Death of an Empire (39 page)

‘I am a diplomat, Consul Avienus, and am trained for just such negotiations. I am probably more experienced than you are.’ Cleoxenes’s face was flushed with annoyance, and Myrddion placed a cautionary hand on the envoy’s shoulder.

‘May I offer you wine, my lords? Or water, if you prefer? We were about to eat a simple repast, so my lord Cleoxenes would be honoured if you would dine with him.’ Myrddion spoke soothingly, with just the right balance of courtesy and subordination.

‘Who is this person, Cleoxenes? He appears to be even more barbaric than Attila with all that hair,’ Trigetius drawled, ignoring Myrddion’s invitation. ‘His Latin is very good for an oaf from Gaul.’

Cleoxenes presented Myrddion to the three dignitaries, but Pope Leo was the only one who acknowledged the introduction.

‘He cannot be trusted, whoever he is,’ Avienus sneered. ‘How do we know he’s not in league with Attila?’

‘This young man was the chief surgeon at the Battle of the Catalaunian Plain. He served our cause with great distinction, so
you speak nonsense if you try to blacken his name simply because he wears his hair long, as is the custom in his lands.’ Leo examined Myrddion closely. ‘Your Latin is very pure, Myrddion Emrys, so I presume you have read the classics.’

‘Some, my lord. But my study has been largely confined to tracts concerned with healing and herb lore. I also read Greek.’

The three delegates raised their eyebrows, for not one of these notables had so high an educational pedigree as this outlander from the Western Isles. Out of embarrassment, annoyance and, on Leo’s part, an earnest desire to spare Cleoxenes’s feelings, the conversation was dropped. Myrddion excused himself and left the tent to instruct the menservants to present the best cold meal available to their guests, including the sweet wines that the Romans craved. The healer in him was thankful to see that his patient continued to drink water.

Outside, on a makeshift bed under the carriage, he watched the shadows of the Romans through the tent flap as they gesticulated and argued in raised voices. Even while the servants were offering them cold delicacies, the consul and the prefect continued to browbeat the envoy as they tried to convince him to stay out of the negotiations with Attila. Quietly and with little inflection, Cleoxenes refused to accede to the Romans’ wishes, and his clear, light voice remained adamant through the simple meal.

At last, Cleoxenes made his final declaration. Should the Eastern Empire not be represented in the delegation, Constantinople would refuse to recognise any agreements reached during the conference. Further, Cleoxenes assured the delegates that Attila’s expressed position was that he wanted to make a binding agreement with all the parties involved. His ultimatum had teeth, for Rome depended on grain from the Eastern Empire and soldiers to bolster their armies.

Eventually, after eating and drinking Cleoxenes’s bounty, the
delegates bade the envoy good night. Dissatisfied with the outcome, they strode off in the direction of their luxurious tents.

Sleep eluded Myrddion, regardless of his exhaustion. Under his irritation, a surge of excitement kept his mind chasing ideas long after the fires were banked and the lamps extinguished. Tomorrow, he would see Attila with his own eyes and the fate of Rome would be decided by the diplomatic skills of four clever men and the mailed fist of another. And he, Myrddion Emrys from a small Celtic settlement in the north of nowhere, would be present at this historic meeting. Eventually, lulled by the snores of Cleoxenes’s servants, Myrddion surrendered to the sweet anodyne of sleep.

Above him, the stars burned and wheeled in constellations named after the gods and goddesses of antiquity. Cassiopeia, the archer and the long river of light from the girdle of Orion glowed above the camp while the gods laughed and moved their human chess pieces into new patterns for their own vast and unfathomable amusement. The darkness was warm and enveloping, and Myrddion caught the elusive scent of his grandmother’s hair as he surrendered his consciousness to the valley of dreams.

CHAPTER XIV

ATTILA’S BANE

Gorgeous litters, liberally decorated with rare woods, gold, silver and ivory, and draped with gauzy curtains that were drawn to hide their occupants, bore the delegates to Attila’s designated meeting place. Sturdy, half-naked body servants carried them while scribes, bodyguards, senior officers and advisers paced solemnly beside the litters. A small troop of soldiers assembled to provide protection for the delegation was able to report that the Dread of the World had come to the parley with a token force of five hundred men. All the participants, no matter how lowly, were dressed in their finest clothes and largest jewels. Although Myrddion had been unable to wash his whole body, he had scrubbed his hands, feet and face until he glowed with health and cleanliness. Dressed in his new clothes, which had been brushed clean of any dust, Myrddion did credit to Cleoxenes with his elegance of form and the gravitas of his manner.

