Patrick

by Stephen R. Lawhead

“How dare you!” he shouted again. “I turn my back for a moment and you take advantage of my generosity, my house and home. You take my only daughter.”

  “I took nothing that was not offered me, my lord Vicarius,” I replied firmly. “I am sorry if it displeases you. But Oriana and I are determined to be married.”

  “Impossible!” he cried. “Her mother will not hear of it. I will not hear of it!”

  All in all, his rage was not as bad as I feared. He ranted and raved, threatening various ingenious punishments, but I stood up to his anger, and eventually he began to calm himself somewhat.

  “Is Oriana to have nothing to say?” I asked.

  “I know only too well what she will say,” he countered. “All her life she has had whatever she wants.”

  “And now she wants me,” I suggested. “And I want her.”

  “Bah!”

  He strode the length of the room, frowning and pulling on his chin. “Lady Columella will never allow her to marry a soldier. She is quite determined, and that is that.”

  “So I am given to understand.” I did not see any way beyond this impasse; soldiering was all I had. This I told him, and then, remembering who I addressed, I added, “Of course, I would not have to remain a soldier forever.”

  His frown turned into a scowl, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What did you say?”

  “I merely point out that I have no great ambition to remain a soldier. I am certain a man of your experience and wisdom could suggest something more suitable for your daughter’s future husband.”

  “You would marry my daughter for selfish gain?” he cried. “I knew it! I knew it!”

  “Oriana told me you married her mother to get the money to advance your career in the senate,” I said.

  “That was different,” he snapped. “That was an arrangement between her father and myself.”

  “Well,” I offered lightly, “perhaps you and I might come to a similar arrangement.”

  His stare grew baleful. “That was different,” he repeated between clenched teeth. “Her mother and I grew to love one another.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, “the only difference is that Oriana and I love each other already.”

  To his credit, angry as he was, Aulus Columella knew when to be gracious and accept defeat. He gave a final, frustrated bark, then sighed, shaking his head with weary reluctance. “I suppose,” he said, “we shall just have to find something for you, then.” Clasping his hands behind his back, he strode a few paces away, then looked back at me. “You are of noble blood—a patrician, I believe.”

  “That is true.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Have you ever considered becoming a senator?”

  “It has long been a family ambition.”

  He nodded again, then smiled suddenly. “By the god who made you, Succat, you are a man after my own heart.” He laughed out loud. “A senator! Well, we will see what we can do.”

  He strode to me, opening his arms wide in welcome. I moved to meet him, and he drew me into his embrace, then put his arm around my shoulder, saying, “Come, my son, let us go and tell the ladies the good news.”

  Lady Columella declared herself pleased and happy with the plan. She welcomed me like a son, kissing me on both cheeks and beaming with satisfaction. Indeed, any reluctance she might have displayed melted away so quickly that I suspected her initial refusal was simply a ruse to get her husband to find a more suitable occupation for me. Oriana was delighted, of course, and instantly began planning the wedding celebration. “We shall have the ceremonies here in the hall.”

  “It will never be big enough,” countered her mother. “We will have them in the courtyard.”

  “Under a canopy!” said Oriana.

  “The Archbishop of Rome will hear the vows….” And with that the wedding was well on its way. Nothing short of a three-day feast would suffice for the aristocracy of Rome. The two women purred and twittered for days over who should be invited and what foods should be served to the guests. The vicarius allowed them to get on with it; his mind returned to a more urgent preoccupation: the senate and the appearance we were to make together. He groomed me for the part I was to play in what he considered the most important speech of his life.

  “The future of the empire could well be determined by how we perform,” he confided. “We must secure enough money to raise new armies and replenish the frontier garrisons. Anything less is a failure I cannot countenance.”

  “I will do my best.”

  “I know you will, Succat. Think! You have it in your power to do with your words far more than you ever could with a sword. They call you Magonus now, soon they will call you Beatus.”

