by M. K. Hume
Flavia had wept and drawn comfort from Myrddion’s sympathy, but she shared nothing else of a private nature with him. She remained a tightly rolled scroll, since enemies might find tools with which to torture her if she revealed too much.
Lesbos, the famous island celebrated for its ancient society of women, hove into view like a large hollowed triangle of green valleys and soft hills. So many places had swum through Myrddion’s experiences that only the rudimentary maps that he continued to create could keep all the exotic places separate in his mind.
With fresh water and supplies of food on board after a brisk trading of Roman glass and pottery in exchange for amphorae of oil and wine, Neptune’s Trident skirted Lesbos and headed for the Propontis, the inland sea that led to Constantinople. The names now had a glister of Asian strangeness – Lemnos, Hephaestia and the famed River Scamander where it flowed into the salt waters. There, on the heights, Myrddion could see a Roman temple gleaming whitely in the sunshine, and pointed it out to Cadoc and Finn.
‘See how the temple glows in the sunlight as if it is lit from within. There, on the mount, is the famed city of Troy, which is also called Ilion by the local populace. It was there that Priam watched his son die in battle against Achilles, while his daughter, Cassandra, was thrown down from the walls because the Greeks feared her powers of prophecy. All for the sake of a beautiful woman called Helen!’
‘Nothing ever changes, master,’ Finn murmured, his eyes wide and glowing from the tales he had heard. ‘For love, we tear down any obstacles in our path.’
Cadoc opened his mouth to joke, but Finn stepped sharply on his foot. Myrddion understood. His assistants feared that, like the Trojans, he was being led to ruin by a beautiful, flawed woman.
Perhaps I am, Myrddion thought, but he was so lost in the web of Flavia’s complex personality that he no longer cared.
The Hellespontus was very narrow and the galley was now accompanied by a flotilla of ships of all kinds as they sailed through the channel towards the fabled city of Constantine. Once they had passed into the Propontis, they stayed within sight of land. The countryside was rich and adorned with groves of orange and lemon trees, huge swathes of olives on the higher ground and farms that clustered on the hills like neat, whitewashed boxes. Fishing boats strained under the weight of huge catches of fish and crustaceans, and everywhere the travellers looked they saw evidence of industry, wealth and rich trade heading for Constantinople from many far-flung nations.
Then, as dusk fell, lights filled the northern horizon ahead of them in a wide arc that almost dimmed the stars.
‘What lies ahead?’ a curious Myrddion asked the captain, as they lounged against the rail and enjoyed the evening air.
The man laughed through the bushy black beard that gave him a sinister air.
‘I thought you knew, master healer. You will soon gaze on the Golden Horn. Ahead lies the jewel of the east – the lights of Constantinople. Tomorrow, we dock in the city.’
‘Constantinople!’ Myrddion breathed, and his heart sang in wonderment that the whole, interminable journey was finally coming to an end.
MYRDDION’S CHART OF CONSTANTINOPLE AND ITS ENVIRONS
CHAPTER XX
THE GOLDEN HORN
The ship had sailed to the far end of the Propontis during the night, and a glistening summer sunrise rose over a city that spread across the narrow channel separating the Propontis from the huge inland sea called Pontus Euxinus. This narrow channel, wide and deep enough to permit the largest galleys to gain entrance to the vast inland sea, was called the Bosporus.
‘And that, young healer, is the Golden Horn,’ the captain announced expansively.
Myrddion saw the huge flotilla of ships of all shapes, sizes and points of origin as they rounded the peninsula of land that protruded out into the Propontis. Here, Constantinople was built. A large natural harbour lay around the point of a sickle-shaped channel of water that divided the city from its sisters, Chalcedon and Galata, across the Propontis and the Horn.
The early light revealed wonders. A vast military harbour with special gates to protect its entry hove into view, filled with fighting vessels drawn up in orderly rows. As far as Myrddion could tell, a massive wall protected the promontory, although marble buildings were visible behind it. Still, an impregnable fortress of stone faced blankly towards the Propontis, with the land rising in terraces above it. The galley rounded the point and the full wonders of Constantinople appeared before them. Light glowed softly on roseate marble and kissed the roofs of the city with a glimmer of gold. The rising sun gilded the rigging of ships and the black shapes of galleys were rimed with light. Myrddion’s heart almost stopped with the beauty of the scene.
