Patrick: Son of Ireland

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  We dined sumptuously and well on wild duck and peppered venison, quails’ eggs, trout, wine, thick barley bread, and sweet butter—the best food, I am sure, the garrison could offer. While I ate, I listened as Columella explained his plans.

  “Since the hiatus the senate has become increasingly concerned with the defense of Rome. I have long argued that the best way to defend Rome—indeed, the whole of the southern empire—is to build up the border garrisons, restore them to total fighting capacity.” He frowned. “The senators resist, of course.”

  “Why?” I wondered. From the little I had seen, it seemed an eminently sensible strategy to me.

  “It costs too much. To pay for it they would have to divert tax revenue from domestic projects—which they are loath to do.”

  “Until the Vandals come beating down the gates,” said Tullius.

  “Precisely,” affirmed Columella. “But now we have a chance to make them see sense at last. This most recent attack has provided me with just the lever I need to move a very stubborn senate.”

  “Attack?” I said. “But it was a massacre.”

  “Unfortunately, yes. And again unfortunately, the senate responds to catastrophe where they will not respond to triumph.”

  I glanced at Rufus, who was chewing his food thoughtfully. “I am not sure I understand,” I said.

  “It is perverse, I agree,” replied the vicarius blithely, “but true nonetheless.”

  “Give them a victory,” Tullius said, “and they cut the levy, disband legions, make commanders into senators and swiftly force them to retire.”

  “Ah, but give them a ripe disaster, an insufferable catastrophe—a massacre,” declared Columella, “and the senate will loosen the purse strings wonderfully.”

  His merry, almost gleeful analysis produced a rotten taste in my mouth. I had seen good men slaughtered on the battlefield, and he made a low political game of their unfortunate sacrifice.

  “The greater the disaster,” offered the tribune in a wry croak, “the more money flowing from the treasury.”

  “I see.”

  Vicarius Columella eyed me over the rim of his cup. “You disapprove.”

  “I suppose the memory of the slaughter is still too fresh in my mind to allow me to credit it as anything but an utter tragedy for the men who paid for the blunder with their lives.”

  Columella’s smile narrowed, becoming sly. “You will most definitely do, Centurion,” he breathed softly.

  Before I could ask what he meant, he turned to Tullius and said, “You see? I told you he was unimpressed with the trappings of rank and authority.” To me he said, “You will be a most excellent advocate for the beleaguered legions.”

  I glanced at Rufus, whose vacant expression confirmed that he knew less about this than I did. “How is that?” I asked.

  “Succat,” said the vicarius, leaning over to pour more wine into my cup, “I want you to come to Rome with me. I want you to stand before the senate and tell them what happened here. I want you to speak up for the men who gave their lives on the battlefield.”

  I stared at him. “You want me to convince the senate in Rome to give you money.”

  “For the garrisons, yes. I want you to help me convince a selfish and skeptical senate of the very real need and of the cost their dithering extorts in the lives of soldiers, the continuous weakening of the army, and the defense of the empire.”

  “Forgive me. I have not been a soldier very long, and there is much I do not understand,” I began, “but it seems to me the massacre was due not to lack of money but a mistake of the scouts—a dreadful, appalling mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. No amount of money would have made a difference.”

  “That is a point,” conceded Columella, setting it aside even as he granted it. “But we must not lose sight of the greater purpose and the good that can be achieved. We have been given the opportunity to turn a terrible disaster into a long-term benefit for the very men to whom you demonstrate such admirable loyalty.”

  “Listen to him, soldier,” croaked Tullius.

  “I am listening,” I replied. “Why do you want me?”

  “Because you, Succat, have experienced the horrors which the lack of adequate defense can bring: first as a patrician youth carried off into slavery by the Irish and now as a soldier on the battlefield.” Columella nodded sagely. “Oh, they will listen to you,” he declared. “They will listen, and they will act. I have gone before them to argue this matter on so many occasions that they no longer hear a word I say. Yet”—he held up a hand to prevent any objection I might make—“let a young man of your obvious character come before them to tell what it was like to live as a slave among barbarians, and how it feels to face screaming Goth and Saecsen warriors in battle, to fight for your life and survive—”

  “Survivor of a massacre,” added Tullius, “savior of the vicarius. They will listen to you, son.”

