Death of an Empire (13 page)

The cloth wick of the oil lamp had now caught and details of the room were more easily discerned. Clean, scrubbed and spartan, it offered few comforts and no hint of the personality of its normal occupant. The only clue to its owner was a large wooden chest bound with thin strips of iron for security.

Myrddion sipped his powerful drink carefully and tried to think. The presence of the very superior manservant seemed to suggest a mark of favour, but the room had a distinctly cell-like quality that hinted at imprisonment. The young man was confused.

‘So, healer, you’ve set the hen coop a-flutter, haven’t you?’

‘Lady Flavia,’ Myrddion croaked as Aetius’s daughter swept into the room, lifting her trailing skirts fastidiously as if she feared encroaching grime in this sterile little room. A hint of musky perfume caught at his nostrils and made his senses tremble. ‘You should not be here if you are unaccompanied.’

‘How else would I discover anything in this house of secrets?’

What was it about this brusque, rude woman? What quality in her character forced Myrddion’s eyes to follow her every movement and set his heart beating irregularly in his breast?

‘Cat got your tongue, Myrddion? I felt sure you would be interested in your situation when you woke from your trance, but here you sit with your mouth hanging open like a dullard. Aren’t you a little bit curious about your prophecies? After all, you owe your life to them.’

‘I’m terrified of what I might have said during my fit. Believe me, Mistress Flavia, such a talent is a curse and I’d willingly cast it from me.’

‘Oh, fie to you, healer! I can see many ways to profit from your
fits
, as you call them. I never inherited anything useful from my father other than an extremely large nose.’

Doubtfully, Myrddion stared at the offending feature. Flavia’s nose was aquiline and slender, with delicately moulded nostrils that flared attractively when she became excited. Perhaps it was a little long for true beauty, but, feature by feature, Flavia’s physiognomy was decidedly unusual, as well as attractive. When seen in totality, what should have jarred actually charmed and, once again, Myrddion felt that unfamiliar flutter under his ribs.

‘So, tell me truthfully, mistress, for I am on tenterhooks to discover my fate.’

‘I wasn’t present, for such audiences are for men alone,’ Flavia teased, her eyes dancing with mischief. ‘Such exclusions are dreary and unfair, but I cannot persuade my father to allow me to attend
his meetings with the kings.’ She sighed with impatience, leaving Myrddion convinced that she had argued with her parent over this restriction on many occasions. ‘But Castor here was present, for he was serving my father. Perhaps he can be persuaded to describe your fit and its repercussions.’

Castor moved forward so that Myrddion could see him clearly. ‘I believe, Mistress Flavia, that your honourable father would be disappointed by the levity with which you approach such weighty matters. I shall, however, report my recollections of what occurred to the healer, for I believe that such was my master’s intention. But I assure you that what I saw and heard was no subject for jesting.’

‘You’re so . . . so puffed up with your consequence, Castor!’ Flavia’s eyes flashed with annoyance. ‘For Fortuna’s sake, say what you mean without all the verbiage.’

‘Very well, mistress, I will try.’

Beneath his stiff, formal manner, Castor was a natural storyteller who enjoyed being centre stage, and the word picture he drew was so vivid that Myrddion could soon visualise what had happened as clearly as if he had seen it.

The healer’s eyes had rolled back into his head, exciting a sudden chatter of alarmed comment from the seated rulers. His body had become rigid and his fists had clenched tightly at his side.

‘Speak, healer, and describe what you see,’ Aetius had commanded in a voice that neither quavered nor broke with fear.

Myrddion’s eyes had snapped back so that the pupils remained visible, but every man present could see that his senses had fled from his body.

‘Woe to the west if the Hungvari succeed in their quest out of Buda. Woe to the west if the Fratricide fulfils the legend of Romulus, for the last vulture has fled.’

Aetius had gasped, despite his stern refusal to admit the possibility of second sight. In his position against the wall, noble Cleoxenes had flinched and made a swift movement of the cross over his breast. Many of the Goth and Frank kings had looked puzzled at Aetius’s consternation, but before they could ask questions Myrddion had begun to speak once more.