Attila awaited the delegation at the entrance of a large leather tent that was painted in bright colours with depictions of his victories. Flanked by his guard, who were dressed in furs, polished armour and naked swords, he presented a barbaric but exotic magnificence.

The Dread of the World was a middle-aged man whose face was
ugly by Roman standards yet radiated power and confidence. From his powerful, hooked nose and the dark, arched brows that led the eye upwards to the tall crown that rested on his head, the thickset king seemed to embody everything that Italia and its people considered uncivilised. His cheekbones were very high and slanted so that the dark eyes in their deep sockets were almost eclipsed by the breadth of forehead shining above them in the natural light. His greying hair curled and was cut long enough to protect the neck, but not so long that it could be a danger in battle.

By Roman standards, Attila was not very clean, and Myrddion saw dark crescents of ingrained dirt under his nails. However, to be fair, Vortigern had been none too scrupulous about bathing either, so the healer couldn’t hold the Hun to Roman standards. Attila’s body bore the physical signs of a lifetime spent in the saddle, for his legs were bowed and short while his arms were unusually long and heavily muscled. His robes and armour were gaudy but practical, and he rejected jewellery in favour of his heavy crown of purest gold, a clear statement that he was the only royal person present. With his chin lifted to stare slightly upward at the swaying litters, Attila was magnificent, deadly and terrifying.

Myrddion blinked abruptly as the litters were lowered to the ground and the body servants stepped back to assist their masters to rise to greet their host. Behind Attila, Myrddion swore he caught a glimpse of a dark shadow curling around the Hun’s legs and trunk. Like smoke or mist, the shadow had no substance, and Myrddion knew that his eyes saw what was invisible to the rest of the delegation. Attila was dying, even though his body seemed hale and vigorous.

As he gave his arm in support to Cleoxenes, Myrddion told the envoy what he had seen. Cleoxenes stared at the healer from under
his narrow, expressive brows and nodded to indicate that he understood. The envoy’s expression was inscrutible.

‘Remain with me, Myrddion. I’ll use my illness as an excuse to keep you beside me. I want you to tell me at once if any other images or ideas come to you, no matter how outlandish they might seem.’

‘Of course, my lord. You understand that I can’t interpret what I see, so I cannot guarantee that I am predicting future truths?’

‘Yes, I understand. But you’re my edge in this dangerous game, and I’ll play you as my chief piece on the board. Forgive me for using you, my friend.’

Myrddion could only nod.

Flavius Aetius was already waiting opposite Attila. He had forsaken his guard, his weapons and his armour to don a simple Roman toga, tunic and sandals. The remnants of the general’s great army of the Catalaunian Plain was in bivouac outside Aquileia, while roving bands of cavalry harassed the Hun from Hostilia to Bononia. Aetius was aware that his role was purely as an observer, but, as always, he carried himself as if he were the true power in the delegation. Even the narrow strip of purple on his toga, which, strictly speaking, he wasn’t entitled to wear, demonstrated Aetius’s wholehearted belief that he was emperor of the West in all but name.

For reasons known only to himself, the Hun king chose to ignore the presence of Flavius Aetius. Perhaps he thought that the general was the real threat? Perhaps his rage was still hot after his defeat on the Catalaunian Plain? Unfortunately, Myrddion knew that speculation was pointless. Offering a supporting arm to Cleoxenes, he assisted the envoy into Attila’s tent, helped him to sit with a comfortable cushion under his arm, and then, his duty finished, stepped back to stand behind his patient as just another anonymous servant.

The meeting began without preamble or the offer of refreshments. Attila took the predictable stance of presuming that the Roman emissaries had come to beg for clemency and, as such, were the petitioners. Pope Leo remained standing and opened the negotiations by attempting to persuade Attila to return to Buda of his own accord. Leo explained that even if Attila defeated the Empire and burned Rome to the ground, he would never wed Valentinian’s sister Honoria. At the first sign of danger to the Western Empire, Valentinian would pack her off to Constantinople where she would be held incommunicado for the rest of her life. She would never be permitted to imperil either throne by marriage to the Hungvari king.

