Death of an Empire (16 page)

‘Lord Theodoric,’ Myrddion began, unsure of how to address such an important king. ‘May you continue in robust health and rule your subjects well, free from the scourge of Attila and his tribe.’

‘Whatever you are, you’re the master of a pretty sentence and a well-crafted compliment, healer. Perhaps that explains why one so young is able to rule a field hospital. You may show me through your tents, so I can judge your skills for myself.’

Myrddion groaned inwardly and Merovech stifled a grumble of impatience. No matter how tiresome such tours might be, both men knew that Aetius’s major ally would have his way, for he was flanked by a small contingent of the feared Visigoth Guard, soldiers who protected their master zealously. They had killed traitors aplenty over the years, for the king controlled a vast land that stretched from Gaul to Hispania, an expanse that had often seduced pretenders into chancing their luck at assassination. Aetius would support Theodoric of Hispania in almost any endeavour; so important was the Visigoth lord to the alliance. Neither Merovech nor any of the barbarian kings would dare to speak against Theodoric or insult him in any way.

‘You have but to ask, my lord, and I will be happy to obey. My apprentices, my servants and my guard will be caring for the bodily needs of our patients as we speak, and I would normally be dressing wounds and assessing the status of each man in our care.’

‘We’ll not keep you from your duties for long,’ Theodoric replied in a soft voice. ‘You labour hard if the shadows around your eyes are any indication of your zeal. How late did you work over that table?’ He pointed at the bloodstained folding bench that
had been constructed to spare Myrddion’s spine. The wood had been soaked in gore so often that no amount of careful scrubbing by Bridie or Brangaine could cleanse the wood of its pungent tint, as obvious as an open wound.

‘The moon was down when the last patient was put to bed, my lord.’

‘He survived your ministrations then. Rare! Very rare! I have seen the work of your ilk more often than I care to remember. Only one healer ever gave me any real confidence, a Jew called Isaac who currently serves Valentinian in Rome. You may use my name should you ever meet him. Isaac saves as many as he kills, although he shuns the acclaim of the world.’

Myrddion felt a tingle in the back of his mind and filed the name away into his capacious memory. ‘My thanks for the recommendation, Lord Theodoric. I’m on my way to the Middle Sea in a search for knowledge from healers such as your Isaac.’

‘How many servants do you have at your disposal?’

‘I have two apprentices who assist with surgery as well as treating minor wounds. Three widows travel with us to care for our patients once they start to recover. All five are loyal and able, but we are stretched to breaking point, my lord. Should future, larger battles require our services, many warriors will die because we are too few to save the flood of wounded.’

Theodoric’s eyes narrowed to gimlet points and even the good-natured Merovech snorted his displeasure. Servants were not encouraged to charge their masters with accusations of callousness, especially towards the plight of casualties on the battlefield. Like the boy who still lurked under the young man he had become, Myrddion found himself gulping at his temerity.

Theodoric scanned the tents and visibly counted the century or so of men who lay or sat around in various stages of recuperation. He stared at his muddy boots for a moment and then offered his
hand to the disconcerted healer. ‘My hand on it, Myrddion of Segontium! I will send my personal physician, Vechmar, to your tents to assist you, along with his servants and women. Like you, he chooses to use widows and camp followers for basic labour. I trust that King Merovech will also supply what resources lie within his powers.’ A quick glance under lowered, crêpey eyelids elicited an immediate agreement from the Salian king. ‘Now that your immediate needs are supplied, you may show me how you save as many as you kill.’

For the life of him, Myrddion couldn’t tell if the Hispanic king was joking or not. With mixed feelings, he ushered the kings and their suspicious bodyguards deeper into the larger tent. The apprentices had already drawn up the leather sides to allow the free circulation of air and light, so those warriors who were conscious saw the nature and quality of their visitors at a glance. Men bowed or abased themselves, where possible, and the air was suddenly dense with the low, baritone hum of murmuring male voices.

Cadoc came towards them bearing a large basket of dry wrappings; it seemed that Bridie hadn’t slept until every used rag in the field hospital had been boiled and hung to dry over any available shrub. Quick to respond, Cadoc discarded his burden and dropped to his knees to pay homage to the regal visitors.

