Web of Deceit (12 page)

‘Never!’ Uther snapped from his brother’s side. ‘Rome will endure, even when we are all dust. I don’t believe her might can ever be extinguished.’

Diplomatically, and without answering except to nod ambiguously, Cadoc stepped back behind his master and Myrddion smoothly filled the awkward little silence.

‘And this man is my
servant, Praxiteles, who elected to follow me back to the west when I left Constantinople. Lest it be thought that he is below the society of cultured men, I should explain that Praxiteles was a wealthy trader and shipowner until chance stripped him of his fortune. He speaks many languages and is literate. I depend on him to care for my possessions and my people, and I would happily trust him with my life.’

‘High praise, Praxiteles of Constantinople,’ Ambrosius said softly. ‘I notice that you use no gens to indicate your family line. Do your ancestors matter so little that you deny them?’

Praxiteles could have been insulted by the High King’s tone and question. If so, he masked his feelings.

‘I am of the house of Scipio, your highness. When my great-grandfather came to Constantinople, he married the daughter of a Greek shipping family from Ephesus, so Greek and Roman blood runs together through my veins. But when I lost my fortune and my wife died, I put aside the past, believing that my God had a purpose for my suffering. When I met my new master, I knew that God intended me to serve this man and a dutiful servant has no use for ancestry or pride. My daughters were grown, settled and safe. My grandsons stand high in their own lands, so I am free to see a wider world and learn the lessons that God has planned for me.’

Uther sniffed with contempt, for servants had no place in his world except to clean his boots, see to his every bodily comfort and keep their mouths shut. By contrast, the king had a keen empathy that resulted in an understanding of the humblest of those who served him. As Ambrosius spoke to Praxiteles without a trace of pretension or arrogance, Myrddion compared the two brothers. Uther was lacking in some essential element, which made him more beast than man, but Ambrosius seemed, on first acquaintance, to be a ruler whom Myrdion could respect, and perhaps even come to love.

I must remember that these two
powerful men are brothers, Myrddion thought. Part of Uther must dwell in Ambrosius and vice versa, he decided, as Praxiteles backed away from the High King to stand behind Myrddion’s left shoulder.

‘Much as I disapprove of owning anyone, Uther, I find that I am taken with my birthday gift from you. I thank you, brother, for I’ve a feeling that we will both profit from the services of this man and his friends.’ The king turned back to Myrddion. ‘You have housing? Good. Then you may hire servants at my expense, Myrddion Merlinus, and set up your practice. My only demand at this stage is that you will call on me every day at sunset. In the event of a war, you will provide the core of my healers, and I expect you to train a group of young men who will serve my interests thus, again at my expense. Is such a bargain acceptable to you, Myrddion of Segontium?’

With his mind exploring how easy life would become with new apprentices and servants provided by the king, and the coin earned in serving the sick of Venta Belgarum, Myrddion realised that Ambrosius’s proposal was more than fair. It was lavish!

‘How could I refuse such generosity, my lord? I am your man for life, and I am prepared to swear my allegiance to you, if you should so wish?’

‘No, Myrddion. A handshake between us is sufficient for men such as you and I.’

Ambrosius rose to his feet and offered his naked right hand to the Celtic healer. Uther seemed alarmed at his brother’s carelessness and Botha’s hand dived to his sword hilt, but Ambrosius brushed their concerns aside and gripped Myrddion’s arm at the wrist.

And so they stood, hands clasped, and Myrddion realised that he had aligned himself to this man for the rest of his life.

The audience was over.

Several hours had passed
and the three companions had returned to their house. The women had worked hard, but the old villa was still hardly habitable, so the party set up beds in the scriptorium for warmth and fell asleep almost immediately. Myrddion had informed Rhedyn and Brangaine that more servants would be arriving at the High King’s expense on the morrow, and everyone would be set to work, including himself. With excited whispers, the women settled down with the children.

Even when he heard Praxiteles’s soft snoring and a faint buzz coming from Cadoc’s open mouth, Myrddion discovered that sleep stubbornly eluded him. Like a rat in a cage, his mind chased itself as he dissected every word of his audience with Ambrosius. The High King was so different from his brother. His hands and feet were never quite still, indicating a highly strung nature and an active mind, but early lessons had taught him to disguise his feelings. That broad Roman face his almost every thought, except for telltale muscles along the jaw and the ridges of his eyebrows. Only a skilled observer would be able to discern Ambrosius’s secret thoughts, but Myrddion had learned to interpret many of the signs of inner conflict present in the minds of unpredictable rulers.

