Death of an Empire (59 page)

When the pad of soaked wool was removed from the deep puncture in the shoulder, no blood flowed with the release of pressure. Myrddion grunted his satisfaction. Using forceps and clean rags, he cleaned the injury thoroughly before drizzling some of his precious spirit into the wound. Although unconscious, the young man still shrieked as the flesh bubbled and hissed from the raw alcohol.

‘What are you doing?’ Ali el Kabir cried. ‘Are you trying to kill him?’

‘I’m cleansing the wound. Please, don’t touch him. He was attacked with a short, wide blade – thanks to Fortuna.’ Myrddion had inserted a narrow probe into the wound to ascertain its depth and to determine whether any foreign object remained inside. ‘Had the blade been longer a major organ or vein would have been cut, and he’d have had no chance. Nor are there any foreign objects in the breach. You can scrub up now and clean the other wound on his upper arm. It has bled cleanly for the most part, but any infection could kill him while he is in this weakened state.’

Cadoc obeyed smoothly, while Finn mixed up a poultice of crushed radish, garlic and the seaweed that Mistress Phoebe produced like a conjurer, with much puffing and panting from her exertions and haste. Thank the gods she’s out of breath, Myrddion thought, otherwise, I’d not get a word in edgeways.

The seaweed was wide-leaved and was soon cut into ribbons that were plump with moisture. Myrddion later discovered that Mistress Phoebe had collected it from the household cooks, who used it as a vegetable in certain soups. The healer silently thanked the Goddess for her intervention and ordered Finn to pulverise as much as he needed for the poultice and then flatten out the leftover ribbons so that they could be used as a base on which to smear the finished poultice. When all had been carried out to his satisfaction, the whole concoction would be placed over the open wound in Yusuf’s shoulder.

‘You’ll not stitch the puncture closed, master?’ Cadoc asked in Celt, his hands busy as he cleansed the slash on Yusuf’s arm.

‘No. I’ll want to drain the wound if an infection sets in. Any evil humours will weep out onto the dressings. I can stitch it together at a later date.’

Yusuf was still unconscious, so with Emilio’s assistance Finn was able to wrap the young man’s shoulder and chest in the ribbons of seaweed. Then, after washing his hands once more, Myrddion
turned his attention to the arm wound, which he stitched together quickly and efficiently. Finn applied another poultice and the arm was quickly bound.

‘He should be awake by now,’ Cadoc said, his scarred face creased in a worried frown. ‘We must have hurt him badly while we worked over him.’

‘Aye. But let me examine his head to see if there are any other injuries.’

A clue revealed itself when Myrddion found a small bloodstain on Yusuf’s headdress, suggesting that the youth could have suffered a blow of some kind. The healer’s sensitive fingers soon found the knot of a nasty contusion at the base of his skull, and further examination revealed a small area of split skin in the centre of a lump.

‘Check his eyes, Cadoc. Look for anything unusual about the pupils. Do you remember the sailor who fell on his head from the mast outside Colchis? If you recall, that man’s pupils were different sizes? Something must have bled inside his head, because he died within hours of falling. I wish now that they had permitted us to explore the man’s head wound after he died.’

Fortunately, Myrddion had spoken in Celt. Finn was certain that Yusuf’s uncle would have been disturbed if he had understood the gist of the conversation.

‘The pupils are the same size, master,’ Cadoc reported after prising open the young man’s eyelids.

‘Good. If we ask Mistress Phoebe to make up a bed for us, one of us will stay with him until any danger passes. If he improves, we’ll allow him to wake naturally.’

And so the night finished as Myrddion had decreed. It was fortunate that he couldn’t hear Mistress Phoebe’s comments on his skills, for his head would have been in danger of swelling. Phoebe praised him to everyone in the inn, speaking of his deftness,
his cleanliness and the organisation of the three men who worked together as one.

‘And so nice . . . and so handsome! I’m not ashamed to say that my heart flutters when I look at him. His hair, Mistress Dorcas! But he’s no boy . . . and he gives orders like a general, even if it’s done in a heathen tongue.’

