I told him of sitting on the hillside watching the blue winter shadows creep across the valley and listening to the sheep bleat as the shepherd led them to the enclosure for the night. I described the taste of honey mead in the cup, the smell of peat smoke on the evening air, and the soul-stirring sound of a bard’s voice lifted in song. I told of watching the summer stars wheel slowly through the heavens, trailing a deep, fathomless peace in their wake.
As I spoke, other memories crowded in, too: the savage beatings, the aching hunger, the filth. I remembered picking lice from my tangled hair, walking barefoot in the snow, and eating maggoty meat because there was nothing else. No, all was not harmony and bliss in Éire—and yet…there was something more, something I could not name. Against all reason I was being drawn back to the place I had suffered my greatest humiliation, endured the cruelest hardship, and which I had striven so mightily to leave. But the force drawing me back was greater than myself and more powerful than my own volition; it had placed within me an urge so enormous that it dwarfed all reason and reduced all argument to silence. I was compelled to go.
This I explained to Graccus, too. The aged senator listened without comment or interruption. When I finished at last, he sat quietly for a time, his kindly eyes searching my face. Finally he drew a long, reluctant breath and said, “Anyone so desperate to part with his inheritance will certainly fall afoul of someone less scrupulous than I.”
“You’ll help me?”
“Mind, you may not find it all as you remember it, but I see now why you must go. Yes, I suppose I will have to help you.”
I thanked him and praised his kindness and liberality. “Not at all,” he said. “I do not do it for you. I do it for myself, and I am not so generous as you think. I mean to extract a vow from you.”
“Anything,” I agreed. “What is it?”
“Only this: that if you do not find what you seek in Ireland, you will come back to Rome and allow me to establish you here.”
“You have my solemn promise,” I said. “Thank you, Graccus. You are a true friend.” In a fit of exuberance, I leaped to my feet, seized him by the shoulders, and hugged him.
“That will suffice, Succat,” he said, pushing himself away. “Now, sit down, and I’ll tell you what I intend.” He waved me back to my seat and poured more wine, saying, “What if I were to advance you the hundred thousand against the eventual sale of the property—would that be agreeable to you? When the house sold, I would naturally deduct the advance from the total and send you the rest.” He raised the cup to his lips and sipped, watching me over the rim. “Well? What do you say to that?”
“Agreed!” I shouted, jumping to my feet again. “But you must be paid for your efforts. You say the house is worth seven hundred thousand, yes?”
He nodded. “If not far more.”
“Then anything over five hundred thousand is yours to keep. That is my final offer, Graccus. Take it or leave it.”
“I accept.”
The documents were drawn up and signed that very night. At Graccus’ insistence we celebrated with roast suckling pig, and the next day he took me down into the storeroom beneath his house, opened his strongbox, and brought out the required amount. The gold coins were counted into leather bags, and these in turn were placed in a small, ironbound chest. “Take an old man’s advice,” he said, “and keep enough money with you to satisfy any thieves, but under no circumstances let on that you have more in the chest. It would be more than your life was worth if anyone guessed how much you carried.”
“Thank you, my friend,” I said. “You have helped me far more than you know.”
I tried to say farewell then and there, but he insisted on accompanying me to Neapolis to see me safely aboard the ship. Thus we traveled the next day to the seaport with a guard of two Praetorian soldiers. It was a pleasant ride, and when we arrived at the wharf, I was sorry to see it end. We dismounted, and as the strongbox—safely hidden among my other belongings—was carried aboard, I turned to take my leave of the old senator.
“I will miss you, Graccus,” I said, and thanked him once again for all he had done on my behalf.
He waved aside my thanks. “It is nothing. I stand to make a considerable amount out of our arrangement. Anyway, you will see me again—perhaps before another year is out.”
“How so?”
“Five hundred thousand in gold is too great a temptation to place before anyone, not least a ship’s greedy crew.”
“Then just keep it,” I offered.
“I will do no such thing,” he sniffed. “I will bring it to you myself.”
“Hibernia is a long way from Rome,” I warned.
“I have often wondered what it would be like to travel beyond the frontier. This will give me a chance to find out at last.”
He embraced me then and said, “Farewell, Succat, my son. I hope you find the happiness you seek.”
“When you come, ask someone to lead you to Lord Miliucc in the Vale of Braghad,” I said. “I will not be far from there, I think.”
I made my way onto the deck then, and in a little while the master threw a line to one the smaller rowboats and the crewmen began towing the ship out into the bay. I stood at the rail and watched until the encircling arm of the coast took Graccus from view. I then turned my face to the west and to the journey ahead.