  “Let you stand before them and relate the fearful cost of keeping the barbarians at bay and they will listen. They will listen, and the money will flow.” Columella smiled, bending the full force of his persuasive powers upon me. “You see, my friend? I am placing in your hands the chance to help your fellow soldiers more than you can imagine. What do you say?”

  “I am flattered that you think so highly of me, Vicarius,” I replied. “Even so, I cannot see what difference it makes what I think. I am a soldier, and yours to command.”

  “Then it is done,” concluded Tullius bluntly.

  We finished our meal, and as we prepared to leave, the tribune called Rufus to him and the two exchanged a brief word. “Well, it looks like I am going to Rome whether I like it or not,” I muttered as we stepped into the yard once more.

  “What is so bad about going to Rome? We used to talk about it all the time! ‘One day we’ll go and plunder the sights of Rome,’ we said—remember? Well, here is our chance.”

  “We?” I said. “You would come with me?”

  “Try to keep me away.”

  “Was that what the tribune told you before we left just now?”

  “He said the vicarius would require a cohort to travel with him and asked if I would care to undertake that duty.”

  “Well,” I replied tartly, “far be it from me to prevent you from realizing your great ambition to plunder the sights of Rome.”

  “The vicarius honors you highly,” Rufus insisted. “Why this reluctance? Is it stubbornness, or pride? What’s wrong with you, Succat?”

  “Call me stubborn and proud if you will,” I snapped, “but the thought of using the sacrifice of those dead men to further the political aims of an overambitious gadfly turns my stomach.”

  “Is that what you think? Let me tell you something: Whether you go to Rome or not, those soldiers will still be dead. Nothing can change what happened in that forest. But, as Vicarius Columella has said, you have the power to make something good come of it.”

  “So, it comes down to money.”

  “Yes, Succat, sooner or later everything comes down to money. And yes, the vicarius is a crass, self-serving opportunist whose political ambition raises a stench you can smell a mile away. But he is also the principal benefactor and protector of the northern army. He has fought long and hard to secure the money we need—money for supplies and arms, money to pay the legions and recruit new soldiers, money to pay tribute to the tribes who can be bought off so we can spend important resources elsewhere. The army is a beast that thrives on money, Succat. Never forget it.”

  He paused, glaring at me with exasperation, then added. “Besides, if we had had more money to pay the bribes, the scouts might have been better informed and the massacre might have been avoided.”

  So this, I thought, must be what General Septimus meant when he told the vicarius to “fight for us in Rome.” Even as he stood facing annihilation by the barbarians, he appealed to the need. If the general recognized the supreme importance of the Vicarius Columella’s mission, could I, who had sworn to obey my comm
ander with my life, do less than give it my complete and unqualified support?

  The realization shamed me. “Very well,” I said, “let us carry the battle to Rome and see if we can win a flood of wealth for the northern army.”

  As we were to leave for Turonum the next day, Rufus set about assembling a suitable bodyguard of soldiers to travel with us. Meanwhile, Tribune Tullius ordered the procurement horses and provisions, and I was given leave to see to my affairs. This occupied me for as long as it took to walk back to the barracks. I lay down for a nap and it was late in the day when I emerged once more. I was standing outside the door of the barracks when two legionaries approached and hailed me. “We heard you last night,” one of them said. “We would be honored if you would share a jar with us.”

  As I had nothing else to do, I consented. Cassius was opening the door of the inn when we arrived. “Here now! Magonus Succat, hail and welcome! Come in, my friends. Sit down, and I will bring the wine.” We followed him in and sat at one of the tables.

