Web of Deceit by M. K. Hume Page A

down the Tamesis to berth on an island in the flood, retains some sheen of past glories. Rome had never felt the hand of a master who was not Roman-born until she was as ancient as the Seven Hills themselves. Ravenna had been newly built and even Constantinople seemed set for generations of peace.
    But Londinium had known many masters, receding back in time until it was a collection of rough huts on the edges of Tamesis’s mud flats. Blood stained her streets, whether sod or stone, and every passing conqueror had left some part of his spirit in the city’s soul. Londinium smelled of home, but Myrddion’s prescience stirred and he knew the city also awaited greatness like a half-woven cloak of scarlet wool.
    ‘Let’s get out of here as fast as we can,’ he ordered as he remounted his horse, and the uncomplaining oxen were forced to move at their fastest pace, the speed of a walking man, to escape the distrust and jealousy that gleamed in the eyes of the denizens of this place. Myrddion recognised the sheen of greed and resentment in the many eyes that assessed the value of the goods in the two wooden wagons. The threat from footpads was very real.
    Eventually, the fading light forced the healers to call a halt when they arrived at a small farmingcommunity on the outskirts of Londinium. Six years earlier, they had paused at this same spot to ply their trade when they were travelling across Britain to Dubris, and Myrddion was reminded once again of his meeting with Uther Pendragon. In the intervening years the community had scarcely changed, for the huts had already carried the stamp of Saxon traders and gradual neglect. What was new was the hatred that shadowed every face, for small villages on the margins of Londinium regularly felt the sting of Uther’s attacks. Saxon and Celt alike resented and feared the prince’s ruthless tactics.
    This time, the healers paused only long enough to eat and to replenish their water barrels from the communal well before repacking the cooking utensils and moving on. Myrddion gave Cadoc the rusted forceps to repair and the two assistants were appalled to learn that a Roman hospital, a miracle of modern healing, had been allowed to rot.
    ‘Typical of Saxons!’ Cadoc grunted. ‘They spoil everything they touch.’
    Myrddion shook his head sadly. ‘No, I wish it were so, but it isn’t. That building was looted and gutted long before the Saxons came, probably as soon as the galleys left their island harbour and headed out to the open sea for the last time. I have no doubt that our own people destroyed that hospital through greed, superstition or their hatred for the Romans.’ Cadoc would have argued, but Myrddion cut him short. ‘I hate what the Saxons have done to Londinium, but I refuse to be blinded by patriotism. We are just as venal as they are.’
    The healers broke camp in unusual silence.
    Before they left, Myrddion searched through his clothes chest until he found a cylinder filled to bursting with simple maps of Britain and the countryside. Opening the cylinder, he thanked the goddess for his habit of charting his movements during the time he had followed Vortigern’s standard. He found his chart of the lands near Londinium and his taperedforefinger sought out the web of Roman roads that branched out from the hub of the city like spokes in a chariot wheel.
    He rejected the road to Calleva Atrebatum, which ultimately branched towards Ambrosius’s stronghold at Venta Belgarum. Common sense dictated that the High King would ensure the route to his capital was frequently patrolled, and Myrddion had no desire to come to his attention. Above this thoroughfare, he had sketched in an alternative route that wound towards the north and bypassed the old Roman fortresses. This roadway would lead them into higher country, but the Saxons would avoid it because the Catuvellauni and Dobunni tribes would surely prevent the invaders from gaining a single toehold on such an important