That night I slept on deck beneath the star-clouded heavens and dreamed of Ireland. In my dream I held the parchment letter and heard the voices calling me once more. “Come, noble boy,” they said, “walk among us again.”
Only this time the word they used was Patricius—the name given me by the monk Pelagius. This so surprised me that I came awake with a start—as if someone had called my name. But there was no one about, and all was quiet save for the softly lapping waves against the hull of the ship.
Patricius…I heard in the name a sound like thunder a long way off. It filled me with a strange and wonderful anticipation. I lay on deck beneath the stars, watching the inscrutable heavens and wondering what it meant.
FIFTY-SEVEN
THE VOYAGE TO Éire was not as smooth or tranquil as I had hoped. Three days out from Neapolis, the ship’s steering oar snapped; repairs were attempted, each as useless as the last, and after drifting with the wind for several days, we were rescued by a passing fishing boat and towed to the port at Marsalla. I waited four days while the ship’s master tried to find a suitable replacement; when he informed me it would have to be made anew and that this could likely take a month or more, I decided to search for another ship. Within the week I found a vessel bound for Britain and induced the ship’s master to convey me to Hibernia, promising an abundance of trade among the Irish, of whom he knew nothing.
We departed two weeks later and made good time until passing the Straits of Hercules, where, once beyond the famed pillars, we encountered a storm that hurled rain upon us in a seemingly never-ending deluge. The pilot could find no safe harbor and did not care to chance an unknown cove or bay, so we had no choice but to ride it out. Tossed to and fro from prow to stern, I retreated to my small quarters belowdecks, where I became instantly and violently sick. All that night and all the next day, I lay on my sweat-soaked bed: stomach heaving, mind spinning, body trembling in agony with every shuddering rise and heart-stopping plunge of the hull. In truth it was worse than the plague.
For six days and nights, I lay in stifling darkness, unable to raise my head. The crewmen regularly brought me water and dry bread to eat, but even that would not stay down. I swallowed a few bites, only to have them come surging up a few moments later. In my fevered sleep I dreamed of scaling impossible cliffs and falling, then woke to a room that pitched and lurched like a box on the back of a wild horse. Once I gathered my fast-fading strength and climbed on deck to escape the stench of my quarters and take in some fresh air; I staggered the few steps to the rail, vomited over the side, and promptly fainted.
When I woke the next day, I was lying on my bed, my clothes
fouled and reeking. But the ship had stopped spinning and dancing, and the wind had dropped to a stiff, whining gale. More dead than alive, I dragged myself up onto the deck.
The sun was shining, and the sails were full; the waves were running by the hull with satisfactory speed. I clung to the mast and drew the fresh, cool air deep into my lungs until my head began to clear. The crew, much amused by my infirmity, inquired with insincere compassion after my health and suggested ludicrous remedies I might try. I accepted their taunts as a form of rough affection and bore it all with good grace. The master ordered one of the crewmen to bring me a bowl of sweet wine and some bread; I sat holding the bowl with one hand and dipping the bread with the other. The food went down and stayed down, and, for the first time in what seemed an eternity, I felt much better.
I endured no more sickness, and after two stops along the coast for fresh water—fifteen days apart—we finally came in view of Britain’s renowned white cliffs. Try as I might, I could not persuade the master to continue to Ireland. Despite our agreement not to stop until reaching our destination, he insisted on making landfall at Londinium—a rank and weedy market town surrounded by a stinking marsh. We remained there ten days before the paltry charms of the place withered and the master could be convinced to move on.
So it was that, after nearly two months, we sailed into Mare Hibernium and that same day glimpsed the far-off hills of Éire. Over the next few days we moved slowly up the coast; I pointed out the best trading places along the way but would not permit the master to stop just yet—I knew only too well what would happen. Instead we crawled northward, hugging the coast, with me at the prow searching the shoreline for the high headlands that protected Miliucc’s realm in the Vale of Braghad.
From time to time the ship was seen by those in settlements near the shore; sometimes we were followed and hailed from the strand in hopes that we would turn aside to trade. The master was desperate to oblige them, but I remained firm in my purpose, and with a ready supply of promises and threats kept the ship headed north until at long last we came to a bay I recognized. “Here!” I cried. “This is the place! We have found it!”
