The Songs of Slaves
A Novel of the Fall of Rome
By David Gray Rodgers
Copyright 2013
David Rodgers, all rights reserved
Place Names
Eire or Hibernia – Ireland.
Gaul – A large area of the Roman world roughly equivalent to Modern France, but also including parts of Switzerland, Belgium, et cetera.
Narbonensis – also called Gallia Narbonensis. This was a Roman Province that panned across the south of France. It would include Provincia Nostra, which was an older designation.
Provincia Nostra or Provincia Romana – Provence, France
Transalpina – Area of Haute Provence and the Alps.
Liguria – Area of Northern Italy. Geographically as well as ethnographically this fades into Transalpina and Provence.
Massilia – Marseilles, France
Nikaia – Nice, France
Valentia – Valence, France
Florentia – Florence, Italy
Mediolanum – Milan, Italy
Genua – Genoa, Italy
Portus Pisanus – Pisa, Italy
Neapolis – Naples, Italy
Asisium – Assisi, Italy
Moesia – Roman province in what are now Bulgaria, Moldova, and Southern Serbia
Pannonia – Roman province in what are now eastern Austria, western Hungary, northern Croatia, as well as parts of Serbia, Slovenia, Slovakia, and Bosnia
Dacia – Roman province in what is now Romania, Bulgaria, Hungary, and the Ukraine
Illyricum – Roman province in what is now Croatia and Albania
Thrace – Province in what are now Bulgaria, Greece, and Turkey.
Constantinople – Istanbul, Turkey
Part I
Hibernia, 398-408 AD
I: Hibernia, 398 AD
For a moment the rain stopped. The heavy clouds grudgingly drifted aside to reveal the spring light. Connor slowed his pace, waiting for his friend, Mannus, to catch up. The fair-haired boy was running hard, but his skinny body could not match Connor’s enthusiasm. A few moments were all Connor could bear to wait, and then he was running up the hill again, as fast as his thick legs could pace the green turf.
The gray sea opened before him as he crested the hill. The water was not angry today, despite the wind and the rain. White foam edged the low waves. But all the people of the settlement knew that this could change at any moment; for the sea that stretched forever to the west was as wild as it was boundless.
Mannus came up beside him and pressed his palms into his knees, trying to catch his breath. Connor wiped the sweat and rain drops from his forehead with the sleeve of his wool tunic.
“Do you see them?” Connor asked pointing to the boat of tarred hide stretched over a wooden frame, bobbing like a discarded bowl on the waves. A bent man was at the oars, his long, read hair visible even at such a distance. Beside him was a hooded and cloaked figure.
“I see the coracle,” Mannus said. “Is that Brother Keagan at the oars?”
“Yes. And that man beside him must be the Roman.”
“The Roman,” Mannus repeated, feeling the awe of the word. No one had ever seen a Roman. The strange race of invincible warriors who lived in lavish, opulent cities was a thing of legend. The spirits in the woods and the ghosts in the twilight were much more real than they. But the message Brother Dervel and Brother Cumragh had received a month ago had been clear: Brother Keagan was returning from his mission to Amorica, and a Roman was accompanying him.
Connor looked away from the tiny boat that coasted the tide, to the stony beach below the hill. A small crowd was gathering already. The two monks stood in front in their unbleached woolen robes. Brother Cumragh’s family was gathered around him. The others had come in from their farms nearby. From his vantage point Connor could see more walking along the paths from their scattered dwellings. News had traveled quickly, carried on the wind as one person shouted to another across the countryside.
Another gust of wind blew in from the sea, almost knocking the two boys back. Connor turned to watch as it moved through the leaves of the forest. He could feel more than the echo of the sea in this wind. It quickened something in his young mind, and for a moment in his heart he thought he could hear it whisper to him.
“What is it?” Mannus asked.
Connor looked at his friend and grinned, but said nothing. He turned and ran down the hill towards the beach.