The captain of the galley was feeling in an expansive mood. He had reached his destination without major incident, his hold was filled to bursting with luxury goods from Italia and Greece, and he was already counting the sum he would receive from his noble passenger, Flavia, for making a safe landfall. Consequently, he was quite prepared to explain the importance of Constantinople to the worlds of the east and the west.
‘You must understand, healer, the strategic value of this city. The Pontus Euxinus is huge and is ringed by great and alien nations such as Armenia, Dacia, Sarmatia, Cappadocia and the Parthian Empire. It lies along the direct route leading to the far-off silk and spice lands, so this city is the great trade centre where west merges with east. Without Constantinople, where would we find silk, fine cloth, exotic dyes, the strange scented woods from the distant lands of the east and perfumes that blind the senses?’
‘I fully understand, master mariner. Constantinople is a conduit through which trade goods and culture pass in both directions,’ Myrddion summarised. ‘I can see that it is ideally situated for commercial and political power. What languages are spoken here?’
Myrddion was now a seasoned traveller and understood that communication was a vital tool for any stranger. In a city such as Constantinople, a man who could not be understood was virtually deaf and dumb.
‘The aristocrats speak Latin, of course, as a sop to Constantinople’s Roman origins, but to be understood in this city you will need to speak Greek. The Macedonians under Alexander were the first to see Constantinople’s importance, so it’s not surprising that while its inhabitants call it Imperium Romanorum, its neighbours refer to it as Imperium Graecorum, or the Empire of the Greeks. If you can speak Latin and Greek, you will have no difficulty, even in the roughest, most eastern quarters.’
‘My Greek is learned from reading, so I don’t know the correct pronunciations,’ Myrddion murmured, his doubt rekindled by the captain’s explanation. ‘Will I be able to make my needs known to the citizens?’
‘I don’t see why not.’ The captain was becoming impatient, bored and unwilling to gossip over trifles. ‘You’ll be understood if you can speak passable Greek, even if it sounds vile. The shopkeepers have to understand traders from the Indus or from beyond the columns at the end of the world and the Roof of Heaven. You’ll get by.’
Briskly, the captain excused himself and strode away to oversee the complex details of docking the vessel.
Left alone, and without the distractions of other passengers, Myrddion watched the details of the vast city sharpen as the sun rose. Constantinople was beautiful, with fine marble structures built along the waterfront where Myrddion was accustomed to scenes of squalor in many western cities. The lure of fine views and cool breezes made the land closest to the sea the preferred sites for the palaces of the aristocracy and the wealthier citizens. Myrddion could see Roman and Greek columns of veined marble shining in the strengthening light, while the sandstone of ancient temples immediately attracted his attention. Low beams of sunlight were reflected from pools, fountains and decorative cascades, indicating that this was a city where water was plentiful and was used for beautification as well as the provision of drinking water.
Beyond the docks, in the commercial centres of the city, a swathe of pla
stered and rendered buildings marched backwards up slight hills. The land was mostly flat and Myrddion noted that trees, palms and gardens proliferated, even in the areas that housed the poorer citizens. A vast wall enclosed the central part of the city and Myrddion could tell that with water on three sides and a cyclopean wall of stone on the landward edge of the city environs, defence in time of war would make Constantinople almost impregnable.
The galley moved through the relatively still waters at speed, under the power of its two banks of oars. Myrddion never tired of watching the synchronised efficiency of the disciplined process of docking, so he noted every detail as Neptune’s Trident sailed straight towards the dock on the left bank, threatening a disastrous collision in the process. At the very last second, the captain barked his orders, and the oars on the left side were feathered, raised and then drawn back into the vessel. At the same instant, the strokes of the right banks of oars were reversed with amazing smoothness. The galley stopped its forward motion, slowly slipped into reverse and then slid into the dock under its own momentum. Sailors leapt to the wharf and tied the vessel with huge ropes.
