Sarum

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Patricius, or Patrick, was only a few years older, he told Petrus. His family were like the Porteus family – modest landowners of the decurion class, whose estate was in the west of Britannia. When Patricius was sixteen, Irish pirates had raided the coast where he lived; they had caught him and carried him across the western sea to Ireland, where he had been sold as a slave.

  “He was used as a shepherd,” Martinus said. “Cut off from everyone he loved. But he never lost his faith in God.”

  “Were his family Christian?” Petrus asked.

  To his surprise, Martinus chuckled.

  “Both his father and grandfather took Christian orders, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was to escape taxes – don’t you think?”

  For under the late empire it had been possible for decurions to obtain exemption from the financial burdens of holding local offices by taking priestly orders, and many local landowners had entered the priesthood for this reason. Petrus smiled: his companion’s frankness was engaging.

  But the story of Patricius’s religious calling was another matter, and Martinus told him the story of how he used to go alone into the woods every day to pray; and how one day, after six years, he had a vision which told him where he would find a ship, several days’ journey away and in a strange port he did not know, and how he found the ship which then took him home to his family.

  “But that was only the start of his real life,” Martinus explained. “From then on, you see, he knew that he had been chosen by God. He left his family home, went to study in Gaul, and became a monk. And then he had another vision which told him that the heathen Irish who had made him a slave should be converted to Christianity. At first the Church authorities said he couldn’t go – even that he was unworthy,” here Martinus’s face puckered into momentary anger and disgust. “But he persisted and now he has been sent there. I’m going to join him tomorrow.”

  This was a new, and altogether more daring version of Christianity than Petrus had encountered before. He questioned Martinus further, and the monk told him about the vigorous monasteries of Italy and Gaul, of their great men like Martin of Tours, Germanus of Auxerre and the monk Ninian who recently founded the first monastery in the land of the wild Picts in the north of the island. He told Petrus about their bravery, the sanctity of their lives, the hair shirts and other discomforts they willingly endured to mortify the flesh. “These are true servants of God,” he said. “In Ireland we shall continue their work.”

  Since Petrus was still curious, he gave him some account of the Church’s thinkers, men like Augustine, the present Bishop of Hippo in Northern Africa. “He used to be a pagan you know, just like you,” Martinus said. “He’s a great scholar, and before he converted, he taught rhetoric at the finest pagan schools of Italy. It was his confessions about his early life that I was reading this evening. I copied them out when I was in the monastery in Gaul.”

  “Another saintly life I suppose?” Petrus asked.

  Martinus roared with laughter.

  “He is now. But as a young man – you should read his Confessions. He seems to have done nothing but fornicate, according to his account!” He grinned again. “Actually, I think Augustine boasts about it a bit.” He paused, then added conspiratorially: “Even after his conversion, they say he kept his concubine for years.”

  Petrus was puzzled. It was obvious that Martinus was ready to lay down his life for a religion whose great men, saintly though they might be, didn’t seem to him like heroes. He asked him why.

  At once Martinus became serious.

  “You attach too much importance to the man, too little to God,” he said. “Man is sinful and imperfect. He’s noble, if you like, only in so far as he turns his mind over to God directly. It’s not that I or Patrick,” he used the non-Roman form of the missionary’s name, “can do anything in Ireland: but God will work through us. That’s exactly Augustine’s point, he wants us to know that as a man, he was a pagan, a sinner, a fornicator. Whatever he’s done – and believe me, in Africa he’s done more than ten others could have – has only been done through God’s providence and will, not his own. His own spirit, which knew only confusion before, is now at rest in the service of God.”

  As he spoke, the boyishness of his former manner had left him and Petrus suddenly felt himself to be in the company of a man who, although about the same age in years, was far ahead of him in maturity.

  “And you – are you at peace?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the monk answered simply. And Petrus could see that it was true.