***
An old farmer nearly fell over as Connor pushed by him. Dervel turned towards the boys, his weathered face brightening in a smile.
“There you are, lad.”
Cumragh stood beside the taller monk, holding his youngest girl in his arms. He nodded his shaggy head in acknowledgement to Connor’s greeting. He was a powerfully built man, who still bartered his iron working for some of their provisions. But it was not only his stockier build that was in contrast to Dervel, nor his full beard and poorly shorn tonsure line. Cumragh was a man of the earth – a tireless worker, but loud of speech, quick to laugh and often quick to get angry. His passion for the joys of life was evident in his round belly and the number of his children around him. Dervel was fastidious, with a clean face and bare forehead. His graying hair was swept back into a single braid. He was sparing in everything. Dervel was more of what people expected of a holy man. He was more like a druid.
The boat was drawing close. The crowd had grown large, but remained almost reverently quiet. Connor noticed that a few of them had brought things to trade with the newcomer, as if he were a Briton merchant and not a priest. Connor looked back out to the dark figure in the boat. So far there was no sign of the shining segmented armor or high crested helmet the stories talked about, no bags of foreign treasures in the belly of the boat.
The coracle caught the waves and rode them in. Keagan and the stranger both jumped in to the knee-high surf and dragged the boat out of the tide. Keagan fell to his knees and kissed the wet gravel. A mad smile lit his youthful face as he wiped the grime away with his palm.
“It’s good to be back,” he nearly shouted as he met Dervel’s embrace.
“It’s good to have you back, you mad Scot!” Cumragh said as he took Dervel’s place. “You’ve left us to do all the work for too long now.”
Keagan laughed and kissed the curls on Cumragh’s daughter’s head.
“Dania’s doubled since I’ve been gone. But look there! She’ll never be near as big as you, Connor my boy. Scarce ten and you’re as big as a bear.”
Connor hugged the monk around his bony rib cage, but his eyes were drawn to the dark stranger. The man stood there, perhaps surprised by the informality of the reunion. Keagan let Connor go and stood back.
“This is Titus Vestius Laterensis.”
The man pushed back the hood of his finely made, dark brown robe. He was lean, wiry, and smaller in stature than Connor had initially perceived. His hair was black shot with silver and closely cropped around his broad forehead, and shaved around the crown, as if he were balding. His eyebrows were dark arches over intense hazel eyes. His aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and gauntness gave him a hungry look – like some predatory bird. He strode forward and met Dervel’s embrace, and in a show of strange custom he kissed the monk on both cheeks.
“You are welcome here, Brother Titus Vestius Laterensis,” Dervel said, struggling slightly with the strange sounds of the man’s name.
The Roman bowed his head. He repeated the same greeting to Cumragh; then he raised his right hand towards the crowd and muttered something in his own tongue. Many of the people moved a few steps back, as if fearing some magic from the foreigner’s gesture.
“I am pleased to be here and to meet you all,” the Rom
an said in a thick accent.
“You speak some of our tongue, already,” Dervel observed.
“Brother Keagan worked with me; and I had the blessing to acquire a Hibernian slave in Britannia. I have long spoken the native tongue of the Britons, and so learning yours was easier for me. I have been preparing for two years to come here.”
Dervel frowned. “A slave? Declan taught us that slavery is an abomination to the Lord, for all are equal in his sight. But I do not mean to be rude – our Lord’s ways and men’s ways are seldom the same. It is excellent that you are well on your way to mastering our speech. Well, you are welcome to stay with us as long as you need to, until you are ready to go on to your mission. You can stay in the hut with Keagan, Connor, and I. You don’t want to stay with Cumragh and his wife and children. You’ll get no rest there.”
“Yes. I see that Brother Cumragh takes a wife, despite the admonishment of the Apostle Paul and the warnings of our Dear Christ.”
