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

by M. K. Hume

  Cleoxenes snorted under his breath, and Myrddion heard both respect and dislike in the sound. ‘He’s more than a favourite. He gave the throne to Marcian when our emperor was nothing but a minor commander, without background or ability. There stands the magister militum of the Eastern Empire, a man who has refused the throne of the east, supposedly because of his religion, but I believe because he likes to dominate weaker minds from behind. That, my young friend, is Flavius Ardabur Aspar, the most important man in Constantinople.’

  ‘A king-maker,’ Myrddion whispered.

  On cue, Aspar stepped forward into the light of the sweet-scented torches and Myrddion could see him clearly. With a shock that seemed to travel downward to his toes, Myrddion recognised the ageing, handsome face that was lifted proudly to survey the crowd below him.

  That face, with several decades added, was Myrddion’s own.

  CHAPTER XXI

  IN A DARK MIRROR

  Flavius Ardabur Aspar was still a beautiful man. His thick hair, which had been so black, was now white across the hairline at the front, but still retained some traces of sable at the back where he kept it militarily short.

  Not for a moment did Myrddion doubt that the magister militum was his sire.

  Aspar had yet to notice Myrddion, so the younger man enjoyed the luxury of examining his father in detail. The general was taller than most men, but Myrddion realised that he himself was an inch or two taller yet. Broad-shouldered, long of leg and ascetic in his clothing. Aspar was the most elegant man in the room . . . and it was clear that he knew it, as he raised his clean-shaven chin to survey the faces that fawned on the emperor and his consort – and on himself.

  ‘You can see the likeness, can’t you, Myrddion?’ Cleoxenes whispered in a voice so soft that the courtiers who clustered around them couldn’t hear. ‘I’m not mistaken, am I?’

  ‘You knew, Cleoxenes! All this time. You knew!’

  ‘I guessed. I’m sorry, Myrddion, but did you never wonder why I took such an interest in you from the time we first met? How could I not see Aspar in every line of your face and, especially, in your eyes? Although yours are kinder than his.’

  ‘Hyacinth beauty, my mother said, and she was a very acute person, for all that she’s been mad for twenty years. He is beautiful, but in a manly fashion. She called him Triton, you know, before he raped her – at twelve years of age.’ Myrddion’s face was set and bitter. Too many years of suffering and loss lay behind the young man’s open face, which closed shut into rigid, uncompromising lines even as Cleoxenes watched.

  ‘What was he doing in Segontium? In Britain, of all places – in the court of Vortigern, the High King of the Britons?’

  Cleoxenes peered at Aspar over the crowd and then turned back to Myrddion and shook his head. ‘You’re two sides of a mirror, one young and one old. By my love of heaven, I don’t know, Myrddion. All I know of Aspar is his role, in company with his father Ardabarius, in removing the Usurper, Johannes, and placing Galla Placidia and her son Valentinian on the throne of the west. Yes, Aspar is a king-maker, like his father. So he was certainly in Rome and Ravenna during those years. I believe he was only a stripling in his middle twenties at the time. I also remember that he then campaigned in Africa for some years. But he was home, and serving as a consul, during his middle thirties. Why he would have travelled to Britain is a mystery to me.’

  ‘The timing of my birth would be consistent if Aspar is about fifty-six now, meaning that I was sired after Africa, and before he became a consul,’ Myrddion murmured. ‘Something, or someone, sent him to Britain and the visit must not have been to his credit.’

  The crowd parted in front of them and the healer heard the emperor demand Cleoxenes’s presence in a loud, querulous voice. Suddenly, Myrddion felt very vulnerable and exposed. Determined to face Aspar down, the young man also lifted his chin in defiance, unaware that more than one man in the room was experiencing a sudden spark of interest in the stranger.

  ‘How may I serve you, highness?’ Cleoxenes murmured in his mellifluous, easy voice.

  ‘Who is the very tall stranger in black accompanying you? Come forward, young man. The light shines in my eyes, and I cannot see you properly.’

