Prophecy: Web of Deceit (Prophecy 3)

by M. K. Hume

  Praxiteles held his club easily across his knees while he plied the reins. Finn had also drawn his sword, and, armed and ready, the cavalcade passed through the hostile streets at a steady, lumbering pace. Eventually, night fell and the party was forced to halt. Even then, the men stood guard while the women slept, conscious that the night was full of menace and the rank stink of hatred.

  ‘Welcome home to Britain!’ Myrddion muttered ironically to Cadoc as he bedded down under the wagon. ‘I’d rather sleep on the streets of Rome than in this cesspit.’

  Cadoc discovered that he had little to say when he was profoundly troubled. His ebullience and humour had seeped away in the slow journey from the docks. But, like his master, he mourned the loss of so much he had loved.

  Before first light, that hour when the sky faded to grey and the stars were extinguished, the healers were on the road and moving once more. The night had been cold with a memory of winter chill, so they huddled miserably in their cloaks and dreamed of hot food. Fog hung over the buildings of the town and loaned the pillaged ruins an illusion of wholeness, blurring the details of mud and sagging wooden door frames to create an illusion of beauty in simple shapes. Weedy courtyards and rank gardens were softened and clothed in glistening dew. The deserted streets echoed mysteriously, as if the stones remembered the marching, sandalled feet of the legions and the wild, fair singing of Celt warriors as they prepared for war. It was an hour when the ghosts of the past seemed to call to unwary travellers out of the mists, before the rising sun brought back the prosaic, ugly reality of Dubris under her new masters.

  ‘We’ll have left the city by the time the sun is up, and with luck we’ll find suitable markets, master,’ Bridie consoled Myrddion as he rode close to the wagon and smiled at the sleeping countenance of her small son.

  ‘You’ve been very patient and brave, Bridie. Bearing a child on board a ship bound for Gaul is no small thing. But you’ll soon return to our lands and you can present your son to Ceridwen. Then he will become a true Celt.’

  Bridie stroked the small golden charm that hung round the neck of the sleeping infant, her eyes shining with the unconditional love that mothers feel for their children. ‘I thank you for his bulla, my lord. The gold is so fine that you must have purchased it in Constantinople. It is a wonderful gift for my boy, and he will be forever marked by your favour.’

  Myrddion blushed, for he had been afraid that Bridie would be offended by the Roman custom of gifting an infant with a tiny casket to hold an amulet. But Bridie had travelled far from Cymru and had learned to judge the hearts of men with instinctive accuracy.

  ‘Your boy deserves a better future than following the fortunes of war from one cruel place to another.’ Myrddion spoke regretfully as he watched Finn sleep on the heaped baggage in the wagon. Praxiteles was handling the reins and singing Greek songs in a soft and tuneful voice. ‘I’d like you to persuade Finn to take my place in Segontium, Bridie. I expect I’ll become a wandering healer, for these are so many souls suffering in the small hamlets and farms. But you and your babe deserve a snug little house of your own. My mistress, Annwynn, who taught me so much in the years when I was her apprentice, is very old and needs a young back and a strong pair of hands to help her prepare her healing remedies. You will build a good life on Annwynn’s farm and your son will grow tall and healthy.’

  Bridie eyed Myrddion sharply under the fall of her plaits. ‘Do you want to be rid of us, master? Are we an encumbrance?’

  Myrddion jerked the rains in surprise and denial, until the stolid horse danced and bridled in protest. ‘No, Bridie, not at all! My heart will be saddened when we part, but you and Finn must do what is right for the little one.’

  Bridie sighed and nodded. ‘You’ll have your own children one day, master. Will you cease to roam then?’

  ‘I’m certain I won’t father children for many years to come,’ Myrddion whispered, his lips twisted with bitter regret. ‘So far, I’ve displayed poor judgement in my choice of women, as you are aware. Some men are born to be alone.’

  ‘Oh, master,’ Bridie whispered sadly, but Myrddion’s horse had moved ahead and he didn’t hear her. Then the moment of intimacy passed as her son woke and wailed for the breast.

