Web of Deceit (11 page)

In their separate ways, the three men were oddities, so the courtiers who clustered in the anteroom of Ambrosius’s court of justice eyed them carefully from the corners of their eyes.

The inner doors opened with a flourish at the appointed hour and the powerful lords of the south ambled into the large audience room. Like a stream of water impeded by stones, the aristocratic guests washed around the three outlanders in a curious but silent flood, leaving them to stand awkwardly in the midst of Uther’s personal guard as they awaited their instructions.

Myrddion quickly grew impatient at the delay and the contempt that it implied, but he succeeded in maintaining his calm demeanour. Tantrums and temper would not advance his cause. He understood the Roman perspective, and trusted he would be able to reason with whatever the High King and his brother had in store for him.

Uther appeared at the open doors to the inner room, as cat-footed as usual and with Botha at his shoulder. With a single, beckoning gesture, he called the three men forward. Half dazzled by the number of oil lamps within the large audience room, they entered Ambrosius’s seat of power.

As Myrddion advanced he kept his head down, so his first impression was that the uneven flags beneath his feet were unusually clean. No traces of mud, scatterings of leaves or drifts of dust were permitted to gather on Ambrosius’s floor. As he raised his eyes, he saw that the room was long, rectangular and naturally inclined to be dark, for no apertures permitted cold air to bring discomfort to the imperator. Ambrosius had ordered that oil lamps, sconces, a circular fire-pit and numerous
torches be lit so that mellow, golden light bounced off the reflective surfaces of the guardsmen’s armour and the goblet of rare glass held in the hands of a slim lad who stood beside two large hunting dogs. A sweet, almost floral scent perfumed the air from the oil lamps and softened the undecorated severity of the room.

‘Are these the men who are your latest find, brother?’ A tenor voice spoke in very pure Latin. ‘Bring them into the light, for you’ve piqued my curiosity.’

Myrddion moved forward with Cadoc and Praxiteles a little behind. Without examining his new master, the healer knelt gracefully before abasing himself in the Celtic fashion.

‘Rise!’ the voice ordered imperiously in Celt. ‘I can’t judge your worth if I can’t see your faces.’

Myrddion obeyed, surveying the figure that sat on an opulent, fur-covered Roman stool before him. Ambrosius needed no throne or dais to demonstrate his power and his authority. Mere appearance was sufficient to impress.

Myrddion could now gauge the similarities, and the differences, between these two extraordinary brothers. Uther was the taller of the two and was almost a giant, even by northern standards, but his brother was more compact and animated. Ambrosius’s body seemed to crackle with invisible fires and the force of a powerful intellect that could not be hidden by flesh, muscle or bone. His long-fingered, expressive hands were moving, tapping and stroking the arm of his chair, while his feet, in their simple Roman sandals, seemed to be invested with lives of their own.

‘Brother, the young man who stands before you is a healer of significant skill. He saved my arm six years ago, as you know, for all that he hails from the barbaric wilds of Gwynedd. His name is Myrddion Emrys or Merlinus, and he has latterly returned from the Middle Sea. He is my birthday gift to you.’

A flicker of distaste
chased itself across the broad cheekbones and forehead of the man who sat on the Roman stool.

‘Really, Uther! You can’t treat men like birth gifts, as he’s hardly yours to give.’

‘Yes, he is! I bargained with him, and I believe he’ll fulfil his side of the agreement. He’s now yours to keep.’

‘You must forgive my brother, Myrddion Merlinus. He has laboured for many years to keep our borders safe from the invaders, so his manners have been neglected in many ways. To what lands did you travel in your journey to the Middle Sea?’

The imperator’s face showed a flush of excitement and Myrddion was reminded that Ambrosius had been forced to wander through many lands during his own youth as he fled from the wrath of Vortigern. Ambrosius’s hair was the same reddish blond as his brother’s, but he kept his curls under control by cutting them ruthlessly short in the Roman military style. Below a pair of thick, well-shaped eyebrows, two eyes of a vivid shade of blue surveyed Myrddion eagerly from head to toe.

So blue! Barbarian eyes! Then Myrddion amended his snap decision when he saw a flash of controlled intelligence in their seemingly hollow depths. No. They were Roman eyes.