‘I don’t need Valentinian’s sister to defeat Rome,’ Attila countered harshly. ‘Or to take your holy city and rule it in my name.’

The room was stuffy with a press of nervous, sweating bodies and tense with unspoken motives and desires. Myrddion felt a sharp pain in his temple, where his mother had struck him with a rock in his youth. Attila’s mouth moved but his words were elongated, so that the healer could scarcely understand the sense of his reply. And Flavius Aetius shot a glance over one shoulder and impaled Myrddion with his malicious monkey’s eyes.

Myrddion knew, then, that Aetius was playing for a prize larger than any Attila contemplated. The general planned to rule the Seven Hills of Rome.

Moving forward and avoiding Aetius’s basilisk stare, Myrddion whispered in Cleoxenes’s ear. ‘Beware of Aetius. Everything that is said today is grist for his mill. He is gambling for a throne.’

‘But he hasn’t said anything,’ Cleoxenes hissed.

‘Pope Leo was the victor in the first verbal exchange. And Aetius is here only as an observer – it would draw attention if he were seen to engage Attila in debate . . . and win.’

Cleoxenes nodded and Myrddion straightened his arm on the pillow to justify his movement.

‘But the difficult task for you would be to hold Rome permanently,’ Pope Leo went on. ‘Perhaps you could ask Alaric of the Visigoths for advice, if you could find his shade over the River Styx. For all his vast hordes, Alaric couldn’t hold on to Rome when he took the holy city fifty years ago. The magnitude of the task eventually killed him.’

Pope Leo paused. Myrddion watched as a servant gave him a flask to drink from, and noted how Leo’s fingers trembled. Attila saw the sign of weakness immediately.

‘Eventually, our allies, including the barbarians of Gaul and Spain, will come to our rescue,’ Trigetius interrupted in his aggressive manner. ‘The Franks, the Visigoths and the Burgundians will not sit back while Rome languishes in your hands.’

Attila’s head rose, exactly like the movement of a snake before it strikes. Aetius parted his feet and rocked on his heels. His narrow lips smiled, but at nothing in particular.

‘But I can cripple the Empire forever if I hold Rome for even a month, least of all a year or more,’ Attila countered with a chilly smile in the general’s direction. ‘For instance, I can remove the paterfamilies of the great patrician families, exactly like removing the heads of the hydra. I know how to destroy a civilisation, for I’ve done it before.’

‘You wouldn’t dare!’ Avienus snarled unwisely, his face mottled with choler.

Attila was on the verge of making a snap decision, based solely on the unhelpful arrogance of the prefect and the consul, when Cleoxenes inserted himself smoothly into the conversation. Myrddion heaved a sigh of relief, for Leo still had a chance to be the hero of the hour.

‘Of course, your majesty, any man with even a modicum of sense
knows that you hold the whip hand at this moment.’ Cleoxenes managed to keep his tone complimentary, with only a trace of ingratiation entering his voice. ‘Your army is well trained, efficiently led and amply supplied. But my master in the Eastern Empire will not allow you to occupy the Capitoline for too long. You understand the politics of Constantinople as well as I do, and you know that we would find a hostile ruler in Rome totally unacceptable. My master wants to live in peace and friendship with the Hun Empire, but he has instructed me that such a peace and the promise of friendship must rely on mutual respect and equality of purpose. We ask that you show magnanimity to an empire that has benefited the world, even though we all know you have the power to destroy it, if you choose. We do not want your name to go down in history as a despoiler and a brute.’

Clever Cleoxenes, Myrddion thought. Attila is being forced to consider his place in history, now that he knows he is a ruler past his prime.

Attila pulled a sour face that indicated a certain element of agreement with Cleoxenes’s words. The Hun stared around the tent at the faces of the delegates to gauge their reactions before shooting a look of active dislike and triumph in the direction of Flavius Aetius, who had taken no part in the proceedings thus far, except for several withering looks cast in the direction of Myrddion Emrys and a dour glance under his eyebrows at the interference of Cleoxenes.

Pope Leo smiled conspiratorially at Cleoxenes as if to thank the envoy for his diversion. Unfortunately, Attila saw the Pope’s glance, and his face suddenly darkened with anger.

So easily are empires lost, Myrddion thought, for a glance out of place could give Attila an opportunity to deny the legitimacy of the delegation. Pray that Leo says nothing else to annoy him.