  As the sun began to light the horizon, the travellers drove into a market that was being set up on the outskirts of the city. The healers were thankful to see local farmers, as well as Saxons, hefting baskets of live birds, eggs packed in straw and panniers of new vegetables, alongside traders displaying their wares on coarse, blanket-covered tables which proclaimed their affluence. These goods were designed to tempt the crowds who would come once the day was more advanced, and included every tawdry bauble that could be bought cheaply in any of the Frankish ports, as well as ill-made trifles from as far away as Massilia. Bridie, Brangaine and Rhedyn descended from the wagons and fell on the fresh food with the avidity of desperate shoppers. They were far too experienced to waste even a copper on jewellery that would blacken almost immediately or pans that were so thin they would fall apart within a short period after purchase, and they haggled, cajoled and demanded the best possible deals with the confidence of women who had learned a smattering of six languages in all the market places of the Middle Sea. Within minutes of completing their business, their purchases were packed in the wagons and the party quit the markets to leave the poor huts on the outskirts of Dubris far behind them. The journey home had begun.

  The air smelled clean now and gave off the rich aroma of newly turned earth, fresh growth, woodsmoke, and the wild flowers that flourished in drifts between tree roots. Suddenly, the smell of home was so strong that Myrddion felt his eyes prickle with tears and he was forced to turn his head to one side in case his friends should catch him weeping. He had left Britain in a spirit of mingled adventure, resentment and excitement, but he had learned that the land of his birth, no matter how backward it now seemed, was a part of his blood and bones.

  ‘I swear I’ll never leave again, no matter what our futures may bring. If Dubris is any example, then we’ll have an inordinately busy time right here in Britain.’

  But his companions didn’t hear him. They’d not have argued anyway, for home was everything to them . . . and always had been. Myrddion had pursued his own dream to Constantinople, and they had followed him willingly, but they had never lost sight of their roots.

  Never again, Myrddion thought. His fingers remembered the texture of Flavia’s skin and the marvellous fineness of her hair; his lips recalled the taste of her honeyed mouth and her wicked tongue; his body continued to hunger for her. But she had chosen to become the concubine of his father, if only for a season, and Myrddion had vowed that he would never love a woman again. Love and passion did little to assuage his terrible loneliness, and brought only pain in their wake.

  From this time onwards, he determined that love of his homeland would be sufficient to sustain the needs of his solitary heart.

  CHAPTER II

  WHERE THE SOFT WINDS BLOW

  Our world is lovely in different ways,

  Hung with beauty and works of hands,

  I saw a strange machine, made

  For motion, slide against the sand,

  Shrieking as it went. It walked swiftly

  On its only foot, this odd-shaped monster,

  Travelled in an open country without

  Seeing, without arms, or hands,

  With many ribs, and its mouth in its middle.

  Anglo-Saxon riddle

  All the healers felt dislocated. The road they travelled was long, broad and still well maintained, although hedges of hawthorn were beginning to encroach onto the carriageway. Beyond the hedges, or over the low walls of stones that had been ploughed out of the fields, farms proliferated across the flat and fertile land. But Myrddion also saw signs of neglect where fields remained unploughed and crops had not been planted in the late winter. Many of the simple stone crofts were obviously deserted, for doors gaped open and many thatched roo
fs had collapsed.

  ‘It looks as though most farmers of the Cantii tribe have fled from the lands around Dubris,’ Myrddion reported to Finn and Cadoc, after he had ridden off to explore a one-room cottage and cow byre just beyond the roadway. ‘The croft has been stripped bare and all the livestock has gone. I saw no signs of violence, no bodies and no bones, so the farm must have been abandoned. The tribe is probably on the move into the west, taking everything of value with them.’

  ‘I can’t imagine deserting the home where the ashes of my ancestors have rested for hundreds of years,’ Finn murmured, his eyes dark with empathy.

  ‘This retreat will become commonplace for all the tribes of Britain if Ambrosius can’t find a solution that will pin the Saxons down on the east coast,’ Myrddion replied with morose fatality. ‘I wager we’ll meet many refugees on the road between here and Segontium.’