  ‘I am proud to present Myrddion Emrys of Segontium in Britain. He is a healer of great renown who served under Flavius Aetius at the Battle of the Catalaunian Plain. Warriors perished in tens of thousands on that day, and many more passed through Myrddion’s hands and still live because of this young man’s skill. He was with me at Mantua when Attila turned aside from Italia, having saved my arm from amputation after an injury, and he served as a healer to the citizens of the city while in Rome. He is the great-grandson of a king and his grandmother was the chief priestess of his people. Myrddion Emrys offers you his obedience.’

  Myrddion stepped forward and abased himself in the Celtic way towards Marcian and Pulcheria. His body formed a black cross upon the marble floor.

  Cleoxenes had watched Aspar out of the corner of his eye while he addressed the emperor. Aspar had shown nothing when Segontium was mentioned, but Cleoxenes’s trained eyes could see a certain rigidity in his stance . . . and he wondered.

  ‘So, Myrddion Emrys,’ Marcian said in an avuncular voice. ‘Arise, young man, so we can speak. Rarely do we meet men of your trade, although my dear Pulcheria swears by the skills of a son of Ishmael who cares for the empress’s health. Usually, healers are Greeks, Jews or Persians, so we are very surprised to meet someone from the isles of Britain who has such a pedigree. Why would a nobleman become a healer?’

  ‘I am landless, my lord, and the trade of war has been closed to me from birth. I was not willing to live on the charity of my aristocratic connections, so I took up the scalpel and have sworn myself to the oath of Hippocrates.’

  Marcian smiled, but Cleoxenes could tell that the emperor had found a loose thread in Myrddion’s narrative. Knowing the dogmatic nature of the emperor and his querulous curiosity, Cleoxenes was certain that Marcian would pull on that thread until he understood everything about the young man who stood before him.

  More to the point, did Myrddion intend that Marcian should ask his questions?

  ‘Highness, I could not become a warrior because I had no human father.’ The crowd stirred and murmured, as if a wind soughed through the audience room. Myrddion stood tall in his sable robes, the centre of all eyes, as his voice, so suited to storytelling, drew them into his tale.

  ‘My mother was twelve when I was conceived, a child who had been raised in a house of women, for her mother served the Goddess whose name must not be spoken. She swore she had been raped by a demon, but I was permitted to live because the serpents of the Goddess accepted me, as did the Lord of Light for whom I am named. I was called the Demon Seed, like King Merovech of the Salian Franks who perished on the Catalaunian Plain. I lived because I was feared.’

  Marcian was taken aback. He was Christian and devout, but superstition existed side by side with his faith, and this young man openly proclaimed his demon status as he stood before the court of the emperor.

  ‘Are you saying that you are allied with Satan, young man? If so, my lands will be closed to you forever,’ Marcian threatened, while Pulcheria made the sign of the cross over her breast.

  ‘How could I be the son of a demon, my lord? Jesus would not damn a child, and your benevolent god would never curse an infant for the sins of the father. My mother was a child when she was raped on the beaches near her home. She invented the rest, fearing that she would be put to death because King Melvig ap Melwy, her grandfather, would be angry that her bride price was spoiled. She was a child, and she was deathly afraid and damaged. I was raised to be a decent and peaceful man, and I have dedicated my life to the saving of life – not the ending of it. No Demon Seed would be so magnanimous, if such a man existed. Such a man would want to cause discord and violence wherever he went.’

  Sensing that Emperor Marcian was still unconvinced, Cleoxenes stepped forwar
d again and exposed his right arm and the ugly scar that disfigured it. A deep hollow below the elbow showed where flesh and muscle had been removed.

  ‘I would have died in Rome, Highness, had this young man not struggled to save my arm and my life. It was poisoned, and by the time I called for his assistance the infection had brought me close to death. A prudent healer would have removed the arm as quickly as possible, but I insisted that I must serve your interests in Mantua and forbade him to cut off the poisoned limb. He worked like a saint, rather than a demon, to scour out the taint in the flesh, to nurse me like a baby and then to travel with me all the way to Attila’s camp so I could fulfil my duties to the Empire. He risked his own life, for Flavius Aetius had no love for him, but Myrddion refused to stay safely in Rome. He is not a demon, but is a gift from God to serve your interests. Rather the man who raped his mother is the demon, for such is a man who would cause pain to a little girl.’