The long voyage from Ravenna to Constantinople was over. They had reached the Harbour of the Phospherion.
Myrddion and Flavia had said their farewells late the previous evening. Some belated sense of decorum prompted Flavia to insist that she should find refuge in the city of Constantine by herself. Myrddion, therefore, should wait until she sought him out.
‘You’ll forget me quickly enough, healer,’ she had whispered against Myrddion’s chest. A few tears slid down her cheek and Myrddion captured one on his finger and placed it on his lips.
‘No, Flavia. I’ll wait until you contact me, however long it takes.’
Flavia had lifted her chin and pushed him away with gentle hands. ‘Don’t depend on me, healer. My father would have been the first to tell you that I’m not to be trusted . . . and he was right. I’m not a woman made for hard times or troubles. I left my home, and when my husband returns, he will find his wife has flown the nest. I love you as much, or more, than I’ve ever loved anyone, but I don’t believe I’m made to be loyal.’
Myrddion had reached for her in the darkness, his heart sad at the sound of defeat in her voice. ‘No one needs to destroy your character, Flavia, because you do it all by yourself. Please, my dear, don’t do this.’
Flavia hiccuped with distress. ‘Don’t say any more, Myrddion. Perhaps I’ll see you in Constantinople and all will be well again.’
She had run from his arms then, her skirts swirling and her hair the only vital part of her that remained in his memory. She’s searching for a better long-term prospect, Myrddion’s rational self cautioned him. In truth, she’ll only call for you again if she doesn’t snare a wealthy, indulgent protector.
But the idealist in Myrddion, the sentimental part of him that Flavia touched, was convinced that their shared passion was more than just sensation and delight. He still had hope, for the day shone with promise.
As a temporary measure, Cadoc was sent to hire a wagon to transport their possessions to the best inn that could be found in the administrative centre of the city. Washed, brushed and wearing all his wealth on his body in a display of status, Myrddion assisted Finn and the women to take their possessions from their cabins to the dock. Then, with the women perched in relative comfort on their chests, Myrddion sought out a guide who could direct them to more permanent accommodation once he had located Cleoxenes. More than one dockworker stared at the tall, dark man with unbound hair bearing a serpent staff and wearing a barbarian sword at his waist.
On several occasions, Myrddion felt the eyes of his assistants rest on him with affection and anxiety. No one had commented on Flavia’s absence. They simply watched him out of the corners of their eyes.
But there was no time for worries, fears for the future or doubts about a lover. Myrddion must work.
Using all his skills with Greek and with his judgement of human nature fully employed, Myrddion found, and rejected, a number of dark-complexioned men who were eager to serve him. Finally, he decided that a white-haired, muscular porter was suitable and the man was immediately taken on. The new servant, who went by the grandiose name of Praxiteles, was at least fifty years of age, but his cleanliness and the purity of his Greek suggested that he was a capable worker who had fallen on hard times.
Praxiteles was very brown of skin, which caused his white hair, curling beard and fierce moustache to contrast attractively with his complexion. His eyes were a startling bright blue with very clear whites, suggesting clean living and good health. His mouth was naturally red and he still possessed most of his teeth, which seemed cared for. Even Praxiteles’s breath smelled sweet when Myrddion was close to him, and the healer noticed that his ragged tunic and leggings had been washed and bleached in the sun to a faded pale yellow and crisp white.
‘You’re hired, Praxiteles, for the duration of our visit to Constantinople. Do you have a family?’
‘Aye, my lord. I have a grown son still living who is a baker. He gives me a pallet in his house because I have lacked the funds to own a home of my own since the death of my wife and daughters.’
The man held his head high, although Myrddion realised that such an admission must have wounded the porter’s pride. Praxiteles was determined to explain his straitened circumstances, so Myrddion heard him out.