‘Rise, good man, and continue with your duties,’ Theodoric ordered rather stiffly. Myrddion wondered if he was embarrassed at displays of bowing and grovelling. ‘Is this lad one of your apprentices?’ the Visigoth asked in a voice that seemed thready now that he was out of the sunlight, as if some vital bodily element leached out of him in the dimness of the tent.

‘Aye, lord, Cadoc ap Cadwy has been my loyal assistant for two years. We met at the encampment of King Vortigern, High King of the Britons, after a vicious battle with the king’s son. As you can
see, burn scars caused the tendons in his shoulder to contract and restricted his arm movements. His injuries put an end to his usefulness as a warrior, but he has become my strong right hand. He makes great progress and will soon become a healer himself.’

‘The lands of the Britons seem much like mine – sons rise against fathers and the kinship of blood matters little when a throne is at stake,’ Theodoric murmured in a voice so soft that Myrddion had to strain to hear the words. The king’s voice was bleak, but his cynical eyes carried a sheen of something that was vulnerable and sad. Is a kingdom worth this pain and loss of trust? Theodoric obviously has faith in no one, the healer thought suddenly, and he drinks to excess to keep his demons at bay in the long watches of the night. Is anything worth such a half-life?

‘Do your scars pain you, Cadoc ap Cadwy?’ Theodoric asked, switching his attention disconcertingly from master to apprentice. ‘They appear painful to me, but I know nothing of healing. May I inspect them?’

Cadoc allowed Theodoric to run a hesitant palm over the raised cicatrices that covered the apprentice’s neck and shoulder. Though the king recoiled from the ragged, hairless skin, he asked Cadoc to move his arm so that he could see for himself the full extent of the apprentice’s incapacitation. Then, in a very human gesture, he pulled Cadoc’s sleeve gently over the old scars.

‘Do you regret the loss of your warrior trade, Cadoc ap Cadwy?’

Cadoc’s eyes never left King Theodoric’s pale face, although a brief flicker of embarrassment slid across his eyes.

‘I once took bodies apart for my bread, lord king. But I am now learning how to put them back together. Which trade is the fairest labour for a man, my lord? I am proud to serve a master who is the most skilled healer in all of Britain.’

Theodoric acknowledged Cadoc’s pride, but the cynical veil clouded his eyes once more and Myrddion marvelled that a man
of such power had decided that feelings of sympathy were signs of weakness.

For an hour, Theodoric talked to those patients who were conscious and asked pertinent and intelligent questions about poultices, painkilling and Myrddion’s obsession with cleanliness. The healer gave detailed, considered answers to each query, earning Merovech’s gratitude for his courtesy and the care he took to fully explain his trade.

‘What are these evil humours that you describe so vaguely, healer? Surely something that cannot be seen lacks the power to harm a healthy man?’

Myrddion treated Theodoric’s question seriously and replied as carefully as he could, although he scarcely knew the answer himself.

‘I wish I knew, my lord. If I did, I would be the greatest healer in this world, and I would have discovered the means to defeat death itself. But as my craft now stands, we know that something causes plague, lung disease, gangrene and brain sickness, and that these curses are invariably fatal, but we cannot see with the naked eye what causes these ailments. We use the words evil humours, but we are too ignorant to know if that description is accurate. But I do know, in the case of open wounds, that cleanliness increases the patient’s chances of survival, even if I don’t know why.’

Theodoric nodded reflectively. ‘Aye, I understand. Sometimes it’s enough to know that a strategy works, even if we’re ignorant of the reasons for its success. The ancients built bridges that span great rivers in magical feats of engineering. Today, the builders’ skills are forgotten, but we still use their roads and bridges freely. And speaking of roads, healer, your services will soon be needed in other places and the time fast approaches when you must leave. I will ensure that your patients are cared for within Aurelianum, and you may expect my servants to begin moving them within the
hour. You will plead that you are needed here, but the battle that is coming will dwarf anything that you have experienced in the past. Yes, some of these men will die because you have left them, but countless others will perish without your skills after we have come to grips with Attila on the Catalaunian Plain. I am sorry to give you no choice in this matter, but kings cannot rule with their hearts – only their heads and their muscle. We leave at noon, so you must pack and prepare to join our baggage train.’