  On the day we were to speak, the vicarius took me to the Praetorian garrison, where I was given the ceremonial uniform of a centurion: a silver breastplate embossed with rearing stallions; a burnished silver helmet adorned with white plumes; the bloodred lacerna, or short cape; high-topped sandals of white leather; a wide leather sword belt with a broad silver buckle; and a short, gold-hilted sword.

  Satisfied with my appearance, the vicarius conducted me to the Curia Julia, where the senators were already gathering. We stood in the forum outside and watched them enter in groups of two and three—and all of them dressed in the distinctive senatorial toga: white with the purple stripe along the edge.

  “They can be intimidating,” Columella warned, “but remember, they are men like us. Speak with boldness and do not swallow your words.” He paused, offering me a smile of encouragement. “Do as we agreed and they will not fail to be moved.”

  The curia is a curved marble hall ringed with stepped ranks of wooden benches. We found places on the lowest row in the center and sat down to wait as more and still more senators streamed through the wide open doors to take their places along the stepped rows. After a time a bell sounded; in a few moments it sounded again, and two armed soldiers entered, leading an elderly official, who proceeded to a chair in the center of the low platform between the doors.

  As soon as the old man was seated, a senator sitting near us stood up. Great of bulk and terrible of mien, he advanced a few paces into the center of the room and declared, “Senators! Friends! It pleases me to see that so many of you have taken the grave import of this summons to heart. I need not tell you that the decisions we make today will have the greatest consequence for the future of our glorious empire, perhaps for many generations to come.”

  To my surprise this assertion was met with catcalls and shouted challenges of disagreement. Clearly the senate was not all of one mind regarding the probable future of the empire. The speaking senator did not appear to mind the disruption. He paused until the worst of the commotion was over, then plowed ahead. “I see that some of you remain unconvinced. Therefore I bring before you the esteemed and honorable Aulus Columella, Vicarius of Gaul and Germania, who has come to offer us a timely word.” Turning to the vicarius, the senator put out his hand and welcomed Columella beside him.

  The two shook hands, and the speaker sat down heavily, like a building settling onto its foundations.

  “Thank you, Senator Graccus,” said the vicarius. “You are right to remind this noble assembly of the importance of the contemplations before us.” Lifting his head to look around the curia, Columella, his voice taking on the timbre of a skilled orator, began. “As some of you will know, I have lived for the last three years in Gaul, looking after the affairs of the Roman state there and in the province of Germania. Early last summer word came to the frontier garrisons that the barbarians were amassing along the border in numbers sufficient to raise the alarm of the generals.

  “When notified of this, I rode to meet General Septimus, commander of Legio XX Valeria Victrix at Augusta Treverorum. Together with the commanders of the nearest garrisons, we held close council to decide our course of action. Following on three years of savage predation by the northern barbarian tribes, it was decided to mass the legions to meet the impending attack and vanquish the p
erpetrators—not merely to defeat them but to destroy both the will to fight and the ability to make war against the citizens of Rome for many years to come.

  “The battle plan was drawn up accordingly: We would meet the enemy with sufficient force to crush them utterly. This campaign would be conducted on the far side of the river, to take them in the forest before they had a chance to wreak havoc on imperial soil. Scouts were sent to spy out the barbarian position and ascertain enemy numbers. Upon their return I gave the order to march. The next day the soldiers of Valeria Victrix crossed the Rhenus and proceeded into the forest, where the enemy forces were already gathering.

  “The first skirmish was fought that day. The barbarians were unready and were easily routed.”

  Here the senators, who had sat in silence while the vicarius spoke, gave out a shout of acclaim. “A victory is always gladly received,” Columella continued. “Moreover, the ease with which we vanquished the enemy exposed the weakness of their position and leadership. In order to put down the invasion before the enemy had time to regroup, we pursued them deeper into the forest. This was but the first of several calamitous blunders.”

