Death of an Empire (29 page)

Cleoxenes shrugged expressively. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what methods the barbarians use. I can only explain why no captain will cross the seas between here and the islands of Corsica and Sardinia.’

The names meant little to Myrddion, but once again he filed them away as places of interest should they be discovered on any
charts that he might find. He felt obliged, however, to accept Cleoxenes’s explanation and to assuage his curiosity by making his own chart of the coastal route from Massilia to Italia.

Cadoc suffered from seasickness for several days until, almost miraculously, he became accustomed to the motion of the ship and his nausea passed. The sun-bronzed sailors laughed at him and teased him about finally acquiring his sea legs, but the Celt retained his sense of humour, spending all day above deck and becoming quite sunburned, especially around the glossy, damaged areas of his scars. Other than a whole new scatter of freckles across his nose and unscarred cheek, he took no other hurt from the warm spring sun.

Ports and towns slid by daily, linked by the coastal Roman road that was still maintained as a route into the west. Antipolis, Albium Ingaunum, Vada Sabatia, Genua and Segesta passed by as the ship made its ponderous way to the east. Above the towns and the road, the mountains of the Alpes Maritimi raised their craggy crowns towards the heavens. Myrddion was fascinated by the height and imposing beauty of the mountains, which reminded him of his home. The sailors told him that these peaks were part of an even higher range that formed a near impenetrable barrier for travellers who wished to access the headwaters of the Padus river that crossed Italia and spilled its waters into the Mare Adriaticum.

When they called at Portus Veneris for fresh drinking water, Cleoxenes strolled into the town to learn what he could of the troubles in the north. He returned biting his lip and frowning so that his dark brows met in deep furrows on his usually untroubled forehead.

‘The news of Attila is bad – very bad – far worse than I expected. I have also received unsettling tidings from Constantinople that may or may not be true. I pray they are false.’

‘Tell us the worst then, Lord Cleoxenes. We may not understand
everything you say, but ignorance is even more dangerous than a little knowledge,’ Myrddion urged, alarmed by the sadness in the envoy’s voice.

‘Rumours have reached Portus that my master, Emperor Theodosius, is dead and has been succeeded by the Emperor Marcian. I have been absent from fair Constantinople for far too long.’

‘Will a change of emperor mean trouble for you, lord?’ Myrddion asked, his sympathy quickened by the audible upset in the envoy’s voice.

‘No. Definitely not. But Theodosius was a good man, and brave of heart. He was the first to attempt to halt the ambitions of the Flagellum Dei, or Attila, as you from the western countries call him. I regret his death, if the rumours are true.’

Myrddion kept his face under control so that his features only registered polite interest. Cleoxenes wouldn’t welcome overt solicitude.

‘As for Attila, he has counter-attacked and now holds all the lands of Italia down to the Padus river. The north is his and Aetius is forced to mount defensive raids against the Hun outriders. The general can only slow the Hungvari advance, not halt it, for he lacks the troops needed to meet Attila in open warfare. He must surely regret his churlish treatment of the Visigoths and the Franks. If she is to survive another burning, Rome will need all her allies.’

‘Such a response was inevitable,’ Myrddion murmured. ‘Given that tower of saddles I saw on the Catalaunian Plain, Attila was certain to seek revenge.’

‘Attila has such pride that he dared Flavius Aetius to attack him when he was sitting high on that leather tower. As the world knows, he is unused to defeat. He must have been raging as he rode northeast and skirted the mountains until he came to the Roman road that cuts through the Alpes Carnicae. Turning south instead of north would have seemed the only way to avenge his losses at
the Catalaunian Plain and regain his power and position. We brought the Hun down on our heads when we submitted to the general’s greed.’

‘Don’t berate yourself, my lord. I suppose that we’ll learn more when we make our next landfall, for I’ll wager that the towns of Italia will be speaking of nothing else.’

Sea journeys never seem to end when travellers are eager for news that will reshape their lives. To starboard, the healers could see the blue waters of the Middle Sea, unvarying, stretching to the horizon without blemish or change. Cadoc swore that staring at the ocean gave him the drearies, even though he had mastered his illness.