  But to Petrus the answers the missionary gave still seemed incomplete. He might be going to heathen Ireland, but what about Britannia – and what of Rome? He thought of the deserted baths at Aquae Sulis, the cities of Venta and Corinium, fortifying themselves against the Saxons, and of the villa at Sarum under threat at this very moment.

  “You may be at peace,” he accused, “but our towns and villas are not. I want to restore them. I want to see Rome great again – the theatres, the temples, the baths all restored.”

  Martinus smiled.

  “Like the shining city on its seven hills – Rome in all its glory. Civilisation, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  Martinus nodded understandingly.

  “Even the great Jerome, a saintly Christian scholar, even he could not speak when he heard that Rome had fallen,” the monk agreed. “And Augustine, too – his great work of theology is not called De Civitate Dei – the City of God – by chance. Many Christians love Rome and all it stands for. But there is a greater city still,” he went on eagerly, “a city that no man can corrupt, no army destroy. And that is the city of the spirit – God’s citadel that shines like the eternal sun. Think, my friend,” he urged, with sudden passion, “if you are prepared to defend a city made by man, how much more you should be anxious to defend the faith, which is the city of the Creator of the heavens Himself.”

  It was a fine speech, and Petrus could not help being moved by his companion’s passion. But he still shook his head doubtfully.

  To his surprise, Martinus stretched out his big hand and took him gently by the arm.

  “I see, my friend, that though you are a pagan you are a seeker after truth. One day you will find it when God commands you, and then you will know peace.” He gave his arm a friendly pat. “Time we slept. We both have journeys tomorrow.”

  Petrus considered. Had he found peace? He thought of his parents, of the girl Sulicena, of the taurobolium, of the tangled events and violent urges of his young life. No, whether the missionary’s religion or his own were the true one, he had not found peace. As they rose, a thought occurred to him.

  “When you first left your farm, you said, God commanded you. What command did God give you, Martinus?” he asked.

  “The same that he gave to the apostle who bore your own name Petrus – Peter the rock,” the monk replied. “He said: ‘Feed my sheep’.”

  Petrus nodded. He knew the text.

  “God does not speak to me,” he admitted frankly.

  Martinus gazed at him carefully.

  “You have to listen, Petrus,” he replied. “Sometimes He speaks very quietly.”

  For the rest of his life Petrus always explained that his conversion took place that night, shortly before dawn. It happened in a dream.

  He was on a huge, empty downland – similar to the ridges around Sarum. “But I was not at Sarum,” he would say, “I was in some other country which I took to be Ireland.” The landscape was full of white sheep. But as he rode through them, he came upon a single lamb. “It was a lamb, yet bigger than the sheep; and it came towards me and stopped, dead in front of me, so that I couldn’t go on. Then it spoke: ‘Petrus,’ it said, ‘Feed my sheep’. Then it vanished.”

  He had not known what to make of this, but soon afterwards, though the lamb had gone, he heard its voice. And again it said: ‘Feed my sheep’. And he had woken.

  “Then later, that same night, I had a second dream.
This time I was looking at Venta. It was definitely Venta: I saw the walls, the column to Marcus Aurelius and the gates. The sun was shining on the roofs, and it seemed to me that my old professor was still there, in the city, and that I had only just come from seeing him. As I looked back at the town, a great light from the heavens seemed to descend on the place, so that all the tops of the buildings gleamed and sparkled, as though they were made not of tiles and stone, but of silver and gold. And then I heard a voice. I could not tell where it came from, whether it came from inside my own head or from the clouds: but the voice spoke so that there could be no mistaking it, and it said: ‘My city is a heavenly city, not made of bricks, but of the spirit. And my city is eternal. Turn back from worldly cares, Petrus, and walk boldly to the city of God’. Then, for the second time I awoke. The dawn was breaking. And I knew what I must do.”

  It was an impressive vision, and he was proud of it.

  But when Petrus hurried to tell Martinus about it early that morning the monk’s reaction was rather disappointing.

