Death of an Empire (40 page)

‘What can you offer me to leave your churches unburned,
priest? Aquileia made a very satisfying bonfire when I burned the temples, the churches, the palaces and the forums to the ground. Why shouldn’t I sit on the Field of Mars and watch your holy places burn?’

Leo paled at the thought of Peter’s city burning once again. He made the sign of the cross over his breast and tried to straighten his shoulders. Myrddion appreciated the weight that Pope Leo carried on his narrow frame. So many innocent children would die if he did not choose the perfect words to appease Attila, and convince this immensely powerful man to set aside his desire for total domination.

‘I cannot stop you, for I’m a man of God. But consider, Lord Attila, ruler of the vast kingdom of the Hun, what became of Alaric after he burned God’s holy city? He was warned to respect the houses of God, but he didn’t listen. How long did he live after his desecration?’

A long, indrawn breath disturbed the stillness after Leo offered his veiled threat. Who reacted? Myrddion was unable to guess, but his own heart seemed to leap into his mouth.

Attila’s dark eyebrows furrowed over his feral eyes, forcing the healer to consider just how dangerous the Hungvari were. Leo had been clever to appeal to Attila’s superstitious nature, but the Dread of the World wasn’t a child who could be frightened by tales of divine retribution.

‘I believe that you can already feel it, my lord.’ Cleoxenes added his mite in a conciliatory voice. ‘I think that you can already sense the shadows snapping at your heels and the shades of the dead calling to you as they mass in the darkness when you close your eyes to sleep. What would you gain by bringing down all the prayers of the faithful against you across the whole Christian world? The weight of so much prayer can suck a mortal soul dry. Surely it would be better that such prayers be offered for your
salvation, rather than your destruction? Especially if you permit God’s city to remain free and unscathed.’

Attila’s face suddenly became red and congested with ill-concealed fury, and his eyes darted from one face to another. ‘This audience is over. Get you gone, scum of Rome. Get out of my sight – especially you, Flavius Aetius, traitor to your blood. Get out! You’ll have my answer by morning.’

Regretfully, Pope Leo and the members of his delegation departed from the tent.

The delegates’ camp was quiet and many rueful glances were exchanged between the patricians, their guards and their servants. Although noon had barely passed, the midday heat was beginning to fade, for autumn was coming and each day was shortening imperceptibly in the golden aftermath of summer. A scent of wood smoke sweetened the early afternoon and Myrddion felt a pang for a land of falling leaves, dim mists and the steady, thudding roll of long waves on the beaches.

‘We failed,’ Cleoxenes whispered. His hand shook as he tried to hold a mug of water.

‘Not yet, my friend.’ Myrddion smiled. ‘We needn’t despair until the Hungvari actually ride against Rome. Attila isn’t a fool, although he has a superstitious nature that Pope Leo cleverly used in his argument. Attila didn’t refuse the request of the delegation, which is encouraging. He didn’t actually make any decision, except that he’d give his answer by dawn. Don’t despair until you are certain of the Hun’s answer.’

‘I can guess what it will be. He’ll choose to ride against us. He’s in a pissing contest with Aetius, who’s done precious little to save the valley of the Padus so far.’

‘At least he hasn’t any influence on Attila’s decision. Or, at least, not that we’re aware of. And you helped Leo significantly, my lord.
You reminded Attila that he’s facing not just the Western Empire, but Constantinople as well. He may have beaten your generals on the field, but Constantinople can amass a huge army if they are given time. Attila’s forces are stretched thin. He can’t face enemies on two fronts, no matter how brilliant a strategist he is.

‘The moment Attila commits himself to crossing the Mons Apenninus, he loses the safe line of retreat that he enjoys in the valleys of the Padus and her tributaries,’ Myrddion continued, becoming quite excited as he described Attila’s predicament. ‘How would he fare if the Visigoths used the Via Iulia, along the western coast from Gaul, to cut him off from a safe back door through the mountains? Just as easily, the troops of Constantinople could use the Via Aemilia to the east.’

‘Myrddion, you are either an incurable optimist or a deluded mind reader, or both. And you seem to understand the road systems in Italia very well.’

‘I mapped the western coast as far as Ostia, as you well know. And I’ve taken an interest in the road systems in the east.’

Cleoxenes smiled.

