Web of Deceit by M. K. Hume Page A

themselves clean with cold water from the well. No one enjoyed this experience overmuch, although the sun was still shining. Makeshift towelling dried their hair and bodies, while Brangaine and Rhedyn entered into the spirit of the occasion by dusting and cleaning their best robes. Even Myrddion’s worn boots were cleansed of the dried mud that had fouled them on the long journey.
    Within the prescribedtwo hours, just as the sun began to set in the west, the three companions were escorted into the hall of Ambrosius. Myrddion wore his best black tunic, leggings and cloak, held together with a huge damascene brooch given to him by a grateful Syrian trader whose nephew’s life he had saved. The funereal colour of Myrddion’s dress was mitigated by the fineness of his gems. Two gold and ruby rings adorned his hands, an ancient arm ring gifted by his great-grandfather encircled his wrist, and an electrum spike added a barbaric touch in one ear. His face was smooth in the Roman style, for Myrddion loathed the sensation of hairiness and had plucked away much of his beard when he was maturing. His extreme male beauty was feminised by his waist-length black hair, enlivened only by a streak of white that sprang from the right side of his forehead.
    Cadoc had cleaned his leathers, taking particular care with the brass plates that had protected his torso when he was a soldier. His good tunic was snow white with age and vigorous washing, and his boots were clean. His leather satchel, worn proudly over his shoulder, added an air of distinction to his appearance. Out of a streak of vanity, the scarred man had plaited his red hair into the fore and side plaits of a warrior and bound the ends with strips of copper.
    Praxiteles had few possessions of any material worth, having sold his ancestral gems when he lost his trading business in Constantinople years earlier. But poverty and the need to earn his bread as a servant had no power to diminish the impact of his thick moustaches, which were as white as the clouds over Venta Belgarum. His hair was bound around his head and was the same distinctive colour, but long streaks of jet amongst the braids gave his face an exotic cast, accentuated by his golden-brown skin. On the journey to the west, he had taken what coin he had earned in Myrddion’s service and purchased undyed tunics that had been embroidered at neckand hem in the Greek style. The impression of hale old age and intelligence expressed in his deep brown eyes, the sun-leached wrinkles on his face and his upright, vigorous stance spoke more eloquently of far places and hotter suns than any use of mere decoration.
    In their separate ways, the three men were oddities, so the courtiers who clustered in the anteroom of Ambrosius’s court of justice eyed them carefully from the corners of their eyes.
    The inner doors opened with a flourish at the appointed hour and the powerful lords of the south ambled into the large audience room. Like a stream of water impeded by stones, the aristocratic guests washed around the three outlanders in a curious but silent flood, leaving them to stand awkwardly in the midst of Uther’s personal guard as they awaited their instructions.
    Myrddion quickly grew impatient at the delay and the contempt that it implied, but he succeeded in maintaining his calm demeanour. Tantrums and temper would not advance his cause. He understood the Roman perspective, and trusted he would be able to reason with whatever the High King and his brother had in store for him.
    Uther appeared at the open doors to the inner room, as cat-footed as usual and with Botha at his shoulder. With a single, beckoning gesture, he called the three men forward. Half dazzled by the number of oil lamps within the large audience room, they entered Ambrosius’s seat of power.
    As Myrddion advanced he kept his head down, so his first impression was that the uneven flags beneath his feet were unusually clean. No traces of mud, scatterings of