‘Strike while the Huns are sacking Aurelianum! If you hasten, they will be forced to retreat to their great camp on the Catalaunian Plain. The fate of the City of the Seven Hills, and more, rests on your speed. While you are engaged in battle, a great king will die and you cannot save him, no matter how hard you try, for his own horsemen will drive him into the clay. Still, your luck will hold, Roman, though you are closer in blood to the Hungvari than to Rome. Beware of hubris, Aetius. Although your son will sit beneath the feet of Ravenna’s golden throne, your own ambitions will betray you, unless you have the will to change your plans. And you must be wary of a high-born servant who will turn against you.’

‘If you seek my favour, healer, know that a prophecy such as this is guaranteed to win my enmity rather than my friendship. I will repeat the question, Myrddion-no-name. Will I defeat the Hun?’

‘The Dread of the World will take the high ground, but you will have the higher. When you lay the great king to rest, do so where he falls, as a gift to your gods, and, perhaps, the last vulture will tarry a little. I cannot say for sure, as I am only a messenger, and not so beloved of the gods that I am permitted to know all their secrets. Yet I can say freely that you will defeat the Dread of the World.

‘You are the last of the great generals of Rome, and, though you lack the strength of arms that is necessary to bring Attila to his knees, you will deny him his ambitions. The Princess Honoria will weep for lost chances.’

Aetius leaned back in his gilded chair with a deep sigh of satisfaction. Although he had little faith in soothsayers, he understood that the details of this prophecy would soon become common gossip and would give heart to his troops and their superstitious allies. Besides, this Celt seemed to know details that were not immediately obvious, even to the Goth kings.

‘Blood and death! All I can see is heaped piles of carrion. The streams will run with blood.’

‘And what will be my part in this battle?’ Merovech demanded, leaning forward on his stool with eagerness.

A short silence followed, before Myrddion continued softly, ‘And there you are, Merovech, the font of a line of kings who will forge these lands into a great nation. In future times you will be spoken of with reverence as the foundation stone of a great dynasty and glory will shroud the legends that surround your name.’

‘Wonderful!’ Merovech breathed, his face shining with awe and hope. ‘You offer me eternity.’

‘But it must be paid for with blood and suffering.’ Myrddion’s voice had the measured, sombre beat of a funerary bell. ‘You will die before your time with your sword in your hand, but your son will win glorious victories in your name.’

‘Then what does an early death matter? I will have eternity . . . and that is sufficient.’

Then the young healer’s voice became slower and seemed to be dragged from a dank, dark place deep within his body. The listeners invoked their gods with superstitious dread at the tone and content of his last, dreadful prophecy.

‘This land is already soaked in blood and will remain so for two thousand years to come. The dead of Tournai will be as nothing to the millions of men, women and children who will perish on this cursed land in conflicts that are yet to come. Great nations will struggle over it, but they will bleed so freely that they will perish,
one by one. What Caesar began in suffering and melancholy will never be finished until the land is satisfied that her rapists have been repaid in full.’

Aetius snorted with anger when the healer accused the great Julian of being the root cause of so much suffering. Myrddion’s eyes almost focused in that instant, but then a heavy veil seemed to fall over the healer’s face and his eyes darkened once again.

‘Be silent, Aetius the Patrician, for the river of time is clear and you are just another Roman caught up in its tides. This day, you will decide to cast the die that will save the land from despoilers, and you will succeed because the gods will strengthen your arm. But you will seek to bolster your family power beyond common sense or personal safety. You will place the knives in your assassins’ hands out of hubris. Perhaps you wish to rule in Ravenna; or perhaps you hunger that a son of yours will reign in the fullness of time. Be very sure that such an ambition will not come to pass.

‘And with your death, the last blow is dealt to the Roman Empire. The schism will rip away any pretence that past glories will return and only the Golden Throne of Constantinople will endure – for a time! Your assassins will cut off the strong right arm of Rome, but men are fools and infinitely fragile. They will not count the cost until it is far too late. You might change your fate, Aetius of Ravenna, but you will not choose that safer path. The Scythian Plains are in your blood, so the taint of envy lies deeply coiled in your brain. My words will be forgotten, so your fate is sealed.’

‘Enough, healer,’ Aetius interrupted. ‘I no longer desire to hear the sound of your cursed voice. Do not let me see you again.’ The general’s face was bloated with rage and his fists were clenched. He would have risen and struck out at Myrddion, but Merovech stopped him by gripping his toga.

