by M. K. Hume
Outside the locked door, Valentinian’s personal guard heard the muffled rumble of the emperor’s voice as he spoke to himself. They wondered if, at last, their master had succumbed to the madness that affected so many members of the Roman patrician class.
Throughout the night, Valentinian tossed and turned in an agony of indecision. He admitted to himself that he was frightened of the magister militum who had wielded influence over the Empire for the whole of Valentinian’s adult life. He couldn’t imagine a world without Aetius in it. Even a glimpse of that compact, bandy-legged figure with its bald dome and fringe of iron-grey hair filled Valentinian with dread. His smile! Valentinian had a child’s certainty that Aetius used those cruel, narrow lips to point out the emperor’s craven inner self to anyone who would listen. The emperor squirmed with self-knowledge.
What could Aetius do? How would he begin his attack on the emperor? Valentinian was certain that the Scythian was aiming his sights at the throne of the Western Empire, not because Petronius Maximus had suggested it, but because of the bad blood that now lay between Aetius, Petronius and himself. Gods, the senator had gone so far as to voice his suspicions of Aetius openly, and to swear that the general would enjoy the spectacle of the emperor’s death throes.
In his usual self-serving fashion, Valentinian was exaggerating. The first day Petronius Maximus had returned to court, ghost-ridden and guilty, Valentinian had made the mistake of speaking publicly of the senator’s loss.
‘My regrets, senator. Your wife was a beautiful and accomplished woman. I’m sure you must miss her.’
In hindsight, Valentinian admitted that he should never have grinned quite so widely or so obviously. Petronius Maximus had glared at him with grief-stricken, angry eyes, so the emperor knew in the pit of his stomach that he had made a careless tactical error.
‘I swear that I will do nothing to imperil the throne of the west, my emperor,’ Petronius had vowed. ‘Not in word, nor in deed. My love for Rome has been tested a thousand times and my wife’s . . . death is but another test of my loyalty. I prefer to put my trust in the Three Fates and the goddess Fortuna, whose wheels, shears and caprices rule us all.’
Valentinian was not a fool, merely lazy, spiteful and spoiled. He noted Aetius’s sudden rigidity at the ambiguity of Petronius’s little speech, so he was sure that the general had read messages into those words that Petronius refrained from voicing. As the long day trailed away in doubt and anxious indecision, Valentinian drank too much wine to spare himself from the horrors of his dreams. Eventually, supported by Heraclius and a member of his personal guard, he staggered drunkenly to his bed.
Once he was safely ensconced in his room, he latched the door from the inside and, with a dagger for company and consolation, plunged into a drink-sodden sleep. Heraclius listened to the iron and wood latch fall into position and walked away down the colonnade, smiling gently as he went about his duties.
In Rome, winter had come with a vengeance and the city shivered in her damp and mud-draggled skirts. Myrddion had taken more than a week to recover from his illness, terrifying his servants, who had been deathly afraid for his survival. Stray draughts and breezes were banned from his room by the use of the last of their heavy linen from Aurelianum, which was nailed over the window frame, an action that Myrddion thought wasteful once he returned to his senses.
‘Never fear, master,’ Bridie replied equably, as she sat and spun lamb’s wool into long threads on her spindle. ‘When we leave this cursed place, we can easily take the linen down and boil it, and then it will be as good as new.’
During Myrddion’s frightening illness, Cadoc and Finn had decided that they should all leave Rome as soon as they could retrieve their wagons and horses. Pulchria was visibly upset at the news of their impending departure, and would bury her face in a piece of colourful gauze, burst into tears and totter away on her tiny feet every time she saw any of the small group of healers.