  So make what you want of that, Aspar Hawk-lover, Cleoxenes thought savagely as he watched Aspar bite his lip at the venom in the envoy’s words.

  ‘The poor child! So young to be ravaged by such an evil man,’ Empress Pulcheria murmured. More than her husband ever could, she empathised with a noble, female child used as a pawn in aristocratic power struggles. ‘Is she still alive, Myrddion Emrys?’

  ‘Yes, your highness. My mother still lives, but she has been maddened since the time of my birth. She tried to kill me twice and she has tried to harm her younger children. She carves her own flesh out of guilt and shame, so she must be watched closely at all times.’

  ‘Oh, my dear! How dreadful!’ Pulcheria exclaimed. She dabbed at her eyes, although Myrddion was close enough to see that they were still dry. ‘The sins of her despoiler were truly meted out to her. Did you suffer too?’

  ‘Yes, your highness, but I was fortunate to be raised by my grandmother who protected me until Vortigern, the High King, attempted to sacrifice me to satisfy his own whims when I was but ten years old. My grandmother was killed while trying to save me from Vortigern’s barbarians.’

  The crowd of notables were riveted by the tale and strained forward towards the young man. Only Aspar appeared unmoved. He had stepped into a pool of shadow so that the light caught only his forehead, the straight line of his nose and the edges of those hatchet-sharp cheekbones.

  ‘And what did your mother say of this demon?’ he asked. ‘Did she know who he was?’

  ‘No, my lord. She always used the term, hyacinth beauty, to describe her Triton who was washed onto the shoreline by a storm. She saved his life, sir, for all the good it did her. All I know is he purported to have killed his own mother and I still carry that woman’s ring. I discovered that King Vortigern knew the man and he gave me small snippets of information before he burned to death in his fortress at Dinas Emrys. The High King told me that the man loved hunting with birds and that he was a natural killer – just like them. But I could never persuade Vortigern to give me his name.’

  Aspar grunted, his eyes glowing in the dark hollows of his face.

  ‘He must have been a cruel man,’ Emperor Marcian said quietly, and Myrddion noticed how the older man’s hands shook from nervousness or illness. ‘You are permitted to stay in Constantinople, but mind you there must be no more talk of demons. Some of our priests take such chatter seriously.’

  ‘I live to serve you, highness. Should you have need of my services as a healer, I would gladly place myself at your command.’

  Marcian nodded. Myrddion had been quick to notice the lack of colour in the emperor’s pallid face. ‘You may call on me on the day after tomorrow, healer. Although, no doubt, my dear wife will prefer to have her Ishmaelite healer treat me.’

  Marcian turned away and Myrddion’s part of the audience was over.

  As other notables pressed around the dais, Myrddion and Cleoxenes backed away, their heads bowed, until they could lose themselves in the crowd. Then, relieved of any need for courtesy, Myrddion spun on his heels and strode out of the great and glittering hall, his hands clenched tightly by his side.

  ‘Where are you going, Myrddion? Stop. Or at least slow down. Your legs are too long for me to keep up with you,’ Cleoxenes shouted as he hurried after his young protégé.

  Myrddion ran down the steps of the portico and skidded to a halt on the empty roadway where the litters had disgorged their passengers. He turned to face his friend with a stormy face.

  ‘I’ve travelled across the world to find him. I don’t know what I expected, but I never imagined that he would be the magister militum and the most powerful man in the Empire of the East. My father has prospered while he left a storm of destruction and heartache behind him. There is no justice in the world, for the gods must surely be blind.’

  ‘Myrddion, you can’t really believe that evil goes completely unpunished. You know that most of us eventually pay for our sins in full measure, sooner or later. Look at Flavius Aetius!’

  Myrddion stopped pacing and turned his sun ring round and round on his finger.

  ‘Aetius lived long and well – and his death took but moments. For a person who caused havoc and despair to anyone who stood in his way, he paid a remarkably low price for his vices. It all seems so patently unfair.’

  ‘Come, walk with me,’ Cleoxenes urged, taking Myrddion by the elbow. ‘My house is adjacent to the palace and a fine meal awaits us. We can talk further after we’ve eaten. There’s an urgent matter I need to discuss with you anyway.’