‘But I need more supplies, more bandages, more everything, if I am to be effective.’

‘Send Cadoc to my guard with your list and they will strip Aurelianum to supply your needs. My physician and his assistants will attend upon you shortly. One other matter comes to mind, and I trust that you will not take offence at my words. I believe you need a nomen to engender trust in those with whom you serve. The lack of a father in your name doesn’t shame you in my eyes, but I am not the world. Your birthplace serves to display your heritage, but I would prefer that you select a name that gives you more dignitas. You are the healer for the Western Allies, and your name should reflect your status among our warriors.’

Then Theodoric turned away and re-joined Merovech. Wrong-footed and baffled, Myrddion was left with nothing to say.

The journey back to Châlons was long and tedious, and the wagons groaned under the weight of herbs, bandages, unguents and potions that Aurelianum had donated gladly to the kings. Myrddion preferred to make his own supplies, but time was now a scarce resource, so he knew he must make do with whatever was on hand. Already, fresh bunches of leafy simples hung from the wooden supports of the wagon’s leather cover, swinging and drying with every jolt of the huge wooden wheels.

Three other wagons had joined the same cavalcade. Vechmar
and his servants had arrived at the camp as Myrddion was preparing to depart, and the Celt met Theodoric’s personal physician with open curiosity.

Vechmar was a lean, dark man whose race would have been almost impossible to guess from his saturnine face. The new arrival spoke very little, but even a cursory glance at his fastidiously clean hands allayed Myrddion’s concern. But Vechmar was careful to explain that their alliance was only temporary, for he was devoted to Theodoric and intended to serve the king’s house for life.

‘I understand, Vechmar. While I serve no master willingly, I applaud devotion such as yours. Together we will save many lives.’

Vechmar’s lips twisted with open contempt, leaving Myrddion to wonder what he had done or said to offend him.

‘I will obey my master, but I tell you honestly that I am embarrassed to labour with a beardless youth. However, I have seen your handiwork, so I hope we can rub together for the coming battle. After that our paths need never cross again. I am speaking bluntly because you deserve to know the measure of my skills and feelings, for I am shamed that my king puts inordinate trust in a foreigner who has no standing in these lands. I will treat those men who come to me in my own way and you are free to do the same.’

Myrddion chewed over this crude appraisal and decided that he was not obliged to like the Spanish healer, merely to work with him. ‘That’s fair enough. Extra hands are vital and one field hospital will work much better than two.’

As the road unwound before them, Myrddion’s thoughts returned to Theodoric’s suggestion of a name. Vechmar’s opinion of him had stung his sensitivities and he accepted that Theodoric understood the ways of fallible men far more clearly than he did. So, as the wooden wheels of the wagons provided a soporific background to his deliberations, he created and discarded name
after name as being either foolish or pretentious. Finally, because he acknowledged that his true life had begun when King Vortigern had tried to sacrifice him at Dinas Emrys under the white brows of Cymru’s mountains, he decided on a name that would last for the rest of his life, or until he chose another.

‘I’ve decided, Cadoc, that I will accept the advice of King Theodoric and adopt a more imposing name than I have previously used. I have decided to assume the nomen of Myrddion Emrys of Segontium. At the age of ten years, while King Vortigern’s prisoner, I learned what kind of man I would become at that cursed place, so it is probably fitting that it should remain with me always.’

Cadoc shuddered, because he remembered that windswept fortress, dark with rain and dried blood, too well to ever forget it. But if his master chose to call himself a godling or even a fool, Cadoc would accept his decision.

As the weary journey drew towards its completion, the wagons joined the baggage train of an immense army that had been swelled with Aetius’s legions, Alan cavalry and the untried Sarmatian warriors. Rumour among the tribes suggested that Aetius had no trust in their king, Sangiban, who had earned a reputation for changing sides whenever there was profit in doing so. In this army, all sensible men were wary around the Sarmatian warriors.

The sight of Roman soldiers fascinated Myrddion whenever he saw them during their forced march to their marshalling point north of Châlons. Too young to have memories of the legions in Britain, he had tried to imagine the appearance of these fearsome and almost invincible warriors, and he found the reality very unsatisfying.