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

by M. K. Hume

  Added to this sadness was the strange behaviour of their eldest daughter, the beautiful Morgan. Although the young woman was close-mouthed and wilful, and preferred her own company, whispers had reached the king that his daughter was mixing with unsavoury characters. Gorlois had been enraged by these formless rumours of ancient, arcane rites, and had been forced to interrogate a village wise woman who had stated publicly that Gorlois’s daughter was a filthy, murderous witch.

  When the wise woman had defied him by remaining mute, Gorlois had ordered her to be imprisoned and starved until she became more compliant. What he learned gave the Dumnonii king no pleasure, for he discovered that his elder daughter had begun to dabble in the dark arts that promised unlimited power. To think that his beloved Morgan had come to such a pass almost made Gorlois sick with sorrow. While Ygerne had the solace of tears, Gorlois could only rage at Morgan, demanding answers that she stubbornly refused to give.

  Finally, she had offered an explanation – of a kind. Red-faced and shocked, Gorlois had wondered where his flower-crowned little girl had fled in the years since her childhood.

  ‘I was born female, Father. Do you understand what that means? No, how could you? I will never ride to war or wear a crown, because I was born a female. The best that I can hope for is what my sister possesses, a wealthy, noble husband and the chance to bear a clutch of mewling, squabbling sons. Well, Father, such a fate is not enough for me. I will not be fulfilled by putting a man’s needs ahead of my own. I’m determined to win renown by myself and for myself.’

  ‘Home and hearth is enough for your mother, and she is one of the best people you will ever know,’ Gorlois snapped in reply, his mind whirling with his daughter’s rejection of their whole way of life.

  ‘I’m not as beautiful as my fabled mother, my lord, and I’m certainly not the fairest woman in Britain,’ Morgan retorted. ‘But I am clever and I have a man’s will. So I shall use everything I have to win a name. Can you deny me my ambition?’

  ‘Where did such arrogance and pride come from, girl?’ Gorlois retorted, his honest face furrowed in confusion. ‘Why must you be the best?’

  ‘What is so wrong with desiring to be the best? Would you deny me the right to a fulfilled life? Answer me, Father, if you care so much for me.’

  ‘Yes! If it means you must descend to murder to achieve such aspirations. How dare you mock the gods of our people by taking part in ritual sacrifice to the Old Ones? Don’t you fear the retribution of the Tuatha de Danaan?’

  Morgan giggled, as if she were discussing a new robe rather than the murder of peasants in ancient rites. Gorlois was well aware of the licentiousness of the rituals and his heart sank to think of his daughter involved in such filth.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve learned all I need to know of the old ways, Father, so I can promise that I’ll go no more to the Cavern of the Mother. The priests are only using their spells to frighten the peasants anyway, and it has degenerated into an excuse for debauchery. Instead, I’ve decided to look to the Druids for knowledge.’

  Gorlois was both thankful and appalled. He was relieved that Morgan had cut her ties with the nasty little cadre at Tintagel that he planned to put to the sword as soon as possible. Yes, he wished to silence any further rumours, but their perversion of worship affronted Gorlois’s blunt but honest sensibilities. However, his daughter’s continued interest in magic still appalled him. The only mercy was that the Druids had been more circumspect in their forms of worship before the Romans had wiped them out.

  ‘If you really felt the power in the ancient places like the Giant’s Dance, then you would know why I search for answers,’ Morgan explained defiantly, and Gorlois had been struck dumb by the passion and purpose in her dark, elegant face. So, on this visit to the court of Ambrosius, the High King, Gorlois had halted his troop near the Giant’s Dance, and against his custom had advanced alone into the dreaming circle.

  The day was bright, with a clear blue sky marred by just a few scudding clouds. Grasses waved their willowy seed-heads in light breezes and a rabbit leapt out of the grass at his destrier’s hooves to run madly through the radiating stone circles. The scene was peaceful, and several black-faced sheep cropped the verdant grass beside the altar stone in the very centre of the Dance.