After the audience, Myrddion had sent Praxiteles and Cadoc back to the house while he awaited the promised private meeting with Ambrosius. During this enforced observation of the court, he realised quickly that many in the assembly of notables and tribal leaders were currying favour and jostling for preferment. As he studied Ambrosius’s methods of dealing with requests for land, the disposition of inheritances and border disputes, Myrddion was reminded of the formalities and efficiencies of the Roman courts. Only one scribe laboured to take notes of the various decisions that were made here, so Myrddion hoped that Ambrosius had a retentive memory. The emperor of the east had been an elderly and dithering ruler, but the empress and the clerics who supported him were highly organised. As Ambrosius frowned
over one petition demanding a solution to a particularly difficult question of succession, the young healer was appalled at the raised voices, the shouted insults and the lack of order that seemed normal in this particular hall of justice. Ambrosius’s decisions were crisp and intelligent, and on several occasions he demanded more proof before he arrived at his decision, but the High King was struggling with archaic, traditional systems that were based on the principle that all well-born Celts were free to express their views. Myrddion’s quick glance at Uther confirmed the younger brother’s reservations about the established rituals of the legal process.

Uther would do away with all argument and act independently if he ever became High King, Myrddion decided. And I understand his impatience, although I deplore the very idea of autocratic decision-making. Because he is intrinsically fair, Ambrosius is hard pressed to retain control of his temper. His weakness is his decency and his balance. He avoids arriving at a decision until all the evidence is to hand. It will be the death of him if he doesn’t take care.

After calling the youth with the wine cup to his side on several occasions, Ambrosius came to a decision that pleased few of the petitioners. He rose to his feet, pleaded weariness and sent the whole jostling pack away with a curt instruction to return the following day.

Men who would be kings do not understand the tedious, banal duties of governance, Myrddion thought, as he bowed low and hovered on the fringes of the departing crowd. He was unsure whether he, too, was meant to leave the hall.

‘Not you, Myrddion! We have further matters to discuss.’

Once the room was empty but for Uther, the guard and the sleepy youth with the wine cup, the High King stretched luxuriously and ran his hands through his cropped hair in a habit that was obviously a sign of his impatience.

‘Thanks be to all the gods that those yapping
fools have gone,’ he murmured. ‘Myrddion, come to my private apartments. And as for you, Beric, it’s off to bed for you.’ The High King clapped the boy on his slim back with obvious affection as the youth bowed and relinquished the wine goblet to his master.

‘Uther, can you scare up some food and drink for us? I’m sorry to give you a servant’s task, but I’m too tired to explain what I like to some sleepy house servant – and I don’t want to be disturbed. Ulfin will protect me and taste my food, won’t you?’

Ulfin appeared out of the ranks of the guard, bowed obediently and waited for his master’s instructions.

‘Also, brother, can you discover what those infernal idiots were talking about when they were going on about Reece pen Ryall’s death? I smell secrets in their lying words. Can you ferret them out for me?’

‘If they’re hiding anything, I’ll discover it, Ambrosius. I agree, those two young men are up to something.’

‘Good. Myrddion, Ulfin – come with me.’ Ambrosius turned on his heel and strode off into the shadows at the back of the hall. Almost running, Ulfin and Myrddion had to hurry to keep up.

As they followed the king’s broad-shouldered figure down a number of narrow corridors and onwards to a set of wooden stairs, Myrddion had an opportunity to examine his new master from behind. As the High King lacked his brother’s long legs, Myrddion had considered him less powerful. Now, he saw the breadth of shoulder, the long torso and the powerful arms, so that Ambrosius’s well-muscled legs seemed truncated, given that he had a body meant for a much taller man. The High King’s sandalled feet came down on his heels, so that the leather soles made audible thuds with each step. So did the great ones walk as they demonstrated their superiority with the force of every stride.

