Web of Deceit Read Free Page B

the city and out into the surrounding countryside whereit began to take root.
    Myrddion had learned that the isles of Britain were not the entire world and that their towns were small, unimportant and bucolic when compared with the great cities of Rome, Ravenna or Constantinople. More tellingly, the healers had experienced the great ports of the Middle Sea, so that Dubris, which had seemed so large and bustling six years earlier, now seemed a minor centre of trade. This impression was not improved by a layer of grime, wood-smoke and neglect that reminded Myrddion of the port of Ostia. The warehouses and docks were in a similar state of dilapidation and the faces of the labourers had the same pinched tenseness as those of the inhabitants of the Italic port.
    But there the similarities ended. Fish in huge wicker baskets added their own distinctive aroma to small docks of splintering wood that stretched out into the deeper waters. Piles of goods were stacked ready to be carried to the warehouses, while huge bales were being loaded onto vessels of all shapes, sizes and styles for the voyages to their ultimate destinations.
    The faces were as mixed in race as those they had seen in Ostia, but without the exotic tints of Africa and the east. Myrddion even recognised some Franks on a large, disciplined vessel and reminded himself that these northerners had been crude barbarians fifty years earlier when they were scrabbling for land and power in Gaul.
    ‘But the Franks are now civilised and so the world changes,’ Cadoc snorted cynically at his master’s comment. ‘Eventually, the Saxons will be indistinguishable from us.’
    The healers began the arduous task of disembarkation, moving their many barrels, bales, chests and packages into a neat pile on the dock. While they worked, Myrddion wondered at the ease with which the northern tribes had passed down through the land of the Franks and then crossed the narrow channel to Britain.
    ‘At least our homeland still smellsof the Britain we knew.’ Cadoc spoke for them all. ‘Woodsmoke and rain!’
    ‘Aye. But this place makes me nervous. We’re attracting far too much attention from the dockworkers, so I’d like to be gone as soon as possible.’ Myrddion worried at his thumbnail with his teeth as he examined the melange of faces. ‘Work your magic, Cadoc. Find us two wagons and sufficient horses for our needs. And make it as fast as you can, because my shoulder blades are starting to itch.’
    ‘Too many sodding great Saxons – and all eyeing our baggage,’ Cadoc whispered in agreement. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I complete my task, master.’
    He disappeared into the crowd on the edges of the wharf.
    In the bustle of the dock, Myrddion felt intimidated by the hostile stares that were fixed on the small party. He knew they presented an exotic and alien picture in their outlander clothing, but this wharf was part of home so he felt dislocated and disappointed. Uncharacteristically, he loosened his sword in its sheath, conscious that many covert glances had assessed every weapon of these newcomers.
    ‘You can’t leave your shit on my wharf, my fine young cockerel,’ a raucous voice bellowed from behind him.
    Myrddion spun swiftly and fell into a slight crouch, one hand on the pommel of his sword and the other gripping his tall staff. The women huddled together nervously and Finn handed his infant son to his wife, Bridie, in order to reach his own weapon if the need should arise. White-haired Praxiteles, the Greek servant who had accompanied them from Constantinople, merely grinned widely and waited.
    ‘Who are you to accost my party and tell me where or what I may put on a wharf used for public access?’ Myrddion’s voice was as imperious and as careless as the tone that would have been adopted by ArdaburAspar, his father, at the eastern emperor’s court. Sometimes arrogance had it usefulness.
    The man who confronted the small party looked, superficially, like any