  “If you truly wish to serve God,” he said, “you must learn self-discipline. I advise you to go to one of the monasteries in Gaul. Study there for several years: it will teach your unruly spirit to submit to God. Then you may become a missionary.”

  Petrus thanked him politely. But he took little notice of the advice. The vision, it seemed to him, had been definitive. He had never experienced such a thing before: and now that God had spoken to him so directly, whole vistas opened up in his mind in which he could see himself in a set of new and heroic roles.

  It was late afternoon the next day that Tarquinus saw Petrus riding towards him along the track that led to the big curve of the river. As he stared at the young landowner, the cowherd’s cunning old eyes grew wide with astonishment.

  Petrus was riding his horse at a walk, and he was followed by half a dozen estate workers. But what caused the old man to stare was his appearance.

  For Petrus’s head was bare, and the entire crown had been shaved completely bald.

  Stranger still, as Tarquinus opened his mouth to greet him, the young man stared at him as if he were a monster, and then turned his face away. What could it mean? Confused, Tarquinus waited a little, then followed the party towards the curve in the river.

  If he was surprised before, it was nothing compared to his amazement at what he saw next.

  Petrus knew what he must do. And he was methodical.

  When he reached the clearing where the taurobolium pit was concealed, he quickly ordered the men to pull back the planks and break up the wooden grid that covered it.

  “Burn the wood, and fill in the pit,” he ordered them. “See that it’s finished tonight.”

  When Tarquinus, who had heard his orders, hobbled into the clearing to protest, he gave the old man a withering look and cried:

  “Your iniquity is destroyed, servant of Satan!”

  Then, before the cowherd could reply, he turned his horse’s head briskly and rode towards the valley.

  Darkness was falling when he arrived at the villa where he was eagerly awaited. A farmhand had told Numincus an hour before that Petrus had been seen, and the steward had hurried to the villa to ensure that preparations were made. A dozen welcoming torches now burned near the doorway and even Constantius had roused himself to stand with his wife and the steward to greet his son.

  “Let us hope,” he said, “that he has found a rich bride.”

  As Petrus dismounted, all three came out; to his surprise, Constantius felt his arm gripped, and found himself embraced by Petrus with an affection that he had not known in years.

  It was only when the party moved inside that he, too, noticed the tonsure that had been causing the other two to stare. And as he gazed at his son’s head in puzzlement, Petrus announced:

  “I have news that will please you, father. I have been converted at last to the true faith of Christ.” And while Constantius blinked in astonishment he went on. “Before coming here, I destroyed the taurobolium. There will be no more such iniquities at Sarum.”

  As he took the news in, Constantius felt tears come to his eyes. “My dear son,” was all that he could say, “I thank God.”

  It was only when they were seated, and the servants had brought in a huge bowl of steaming fish, that Placidia, who had been staring at her son’s tonsure thoughtfully, quietly asked:

  “And what of Flavia, Petrus. Was she to your liking?”

  Petrus gazed back at her serenely. A half smile crossed his face and gently he tapped his shaven head.

  “Flavia? I don’t know,” he replied, as though it was the most natural reply in the world. “When I vowed to serve only Christ,” he explained calmly, “I undertook a vow of chastity. I swore never to know woman again. So obviously there was no point in going to see Flavia. I just turned my horse’s head and came back to Sarum.” And while the others were still digesting this appalling news, he went on: “I’ve decided to join Patrick in Ireland. I shall leave in three days.”

  The battle of will between Petrus Porteus and his mother lasted not three, but five days. During that time each discovered strengths in the other that surprised them.

  It began that first night. While Constantius sat slumped and silent, and Numincus’s sad grey eyes gazed at him in mute appeal, Placidia marshalled her forces carefully.