  “The first jar of the day,” called Cassius, reappearing a few moments later. “A good omen, I think, that the hero of the legion should be my first guest. Therefore, my friends, I shall bear the cost of this jar myself.” He filled the cups and handed one to me, saying, “Drink! Drink, and may the gods favor him who favors you!”

  We drank and talked, and I recited again what I knew of the battle; after a while more soldiers came, we drank, and I told it all again. I was on the point of yet another recital when Rufus came looking for me. “We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow,” he said, pulling me away from the table. “You should get some rest.”

  “Whatever you say, wise counselor!” I cried. To those gathered around the table, I declared, “See here! This is Licinius Severus Rufus, Centurion of the Northern Army and dearest friend of my youth! I drink to you, Rufus, my friend. We all drink to you! Here, have some wine.”

  “Thank you, but I think you’ve had enough. It is time to leave.” The others raised a protest at my departure, but Rufus remained adamant. He apologized to them for taking me away even as he pulled me from the table.

  He led me out into the cool air of a clear, fresh night. “Why the hurry?” I demanded. “Is Rome on fire?”

  I laughed at my own jest, but Rufus remained unmoved. “You are drunk,” he said.

  “I suppose I am,” I reflected. “But I like it.”

  “Well, you will not like it so much tomorrow when the sun beats down on your aching head and your dry mouth feels like the bottom of your boot.”

  “Come, Rufus, let us have a drink together. Like old times.”

  “No more drinking tonight,” he replied firmly. “You should eat something instead—it will settle your stomach. And then you are going to get some sleep. We depart at dawn.”

  “I hear and obey, my commander!” I laughed again and thought how many times I had pulled him from the table after a night’s drinking with Scipio and Julian. We passed through the gate and made our way to the barracks.

  “Scipio is in Rome, you know,” I told him as he led me to my bare room.

  “I know. Take off your belt and boots.”

  “We can see him when we get to Rome.”

  “Very likely.” He helped me unbuckle my belt, rolled it up, and put it on the floor beside my bed.

  “And Julian is in Turonum,” I said. “We can see him, too.”

  “It is possible—although we will not be there very long.”

  “He—you know Julian?”

  “Yes, of course I know him.” He stooped and began untying my boots. “Lift your foot.”

  “Julian is a priest—a very priest of the very church.”

  “So I have heard.” He removed my boot. “Now lift your other foot.”

  “A priest is Julian,” I declared loudly, “and a finer priest you never will see. Amen.”

  “Stay here and be quiet,” he instructed, sitting me down on the bed. “I’ll go find you something to eat.”

  I was asleep when he returned, but I awoke the next morning to find a wooden bowl containing fish and bread on the floor next to my bed. Still stiff from the battle, I forced my aching body to rise, and took up the bowl of food. Rufus appeared as I was finishing the last morsel of fish. He carried a basin of water in which I could wash. “Good,” he said, seeing that I was awake. “Are you ready to ride?”

  “I am as you find me,” I said. The sound of my voice made my head throb. I groaned and lay back on the bed once more.

  “Up with you now. Put on your belt and boots and come to the parade ground. The vicarius is anxious for an early start, but I will wait to summon him until you have joined us.”

  He left me to wash my face and lace up my boots. I then took up my pallium, folded it carefully, and draped it over my shoulder, then buckled my belt, drawing the wide leather band around the two ends of the cloak as well, securing it for the long ride ahead. Then I went out and joined Rufus and the other soldiers waiting for the vicarius.

  The sun was barely risen. There was no one about. The traveling party was assembled and ready to depart—Rufus and ten soldiers: eight mounted and two driving a covered wagon loaded with provisions. The horse I had named Boreas was saddled and waiting for me. As I joined the company, Rufus sent one of the men to notify the vicarius that all was ready.

  Columella and Tribune Tullius emerged from the commander’s house a few moments later. The vicarius’ horse was led to the mounting block and held there while the vicarius eased himself into the saddle. “Farewell, Tullius,” he said, taking up the reins. “Give Commander Faustio my best regards when he returns. Tell him I would like to have stayed longer, but time was pressing and my errand could not wait.”