Once Myrddion was in his right mind, he insisted on seeing all his patients who suffered from the mysterious malady. In each case, the patient was made aware of Myrddion’s theory concerning the poisonous nature of residual lead in wines and sweets. Unfortunately, most of the sufferers chose to believe that the healer, while gifted and kind, had become a little disturbed during his illness. Sadly, Myrddion was forced to accept that most Romans would not take precautions. Wine was drunk in preference to water and Romans adored their sweet, sticky treats. He sensed their incredulity in the whispered conversations that were conducted behind his back. Poison in the wine? Poison in sweetmeats? Ridiculous! Frightening! Impossible! Only Arrius, whose bodily strength was vital to his family, chose to listen. As a skilled metalworker and blacksmith, he had observed many other men become strangely ill and die when they worked with lead, and his innate intelligence eventually forced him to arrive at a decision. He managed to persuade Claudio, his master, to place him in a position within the foundry where he would work solely with iron.
So, when Myrddion closed down the surgery and paid Pulchria considerably more than she was owed for her trouble, their departure was graven in stone. The healer had done everything in his power to fulfil his oaths and meet his responsibilities, so when Cadoc or Finn asked after Isaac the Jew, Myrddion pursed his lips into a thin and bitter line and refrained from responding to their queries.
‘From what you have told me, I prophesied the conquest and sacking of Rome . . . and soon. I’ll warn Pulchria, for she should have the opportunity to sell her building in the subura and depart into the safety of the countryside – although I don’t believe for one moment that she will. Then, within three days, I want to be on the road to Ravenna.’
‘Ravenna, master?’ Finn Truthteller protested. ‘Aetius is in Valentinian’s city, and we’ll get short shrift from the general. It would be better if we found another port on the east coast to take passage to Constantinople, if you insist on continuing this journey.’
‘All true, Finn, but Ravenna has the best port on the east coast. Rome has enriched our coffers, so all we need to do is take the Via Flaminia until it meets the Via Aemilia and turn to the north. A smaller road leads off the main coastal route to Ravenna, and we can take ship directly to Constantinople from there.’
Cadoc frowned. Myrddion’s plan sounded reasonable, but who would have expected the greatest Roman general in the west to vent his spleen on a female servant, as he had done with Bridie? Such cruelty had left the small woman permanently crippled, and she still had nightmares that proved that the rape had harmed her gentle, happy soul. Could Flavius Aetius be depended upon to leave the travellers in peace?
No!
Since recovering from his illness, Myrddion was quieter and more determined than usual. He had learned the depths of courage that dwelled in the hearts of ordinary people. Against all the odds, Pulchria had risen above her appalling childhood and youth, so that now she fought a gallant battle against the dirt and poverty in the heart of the subura where she lived. Even the ruthless egotism of Osculus and his thugs was capable of being circumvented, when his community faced a threat from within.
On the other hand, Myrddion had learned that those men, and some women, who had an opportunity to improve the living conditions of society often failed because of personal pride, fear of failure or unbridled hubris. For instance, Isaac the Jew could watch patients suffer while he turned their pain into an abstraction. Isaac had been proved right in his assertion that the citizens would not give up their wines, their sweet flavours or their love of luxury – but the Jew had refused to even try to convince his patients of the dangers of the metal. How many lives would be lost while Isaac watched with cold curiosity, making notes for his studies? For a famed, charismatic healer, Isaac chose to forget the golden rule of Hippocrates whenever it suited him to do so.
But the arena had exposed the depths to which even decent people could sink when they became accustomed to death as some grotesque sport. Could the Romans be saved from themselves? Probably.
Would any person in a position of power choose to do so? Unlikely, because banning the games would breed ridicule among the citizenry. Yes, Rome had taught the young healer some valuable lessons that he would carry for the rest of his life.
In the dark of night, Myrddion still hungered to meet his anonymous father, although the need was more abstract and less emotionally demanding than in the past. The healer had discovered a great deal during his journey to Rome, and little of it had come easily, but he was now so close to Constantinople that it called to him with a promise of learning and self-fulfilment that couldn’t be resisted. Like Isaac the Jew, he was tantalised and taunted by the need to know, although the size of the Flavius gens mocked Myrddion’s search with the likelihood of failure.
Still, Constantinople is the source of modern knowledge and we shall see far-off and important places, the healer thought as he attempted to justify his needs. Even the sea journey will take us to Greece, and the ancient land of Homer.