His tunic was simple and unadorned, but the wool was so fine and beautifully woven that
his dress bore the unmistakable stamp of quality. A simple coronet of golden laurel leaves was on his head and the ribbons that bound it at the back swayed and bounced with the speed of his movements. At each stride, a small chime rang melodiously, and Myrddion, searching for its source, noticed a bangle of gold about the imperator’s wrist. The jewellery was adorned with small, perfectly formed bells that hung from it at regular intervals. This bangle was almost feminine in appearance and function. It puzzled Myrddion and he made a mental note to ask Ulfin or Botha about it when he had the opportunity. Other than this, Ambrosius wore no other ornaments except for a large gold and chalcedony ring on his thumb.

Eventually, Ambrosius thrust open a wooden door.

‘Come in, Myrddion, and find somewhere comfortable to sit. Ulfin, make yourself useful and find a decent wine for my guest.’

Myrddion stood in the doorway and surveyed the room before him with undisguised curiosity.

The floor was wooden and much stained and discoloured by years of hard usage. A series of rag and wool rugs softened the greasy surface and provided splashes of colour to brighten the rather dour atmosphere. A number of chairs and divans provided comfortable seating and brilliantly dyed cushions were added for the easing of chilled flesh and aching muscles. A low table was lit by a large, intricate oil lamp in the Roman style, and Ulfin used a taper of compressed straw to light several wall sconces that caused the room to leap into sharp focus. A brazier filled with hot coals rested on a thin plate of iron and provided a blanket of warmth that invited Myrddion to enter the room.

A doorless opening on one side revealed a small sleeping chamber furnished with a simple wooden bed with a base of woven leather straps to support the High King’s body in comfort. On a small table beside the bed, a water jug of beaten silver had been placed, accompanied by several
fine pottery bowls filled with nuts and fruit and a large platter ready for food. Altogether, the room promised warmth, luxury and a comfortable beauty that depended on the quality of its furnishings rather than the quantity.

Myrddion was invited to sit on a gleaming hand-rubbed stool that had sturdy back supports. Immediately, the young healer felt at home, as Ambrosius threw himself onto a long divan and crossed his ankles on the low table.

‘Well, Myrddion, what do you think of my hall of justice?’

Fortunately for Myrddion, a servant entered at that moment with a woven rush tray on which stood a number of covered pottery bowls. ‘Ulfin!’ Ambrosius ordered, and the warrior took the pottery covers from each bowl so that Myrddion could see a number of stews, slivers of meat, joints of fowl and vegetables. Then, using a delicate eating knife, Ulfin proceeded to taste a small portion from every dish.

‘If you’re thinking that I don’t trust the food that comes from my own kitchens, Myrddion, you’re quite correct. The Saxons desire my death, but I have enemies in any number of places, including the Pict nations, in Cymru and even among the ambitious kinglets in the south.’

‘I understand, my lord. Poison has been the weapon of choice of usurpers for as long as men have coveted the possessions of others. Vortimer died of poison and his assassin, Queen Rowena, was in turn a victim of this silent killer. Some men whisper that you ordered her death, highness, if you will forgive my bluntness.’

Myrddion waited, his heart almost stilled in his chest with apprehension, as Ambrosius digested his critical words. Then the High King chose to laugh, and handed his guest a horn mug of pale wine.

‘You’re right to speak your mind on this matter. It has long been rumoured that I ordered the Saxon queen to be murdered by stealth. I’m innocent of the charge, but I have no regrets
that the deed was done. Someone close to me paid the Glywising aristocrat to oversee the killing. I could take a guess – but I won’t! I make no apologies for my eagerness to see Vortigern and his woman removed from Cymru but, strangely, no one ever came forward and claimed credit for the deed. I’d have happily paid a reward to her murderer.’

‘I was there when Rowena died, my lord. The serving woman who poisoned the queen’s cosmetics paid fearsomely for her part in the plot. Rowena forgave the girl at the end and I had a feeling that the queen was happy enough to die, if it ensured the safety of her sons. She was ravished and beaten by Vortimer, you know, when he held her as a hostage at Glevum. I saw the bruises, and any fool could gauge that her treatment at her stepson’s hands took a terrible toll on her will to live. She understood blood price, you see, for the northerners believe that each death must be paid for. If so, she paid the price in full.’