  ‘There’s nothing dangerous or powerful here,’ Gorlois muttered defiantly, speaking aloud for reasons he didn’t fully understand. ‘These are just old stones, and they’re not even well cut at that.’ A shadow crossed the sun for a moment, darkening the day. Gorlois shook his head as he felt a moment of superstition chill his blood.

  ‘Now you’re imagining things,’ he muttered, and strode inwards with a warrior’s firm tread. As he reached the centre of the circle beside the altar stone, he leaned one hand against the largest upright and slapped the rough surface as he would a horse or a dog.

  His fingers tingled immediately, as if the cold stone had energy running through it, or was very hot.

  Gorlois replaced his hand so the palm was flat against the rock. The tingling returned, but it was so subtle that he wasn’t sure if he was imagining it. A sense of dread bubbled up in his spirit and an icy coldness seemed to clutch at his heart, as if some hidden threat in his future peeped out momentarily and showed a naked, ugly face.

  The Dumnonii king recoiled and stared at the pastoral scene around him. The sun burst out from behind the single cloud and flooded the landscape with light, while the sheep still cropped the grass, unconcerned, and a robin landed on the altar stone and looked directly at him without alarm.

  ‘I’m being a fool,’ Gorlois muttered, to break the strange mood that had captured him. ‘But one thing I do know. The Giant’s Dance is not for mortals to play with. Old things should be left in peace, in case they damage our minds. Morgan should take care.’

  Then, his mood darkened and sombre, Gorlois rode away from the Dance to his next meeting with the Lord of the West, Ambrosius Imperator.

  Watched pots never seem to boil, nor long days ever come to an end. Myrddion existed in an agony of apprehension, counting the hours until he could visit Flavius Ardabur Aspar’s mansion and talk privately with the man he believed to be his father. Eventually, accompanied by Ali el Kabir, he sallied forth to learn the worst.

  The magister militum lived in great state for one so ascetic in appearance. His palace was decorated with the wealth of a man who held the whole of the Middle Sea in the palm of his hand. Statues from Egypt that had been carved from green malachite and white alabaster rested in niches in his walls; scenes of hunting birds decorated his scriptorium; pots, basins and huge jars in attic red, black and white were in daily use and his gardens were small miracles of exotic trees and shrubs. As soon as Myrddion and Ali arrived, a very superior servant ushered them through the house to a superb garden house on the edge of the terraces overlooking the Golden Horn, where Aspar was busy with his hunting birds.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Myrddion Emrys. And this gentleman is?’ Aspar turned to Ali el Kabir, bowed low and waited for his son’s introduction. ‘I have heard of your trading house. You’re a man of the desert, I hear, so you will be familiar with my aviary. My servant will show you my treasures.’

  With a quick glance at Myrddion for confirmation, el Kabir consented to be led away.

  ‘Come, Myrddion! These hunters are my special darlings. I’m sure that Vortigern told you how fond I am of hawks, eagles and peregrines.’ He gazed at his son in grudging admiration. Myrddion had taken special pains to dress with care. ‘I learned to love them from the desert peoples who worship their dogs, their horses and their hawks above all things. Are they not beautiful?’

  Aspar’s face was filled with love as he stood outside a cage in which three birds perched with their heads covered by finely embroidered hoods that hid their fierce faces. Long jesses of leather trailed from their legs. When they moved on their perches, bells rang with a sweet tinkling.

  ‘Aye, I also love the hunting birds, but I’d never wish to own t
hem,’ Myrddion whispered in agreement. ‘I’ve seen them hovering in the wind over the long grasses by the sea. Their grace during the kill can stop the heart.’

  ‘Stop the heart?’ Aspar murmured with a crooked grin. ‘You have a poetic turn of phrase, boy. I hadn’t expected that from you. Come and meet my beauties.’

  With a negligent wave of one graceful hand, Aspar sent a servant into the cage with small platters of meat which he placed within reach of each bird. Then, using the hand that had been encased in a padded leather glove and forearm guard, the servant removed their hoods.

  Two of the birds, the two largest, moved to their meat without hesitation. The first was a huge desert eagle, banded and beautiful, with powerful, sand-coloured wings folded against its body. Its talons were huge, polished and glossy implements of death.