So Myrddion crushed any feelings of futility and forced his small, loyal flock of companions to embrace his quest. He smothered any residual feelings of guilt with the promise of enrichment at the completion of their long journey, for the wealth of Constantinople was fabled and every large city needs healers. So Myrddion succumbed to curiosity once again, while deluding himself with many practical reasons to complete their journey.
Two weeks later, the small party climbed into the loaded wagons and prepared to leave the subura. Pulchria had presented the ladies with small pots of rosemary, thyme and mint, knowing that these simple, commonplace herbs would be useful for preparing food during the journey. Finn and Cadoc were given bunches of radishes, lavender, rue and mandrake, and amidst floods of tears the tiny woman was kissed for her thoughtfulness and generosity.
But it was for the young healer that she kept her most precious gift. Myrddion unwrapped a small twist of cloth to find an ugly iron circlet that could be snapped together and secured around a child’s narrow ankle. A short length of chain was still attached to the object, though the iron was pitted with rust.
Myrddion raised his wondering eyes to search Pulchria’s wet face. He raised an eyebrow in an unspoken question.
‘Yes, my boy, that is my slave shackle. When I was first sent to the brothel, I cried enough tears to cleanse all Rome. I’d often run away, so they chained me to my bed. Even when I had learned my lesson and realised that I had nowhere to go, I was still forced to wear it, and the chain was a constant reminder that I no longer owned my own body.’
Myrddion’s thumbs caressed the metal as his compassion grew for her lost innocence.
‘I outgrew it, of course, as well as any silly notions of having any control over my life. Even when they cut the chain off me, I still wore it in my heart, if you know what I mean. Perhaps I will begin to feel like a free woman now that I’ve given my manacle to you.’
‘Why do you give me your slave chain, Pulchria? Surely you need it to remind you of how much you have achieved in your life?’
‘You need it more than I do, dear boy. We all have our separate forms of slavery, Myrddion, and you are chained to your craft by your essential goodness. When you look at my old anklet, think of what stops you from being all the things that you can be . . . and remember old Pulchria.’
They said their farewells to their landlady with kisses, laughter and tears, and as their carts moved along the crowded streets to the Via Flaminia the citizens of the subura who had been Myrddion’s patients came out to pass on their best wishes. Some gave loaves of flat bread, while others gave bunches of flowers, mushrooms, strips of ribbon, or finely polished pebbles. Even the poorest of the poor tried to find some small gift, which most could ill afford, out of gratitude and friendship. One huge ex-wrestler even presented ten small golden coins imprinted with the head of Janus and his two faces as a gift from the street gangs of the subura.
Myrddion would have wept if he had believed that his tears and prayers would intercede with the Goddess to help these people. Rome might still be doomed, but he held this moment close to his heart to remind himself not to prejudge from superficial appearances.
Isaac the Jew chose not to offer any farewells, an omission for which Myrddion was grateful. He knew he had outlived his usefulness to the master healer.
The road to Ravenna was long, and the landscape teetered between barren dust bowls, dispirited farms clinging closely to the river bottomlands, and opulent villas that crowned the high, healthy vistas. Olive trees, goats, some grain farms and small vegetable plots were forced to bear produce, but Myrddion was nostalgic for a dim young land that still wore her green fields and her golden cloak of trees like a queen. Homesickness ate at them all as the alien landscape of Italia unrolled before them like a slightly soiled scroll.
Myrddion comforted himself with the knowledge that all things, both good and bad, eventually end. The rule of Rome would soon be finished, so anything was possible for those distant lands on the edges of the world that remained part of the crumbling Empire.
Still, the journey offered diversions. Once more, Myrddion saw the Apollo of Veii and pointed out the cruel triangular smile of the god to Finn and Cadoc. With round, amazed eyes, his apprentices and servants took in the beauties of Narnia and marvelled at a stone bridge that crossed a raging river at Interamna. The town of Spoletium stood in the mountains and the apprentices were dumbfounded by the engineering feats that made it possible for villages to clutch to the steep cliffs like eagles’ nests. Aqueducts marched out of the mountains and turned towards Rome like enormous serpents with multiple stone legs.