  Yet, for all the despondency of the travellers, birds still sang sweetly in the thickets, wild flowers sweetened the dust from the roadway with drifts of perfume and the sky remained a clean-rinsed blue barred with white, scudding clouds.

  The land is as it has always been, Myrddion thought. It’s only we ants who crawl upon it who have changed. After we are dust, the land will continue.

  Although they were travelling in easy stages for the comfort of the women and children, the party began to overtake slow-moving family groups trudging wearily towards Durovernum. The men and boys were afoot, herding their few cattle and sheep before them, while horses and oxen drew farm carts laden high with furniture, children and baskets of live fowl. Dogs scouted ahead on the orders of their masters. The faces of the women were drawn with loss and care, because they were venturing into the unknown and dooming their children to landlessness. Ashamed by their retreat, the farmers refused to look directly into the eyes of the chance-met strangers.

  On several occasions before they reached Durovernum, the travellers stumbled over newly erected fortifications constructed by Saxons from massive tree trunks. Saxon farmers now tilled the soil and they shaded their sun-dazzled eyes with their hands as the healers’ wagons passed. When they recognised Celtic faces, they spat into the newly ploughed furrows of black soil, causing Myrddion’s stomach to tighten with concern.

  But no lasting trouble came from these signs of enmity. On one occasion, tall warriors forced the healers to halt their oxen. Knowing they could never hope to outrun the troop of Saxons, Myrddion instructed his companions to keep their mouths shut while he negotiated with them. Then, with his heart in his mouth, he explained that they were healers who had just returned from Gaul, where they had served King Merovech during the wars against Attila the Hun. Shamelessly name-dropping, he claimed the protection of his friendship with Hengist, and because his Saxon was passable the ruling thane gave them free passage through his domain, provided they treated a number of minor ailments suffered by his men.

  Gratefully, Myrddion complied, thanking their luck that this Saxon lordling was more interested in acquiring land than Celtic heads.

  ‘Some of our farmers seem to be fighting back,’ Myrddion commented in Celt as he lanced an infected wound in the thigh of a tall, red-haired warrior. ‘This injury is a puncture wound and was probably caused by a hay fork or some similar farm implement.’ As his scalpel found the deep-seated abscess, vile-smelling pus gushed out of the wound. ‘Ah! Got it!’

  He grimaced with satisfaction, for his patient had fainted. Swiftly, the healer cleaned up the discharge and began to swab out the wound with raw alcohol. The sudden stab of pain caused the warrior, barely twenty years of age, to come to his senses. The young man began to sweat profusely, so Myrddion called for honey in hot water to counteract the shock.

  ‘Good for them,’ Cadoc replied laconically as he struggled with a broken tooth in the mouth of an older Saxon who gripped his stool with white-knuckled hands, while he tried to suppress a moan of terror. For country dwellers, broken teeth were almost unendurably painful and this stoic patient had suffered for some time. Cadoc noted cynically that the Saxon must have been a favourite of the gods, for no abscess had formed on the root of the tooth.

  ‘Gently, Cadoc! Remember that we’ve vowed to avoid harming our patients.’

  Cadoc grinned as he brandished the offending tooth in his pliers and then stooped to staunch the sudden rush of blood. ‘Aye, master. At least this old fellow won’t die of the brain disease, for the tooth cavity is quite clean.

  Finn allowed himself a sour grin. ‘I know I’m being uncharitable,’ he snapped as he prepared herbal painkillers and drawing ointments to leave with the patients. ‘But I can’t see that it would hurt the Saxons to bathe a little more frequently. They smell worse than Cadoc’s armpit.’

  ‘Enough foolishness, Finn! Have you smelled our peasants from downwind in recent times? They’re none too precious about bathing either. You’ve lived in the Roman way for far too long.’

  ‘Since birth, master, and it’s not hurt me,’ Finn retorted. ‘The Romans had a fondness for Dyfed and Gwent, and left their fortresses and their baths up and down the coast. And we sickened less for the sake of a little oil and clean water.’

  As Myrddion knew that Finn was correct, he permitted the conversation to lapse and moved on to a new patient sporting a painful bunion.