‘I’m not a mind reader, Cleoxenes. Nor, I hope, am I a fool. I could accept being an optimist. But don’t despair until Attila decides to move – one way or the other.’

‘By the by, Flavius Aetius could barely disguise his dislike for you,’ Cleoxenes said quietly. ‘You’re more at risk from the general than you are from any number of Hun invaders.’

‘It all goes back to Châlons and that damned prophecy I made. He’s used it ever since as an excuse to hate me. Aetius is up to something.’

‘I remember it well,’ Cleoxenes murmured, sipping on his cup of tepid water. ‘That day was the first time I ever saw you. I thought Aetius would choke when you told him that he was just another Roman caught up in the river of time. And you spoke about hubris,
and how Aetius would succumb to it. Let me see . . .
you will seek to bolster your family power beyond common sense or personal safety
. . . Then you went on to speak of his death and how it marked the end of the Roman Empire. Something about Aetius putting the assassins’ knives into their hands himself, and you rambled on about the Scythian Plains in his blood and the taint of envy. I think that was all.’

‘Yes, Castor told me much the same, I remember. I wonder what I meant? About his family, I mean. I’m sure the key to the general’s behaviour lies in his family dynamics. That’s what he wants to keep secret, Cleoxenes, don’t you see? But I don’t know . . . I just get a headache when I try to work it all out. And he’s not over fond of you either. The one time I really looked at him, he was glaring at you as if you were a chaos-demon.’

‘That would fit, given the site of our meeting with Attila. You probably aren’t aware how Mantua got its name, are you? Mantus was one of the Etruscan gods from Hades, so the name came into being and stuck, even after the Romans defeated the old kings. Not a very propitious name, is it? I wonder if Aetius believes in Hades?’

Myrddion nodded absently, his mind now puzzling away at the problem of Cleoxenes’s fall at the inn on the Via Clodia. ‘Can I ask you about the day the staircase gave way under you?’ he asked.

‘I don’t understand. What has my accident to do with Aetius and your prophecy?’

‘Please indulge me, Cleoxenes. Who brought you the message to meet at the inn?’ Cleoxenes raised one eyebrow interrogatively. ‘I only ask because you were a witness to my ravings at Châlons,’ Myrddion tried to explain. ‘Merovech, Theodoric and several of the barbarian kings . . . they’re all dead! Sangiban might be alive, but he’s thousands of miles away. You’re here! You’re the only
person of note who even remembers the words of that day – besides Aetius, of course.’

‘There were soldiers present,’ Cleoxenes protested.

‘Yes, and servants too – but what do they count? I ask you again, who brought the message for you to meet the courier at the inn?’

‘My apologies, Myrddion, but I received the message in writing. All I know is that the name of the courier was something like Willem.’

‘That’s a very odd name. I don’t suppose you asked for a description from the innkeeper?’

Cleoxenes lifted the cushion that was supporting his bandaged arm and put it under his head. His deceptively lazy eyes were suddenly sharp.

‘No, not then. I was a little busy at the time, bleeding all over the bottom of the staircase. But I asked the innkeeper later and he described a middle-aged, grey-haired man with dark eyes and a heavy build. He had an odd accent and wore his hair rather like yours, so I put the strange name down to peculiar writing. The man spoke Latin well enough, according to the innkeeper, who didn’t seem to like him much.’

‘And he wrote in Latin?’

Cleoxenes nodded.

‘So we have an outlander named Willem who speaks and writes Latin, a rare skill among all citizens.’ Myrddion’s mind was racing. Could the messenger have been the same Gwylym who now workes for Flavius Aetius? And why would he want to kill the envoy?

‘What’s amiss, Myrddion? You’re as pale as a sheet.’

Myrddion explained his suspicions. He spoke hesitantly, because he couldn’t see any profit to Flavius Aetius in Cleoxenes’s murder. However, how many Celts were likely to be found in Rome – especially Celts who spoke Latin?

‘The sound of Gwylym is near enough to that of Willem. And there’s little chance the name would be remembered, especially if you were dead or incapacitated. The Gwylym I know is a mercenary, and he’s obviously found a natural master in Flavius Aetius.’

‘You might be correct, friend Myrddion. But if this Gwylym was involved, and he took the trouble to damage the stairs, I don’t believe it was done out of a desire to see me dead – merely incapacitated. Perhaps Flavius Aetius didn’t want me as part of the delegation for some reason that’s not apparent to me.’