  The enormous chamber grew silent. Here the vicarius turned and summoned me. I took my place beside him. “Fellow senators, I present to you the sole surviving legionary of that brutal conflict.” He placed his arm around my shoulders, saying, “If it had not been for this man, I would not be alive to bring you this woeful report today.”

  To me he said, “Centurion, tell them what happened. Tell them what you bore witness to in the days that followed our first victory.”

  As Vicarius Columella stepped away, I looked out on the crowd of faces, all of them interested, observant. My mouth went dry. I swallowed, and then, drawing myself up, I straightened my shoulders and began to tell what I had seen during those last dreadful days.

  “General Septimus gave the order to pursue the barbarians…,” I began.

  Instantly this was met by a voice shouting, “We already know that! Get on with it!”

  I had not expected to be shouted down, and it threw me off my stride. The words of my prepared speech left me, and I stared out at the impatient crowd. “Get on!” shouted another.

  Any hope of recovering my speech vanished. I swallowed and began once more, speaking simply as the words came to me. “I was an auxiliary. The garrison commander cannot afford to pay full wages to an entire legion of regular soldiers, so he makes up the numbers by hiring mercenaries who will fight for the plunder they can get on the battlefield. I joined a numerus under the command of a veteran named Quintus.

  “During the first skirmish we formed a protecting wing to guard the legion’s flank. General Septimus’ troops were to pose as the main attacking force, to offer a feint to the enemy and thereby draw them from their encampment and allow Legio Gemina and Legio Pia Fidelis to close in behind and seal off any retreat or escape.

  “This feint was offered, and it was successful. We fell back to the river, which was the signal for the waiting legions to attack the enemy encampment from the rear. When the counterattack failed to commence, we endured the brunt of the barbarian assault as long as we could. In the end, however, we were forced to regroup and push away from the river. Despite fierce opposition, we opened a way through the enemy ranks. When the barbarians ran, we followed the pursuit into the forest, sealing off any escape and pushing them into the waiting spears of Legio Gemina, which had taken a position well behind the enemy. All that first day we marched, engaging the barbarians as and when we came upon them—until we reached the enemy camp, which we destroyed.”

  This brought a rousing cheer from the assembled senators, which eased my trepidation somewhat. “Unfortunately, the enemy which had fled before us quickly circled around and was now behind us. General Septimus decided to push on and unite with the Gemina. All through the day we fought a running battle with the barbarians and finally succeeded in reaching the Gemina, which was surrounded by a host of barbarians greater in number than we had yet encountered.

  “General Septimus, showing outstanding courage and determination, forced a way through the massed enemy to rescue Legio Gemina. Through dint of strength and discipline, we cut a path through Goth and Hun and Saecsen flesh—”

  The senators liked this; they hooted in jubilation.

  “—and achieved our purpose. The two legions were united. But then so was the enemy—and their numbers were far the greater. Our commanders formed the shield wall, and we stood as wave after wave of barbarians broke themselves upon our blades.

  “Day’s end found us deep in the forest. With darkness upon us we moved out, heading west in the direction of the Fidelis. We marched through the night. We met no resistance; neither did we meet the missing legion.”

  My voice fell as the images of that dire morning came once more before my mind’s eye.

  “As the sun rose, I saw that the ground where I stood was covered with the corpses of slaughtered legionaries. Everywhere I gazed…dead and still more dead. As I looked, I saw that the heads of the soldiers had been cut off and nailed to the trees. Each and every tree bore the bloody skull of a soldier.

  “We followed the trail, and came to the place where the main body of the legion had made its last stand. Here the dead were heaped on one another, and all were stripped of their armor and weapons. None survived the ambush. An entire legion had been slaughtered.

  “Lest we join them, General Septimus commanded the troops to move on. Alas, the command came too late. No sooner had we turned from the sight than arrows began raining down on us. We ran for the cover of the trees—only to see the forest rise up against us.

  “Using horses taken from our own auxiliaries, the enemy rode over us, scattering the cohorts and cutting us down. General Septimus rallied the men to the vexillum.