‘There’s not enough to amuse us when birds have become the chief topic of interest,’ he complained.

‘You can amuse yourself by helping Finn to chop the herbs we purchased in Massilia,’ Myrddion retorted. ‘When we disembark, we’ll need to be ready to earn a living.’

Privately, however, the young healer agreed with Cadoc. He preferred to stay to landward, where the shield of mountains was gradually giving way to wide green plains. The Roman town of Luna passed by, and small fishing boats surrounded the galley like a flock of impudent sparrows teasing a raven. They milled and swooped around the larger ship, chasing shoals of silver fish while brown-skinned, half-naked little men cast their nets and grinned up at the sailors and delivered rapid-fire, ribald jokes.

Pisae passed by on the port side, and the occasional river mouth opened into the waters of the Middle Sea, staining the waters brown with silt and the detritus of human habitation. The mountains had retreated, and the galley had turned southward to follow the coastline. Triturrita and Vada passed and Myrddion’s young eyes could just make out the wide Via Aurelia as it wound along the coast like a serpent before disappearing inland.

The view on both sides of the galley now showed smudges of land as the great island of Corsica rose out of the ocean with a spine of mountain peaks. The galley slid between the island of Ilva and the coast and Cleoxenes informed the healers that the captain planned to take on more fresh water at Telamon, little more than a flyspeck on the land mass of Italia, lacking even the virtue of a decent harbour.

‘Why do we pause, then?’ Myrddion asked logically, having adjusted to the rhythms of life on a sea voyage. ‘Why not head towards a more hospitable spot to collect our water?’

‘Actually, we aren’t really stopping. The captain has received a message from a fishing boat that an important personage needs transportation to Roma, and will come to us on a smaller boat that will also deliver our water barrels.’

‘Who in their right mind would sail south, when Roman roads would take them directly to the capital much faster than sail or oars? In their place, whoever they are, I’d have ridden.’

‘So would I,’ Cleoxenes answered with his secretive smile. ‘But I suppose they believe the sea is safer than the land. Perhaps our journey will be enlivened by a convivial companion or two.’

When the galley hove to, the passengers could see that the village was a collection of white and pink buildings clustered above the shoreline. No sooner had the galley dropped anchor than a fishing boat left the rudimentary wharf and began to scud out beyond the breakers with the land breeze filling its sails. The crew of the galley clustered on the deck, staring towards the land, and treating this unexpected pause in the voyage as a brief holiday from the unvarying sameness of their duties.

The healers stood with them, eager to be diverted by any change in the predictable rhythms of life on the ship. Even Bridie left the widows’ cabin to join them, leaning on an elaborate stick that Finn had fashioned for her on the voyage. He was inordinately proud of
his gift, which was rich with carvings of fish and sea serpents and adorned with glowing pink and white slivers of shell.

A rope ladder was cast over the bulbous side of the galley and Myrddion decided that he was glad he didn’t have to make the awkward climb on the heavy, twisting rungs of woven sisal. A man clambered up first, a soldier wearing Roman armour that was much decorated with rich embossing and gilding under a heavy red woollen cloak.

‘It seems our visitors are persons of some importance,’ Cleoxenes informed the healers as the Roman officer heaved his body over the rail. ‘The tedium of our journey might be broken.’

Myrddion looked at the climbing ladder and saw only the covered heads of two women who struggled with their robes and peplums as they clung to the ropes with beringed fingers. One of the fishermen assisted them from below while a limber seaman climbed down to offer them a strong brown arm on the way up. Such was the obvious wealth of the new passengers that the sailors, clustering on the rigging and rails, resisted their usual urge to make ribald comments, even when a gust of wind revealed a shapely calf and thigh to their interested stares. The women had barely reached the deck before brown fishermen, as dexterous as monkeys, began unloading chests of possessions and pitch-sealed barrels of water.

Cleoxenes and Myrddion examined the newcomers with frank curiosity, and even the apprentices and the widows gawked covertly from under lowered lids at the two women, who wore hooded cloaks to hide their faces from the open stares of plebeians. The captain appeared, bowing obsequiously even before he reached his wealthy clients, and the Roman officer proceeded to demand his best cabins for the accommodation of the ladies. As Cleoxenes had the biggest one and Myrddion shared the other good-sized compartment with Cadoc and Finn, the only available
space was either the widows’ inadequate quarters or the captain’s odorous, fish-tainted cabin. Myrddion sighed. ‘Unless we want the widows to be turned out to sleep on the open deck, I imagine we’ll be giving up our cabin.’