“This settlement is part of the Nehuil Clan,” Dervel said, not comprehending Titus’ rebuke well enough to respond to it. “Settlements of our clan spread in that direction. They are mostly Christians. Just to the north are the Breagans. There are a few converts amongst them, but most follow the old ways. We are working on them; and their high druid, Conwyn, is friendly with me. But I think it would be best if you leave them to us. I think you may be best utilized by our Lord if you went inland, to the northwest. The men there are unreached by the gospels, but they are not too hostile of nature as to meet you violently. At least, I do not expect them to. To the northeast the land is full of ruthless men, and I think your mission would be cut short indeed if you started there. But for now, stay here and learn our language and ways better. When you are ready and prepared for your journey you can be on with your great undertaking.”
“I think you do not understand,” Titus said. “My mission is here. I have been sent to help you. Yes, the men of the north; the men of the west. But I am here to help with this new church.”
“Thank you,” Cumragh said. “But we are already Christians. We do not need any help.”
“Perhaps this letter will explain,” Titus said. He pulled a worn piece of parchment out of his satchel and handed it to Cumragh. Cumragh eyed the script, but Connor knew that Cumragh could not read. The big monk handed the paper to Dervel. Dervel knew something of Latin – enough to get through the few pages of gospel and prayers that his mentor, Gilas, had given him. Dervel handed the paper back to Titus and turned to Keagan. Keagan shrugged, but winked as if to say “I’ll tell you everything later”.
“Hibernia has been unreached by the gospel of Christ for four hundred years,” Titus said.
“Where is Hibernia?” Connor asked.
“That’s Connor,” Dervel said. “He lives with us.”
“Whose son is he?” Titus asked.
“No one’s,” Cumragh said. “He came to us when he was scarcely a weanling. No one knows from where. And no one around here has his coloring.”
“A bastard.”
“An orphan,” Dervel said. “Bastards have mothers at least.”
“This place is Hibernia,” Titus said, looking at Connor.
“No, it is Eire.”
“To the rest of the world it is Hibernia, young man.”
“What right does the rest of the world have to name a place that is not theirs?”
“Right you are lad,” Cumragh said. “Right you are.”
“No more questions, Connor,” said Dervel. “Brother Titus Vestius has important business to discuss.”
“Hibernia has been unreached by the true faith for nearly four hundred years,” Titus continued. “Now the Holy Spirit has seen fit to draw it in. The Arch Bishop of Gaul – even the Pope himself – has taken an interest in what has been happening here over the last few years. Christianity is finding fertile soil in this dark land of the Pagans, but left alone to itself this new Christianity is vulnerable. It is open to all falsehood and confusions. The Arch Bishop of Britannia regards all Hibernians as Pagan savages who are unredeemable; but the Arch Bishop of Gaul has a heart for this lonely place, and has sent me here to help you, and all the people here, to grow in the true religion, in accordance with the Church in Rome.”
“I was taught by Gilas,” Dervel said. “He was taught by Declan himself.”
“And I as well,” Cumragh said. “We are Declan’s grandchildren in faith. He has taught us what we need to know. And we teach this to the people.”
“Perhaps this is difficult for you to understand,” Titus said. “But in the mainland this has all been played out before. Here you have no church structure, no accountability. You have only the word of Declan – saint that he is –and the men he has trained. That is a good root. I do not say other. But it is not enough. Look at the result! You keep the faith, but you fill in the missing pieces with your old ways. Look at you! Your hair is cut like a druid’s – priests of a religion so subversive it was illegalized in the Imperium even in Pagan times! Your robes are white, like theirs. Like the Pagans of this land, you worship outside in the forest, instead of in a consecrated church. You celebrate the Lord’s most holy feast of Resurrection on the same day as a Pagan fertility rite. In the mainland we have seen the result of the Good News stolen and warped by the sinfulness of man – the Arians, the Gnostics, Manicheans, Pelagians, monophysites of every description – all of these false gospels become a worse threat to the soul than the teachings of Paganism, old or new. We do not want to see that happen here. That is why I have come. That is why the Holy Father has sent priests unto many places in this land.”