  She had no illusions about his conversion. To her it seemed her son had simply found a new and exciting role to play. But she was careful. She argued with him gently: why did he want to do this? He told her in detail about his conversation with Martinus and his dreams. She listened carefully, then plied him with questions.

  “Does God demand that you leave Sarum to be destroyed? What of us? Doesn’t the Bible say, ‘Honour your father and mother’? Will you desert us?”

  As she argued, Placidia was wise. She took care never to attack his conversion or to suggest that God had not spoken to him. She did not dispute his visions, but only the interpretation of them. “If God commands you to feed his sheep,” he argued, “how can we be sure he meant the Irish? Isn’t there plenty of work to be done for God in Sarum?”

  But Petrus was obdurate. And when she pleaded with him that the villa might be destroyed, he answered passionately:

  “It is the city of God we must defend, not the work of man. God will decide the fate of Sarum.”

  “And did God demand in the dream that you should be celibate?” she pressed him.

  To which he only replied:

  “I know my own weakness. A woman would distract me. This way is better.”

  They argued until dawn, and as the night wore on and she saw the quiet but unshakable determination of her son, she recognised the ruin of all her hopes. I’d rather he married the girl Sulicena and had children by her, she thought, than had none at all. Whether this was a passing enthusiasm or a genuine vocation – she was not sure which herself – it made little difference if he left for Ireland and perhaps was killed.

  “You really mean to leave in three days?”

  He nodded.

  She wondered if she would ever see him again.

  Though they argued quietly like this, hour after hour, the other two men did not join in.

  Constantius had no need to. In the first place, he was delighted with his son’s conversion to the true faith. In the second, he saw at once that if his son did as he suggested, then the defence of Sarum would be in his hands again. No one could argue now if he got rid of those German heathens. He would show them what he could do. After a time, during which he had quietly drunk a pitcher of wine to celebrate, he had subsided into sleep.

  Numincus sat, as he usually did, only speaking when spoken to, his grey eyes blinking slowly. Some time before dawn, his eyes closed and only opened again once or twice, for a few seconds at a time.

  At last, mother and son retired to their rooms.

  Alone in his room, Petrus prepared his bed carefully. He did so in a strange manner.

  Instead o
f lying down on the couch beside the wall, he began to dismantle it, removing the slats of wood on which the mattress rested and placing them on the floor. The pillow cushion he discarded. Then he stripped. Under his clothes he was wearing not linen, but a hair shirt: a coarse garment which he had managed to acquire from Martinus, and the prickly discomfort of which had already brought his skin out in a rash. Dressed only in this, he lay down on the bare boards, his head on the stone floor. His feet were cold. He shivered slightly. But this, he knew, was how the great men of the Church, men like Germanus of Auxerre, mortified their flesh, and he was resolved to do likewise. And this was how Placidia found him, asleep, later that morning.

  During the next day, he paid two more important visits. The first was to the dune.

  He rode through the gate and walked his horse slowly past the camp of the Germans, who watched him curiously. He ignored them however, and headed for the little house at the far side of the place, that was occupied by Tarquinus. There he halted, and called to the cowherd to come out.

  Tarquinus emerged suspiciously. After the incident of the day before, everyone at Sarum knew that strange changes had come over Petrus. No one could be sure what might come next.

  Petrus came straight to the point.

  “Bring the idol of Sulis out of the shrine,” he ordered, pointing to the little hut beside Tarquinus’s house.

  Unwillingly Tarquinus went in and came back with the little stone figure.

  “There will be no more pagan gods at Sarum,” Petrus announced. “The idol must be broken up. Give it to me.”

  But Tarquinus clutched the little figure close to his chest.

  “No.”

  Petrus stared at him. Was the cowherd defying him?

  “I can make you,” he threatened.

  Tarquinus said nothing, but he did not loosen his hold. Petrus looked into his eyes and saw that they were full of hate. He had no doubt that Tarquinus was laying curses on him; but though such a thought a month ago would have terrified him, now he found that he did not even care.