  “I will tell him,” the tribune replied. “Farewell, Vicarius—until next time.”

  “Until next time.” The vicarius raised his hand and gestured to Rufus, who called the order.

  “Be mounted!” he cried, his voice ringing over the empty parade ground. We swung into our saddles, took up our reins, and rode in a double column from the yard, through the garrison gates, and out onto the road.

  We were still in sight of Banna when we met two legionaries galloping for the fortress. The vicarius hailed them, and they reined up when they saw who it was that addressed them. “We come from Duces Faustio,” one of the riders said.

  “What news?” asked Columella.

  “The rescue was not successful,” replied the rider. “The fighting was over by the time we reached the battlefield. The enemy left no survivors, and the vexillum of the legion has been lost.”

  Columella thanked the messengers and sent them on their way to inform the garrison. We journeyed on, secure in the knowledge that the catastrophe was utter and complete. The vicarius would have a genuine, unmitigated disaster to lay before the senators’ feet.

  FORTY-FIVE

  CAESARODUNUM TURONUM SEEMED A world away from the vile butchery of the dark northern forests. A lazy, quiet contentment hung over the city and the sun-soaked fields of the farmers along the riverbank. As we rode through the streets of the town, I regarded the complacency of the locals with disgust.

  I saw two women standing before a merchant arguing over a bit of cloth one insisted had been sold to her. “He took my money!” she shrilled. “I want my cloth.” The other countered, “Not so! It is mine. Let go!”

  A few steps away a man remonstrated with a neighbor for trading in rancid meal. The accused loudly denied the charge and called upon passersby to verify the undeniable quality of his goods.

  I almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. Ten days’ march from where these squabbling citizens stood, a maelstrom of death and devastation gathered force. There was no safety, no protection, nothing to prevent the horror from crashing down on their unthinking heads. Even so, they conducted their daily business with the usual dull malfeasance: lying, gossiping, cheating one another, squabbling over bits and scraps like rats on a dung heap.

  “L
ook at them,” I muttered, “the imbeciles.”

  Rufus eyed me dubiously but said nothing.

  “Do they not know what awaits them?”

  “How should they know?” he asked. “Do you?”

  When I refused to acknowledge his gibe, he said, “What ails you, Succat? You grow more sullen and pigheaded by the day.”

  “I would not expect you to understand,” I replied darkly.

  “No?” he challenged. “I have fought barbarians before. I have seen men slain in battle. I have marched out with good friends who never came back.” He blew air through his nose derisively. “I think I can understand whatever it is that has you twisting in its grip.”

  It was no use talking to him when he became contentious—he, I remembered, had always been this way—so I made no further comment.

  As we soon learned, the vicarius’ entourage was waiting for him in a large villa the vicarius had rented just outside the city. While Columella rode on to the villa, the soldiers of his bodyguard were lodged in the garrison; thus news of the massacre quickly spread through the ranks and into the marketplace and beyond.

  As soon as we had seen our horses properly stabled, Rufus and I went in search of Julian. I had no great wish to see him, but Rufus insisted it would be a fine thing to have three of the old band of four together again. As I had nothing else to do and no wish to be thought awkward, I agreed.

  We found the plump priest at his evening prayers and waited until he finished. “Here!” called Rufus as the clerics filed out of the chapel. “Is that Julian I see hiding in that robe?”

  “Rufus!” exclaimed Julian happily. “It is good to see you again.” To me he said, “It seems as if your search was successful then. Look at the both of you—soldiers of the empire! Who would have thought such a thing possible, eh?”

  “Come,” said Rufus, taking Julian by the arm, “we’re on our way to wash the dust of the road from our throats, and you’re coming with us.”

  We marched directly to the inn nearest the garrison.

  “Well, I can see you’re no better a judge of taverns than you ever were,” complained Julian, regarding the filthy yard with distaste. The Sly Ox was a low place, even by our much-compromised standards, but it was prized by the soldiers, so, taking a deep breath, we held our noses and went inside.