Patrick: Son of Ireland

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “No doubt they would,” I agreed, “if any of them were still alive.”

  “There is no one? No one at all?”

  I shook my head.

  “A pity.” After a moment he asked, “Who were your parents, and what happened to them?”

  “My father was a nobleman in Britain. We had an estate near the coast. There was a raid, and my parents were killed.”

  “A nobleman, eh?”

  “My father was, yes.”

  “So be it! Henceforth you shall be recognized as a knight of the empire.” He nodded to himself, as if, having nailed down another loose tile, he was trying to decide what to hammer next. “Could you not have taken over the estate?”

  “I flatter myself to think so,” I granted. “Unfortunately, I was taken captive during the raid and sold as a slave in Hibernia. I lived there for seven years. By the time I returned, the estate had been declared abandoned and sold by the governor to someone else.”

  Vicarius Columella professed to find this tale fascinating, so I gave him a much-reduced version of the events which had led me to enroll as a mercenary in the Gaulish auxiliary. I finished, saying, “I had heard that a friend of mine, a Briton from near my home, was stationed at Augusta Treverorum. I decided to try to find him.”

  “And did you find him?”

  “No.” I shrugged. “He must have been sent elsewhere.”

  “Most probably he is not far away. I will find him for you.”

  The vicarius, despite his superior ways, was not a disagreeable companion. The sun burned through the low-hanging clouds, and the day cleared. We reached the river, where I paused to see if any barbarians were patrolling the shores. I saw no one, so I proceeded to water the horse. Columella dismounted and knelt to drink his fill. I drank, too, and when I finished, I started down the bank, leading the horse into the water. The vicarius hesitated. I looked back to see him still standing at the water’s edge.

  “I cannot swim,” he said.

  “Then mount up,” I said, bringing the horse to him. “Keep your saddle and let Boreas here carry you.”

  “Boreas?” he wondered. “Why do you call him that?”

  “No reason.”

  I waded into the water once more. The river was deep and the current strong, but not, in this part of the channel, too fast. I was able to keep my head up while holding to the reins, and soon my feet touched the river bottom on the far side some little distance from where we had entered.

  “Now,” I said, “to find the way to Banna.”

  “Do you know the place?”

  “I know that it lies to the west.”

  “That way,” Columella pointed out the direction.

  “The road follows the river,” I told him, “so if we continue straight ahead, we should strike it a little farther to the south.”

  “Lead on,” said the vicarius. “I submit to your wise counsel.”

  Thus we proceeded—Columella mounted and myself afoot. Keeping the river to my back, I soon gained the road and turned toward the west. We had not gone far when we reached a mile marker. “What does it say?” asked the vicarius as I hurried to read the inscription.

  “Eight miles,” I replied.

  “Come.” He put down a hand to help me up. “Walking is too slow. If we ride, we can still reach the fortress before the sun goes down.”

  “We can reach it even more quickly,” I suggested, “if only one rides. You ride on ahead and alert the garrison. I will follow on foot. If you hurry, the troops can be across the river before dark.”

  The vicarius agreed. “I will send a horse for you.” With a slap of the reins, he was gone.

  I resumed my journey. The sun was moving past midday, and the air grew warmer. As my clothes slowly dried, an immense exhaustion settled over me. My body began to ache, and my muscles stiffened. I walked on, but my steps soon dragged. Bone weary, I wanted nothing more than to close my eyes for a while. When I came to the third milestone, I stopped and sat down on the base of the plinth. The moment I closed my eyes, however, my mind filled with the frenzied, chaotic images of battle: the carnage…the killing…the terrible, furious excitement.

  Strange to say, I felt nothing for my part in it—neither fear, nor relief, nor remorse, nor exultation, nor anything else. Had I been hollowed out and stuffed with dry straw, the events of the last two days would no doubt have roused more passion in me.