  Eventually, with the grudging thanks of the local thane ringing in their ears and carrying a gift of several leather flagons of Saxon beer from the man with the broken tooth, the healers took to the road again. The whole party felt relieved when Durovernum hove into view.

  At first the town seemed unchanged, although Saxons now made up over half of the population. Many Celt craftsmen had stayed in the old Roman settlement, because their skills were still needed and welcomed, even though outland masters now controlled their day-to-day lives. But a new crop of younger Saxon traders were burrowing deeply into the life of Durovernum. These newcomers were inclined to treat any travellers with suspicion, so the healers soon felt resentful, hostile eyes following their movements through the heart of the township.

  Finn’s eyes flashed with anger as they passed a simple Christian church that had been burned to the ground and stripped of any objects of value. Old death seemed to hang over the ruins and this taint, perhaps, accounted for the fact that the land hadn’t been converted to another purpose. A young sapling and lush weeds grew out of the foundations, further cracking and lifting old slabs of stone that had served as flooring in the small, simple structure.

  ‘To kill men and women who have dedicated themselves to the service of their gods is a very serious sin,’ Cadoc whispered, his eyes narrowing with disgust. ‘When I spoke to some of the warriors back at the fortress, I gathered that they save their greatest scorn for the priests and nuns of the Christian orders, for they believe them to follow a Roman religion. The Saxons still hold a passionate hatred for the Romans and all that they stood for.’

  ‘I’ve been told they hate the Christian habit of refusing to fight back whenever a religious community is attacked,’ Myrddion added. ‘Perhaps, for all their protestations, the Saxons understand that it is wrong to kill defenceless men and women who are so pious that they pray and honour their god while they’re being murdered.’

  ‘Perhaps they just don’t like anyone who isn’t of their own kind,’ Rhedyn hissed angrily from the wagon. ‘Perhaps they like to kill, and that’s the end of it.’

  ‘Who knows?’ Myrddion said quietly. ‘I’m not convinced that the Saxon race is naturally wicked or that they are more violent than we are. Their motives are foreign to us, so perhaps they’re just different. I wouldn’t choose to hate them simply because I don’t understand them.’

  Rhedyn flushed, but she squared her rounded shoulders defiantly. ‘Then I’ll hate them enough for both of us, master. As far as I’m concerned, it will always be sinful to slay people who are harmless and innocent.’

  ‘Aye. But few of us are truly without sin, Rhedyn.’

  Agreeing to disagree, Rhedyn held
her tongue, and the small party quit the city to set up camp beyond the walls of Durovernum.

  Word of their trade had preceded them, so they were kept busy for the remainder of the day in the mundane practice of their craft. It was always so, for healers provided a small hedge against disaster, a bulwark when illness came calling or accident threatened to turn fragile human flesh into dust. Serious disease rarely came their way, for such patients lived or died quickly, but ambulatory sufferers were fast to seek out a cure when healers arrived in their town.

  The treatment of non-fatal ailments served the purpose of providing Myrddion and his assistants with much-needed information about the political and social realities of this small corner of the world. Farmers and townsfolk loved to gossip, especially about the lives of the great ones, as long as there was no danger in it for them, so they talked and talked to distract themselves from the pain of broken teeth, rheumatic fingers and ingrown toenails, and the healers listened and remembered what they heard.

  The Saxons spoke fearfully of Uther Pendragon, younger brother of Ambrosius, High King of the Britons, and said that his ferocity and ruthlessness matched the most brutal of the Saxon thanes. No cruelty seemed beyond him, so simple men speculated that the many years of exile, after his family’s escape from the wrath of King Vortigern, had left a permanent, unhealed scar on his soul. The murder of his oldest brother, Constans, had created in him an unquenchable thirst for revenge on his mortal enemies – a group that was large and varied. Now, as the strong right arm of the High King, Uther led Ambrosius’s warriors into unceasing battle against the Saxon forts and villages. He showed no mercy towards his enemies, and was renowned for treating women and children as harshly as fully grown warriors. As justification for this barbarity, he boasted openly that lice breed and even nits spread and grow as they infest healthy hair. In his opinion, it was far better to destroy all parasites, especially when they were still growing and unable to resist.