‘But you did come to Mantua – and the general certainly wasn’t pleased by your presence! He must be up to something that he doesn’t want Constantinople to know about. Anyway, I’m sick of thinking about it. All the same, I think I’ll take a stroll around the bivouac before the evening meal to see what’s happening.’

Cleoxenes looked grave. Myrddion planned to meddle in business that didn’t concern him and the thought gave the envoy a twinge of anxiety. A part of his mind worried that Attila might act precipitately if Myrddion was caught spying on his campsite. But the envoy dismissed such fears as baseless and, worse still, disloyal. His friend had never acted rashly, nor would he willingly endanger the work of the delegation.

‘Take care, Myrddion. These nobles will stop at nothing to achieve their ambitions, as you must have seen for yourself. Try not to be seen if you’re going to stick your nose into Aetius’s business. Your hair is too memorable, even among the Hungvari, and I won’t be able to save you if you’re caught spying.’

Myrddion spent several hours wandering through the delegates’ campsite while he tried to memorise the layout of the tents of the various notables. Flavius Aetius had raised his campaign tent some distance from the more gaudy creations of Trigetius and Avienus, whose living quarters were colourful with bunting, so that they were indistinguishable from each other.

As he peeled a crisp apple with Captus’s knife, the healer spied a distant figure that could have been the mysterious Gwylym or another of the barbarians that Aetius kept around his person. Humming under his breath, Myrddion established that a thin line of forest ran parallel to the track between the campsite and the river, and appeared to span the whole distance that separated the delegation from the Hun bivouac on the far side of a low hill. He was soon satisfied that he had found a direct route that gave him a clear view of Aetius’s tent while still providing cover from the Hun encampment, so he sauntered back to the tent of Cleoxenes to disguise his dress and his appearance.

After changing into the rusty black clothes that had provided a certain degree of anonymity on the road, Myrddion began his small effort at espionage. With regret, he left his cherished knife in his pack, after deciding that it was too showy not to be noticed and could give him away.

As day turned into dusk and the evening breeze became cooler, Myrddion ambled through the camp and strolled into a stand of poplar and ash trees that grew beside the narrow stream that fed into the Padus river. He gave his name willingly whenever he was challenged by sentries, but failed to volunteer his relationship with Cleoxenes. His hair was bound around his head and covered with a crudely knitted cap, and he acted as if the sentries should know who he was. The guards forgot him as soon as he passed. Without his distinctive clothing and remarkable hair, Myrddion was just one more servant.

Once he had reached the trees, which had only just begun to shed their leaves in red and gold drifts, he slid behind a trunk and sought out a clear view of Aetius’s campsite. The general’s campaign tent was easy to spot, for it lacked the size and opulence of its fellows, being the workmanlike leather structure that Myrddion had last seen on the Catalaunian Plain. It was scarred, repaired in
several places, and easily taken apart, a necessity in times of war. As well, several large barbarian guards stood at its entrance, carefully scanning the faces of the patricians and servants who moved around the camp by the light of flares.

Myrddion settled down under a cover of fallen leaves to wait for Aetius to act. The healer was at a loss to explain the reasons why he expected the general to leave the comfort of his tent, but instinct whispered to the Celt that Aetius was embroiled in some secret and hazardous plot. The general might attempt to regain the initiative in the parley with Attila by approaching the Hun directly, thus gaining any glory that could be dredged out of a private meeting.

Would Aetius use his Hun background to effect Attila’s capitulation? Did the general want Attila to attack Rome so that Aetius could defeat him and become the saviour of the Western Empire? No, such ideas were nonsense. What did Cleoxenes know, yet not know?

Questions, questions . . . and no answers.

As the darkness deepened and the air became cooler, Myrddion spent the time considering Aetius’s complex games. The healer had learned more of the general since he had served at Châlons, and now he knew that Aetius had been raised with the Hun and had a history with them. He had also discovered that the man was emperor in all but name, and the general would not have been human if he hadn’t longed to enjoy the fruits of decades of warfare.

Myrddion’s reverie was broken by a loud salute and a quiet voice speaking in response. Flavius Aetius was leaving his tent. Having instructed his guard to stay in place, the general strode off into the shadows.