  Although they had tried to kill me, I did not hate the enemy. I hated the futility more—the needless waste. I thought of poor Quintus, lying there with an arrow through his throat: dead, having given his life for no particular purpose—the acquisition of a few barbarian baubles, nothing more; and he did not even get any good plunder before his life was taken from him. I thought of the others in our numerus, of Varro and Pallio, and wondered if I would ever see them again. It did not seem likely. The legion, I reckoned, would most likely have been overwhelmed soon after we left them. It would be a miracle if any survived, and, as I had long ago discovered, such things as miracles did not exist.

  When I stirred myself from this dismal reverie, I saw that the sun was now dropping close to the horizon. I would not reach the garrison until well after dark. As tired as I was, the thought of spending the night alone in the ditch beside the road held no appeal. I rose onto stiff legs and stumped off once more.

  I passed another milestone and had a fifth in sight when I heard the sound of horses on the road ahead. Only then did I realize I had sent my only weapon away with Columella. Darting off the road, I hid myself in a clump of bracken beneath two tall pine trees.

  The horses came nearer. Soon I could hear the voices of the men as they rode along; though I could not make out the words, I caught the familiar cadence of their speech. I could not imagine any Goth or Hun speaking Latin, so as they passed, I peered out from my hiding place to see who they might be.

  I saw five armed soldiers on horseback, their weapons red in the lowering light. One of them held the reins of a riderless horse. They halted at the mile marker, and the foremost among them dismounted to examine the tracks in the road. “He came this way,” he called to the others, then looked into the surrounding wood. “He was here.”

  The others began looking around, too, and the mounted leader of the group abruptly shouted: “Succat!”

  Startled to hear my name, it took a moment before I understood they were looking for me.

  “Succat, if you can hear me, come out!”

  At this I rose from the bracken and stepped out upon the road behind them. “I am Succat. Who calls?”

  All five turned to look at me. The leader wheeled his horse and trotted to where I stood. “Succat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you not recognize an old friend when you see one?”

  I confess I did not. He was large and dark, his face leaner, harder, his body thicker than when I had last seen him. He sat his horse with the superiority of a general, looking down at me with vague curiosity. Then he smiled, and the expression was his own.

  “Rufus?”

  “Licinius Severus Rufus and none other,” he said, the smile spreading into a wide, handsome grin. Sliding down from his horse, he stepped before me, gazed into my eyes, and then gathered me in a rough embrace. “By the gods’ own balls, Succat, I never thought to see you again,” he said, clapping me on the back. Then, holding me away again, he said, “But look at you now, my friend, you look like you’ve been wallowing with pigs all day.”

  “I have been fighting barbarians,” I replied, beaming with complete and absolute delight. Tears came to my eyes as relief and happiness flooded through me in rippling waves.

  “You’re meant to spear them,” suggested one of the soldiers, “not wrestle them into submission.”

  “We were ambushed,” I explained, pushing the tears away with the back of my hand. “The legion was slaughtered.”

  “I know,” Rufus replied, growing serious again. “Vicarius Columella raised the alarm. Messengers have gon
e out, and the ala is hastening to rescue any survivors. The vicarius requested volunteers to come find you. When I heard your name, I had to come and see if it was my old friend.”

  He hugged me again, then put his arm around my shoulder and walked me to my horse. Rufus motioned to the soldier who had dismounted, and they both helped me into the saddle. Tired as I was, I accepted this small service gratefully. Once I was mounted, Rufus passed me his waterskin. “It is water only, but drink your fill. There is good beer waiting at the garrison—and a hot meal,” he said, climbing back onto his mount. “If you are ready to ride, we’ll soon be raising our cups to one another over the board.”

  “Like old times,” I echoed, grinning so wide my cheeks ached.