‘From Gesoriacum, we travelled extensively through the lands of the Franks and the Visigoths,’ Myrddion replied in equally pure Latin, causing Ambrosius to raise one inquisitive eyebrow in surprise. ‘From Massilia, we journeyed to Rome, the north of Italia, Ravenna and thence to Constantinople.’

‘Then you have travelled far,’ Ambrosius replied, his face carefully neutral, although his hands and feet were in constant motion as if they mirrored his furious mental activity. ‘You will have seen the world as it is.’

‘Aye, lord king. I’ve seen too much of it for comfort, I fear.’

‘As have I,’ Ambrosius murmured as his busy fingers toyed with the fringe on a cushion. ‘We will speak in private
at a later time, for I would welcome news of the world. Couriers come rarely to Venta Belgarum.’

‘As you wish, highness, so shall it be,’ Myrddion answered in his easy, mellifluous voice.

‘The healer has seen battle, and has proved his skills in the north as well as in the Middle Sea,’ Uther added, his mouth twisted as if he tasted something foul. ‘He served Vortigern during the wars with Vortimer, and he knew Hengist and Horsa.’

Why is he trying to set Ambrosius against me? Myrddion thought, as he saw the slight frown on Ambrosius’s face and noted the sudden tension in the High King’s body that was released in the swift jerking of one expressive foot. He tried to speak calmly.

‘All too true, I’m afraid. When I was but ten years old Vortigern tried to kill me, believing I was the son of a demon. The king’s sorcerers claimed that I had the gift of prophesy and should be offered for sacrifice, but Vortigern relented and slew his magicians in my stead. In the process, he killed my grandmother, who was the High Priestess of the Mother and a daughter of the king of the Deceangli tribe. Earlier, I had treated Horsa, whose leg had been broken in a fall from his horse. Hengist was grateful for my services to his brother and helped me escape from Vortigern’s wrath.’

When Myrddion paused for breath, Ambrosius asked several rapid-fire questions.

‘Why did the regicide think you had a demon for a sire? And how could you know anything of healing at such a young age?’

He doubts me and tries to trap me. Be careful, Myrddion, and keep your wits about you.

The healer’s smile was as open and guileless as a child’s. For the first time, he began to use his expressive hands for emphasis.

‘My mother claimed a demon had forced itself upon her when she was a young girl. As it turned out, she lied, but she was very young and was terrified into making
this excuse when a Roman dignitary raped her after being washed ashore during a storm near her home. Only her wits and her courage saved her life. Melvig ap Melwy, the king of our tribe, was her grandfather. Fortunately, he took a liking to me and chose to believe the fiction. Because of the lie, I couldn’t learn the ways of the warrior as my birth dictated, so my grandmother apprenticed me to the herbmaster Annwynn of Segontium when I was only eight.’

‘So how did you come to serve Vortigern? I would have thought that you would hate him as much as I do, if he killed your grandmother.’

Myrddion recognised the same distrust growing in Ambrosius’s eyes as had always lived in the heart of his brother. Vortigern had wounded their family deeply, but Myrddion saw a way to turn this enmity to his advantage.

‘I loathed the man, highness, and one of my happiest days was when I saw him burn to death inside his fortress. But that is another story, my lord. To answer your question, Mistress Annwynn taught me the trade of healing and later gifted me with a box of scrolls that had belonged to her own master. She was illiterate and knew that I could use them to instruct her in their wisdom. From the scrolls, we learned the principles of Hippocrates, which enjoin all healers to do no harm in their craft, and that all men deserve a chance to live after the carnage of the battlefield. When Vortigern’s army was defeated in a battle near Tomen-y-mur with great loss of life, my mistress insisted that we offer our services to save as many as we could. I was reluctant, but my mistress is a true healer and will allow no one to suffer if she can assist them in any way.’

Ambrosius grunted, but his keen eyes were a little less hard.

‘Once Vortigern’s army was rested and his men dispersed, he refused to permit me to depart with my mistress. He could see into the hearts of men, even mine, and he had no softness or mercy in him. He threatened to kill
Annwynn if I didn’t obey. But, if I’m honest, I must admit that he also offered an added inducement. He offered to tell me the identity of my father if I served him loyally. Ultimately, I served him out of fear – but I also served him for my own purposes.’

‘Ah,’ Ambrosius said, and Myrddion realised he had passed a test of some kind. ‘Yes, Vortigern understood the virtues and vices that we hold in our secret hearts. He was the very devil.’