  “I ran to join them but was cut off by a barbarian horseman. In my desperation I succeeded in unhorsing the rider. I took the horse and cut a path to General Septimus, trying to open a way to retreat. The general would not hear of it. He bade me to take Vicarius Columella onto my horse and ride for the river instead.

  “Once across the river the vicarius and I made our way to the nearest garrison, where we raised the alarm. The troops went out at once, but it was too late. By the time they reached the battleground, the fighting was over. Not one Roman soldier remained alive.” I looked out at the anguished faces of the senators. “Three legions…nine thousand soldiers, and not one of them survived.”

  I finished to silence.

  The vicarius allowed the silence to hang in the air. Then, rising slowly, he came to stand beside me. “Centurion Magonus,” he said, “were the standards of the legions recovered?”

  “No, my lord, the standards were lost.”

  Turning sad eyes to the assembly, Columella said, “Three legions have been destroyed and the standards lost.” Stepping into the center of the chamber, he raised his voice. Why? Why, you ask yourselves, has this catastrophe come about?” He took another step. “Perhaps they were merely unlucky. The barbarians were more cunning than they knew. Ambushed and outnumbered—the outcome was inevitable.

  “Perhaps the generals were inexperienced and the troops—untrained, untried, and unready—were simply overpowered by a superior force. Or perhaps the choice of battleground favored the enemy and hindered the legions; this, combined with foul weather, produced a series of calamities which, piled one atop another, could not be overcome.

  “Which of these explanations will you present when called upon to answer for this tragic failure?” He spread his hands as if seeking an answer to the questions he had posed. “For you will be called to account for it, my esteemed friends.”

  This assertion was answered at once. “You seek to lay the blame for this catastrophe at our feet?” said an aging senator, rising from his place across the room.

  The vicarius was ready with his response. “I place the blame where it must lie if a remedy is to be effected. The failure is ours, est
eemed friends, and ours alone.”

  “That I sincerely doubt,” replied the old man, who promptly sat down.

  Lifting his gaze to the rest of the chamber, the vicarius paused to consider his reply. “I sense that many of you yet cling to doubts over who should bear the brunt of the blame for this disaster. So let us consider the possibilities: Were the legions unlucky?

  “No. We must reject this suggestion out of hand. An individual soldier may be unlucky. A cohort, or even a division, may in the confusion of battle make a blunder that leads to destruction. But three legions of Roman soldiers are proof against any eventuality in the field; three legions are more than enough to overbalance the vicissitudes of chance.

  “Were the generals inexperienced and the troops untried? Again I say no. General Sentius Septimus was the most experienced commander in Gaul, with fifteen years of service on the northern frontier alone and countless victories to his credit. His skill was unquestioned. General Paulus and General Flavia were equally seasoned combat veterans. Flavia served for ten years under Septimus before taking command of the Pia Fidelis. Each of these generals, like all the commanders of the border garrisons, knew their men and knew the enemy. Thus we must look elsewhere for the fault.

  “Lastly, was the battleground ill chosen? Were the elements against them? It is true that the forests of Germania have long been a bane to the legions. But the northern troops are well used to woodland combat, and the commanders know how to turn it to their advantage. The weather, too, posed no undue difficulties. There was some rain, yes, but not on the day of battle and not enough to overpower the combined might of three entire legions.”

  He paused to pace slowly along the rows of seated senators. Then, shaking his head, he said, “You can see that the cause of the disaster lies not with the commanders and the brave dead but with us.”

  This assertion did not go unchallenged. “Why implicate this august body in what by any account is simply a most lamentable tragedy?”

  Murmurs of support rippled through the assembly.

  The vicarius drew himself up. “‘Lamentable tragedy,’ you say, and so it is. ‘Simply,’ did you say?” He glared at the speaker. “Senator, there is nothing simple about it—unless you suggest that the failure of this assembly to authorize the necessary payments from the treasury to enable the legions to man and maintain northern garrisons is in some way a simple matter.”