  I was conducted to the Banna garrison—slightly larger than the one at Augusta Treverorum but surrounded with the same attendant clutter of mean houses, inns, bathhouses, fields, and cattle pens. We dismounted in a near-deserted yard inside the walls; Rufus sent one of his subordinates to report the successful completion of his mission. Meanwhile I was conducted to the legion’s bathhouse, where after a scrub and soak in the hot room and an issue of clean clothes, Rufus took me off to the taverna where the soldiers of Legio XXII Pia Fidelis spent a considerable amount of time. It was a small inn, with low ceilings and cramped rooms, but the tables were big and friendly, as was the master, a wily veteran of twenty-eight years’ service to the empire.

  “Cassius!” cried Rufus, leading me into a room already filled with soldiers. “Cassius, this is my friend, Succat. I have not seen him for fifty years! So bring the cups and keep the jars overflowing. Tonight we mean to drink our fill.”

  “I hear you, Centurion!” replied the owner, hurrying away to fetch the jars. “To hear is to obey.”

  A group of soldiers stood beside the hearth watching a haunch of meat roast on a spit. At Rufus’ declaration one of them turned and regarded me casually. “Are you Succat?”

  “I am.”

  He smiled suddenly. “Let me be the first to pour your beer.”

  He thrust his own cup into my hands and hastily replenished it from a jar, calling to his companions as he poured. “Here, now! This is Succat—survivor of the massacre. He has just—”

  Before he could finish, the others began hailing me and slapping me on the back, sloshing beer over the rim of the cup. “Drink!” they called. “Drink!” Others gathered around and began clamoring, “What news of the battle? Tell us! What happened?”

  That they should know my name astonished me. That they should hail me so amazed me even more.

  “Stand aside,” said Rufus, stepping in quickly. “Drink up, Succat,” he said, “and follow me. I have commandeered some of Cassius’ excellent roast pork.” To the others he said, “You’ll hear all about it, never fear. Just give the man a chance to draw breath.”

  I drank the offered beer; Rufus pushed through the crowd to a table in the center of the room. The others gathered around, jostling for places on the benches and around the board. “Get back,” Rufus said, trying to fend off the encroaching throng. “Give him room.”

  Bowls and cups appeared, and the beer flowed dark and frothy from numerous jars. “They’re saying you’re to be awarded the laurel for valor,” said the man who had given me his cup. “How many barbarians in the attack?” asked another. Before I could reply to either of them, a third soldier asked, “How many kills did you get?”

  Cassius pushed through the crowd bearing plates of bread and chunks of meat, which he banged down on the board before me and, fists on hips, commanded, “Eat up, soldier, and tell me that isn’t the best you’ve ever had.”

  I took up a fat, dripping gobbet, bit into it, and, truth to tell, had never tasted anything half so good in all my life. Now, it might have been merely the fact that I had eaten nothing for several days and was on the point of swooning from hunger, but at that moment I do believe that roast pork was the finest thing I had ever tasted. “Magnificent,” I declared.

  “You heard him, men: magnificent!” crowed Cassius. He tapped the bowl with a greasy finger. “Caesar himself never ate pig to compare. Finish that, and I’ll bring more.” To the men gathered around he shouted, “Clear off! Let a man eat in peace.”

  No one moved away, of course; if anything, they only crowded in closer. In between bites of meat and bowls of beer, I began to relate the disastrous events of the last three days—the fighting, the hiding, the marching though the night, the falling-tree ambush—all of it. Incidents and details came thick and fast; the words tumbling out in a rush. The soldiers called questions, and I answered as I could; those at the front relayed what I said to those behind. Discussions ensued, arguments broke out; men coming late to the inn clamored to know what had happened; others, having heard, repeated the tale I had told for the benefit of their companions. More plates of meat were served, more beer drunk, and the evening sped by in a garrulous tumult.

  When Rufus, the last few soldiers standing, and myself finally tumbled out of the inn, a cockerel in Cassius’ yard crowed to proclaim the coming dawn. We staggered back to the garrison; once inside the gates, Rufus led me to one of the barracks—now mostly empty—where I was given a bed. I collapsed gratefully and closed my eyes. Sleep gathered me in and folded me under.