‘Italia is a place of wonder, even in decay,’ Brangaine murmured with glowing eyes. Willa did not speak, but she nursed her caged bird to cushion it from the bumps in the road surface and gazed around in excitement.
The wonders of a majestic past were all around them – in beauty, awe and symmetry – so why did Myrddion feel as if he was walking through a sepulchre of old graves that had sent up their ancient bones to bleach in the sunlight like strange, whitening driftwood?
Long before Myrddion left Rome, Valentinian was suffering on the rack of his imagination. Petronius Maximus heard the whispers and saw the deep purple shadows under the emperor’s eyes, so he wondered if Lydia’s shade waited by the River Styx to see her murderers pass into the underworld with her. Then, with a snort that spoke volumes for his conflicted feelings, the senator rejected the idea. Gallica Lydia had converted to Christianity, although she hadn’t listened to its tenets on suicide. Perhaps she hoped for justice in Heaven.
Valentinian couldn’t sleep . . . and couldn’t rest. Fear is a potent spur and it gored his mind, day and night, as if he faced a maddened bull. He was frightened of Flavius Petronius Maximus, but he was terrified of Flavius Aetius.
‘I can’t go on!’ he muttered to himself, causing one of his guard to raise his eyebrows expressively at his fellow. ‘I must do something! I must! What are you looking at, you barbarian cur? Keep your eyes downcast and your ears shut!’ The two guards stiffened in unison and lowered their heads obediently. Fortunately, the much smaller Roman couldn’t see their mutinous eyes.
Meanwhile, Aetius smiled and waited. He could feel the tidal currents of power gathering behind him, so he knew that the time was achingly close when it would propel him up and onto the throne to the acclaim of the crowd. He need only wait until Valentinian turned on Petronius Maximus, and when the senator was summarily executed, as he would be, then Aetius could regretfully remove the madman from power and install Valentinian’s daughter on the throne under his regency. Girls were notoriously frail, especially in childbirth, so who knew what the future might bring?
Aetius nursed his amusement and bided his time, unaware that his hubris had stilled the small part of his brain that had always ensured his survival.
The mountains were high and harsh, but Myrddion was unsurprised by the great road that made the escarpments traversable. Cadoc kept their spirits high by inventing rude ditties
about famous Romans, so that even Willa and Brangaine giggled cheerfully in the winter sunshine. The absence of rain made their journey pleasant, if cold, but for hardy souls who had been raised in Britain the bitter weather was simply bracing and invigorating.
So long . . . so far! The wagons snaked through the mountains with every turn of the wooden wheels jolting over loose stones that had fallen from the heights above. Myrddion wondered if their journey would ever end. And what would they find at the end of this endless Roman road?
Valentinian was outwardly calm when he ordered Flavius Aetius to attend him for a private audience on the finances of the Western Empire. The message suggested that the emperor also wished to discuss the difficult and tiresome presence of Petronius Maximus at the court of Ravenna.
Aetius read the small piece of scroll carefully and then destroyed it by thrusting one corner into a wall sconce and holding the scrap of fine leather by the opposite end as it slowly burned away. The words appeared to be inscribed in dried blood as the scroll withered and scorched.
The general smiled reflectively. The tide had turned and was roaring behind him.
Valentinian had chosen to meet Aetius in the same secluded apartments that had last been used for the rape of Gallica Lydia. As a thorough hedonist and egoist, Valentinian had forgotten the details of that night, if not its aftermath, but Aetius remembered the small tragedy keenly.
So now Valentinian must pay the Ferryman, Aetius thought, as he followed the vile catamite, Heraclius, down the long colonnade that led to Valentinian’s lair. He had collected all the records of the army’s expenditure during their recent campaigns, but he knew that the emperor’s stated desire to examine them was merely a convenient excuse for a personal audience.
‘Ah.’ Valentinian sighed in welcome. ‘Come in, general. Come in.’ The emperor nodded to the guard. ‘You may leave us. I’m sure I’ll be safe with the magister militum, the hero of the Battle of the Catalaunian Plain.’ The guardsmen bowed and closed the doors with a soft thud as they left the room.