gold, silver and ivory, and draped with gauzy curtains that were drawn to hide their occupants, bore the delegates to Attila’s designated meeting place. Sturdy, half-naked body servants carried them while scribes, bodyguards, senior officers and advisers paced solemnly beside the litters. A small troop of soldiers assembled to provide protection for the delegation was able to report that the Dread of the World had come to the parley with a token force of five hundred men. All the participants, no matter how lowly, were dressed in their finest clothes and largest jewels. Although Myrddion had been unable to wash his whole body, he had scrubbed his hands, feet and face until he glowed with health and cleanliness. Dressed in his new clothes, which had been brushed clean of any dust, Myrddion did credit to Cleoxenes with his elegance of form and the gravitas of his manner.

  Attila awaited the delegation at the entrance of a large leather tent that was painted in bright colours with depictions of his victories. Flanked by his guard, who were dressed in furs, polished armour and naked swords, he presented a barbaric but exotic magnificence.

  The Dread of the World was a middle-aged man whose face was ugly by Roman standards yet radiated power and confidence. From his powerful, hooked nose and the dark, arched brows that led the eye upwards to the tall crown that rested on his head, the thickset king seemed to embody everything that Italia and its people considered uncivilised. His cheekbones were very high and slanted so that the dark eyes in their deep sockets were almost eclipsed by the breadth of forehead shining above them in the natural light. His greying hair curled and was cut long enough to protect the neck, but not so long that it could be a danger in battle.

  By Roman standards, Attila was not very clean, and Myrddion saw dark crescents of ingrained dirt under his nails. However, to be fair, Vortigern had been none too scrupulous about bathing either, so the healer couldn’t hold the Hun to Roman standards. Attila’s body bore the physical signs of a lifetime spent in the saddle, for his legs were bowed and short while his arms were unusually long and heavily muscled. His robes and armour were gaudy but practical, and he rejected jewellery in favour of his heavy crown of purest gold, a clear statement that he was the only royal person present. With his chin lifted to stare slightly upward at the swaying litters, Attila was magnificent, deadly and terrifying.

  Myrddion blinked abruptly as the litters were lowered to the ground and the body servants stepped back to assist their masters to rise to greet their host. Behind Attila, Myrddion swore he caught a glimpse of a dark shadow curling around the Hun’s legs and trunk. Like smoke or mist, the shadow had no substance, and Myrddion knew that his eyes saw what was invisible to the rest of the delegation. Attila was dying, even though his body seemed hale and vigorous.

  As he gave his arm in support to Cleoxenes, Myrddion told the envoy what he had seen. Cleoxenes stared at the healer from under his narrow, expressive brows and nodded to indicate that he understood. The envoy’s expression was inscrutible.

  ‘Remain with me, Myrddion. I’ll use my illness as an excuse to keep you beside me. I want you to tell me at once if any other images or ideas come to you, no matter how outlandish they might seem.’

  ‘Of course, my lord. You understand that I can’t interpret what I see, so I cannot guarantee that I am predicting future truths?’

  ‘Yes, I understand. But you’re my edge in this dangerous game, and I’ll play you as my chief piece on the board. Forgive me for using you, my friend.’

  Myrddion could only nod.

  Flavius Aetius was already waiting opposite Attila. He had forsaken his guard, his weapons and his armour to don a simple Roman toga, tunic and sandals. The remnants of the general’s great army of the Catalaunian Plain was in bivouac outside Aquileia, while roving bands of cavalry harassed the Hun from Hostilia to Bononia. Aetius was aware that his role was purely as an observer, but, as always, he carried himself a
s if he were the true power in the delegation. Even the narrow strip of purple on his toga, which, strictly speaking, he wasn’t entitled to wear, demonstrated Aetius’s wholehearted belief that he was emperor of the West in all but name.

  For reasons known only to himself, the Hun king chose to ignore the presence of Flavius Aetius. Perhaps he thought that the general was the real threat? Perhaps his rage was still hot after his defeat on the Catalaunian Plain? Unfortunately, Myrddion knew that speculation was pointless. Offering a supporting arm to Cleoxenes, he assisted the envoy into Attila’s tent, helped him to sit with a comfortable cushion under his arm, and then, his duty finished, stepped back to stand behind his patient as just another anonymous servant.

  The meeting began without preamble or the offer of refreshments. Attila took the predictable stance of presuming that the Roman emissaries had come to beg for clemency and, as such, were the petitioners. Pope Leo remained standing and opened the negotiations by attempting to persuade Attila to return to Buda of his own accord. Leo explained that even if Attila defeated the Empire and burned Rome to the ground, he would never wed Valentinian’s sister Honoria. At the first sign of danger to the Western Empire, Valentinian would pack her off to Constantinople where she would be held incommunicado for the rest of her life. She would never be permitted to imperil either throne by marriage to the Hungvari king.

  ‘I don’t need Valentinian’s sister to defeat Rome,’ Attila countered harshly. ‘Or to take your holy city and rule it in my name.’

  The room was stuffy with a press of nervous, sweating bodies and tense with unspoken motives and desires. Myrddion felt a sharp pain in his temple, where his mother had struck him with a rock in his youth. Attila’s mouth moved but his words were elongated, so that the healer could scarcely understand the sense of his reply. And Flavius Aetius shot a glance over one shoulder and impaled Myrddion with his malicious monkey’s eyes.