‘I was a trader for most of my life, my lord, and never owed any man a single solidus in all my years of business. However, I fell on hard times when the vessel I owned was sunk off Ephesus and I was forced to repay the deposits that my clients had given me for the successful delivery of their cargoes. I cleared my debts, but I was left with nothing. Then an outbreak of fever killed my wife and two daughters, leaving me destitute and lonely.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Praxiteles,’ Myrddion murmured awkwardly. ‘Sometimes the gods send harsh lessons to teach us how to live our lives.’ What could anyone say to soften such dreadful blows of fate?
‘Thank you, my lord, but the good God decides our destinies, and perhaps my wife is happier in heaven than enduring a life of grinding poverty. How can anyone know what God intends for us? Perhaps He intended me to serve you.’
‘Perhaps,’ Myrddion responded, and went on to discuss his terms of employment with Praxiteles, who would be required to interpret for Cadoc and Finn, search out Cleoxenes and assist the women with all the heavy work.
Cadoc returned with a single wagon, so two trips would be needed to move their possessions to an inn. Praxiteles immediately proved his usefulness by suggesting an establishment within the city walls that was clean, refined and reasonably priced when its location was taken into account. He supervised their journey from the port to the inn and pointed out items of interest as they travelled along the route. Bridie, Brangaine, Rhedyn and Willa perched on top of the wagon with the trunks and boxes and stared wide-eyed at the busy bustle of the port. Finn remained behind at the dock to guard their remaining baggage.
‘Look at how clean everything is here, master,’ Brangaine marvelled. ‘The open markets are well organised, and there’s no rubbish in the streets.’
‘Aye, and a good thing too,’ Rhedyn agreed. ‘It’s so hot here that disease would soon breed in the garbage.’
Praxiteles looked puzzled at the strange language and asked what tongue they spoke.
‘We come from the isles of Britain, far away beyond the Pillars of Hercules in the Middle Sea,’ Myrddion explained. ‘I am an Ordovice, and Brangaine comes from the Demetae tribe in a country called Cymru. Bridie is a Silure and Rhedyn is a Deceangli, like my grandmother. The child, Willa, is an orphan we treated after the sacking of Tournai by Attila’s Huns. Our home country has many tribes, all with their own kings, but the land is ruled by a High King who has ultimate power over all the Britons.’
‘So you aren’t Christian then, master?’ Praxiteles responded with a slight frown.
‘No. We follow the old w
ays and worship many gods, but my whole allegiance is to the Mother. The Christ is worshipped in Britain by some, but most of us still worship the gods of our ancestors.’
Praxiteles stroked his magnificent moustache with one calloused forefinger. ‘I see. You will find believers of all kinds in this city, although I follow the official religion of Christianity. No one is treated unfavourably because of their faith. The people of Constantinople are tolerant, although the emperor must follow the official religion. The state does not even permit Arian Christians to rule. Only the Christianity of Rome is considered legitimate for the emperor.’
‘Such tolerance is rare,’ Myrddion murmured, thinking of the artificial barriers that human beings erect between each other.
Praxiteles must have sensed that the conversation had strayed onto sensitive paths, for he changed the topic by pointing to the massive wall that encircled the central precincts of the city. ‘See, master, there is the inner wall of Constantinople. In a few moments we will pass through the Northern Gate.’
Another, huge wall ran across the older sector of the city and extended from the Golden Horn over the peninsula and onward to the shores of the Propontis. This inner wall was nearly as large as the outer wall, several miles away, which Praxiteles explained was heavily fortified and guarded.
Praxiteles matched words with movement as he pointed to a long, winding structure with regular watchtowers that stood at least twenty to thirty feet in height. The walls were built of huge stones that had been positioned on a reinforced foundation and then mortared securely into position. The large stones decreased in size towards the top of the wall, and as they passed through a gate beautified with dressed stone the travellers realised that the whole structure was at least ten to twelve feet thick.
‘This fortification is a wonder that rivals the buildings of Rome,’ Myrddion whispered in Celt, and Praxiteles raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘My pardon, Praxiteles. I will practise my Greek on you, so you must tell me if I make errors in pronunciation.’