  ‘That is Interfector, my killer.’ Aspar entered the cage and, against all common sense, stroked the eagle’s breast with his naked hand. The superb creature narrowed its eyes, perhaps with pleasure, and lowered its savage head.

  The second bird was a peregrine falcon, a creature that had always represented kingship in Italia, Gaul and Britain. Again, it was a superb specimen whose feathers shone with health and strength.

  ‘This lady is Regina Atrox, my cruel queen,’ Aspar crooned. ‘You kill on my command, don’t you, my beauty?’ The bird seemed to understand him and bobbed her noble head several times.

  The third bird was the smallest, but its golden eyes were sinister and wild. It had chosen to ignore its meat and stared out at its master with blank eyes that seemed charged with endless malevolence, as if it still hungered for the wide, free skies.

  ‘And this beauty is Nemesis, my merlin. He refuses to be trained and will never consent to love me – but I still have hope. He’s beautiful, isn’t he? His eyes see right through you.’

  ‘He dreams of freedom. He will never submit to the glove, my lord, no matter what you do. Only death will break his spirit.’

  Aspar looked at Myrddion with a sweetly smiling mouth and eyes as cold as the seventh ring of Tartarus, or Hell. ‘Like you, Myrddion? Be careful, honoured guest, for men who do not bend can easily break in a strong wind. Perhaps you should be called Merlinus?’

  ‘I am,’ the young man said.

  Myrddion smiled in turn and even Aspar saw something in those eyes, so like his own, that made his blood run cold for the briefest of moments. But Aspar had lived a long and fruitful life on the edge of a sword blade, so he feared nothing and nobody. And Aspar was very, very careful.

  Myrddion looked around the quiet aviary and gardens. They were alone, except for the servant who cared for Aspar’s birds.

  ‘Don’t mind Tofus. He’s as deaf and as mute as the sandstone he’s named for. I saw to that myself. You may speak freely,’ Aspar murmured, his mouth and voice expressing his amusement.

  ‘Why did you rape my mother? What pleasure could you have gained from such a congress? I’ve never understood.’

  ‘You’re blunt enough, Myrddion Merlinus, I’ll say that in your favour. She was there, I could take her without fear of retribution – and she amused me at the time. Better I should have killed her, which, I’ll admit, was my first intention. I recall that she pretended to enjoy my . . . ministrations. I admired her for her effrontery at a time when she must have felt endangered, so I permitted her to keep breathing. The final decision was made for me by the gods.’

  ‘I thought you were a good Arian Christian,’ Myrddion countered ironically, while his mind processed what his father had told him. I’ll not vomit, he thought as he spoke. I’ll not give Aspar the satisfaction of a reaction.

  ‘I’m a good anything-that-serves-my-purpose. I’m sure you understand me, Myrddion. That name! Lord of Light! By the Sacred Cross, it almost suits you.’

  ‘What do you plan to do with me? Poison my wine? Cleoxenes has warned me that it’s not in your best interests that I should live.’

  Aspar threw his head back and laughed. For a moment his bronzed throat was exposed and both the merlin and the young man looked at his smooth neck hungrily. Myrddion shook his head imperceptibly.

  ‘You’re safe with me, I assure you, even though you’ve brought a desert kinglet with you as your bodyguard.’ Aspar laughed again at Myrddion’s confusion. ‘Didn’t you know who el Kabir was when you asked him for assistance? Oh, Myrddion! I’m really enjoying your company. You collect great ones so easily.’

  The magister militum’s face lit up with amusement. ‘As for Cleoxenes, he’s always read my character correctly, but he’s wrong in this case. I’ve nothing to lose and much entertainment to gain by keeping you alive. Somehow, I don’t think your oaths would permit you the luxury of assassination, so I’m prepared to take my chances on you. You see, I know rather more about you than you know about me.’

  Myrddion stared at Aspar, his eyes flat and disbelieving.

  ‘Come along, my boy, and we’ll ask el Kabir to re-join us.’ Aspar almost giggled. ‘We shall eat well and come to know each other better. I have several strong and clever sons, but none who amuse me as much as you. You look like me when I was a younger man. What was the name that your mother used to describe me?’