  Myrddion consented to walk with the envoy and the gentle pressure of his friend’s hand on his arm calmed his churning feelings a little. The night was very clear, and although the city was full of light the stars were clearly visible, and seemed so close that Myrddion had only to reach upward with one hand to catch the starlight in the nets of his fingers.

  The waters of the Golden Horn provided gentle background music now that the friends were walking down dark pathways far from the noise of the crowds. Aromatic plants scented the air with a heavy perfume that was both sweet and slightly rotten. Although the darkness under the trees should have been threatening, Myrddion felt at one with the breeze, the salt tang of the air and the soft soughing of palm fronds.

  Then, suddenly, a villa appeared out of the darkness, brilliant with torchlight and lamps. As Cleoxenes and his guest strolled along the path, several servants left the building to usher them inside.

  Myrddion examined Cleoxenes’s villa with avid curiosity. The floors and columns were constructed from rose-veined marble, while the walls were painted with frescoes. The simplicity of the rooms, compared with the opulence of the palace, was tasteful and elegant. Myrddion noted that comfort was of paramount importance. The colonnade was wide, the rooms were spacious and well ventilated, and the atrium possessed a profusion of sweet-smelling flowering herbs, allowing the air to be scented with a combination of lavender and mint. In the triclinium, the eating couches were antique in design, with plump cushions and understated fabrics. Then, as they entered the scriptorium, Myrddion discovered a well-lit table used for writing or reading. The writing materials were presented in simple cedar boxes that perfumed the air with the scent of learning. One whole wall held cedar pigeonholes containing hundreds of scrolls, tightly bound within leather cases.

  Cleoxenes ushered Myrddion out into the gardens, which trod a narrow line between functionality and aesthetics. On steep terraces leading down to the waters, orange and lemon trees glowed with globes of half-matured fruit, while garden beds were filled with cabbage roses and vegetables in equal measure. The night was sweet-scented and fecund with growth.

  The promised meal, light and beautifully prepared by Cleoxenes’s servants, proved to be pleasant. Cleoxenes had a preference for savoury foods rather than the cloying sweetness that dominated Roman cooking. Myrddion detected unusual condiments within the sauces, leading Cleoxenes to explain that traders occasionally brought spices from far-off countries to the south, most of which were especially appetising when used
with meat and vegetables.

  Myrddion was tentative at first with his food choices, but soon found that he enjoyed the spicy chicken and quail. He even drank a glass of white wine. It was very crisp and dry, and he too took comfort from the lack of sweetness.

  Unlike the epicures of Rome, Cleoxenes did not provide a vomitorium, nor did he serve the enormous number of courses that required diners to void their stomachs in order to fit in more food. Myrddion had always considered that such gluttony was disgusting, and was glad that he was freed from the tiresome need to apologise for his lack of a Roman appetite. Now, pleasantly replete, the two men lounged over the remains of a fine meal and spoke desultorily.

  Myrddion explained his suspicions about lead poisoning, especially with regard to wine. His words horrified his friend.

  ‘I can’t grasp the scope of the dangers you describe, my young friend. Every person who drinks sweetened wine, eats sweetmeats or prepares food with the powdered condiments of Rome is poisoning themself. I’ve eaten their food myself. How terrible! And you swear that Isaac the Jew is aware of your knowledge and does nothing because some sections of Roman society wouldn’t believe him? If your diagnosis is true, may he be swallowed by his own Sheol.’

  The healer shrugged. ‘I could do nothing to persuade him to support my views on this matter. He holds his reputation to be higher than the lives of other, less fortunate people. You can have no notion how frustrating it is to be forced to stand quietly by while other men who are better placed choose to ignore a dreadful peril. I decided to sever all ties with Isaac once I realised that he didn’t really care about his patients.’

  ‘Many healers must be like Isaac. My understanding is that a healer isn’t required to have any affection for his patients, just to treat them.’ Cleoxenes played devil’s advocate.

  Myrddion’s face flushed with passion and Cleoxenes reflected how different from Aspar this young man could be once his emotions were engaged.