  I slept long and could have slept far longer—but for Rufus shaking me awake with the news that Vicarius Columella demanded to see me at once.

  FORTY-FOUR

  RUFUS LED ME to the cohorts’ small bathhouse so I could wash and revive myself. To make me look more like a soldier, he gave me the red pallium, or short cloak, of a legionary, and showed me how to fold it over my shoulder. He fastened a spatha to my belt and then, satisfied with my appearance, marched me to the legion commander’s house, where the vicarius was waiting.

  “Rufus,” I asked as we walked across the parade ground, “why weren’t you in the battle?”

  “I would have been,” he replied, “but I had just led a patrol of six cohorts the day before the legion marched. My division was left behind to guard the garrison.”

  “What will happen now?”

  “Here?” He shrugged. “Nothing much. Troops will be pulled from surrounding garrisons to make up the rosters on the border. There will be recruitment in Gaul and elsewhere. And the barbarians will try to kill as many of us as we kill of them.”

  “Is that all?”

  Rufus shrugged again and looked at me. “But you,” he said, “things will change for you—and very quickly.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re famous, Succat.”

  “Famous!” I scoffed.

  “Truly. Everyone is talking about your triumph and deeds of high valor.”

  “What triumph? It was a disaster.”

  “Ah, but you rescued the vicarius, and you survived. Soldiers like that. We shall all have to call you Magonus from now on and bow when we speak your name.”

  “You make far too much of it,” I told him. “It is over and best forgotten.”

  “It is just beginning. You’ll see.”

  A servant was waiting outside the commander’s house. The moment we arrived, he conducted us inside, calling my name loudly as we went. The vicarius, two of his assistants, the garrison second-in-command, and several servants were waiting for us in the commander’s dining room.

  “Welcome! Hail and welcome!” cried Vicarius Columella, leaping to his feet as we appeared in the doorway. “Come! Come! Join us, my friends. Wine?” He clicked his fingers at a servant standing behind a table spread with dishes of food and jars of drink. “Wake up, Opidus! Bring wine!”

  The vicarius, bathed and shaved and immaculate in his purple-edged white toga and red legionary’s tunic, took me by the arm and steered me to a chair beside his own. “Sit with us, friends. We have much to discuss. Here, Succat, I want you to meet Tribune Tullius, garrison commander in Duces Faustio’s absence.”

  At this the gnarled soldier before me extended a callused hand. “Welcome, Centurion Succat.
Columella has informed me of your courageous deeds.” Dressed in a legionary’s red tunic and leather breastplate, he spoke with the voice of a croaking crow. “I am happy to meet a hero of the legion.”

  “High praise, Tribune Tullius. I did what was before me, nothing more.” Glancing at the vicarius, I added, “I am only glad I could be of service.”

  “Glad to be alive, I should think,” suggested the vicarius. “I have told the tribune of everything. Your quick thinking and bravery saved my life. It will be written up in my report, which will be read out in the senate and presented to the emperor.”

  “There was more luck in it than valor, I assure you,” I replied, growing uncomfortable with the adulation heaped on me. “Anyone would have done the same.”

  “Of course,” agreed the vicarius, dismissing my modesty with an airy wave of his hand, “of course. Sit now. Here is your wine. I drink to you, Succat.”

  They all drank to me, and I drank, too, growing more and more uneasy as the moments passed.

  “You and Centurion Rufus are friends, I understand,” said Tullius. “Both Britons, both noblemen—born in the same town. Extraordinary coincidence.”

  “Not at all, tribune,” countered Rufus. “Succat learned I was at Treverorum and came north looking for me.”

  “I did not know he had been assigned here,” I added.

  “Ah!” said Columella. “I told you I would find him for you. But I must agree with Tribune Tullius. It is extraordinary nonetheless.” He stood abruptly. “Now, then, friends, the food is prepared. Let us dine together, and I will tell you of my plans.” He raised me to my feet and put his arm around my shoulders. “I have great plans for you, Succat, my friend. There is much to tell.”