‘He was worse than the Christian devil, for he brought our people into a conflict with the barbarians that will last as long as we live. I believe they would have come anyway, but to invite men as noble and skilled as Hengist and Horsa into our midst was crazy. Like a fox among the chickens, they sank their roots into Dyfed and the gods alone know when we will ever drive them out. Vortigern’s motives were selfish, and weren’t governed by the needs of his people – long may the bastard burn.’

‘Aye, if the gods truly exist,’ Ambrosius replied. ‘But I’m sure we’ve near to killed the gaiety of this evening with our talk of old times and brutal men. You may now present your assistants to me. I can tell by their dress that they also have stories that might beguile our evening.’

Myrddion gestured to Cadoc, who advanced two steps, abased himself and then stood under the sharp regard of the High King.

‘This is Cadoc ap Cadwy, a Briton from the Forest of Dean in Cymru, who served Vortigern in the battle of Tomen-y-mur. I met him on the first day we arrived at Vortigern’s camp. He had been burned, and was our first patient. As his injuries meant he couldn’t wield a sword, spear or bow with his old proficiency, he became my apprentice and has followed me in my wanderings ever since. He is a man who holds my absolute trust, and he is also my friend.’

Myrddion’s simple declaration of affection caused Cadoc’s eyes to moisten, which Ambrosius
recognised at once. ‘You may show me your scars, Cadoc,’ the High King demanded.

Cadoc winced, for his old wounds were a source of shame to the Celt. They opened the hidden box of unhappy memories that he kept firmly closed in the depths of his brain. Efficiently, he stripped off his leather breastplate and the laced tunic beneath it to expose the puckered cicatrices that marked one side of his face, neck, shoulder and part of his upper arm. With arms spread widely, he turned slowly so that the king’s guests in the audience hall could see the full extent of the wicked damage that had been inflicted by hot oil during the battle. More than a few warriors winced, and their faces blanched as they imagined the pain of such a gross wound.

‘I apologise, Cadoc ap Cadwy. I was arrogant and discourteous to ask you to expose your old scars for the amusement of a foolish, thoughtless man. I beg your pardon,’ Ambrosius said, and no one present doubted that the High King regretted his impulsive demand, for few men could have obeyed and still retained a shred of dignity.

Cadoc dressed slowly and deliberately with a calm, expressionless face. Once the worst of his deformities were covered, he looked up into the High King’s face and spoke man to man.

‘I accept the spirit of your apology, lord king. I know that few people understand the scarring that can be caused by exposure to fire, so I know that you intended no slight towards me. In truth, I remember very little of pain at that time, for my master kept me very busy and I had little time to dwell on my hurts. In the years that have passed since then, I have reconciled myself to the loss of full movement and am grateful that I lived through it. I have seen the world as my master’s apprentice and learned a new trade, and I now save life rather than take it. I am content with my lot.’

‘You speak like a lordling, Cadoc. How can this be so? Were your kin high born?’

Cadoc laughed aloud and his
cheerful face was transformed. No one who beheld that cheeky expression thought of the scar that twisted his eyebrow and left shiny areas of bright pink across his cheekbone.

‘My da became an innkeeper in Caerleon, my lord, but he was born in the wilds where he sent me to be raised. He was no peasant, it’s true, but he was a common man without letters. Master Myrddion gave me a smattering of Greek so I could read the scrolls, and he showed me how speech, especially when it is shaped courteously, can smooth a man’s path through life. I was a common foot soldier, sire, although I was born with a ready and impertinent tongue. Now I’m a healer – and I am very good at my trade!’

‘Well said, Cadoc. A man can be measured by his actions more than by what he says he can do. What did you think of Rome – as a plain man of the people?’

‘It’s very large and the people live moderately well, my lord, but something is rotten within it. The city is too old and too accustomed to power to realise that times have changed.’

Ambrosius chewed his bottom lip and his fingers danced over the woollen fringe on the hide cushion of his chair.

‘But is it still a beautiful place? I remember its cleanliness and its loveliness.’

‘Ah, but did you live in the subura, my lord? In the back alleys, Rome chokes on its own filth. Venta Belgarum is sweet and clean even in the peasants’ huts, but Rome has too many people to be kept well. She’s old, my lord, and nigh to her death.’