“God is our Holy Father,” Cumragh said, his face growing flushed.
“Amen,” Dervel said, as he placed a restraining hand gently on his friend’s shoulder. “Brother Titus, we have much to discuss. But perhaps we had better discuss it indoors, away from so many ears.”
Titus nodded.
Dervel turned to the crowd. Many had already left, after they had seen that the foreigner had not brought anything to trade or to show.
“We welcome Brother Titus Vestius Laterensis.”
The crowd murmured the requisite affirmation.
“Any who so wishes, come to our monastery this evening to speak to him and to receive prayer.”
Cumragh fell into animated conversation with Keagan as they followed Dervel and Titus towards the huts.
“That’s a Roman?” Mannus said when they were out of earshot.
Connor, too, was disappointed. The man was nothing of what he had thought he would be, and the Brothers were clearly upset by him; though Connor was still too young to really know why.
“I should get back,” Mannus said. “Who knows what the sheep have got into?”
Connor nodded and turned to follow his friend back through the woods.
An unseen lark was singing beneath the heavy blanket of green. The air was cool as it carried the smell of wet bark and earth through the shadows of the old oaks. Mannus picked up a stick and absently swung it against the brambles as he walked. Connor said nothing as he followed his friend along the shortcut to the pastures. He was still trying to think of what the priest had said, and to wonder why he had come and how long he would stay.
Sunlight shone through the clouds as the two emerged from the trees. The sheep were where they had left them, as if they had taken no notice that their shepherds had temporarily abandoned them. The beasts cropped methodically at the thick grass of the steep hillside. Mannus was relieved as Connor confirmed his head count. If any of the sheep had been lost or taken while he had left, then he would have received a thrashing when his father found out. He sat down on the gray rock wall that was just dry enough now.
Connor joined him and looked up at the sky. He closed his eyes and felt the warmth of the light on his face. The day was waning on, and the warmest part was over. Before long it would be time to work their way back with the herd.
“Tell a story,” Mannus said.
&
nbsp; “What would you hear?” Connor answered. He knew all the stories – Jonah and the Great Fish, David and the Giant, the three men in the furnace, Moses in the Wilderness – Dervel, Cumragh, and Keagan had taught him all of them. He even knew the less interesting stories – for Dervel always talked a long time about some detail or other in these. Of course, Mannus did not want to hear about Nehemiah and the Wall, or Ruth and Boaz, or Jacob and the Well.
“I want to hear about Cu Challain,” Mannus said. “I want to hear about the battle with Queen Maeve and the armies of Conacht.”
“Dervel and Cumragh say that I should tell the holy stories more,” Connor said, but his smile conveyed little conviction. In truth, especially on a day like today, he did not want to tell short stories about man and his dependence on God. He wanted to tell sagas of fate and bravery; of the heroes that could put a thousand enemies to flight, and who inspired the devotion of beautiful queens; men who struggled against a world full of mystery and magic and subdued it with their strength and their cunning. These were the old stories; and they could not just be told, they had to be sung with a clear voice in moving rhythm. Dervel had taught him a few, though Cumragh said they were merely Pagan. But most he had learned from a few old men, or had overheard as the villagers celebrated Samhain, Beltane, Imbolc, or Lughnasadh.
Connor stood up again and took a deep breath. He sounded his voice in a clear note that seemed to ring over the hillside. The rhythm emerged from the melody, echoed by the cut of the verse and the percussive rolling of vocal ornamentation. The stage was set and the story began.
“You’re a rare singer, Connor,” Mannus mused aloud. “I think your father must have been a bard, or a druid.”
Connor did not pause to take in Mannus’ words. His own voice was carrying him far away. It was not only the words of the tale, or the sound of the song, but the bursting of creativity that fully engaged his mind – for he never told the tale the same way twice, but followed the music wherever it wanted to go.
The Songs of Slaves Page 1