Later in the morning, Myrddion broke his fast with a gigantic meal prepared by Mistress Phoebe’s favourite cook, while the guests at the inn, the servants and various passers-by casually dropped into the public rooms to catch a glimpse of the foreign healer who had saved the life of young Yusuf el Razi. By the time Praxiteles arrived with welcome news, Myrddion and his assistants had treated a suppurating ulcer, drawn two teeth, provided a tonic for a child with colic, set a broken finger and removed a collection of warts. The healers’ funds were growing already, as was their fame, while Ali el Kabir had sworn that he would assist them in any way he could.

Several officers of the city guard arrived at the same time, to report the result of their investigation into the attack on a prominent visitor. Fortunately, the innkeeper had insisted that the blood trail should not be washed away until the authorities had examined it, so they were able to trace the blood spoor back to a house where high caste prostitutes plied their trade for discerning customers. Yusuf had been attacked and robbed when he left the warm arms of one of the brothel’s most expensive girls.

‘Stupid boy,’ Ali complained, but his voice was affectionate. ‘The priests and rabbis would be most annoyed to discover that Yusuf had acted so unwisely.’ Then he explained that Yusuf was the scion of a wealthy Syrian family who followed the Jewish faith rather than the pagan gods of the Amalekites. Finally, after giving Myrddion a purse of gold coins as an expression of his heartfelt gratitude, Ali went back to sit with Yusuf, and
Myrddion was able to turn his attention to Praxiteles at last.

‘I have found Lord Cleoxenes, master. He is at the royal court, and asks that you join him tomorrow evening for a private feast of celebration after he has introduced you to the emperor and the notables of Constantinople. If these arrangements are suitable, he will send a litter at dusk tomorrow to transport you to the palace. I am to return to Lord Cleoxenes’s apartments as soon as possible and let him know your answer.’

Myrddion was elated. He thanked Praxiteles and asked him to pass on his acceptance to Cleoxenes, and then went back to treating the needy of the city. News that he would be visiting the palace on the morrow spread through the inn like wildfire, adding to his growing reputation.

The rest of that momentous day passed in a blur of patients, praise in a number of languages and regular monitoring of Yusuf, who remained in a deep, unnatural sleep. He went to his bed with a heavier purse and a sense that his journey to Constantinople had been ordained by the gods.

The next morning dawned with a glister of golden light that turned even utilitarian buildings into beautiful, romantic structures. Myrddion woke early and ran up the stairs to the flat roof so that he could watch the sunrise etch the many palm trees and other unfamiliar shrubs with pellucid light. His heart sang with joy and excitement when he contemplated the evening that lay ahead, and the only blot on his happiness was Yusuf’s deep, unchanging sleep.

Later that morning Myrddion discovered that his fame had spread even further afield. Outside in the forecourt a line of patients was waiting, and Myrddion was kept busy for hours. Emilio and his wife were quietly ecstatic at the influx of citizens who crowded the inn, for they also spent coin on cordials, juices and food while they awaited the ministrations of the healer.

‘To be called to an audience with the emperor and empress!’ Emilio chortled, as he exhorted his cooks to prepare the tasty snacks ordered by those patrons who were eager to share in the reflected glory provided by the outland healers. ‘What good news for this house! We must induce this young man to stay for as long as possible.’

‘Don’t be greedy, Emilio. Truly, the Lord God tells us to beware of vanity and the desire to enrich ourselves through the misfortune of others,’ his wife warned him, her face creased with satisfied pleasure that belied her pious warnings. ‘Besides, Master Yusuf is still gravely ill.’

Emilio’s face fell immediately. ‘You’re right, my dear. It would be a tragedy if young Yusuf were to die. His death would become a blot on the reputation of our inn.’

‘But sleep helps to heal the most terrible wounds, or so Master Myrddion assures me. He still has hopes for Yusuf’s survival.’

Ignorant of the ambitions of his hosts, Myrddion worked through the morning and added significantly to his store of coins. Then, after devouring a plate of olives, cheese and cold sliced meats, he prepared to beautify himself for the audience at the palace.

But first things first, Myrddion told himself sternly, and hurried off to check on his patient. Yusuf had finally regained consciousness and seemed much improved, although he was trying to rise from his sick bed and hurting his damaged arm in consequence.

‘If you keep moving that arm, Yusuf, you will cause your wounds to bleed and you’ve lost quite enough blood already. You could easily die if you fail to obey my instructions. I’ll put a sling on your arm to immobilise it, and if you feel better tomorrow I’ll stitch the shoulder wound and let you spend some time in the fresh air – as long as you remain in a chair. It’s that or nothing!’