  ‘Hyacinth beauty,’ Myrddion murmured as they retraced their steps to the palace, where Ali el Kabir stood waiting with a servant. ‘You drove her to madness, you know. She has tried to kill me, or any man who came near her, on many occasions. You spoiled her.’

  ‘Ah, but she still lives,’ Aspar replied, as Myrddion saw a woman in a blood red dress sway out of the shadows of the columns. ‘I believe you know my amour, Mistress Flavia?’

  Myrddion felt the earth sway as Flavia bared her head and moved towards the small group of men with her wonderful hair glowing in the setting sun.

  ‘Flavia?’ Myrddion whispered, his heart clearly exposed in his eyes.

  Flavia faced him evenly, her mismatched eyes calmly surveying him. In his imaginings, those eyes were Flavia’s nature, false and true by turns, and now she travelled the way of least resistance. She was accustomed to being owned by a man more forceful than herself until he failed her in some way and she moved on to the next. Like a destructive force of nature, she lacked the soul to understand what havoc she wrought.

  ‘You are as you were made by your father, my lady. You are as you were made.’ Then Myrddion bowed low so Flavia could not see that his heart was breaking.

  Aspar moved carefully from Myrddion’s side to stand a little before his woman. As usual, he was wryly amused. ‘I have heard from my friend that you are married, Aspar, with sons and daughters who carry your gens.’ Myrddion glanced at Flavia, standing behind Aspar’s broad back, then returned his eyes to his father.

  ‘Of course I have sons, and I also have a noble wife. I’ve had three, in fact. What of it? Women are to be loved while the bloom lies on their cheeks and the pomegranate rouge is on their moist red mouths. You will learn the value of the moment, if the Lord High God sees fit to permit you to age.’

  ‘I’ll not spend my seed on the earth as you have,’ Myrddion retorted. ‘Nor will I scatter it on women of all castes with no concern for their suffering. I swear by the Lord of Light for whom I am named that I’ll never use women as . . . receptacles for my lust. Even if I must live alone . . . lifelong!’

  ‘Don’t be tedious, boy. You’d renounce women for the sake of a lost love? Please! I had hoped for better from you.’ He chuckled. ‘Now we shall dine. I’ve discovered I have an appetite and I believe I’ll be interested in the experiences of your friend, Emir el Kabir. Come. Flavia, my dove, you shall lead the way.’

  Impotent, and completely outclassed by the urbane and dangerous Aspar, Myrddion followed the couple into the palace. There, the triclinium awaited them with soft-footed servants who offered light, sweet music and unwatered wine for the enjoyment of Aspar’s guests.

  A little confused by the undercurrents within the room, el Kabir attempted to maintain a civilised conversation with his hos
t, while Myrddion picked at the dishes that were offered to him by silent women servants. He had no appetite, so he spent his time mentally cursing himself as an idiot for retaining hopes of regaining Flavia’s favour. He tried hard to discover some vein of anger in the ashes of his desire – anything but the cold, sick feelings of loss and self-disgust that turned the most delectable food into so much tasteless muck.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Flavia mouthed across the low table between them, from where she ate beside her paramour, who was fully occupied with a conversation about horses with el Kabir.

  Myrddion turned aside so that only his profile was visible to Flavia. She flushed along her cheekbones and applied herself to her wine cup. Myrddion could tell that she was angered by his deliberate slight.

  With a stab of actual physical pain, Myrddion realised that Flavia had seen the features of the son in the father, so her quick intelligence had led her to Aspar like a homing pigeon to its perch. Too despairing even for jealousy, Myrddion turned his face away from her.

  Aspar had paused in his conversation with el Kabir to apply himself to a stuffed squab garnished with honey. Expertly, he spitted the bird’s breast with his eating knife and carved off a leg which he devoured with relish.

  Flavia caught Myrddion’s eye. Her chin lifted, and Myrddion knew that she intended to cause trouble for him. Suddenly, he realised that he didn’t care.

  ‘Despite his meek demeanour, your young guest has several hidden gifts, my lord. Perhaps you should ask him how he first met me at Châlons. And then ask him why my father hated him so profoundly.’