The captain of the galley had already come to the same conclusion. The noble Roman officer was induced to share with Cleoxenes, an arrangement that neither man welcomed, and the healers packed their few possessions and took up a position at the stern of the vessel where they would be protected from the weather. The captain offered them space in the crew’s quarters far below the deck, where Cleoxenes’s bodyguards and manservant had stolen the best hammocks by virtue of their size and nasty dispositions, but the healers had already experienced the foul smells and stygian darkness of the lower decks and Myrddion announced that a little rain would be far better for their health than hammocks strung in tiers under low ceilings and overfull slop buckets fouling what little air there was and the grimy planks alike.

If the healers expected any thanks for their generosity, they were out of luck. The two women never so much as looked in their direction before they hastened to their new quarters.

‘They won’t like their new accommodation overmuch,’ Cadoc predicted drily.

‘They’ll like the bunks even less,’ Finn added. ‘I swear they have lice.’ He scratched reflectively at his forearm, and Myrddion and Cadoc immediately began to itch.

‘Perhaps they’ll have some news to share with us,’ Myrddion suggested, his curiosity piqued by the arrival of the Roman party. ‘I wonder where Attila is now? We all know how fast the Hun army can move, so they could have taken Rome already.’

‘Judging by their friendliness so far, they’ll not be talking to us,’ Cadoc replied sardonically. ‘I doubt even Cleoxenes will learn
much from that gilded bag of wind he’s stuck with. Cleoxenes may be noble, but he’s become very brown in his travels and he’s not as fussy about his dress as he was at the start of the journey.’

Myrddion was inclined to agree. Considering the difference in their stations, he had found Cleoxenes to be a charming, erudite companion to whom he owed much, not least his life. But weeks at sea had relaxed the older man’s personal dress code and made him less starchy in his manner than in previous meetings. It was indeed possible that Cleoxenes would also be judged as being beneath Roman consideration, unless he dressed as if he were at the imperial court at Constantinople.

‘Perhaps we’re judging our fellow travellers too harshly,’ the healer murmured without much conviction.

‘I doubt it, but you could be right,’ Cadoc replied. The servant’s face suggested that he wasn’t the least convinced.

The healers had much to occupy their time, now that Ostia, the port of Rome, was only a few days away. Myrddion’s clothing was becoming decidedly shabby, so the widows had purchased several lengths of wool and linen in Massilia with the intention of making garments for their master during the sea voyage. There had been much giggling over their needlework, while the cloth had always been hidden whenever Myrddion came within their ambit. He had no idea what they would create for him from the black, grey and white fabrics, but until their agile fingers had finished wielding their needles he must make do with the ragged, over-washed and faded garb that had travelled with him from Cymru. He was still young enough to feel shame at his dishevelled appearance, and hoped he would cut a more imposing figure once he reached Rome than he did now.

He had decided to seek out the Jewish healer, Isaac, whom the dead Theodoric had praised in their fateful discussion outside Aurelianum. So far, in his quest to find his father, he had gained
neither knowledge nor gold to validate such an upheaval in his life. Perhaps Isaac would take them all on as apprentices and share his knowledge with them. Excitement briefly surged through him, but was soon replaced by self-doubt. Wiser to the Roman world than he had been in Britain, Myrddion doubted that three shabby Celts would be acceptable servants for a man of such fame as Isaac, even if he was a Jew and derided by the nobility of Rome – unless they needed his services urgently. Respectability in Rome, it seemed, increased considerably with usefulness.

‘I’m becoming as cynical as you are, Cadoc,’ Myrddion confided to his apprentice that afternoon after relating his immediate plans. He was staring idly over the side and watching the cobalt blue depths pass beneath him as a slew of gulls followed the galley, screaming for the slops that the cook cast overboard at this time of day, after the preparations for yet another fish stew had been completed.