Reluctantly, after Myrddion had satisfied himself that infection had not set in, Yusuf agreed to behave. His uncle vowed that the
boy would not be permitted to stir, so Myrddion left his patient in the Syrian’s capable hands.

The afternoon passed quickly. Myrddion immersed himself in the baths, washing his hair thoroughly to remove the salt and smell of their voyage, and paid particular attention to his nails and hands. He relinquished several coppers for a very close shave to remove all traces of beard on his young man’s cheeks, and also paid for a rather gritty paste of charcoal and something unpleasant that guaranteed sweetness of breath. As an afterthought, trusting to older, less dubious methods, he also used a twig to clean his gums and teeth.

When he returned to the comfortable familiarity of the inn, he found that Bridie, Brangaine and Rhedyn had excelled themselves by brushing his good cloak and his tunic, washing his underwear and cleaning his boots until they shone. His earring, his sword, his grandmother’s necklace and his rings had all been cleaned and polished, although Myrddion put aside the priestess’s necklace as inappropriate for an audience, even with an emperor.

Shortly before dusk, as if conjuring a rabbit from his sleeve, Cadoc brought out a small flat box of aromatic wood and presented it to Myrddion.

‘From Ali el Kabir, master, to do you honour before the emperor and as thanks for saving young Yusuf’s life – so far, at least.’

Myrddion opened the box and saw a cloak pin of extraordinary opulence. Circular in appearance, it was made of buttery yellow gold and had a diameter of some four inches, meaning that it was very heavy. Within the circlet were set two rows of cabochon gemstones, the outer ring of lapis lazuli and the inner of carved emeralds. The centre stone was a large piece of amber with a butterfly caught for eternity within its rich yellow depths.

‘I can’t accept this,’ Myrddion gasped. ‘This brooch is far too valuable. We’ve already been paid amply for our services.’

‘Perhaps so, master, but you’ll have to take your arguments up with Ali el Kabir, not me. One thing is certain – he will be offended if you attempt to refuse his gift. Moreover, there’s no denying it will look very well at the shoulder of your cloak.’

Suiting the action to the words, Cadoc attached the spectacular pin to the sable cloak on Myrddion’s left shoulder. The young healer was forced to admit that the garment looked far better with the addition of the jewel.

‘If you wish, you can always return it to el Kabir tomorrow,’ Cadoc suggested, ever practical. ‘But for the moment, your litter has arrived and it’s time that you were gone.’

Hustled out of the inn by his friends and with the farewells of fellow guests ringing in his ears, Myrddion found himself being hoisted up into an ornamental chair by four huge men whose skins were so black that they shone with the purple gloss of grapes. From their shaven heads to their sandaled feet, they were superb specimens of manhood. Their skins were oiled so they shone like polished agate and their white tunics seemed impossibly clean and starched by contrast. When they began to trot, bearing the gilded poles of the litter on their shoulders, Myrddion was amazed by their strength and co-ordination.

The journey was fast and smooth and a tribute to the skill of the bearers, but Myrddion was embarrassed to sit above their straining bodies. He could have drawn the curtains of the litter, but then he would have been unable to see the passing parade of men and women afoot, shopping, cleaning the streets, gardening or making their way to their own evening engagements.

As the litter approached the palace, Myrddion caught his first close view of Hagia Sophia and Hagia Eirene. He could see the long row of carved lambs, so lifelike that it seemed as if they might frolic out from the marble and crop the grass. A twisted column like his serpent staff rose up on its own plinth and he could tell
that it was very ancient, hinting at religions that were far older than Christianity. Myrddion felt a thrill of something very like superstition.

Then, suddenly, they arrived.

Several wide steps led to a grandiose portico, supported by towering, fluted Corinthian columns. Guards in decorative armour, bearing a Roman eagle with spread wings embossed upon their breastplates, lined the stairs and the portico, providing a guard of honour for the guests who were arriving in litters. Unlike the foot soldiers of Rome, these men were tall and barbarian in appearance, and Myrddion remembered that Constantinople drew on a supply of healthy young men from the nearby nations of Samaria, Armenia, Thracia and Pontus. As Myrddion dismounted he thanked the bearers, who were quite puzzled by his reaction to the service they had provided. He found a number of copper coins and pressed them upon the four men, who accepted them with wide, white grins that made a sharp contrast with their wine-purple lips.