‘Never fear, my lords. If you think my message is bleak and unjust, I turn the river of time against myself as much as against you. I will be forced to serve you for a time, great general, and your house will make me pay deeply for this day of prophecy over many untold years. I will live alone, struggling to mitigate my faults and to save my own world from disaster. I, too, will know hubris and meddle in the affairs of the gods. I am their tool, as are you, and who can know what they intend for us? I will fail, as thoroughly as you will, for we are all servants of the Mother and the new god who comes from the east. Not one of us can escape the destiny that time has mapped out for us.’

Then Myrddion turned to his left on legs that seemed to be controlled by an invisible giant, as if the healer were a wooden doll in the hands of a monstrous child, until he turned his burning, inward gaze upon Cleoxenes, the emissary of the emperor of Constantinople.

‘You, Cleoxenes, have seen the Hungvari, whom you call the Hun. Your master, Theodosius, paid a huge ransom to protect his lands from pillage during their inexorable march to the west. Never fear! Constantinople will stand long after Rome, Ravenna and all their works are pale memories of ruined columns and shattered temples. The walls will stand and a great church will rise beyond the winds of time and war, but the Golden Horn will see you washed away by the scimitar. Remember me, Cleoxenes, when I come to your halls.’

Cleoxenes took an involuntary step forward, but Myrddion had already turned on legs that were incapable of bending. The emissary swore in perfect Latin, its purity rendered shocking by the crudity that spilled uncensored from his lips. Then Cleoxenes crossed himself once more, and his lips moved in either silent prayer or an incantation of a charm against evil.

Within the halls of Merovech, Myrddion’s ragged breathing
was the only sound that broke the stillness. Then, just as the king stirred, preparing to speak, the healer gave a great cry, his eyes closed and his knees collapsed under him. His head struck the floor with a sharp crack and a trickle of blood snaked over the tiles.

‘Then my master ordered me to bind your head wound, and lodge you in one of the guest chambers,’ the servant finished. ‘As you can see, I carried out his instructions.’

Myrddion was exploring the back of his skull where a small dressing covered a long split in the skin. ‘You are an accurate and talented storyteller, Castor. I could almost see the audience chamber as you spoke. Thank you for caring for me. Unfortunately, I have no idea what much of the prophecy means. I suppose my words were the ramblings of delirium.’

Flavia had listened by the far wall where the shadows hid the expressions that passed over her mobile features, but as Castor left the room she moved forward into the light. ‘Are any of your prophecies the truth, or simply the ramblings of a brain-sick dolt?’ she asked, her face as stiff as a marble effigy.

‘How can I say, my lady? I never remember what I have said after these fits take me. Nor do I court such visions. Merovech and Aetius forced me to speak or to face death. I am neither brain-sick nor foolish, and desire nothing more than to travel to Ravenna in peace. Regarding fratricide and vultures, I am as puzzled as you are.’

Flavia laughed softly, but her mirth had no humour in it. ‘If Castor has recounted your words accurately, those references were clear for any Roman to understand. Surely you know the tale of Romulus and Remus?’

‘They were the twins who founded Rome,’ Myrddion answered blankly. ‘I’m sorry, mistress, but I still don’t understand.’

‘Romulus slew his brother and was then granted a vision by the
gods. He dreamed of twelve vultures that symbolised the ages that Roman power should endure. Aye, the best part of twelve centuries has passed since Romulus became a fratricide, and the soothsayers look for signs that the end of the Empire is coming.’

Flavia was so serious and so perturbed that Myrddion had to stifle a laugh. ‘I see the reference to vultures, but what has Romulus to do with Attila? My words were ravings – they were of little relevance.’

‘No! For pious Romans will tremble at the words of your prophecy. I am adept at listening at closed doors when my father entertains, so I can relay the news that Attila has killed his brother, Bleda. Just as Romulus slew Remus to purchase Rome’s twelve centuries of power, Attila has begun to create a myth for his own purposes. Why, I cannot imagine, for I am a mere woman, but my father sits alone on the terrace and broods over your prophecy, because you knew the greatest fear that assails Valentinian, emperor of the Western Empire.’ Then she laughed, a sound reminiscent of the tinkling of bells. ‘Ah! Perhaps you’re no dolt at all, but a man who weaves the skeins of power and chance into a rope that will bind even the greatest men of the west to protect you. Perhaps you’re worth my cultivation.’