I was over the rail the moment the keel scraped the bottom of the bay, plunging into the cold, blue-black water. In my eagerness I began swimming to shore. Bracing myself against the churning wash, I stood as soon as I felt the pebbled strand beneath my feet. After so many days aboard ship, walking was more of a challenge than I could meet; I staggered, fell back, and went under. Pummeled and dragged by the rolling surf, I swallowed a fair amount of water before scrambling from the waves.
Tottering onto the beach, my heart high and lifted up, riding the crest of a great wave of anticipation, I raised my eyes to the mist-wrapped, gray-green bulk of Sliabh Mis looming in the distance. The top of the mountain was lost to view, but the lower slopes glowed in the westering sun with a warmly welcoming light. If I hurried, I could still make it to the ráth before dark.
Yes, this is where I belong.
Never before had I experienced a feeling like it. A true homecoming! For the first time in my life, I knew that delicious, all-consuming, dizzying jubilation the wanderer feels when arriving at the ardently sought destination. The blood quickened in my veins, and I gulped air to calm myself—but to no avail. I had been too long asea, too long banking my anticipation for this moment.
I called a hasty command to the ship’s crew and started off at once, reaching the huts of the fishermen, now empty, and moving quickly on toward the gap in the headland leading to the Vale of Braghad and Miliucc’s fortress beyond. I walked for a good while, shaking seawater from my clothes and hailing each familiar hill and stone and tree as a fondly remembered friend. The sight of the ráth, when it came, stopped me in my tracks. Never had that simple wooden fortress seemed so pleasant and welcoming as it did just then: peaceful in the deepening dusk, the wispy smoke of the king’s hearth fire threading into the air as twilight claimed the wide valley.
The first stars were beginning to glow in the pale heavens. I hurried on once more but had walked only a few paces when I heard a sound in the distance and glanced up to see a movement on the path leading out from the fortress: The ship had been seen, and Miliucc had sent riders to meet us.
Moving on quickly, I soon came within hailing distance of the riders. “Greetings, Forgall!” I cried as the warriors reined to a halt on the trail before me.
From their reaction I could tell they did not recognize me, and indeed, of the five, Forgall was the only one I knew; he regarded me closely, his frown gradually turning to an expression of amazement as recognition broke upon him. “You!” He did not remember my name.
“It is myself, Succat,” I told him. “I have returned.”
He stared at me in wonder. “So you have,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “Why?”
“I have returned to redeem myself.”
“This I do not understand,” he said. One of the others with him pointed to the sailors toiling up the path some distance behind me. Forgall observed the crewmen for a moment, then said, “Ah, you have come to trade!”
“I have that,” I told him.
He smoothed his mustache with the flat of his hand. “Lord Miliucc vowed your death if he ever caught you again,” he warned.
“I know, but let us go and see if I can persuade him to a better course.”
Forgall shrugged, consigning me to my fate. Turning in the saddle, he motioned to three of the warriors to dismount, and I was given one of the horses. “Wait here for the others,” he said, indicating the sailors, “and bring them to the ráth.” To me he said, “You always were a bold one.” He smiled with sudden warmth. “Did I not often say this?”
“You did that, Forgall.” I climbed into the saddle. “Well, let us see if Miliucc is in a mood to welcome me.”
We rode in silence through the valley, watching as the sun disappeared behind the hills, flaming the swiftly scattering clouds and briefly illuminating the solitary track that ran through the vale to the foot of the hill upon which perched Miliucc’s fortress.
As we turned onto the path leading up to the ráth, I paused to gaze up at the straight timber walls, dark against the deepening blue of the sky, and a quiver of dread snaked through me. I had contemplated this moment countless times, but the uncertainty of my reception had always failed to reveal itself—until now. Would Miliucc even listen to me? There was no reason he should. He was a proud lord, and I had defied him. The penalty for this I knew only too well.
Little had changed in the ráth. Outwardly, at least, everything appeared just as it had the day I left—even if a little more worn and ragged. Behind the timber walls the huts still clustered close around the bare expanse of yard before Miliucc’s hall. Dirty-legged children still ran after barking dogs, and the twilight air still smelled of pine smoke.
And then we were up the path and through the gates, riding into the ráth. Upon our arrival before the king’s hall, we were met by the greater portion of the settlement; the tuath formed a respectfully curious ring around us—keeping their distance, I decided, until they could see how Lord Miliucc would receive me. Though I saw many familiar faces in the crowd, I did not see the one I longed—and feared—most.
Forgall gave shout to summon those within, and we waited. In a moment the door to the hall opened, and out stepped a big man in a dark robe. “Succat!” he cried. “Succat, is it you?”
“Cormac!” I shouted, flinging myself from the saddle. “It is myself! Succat!”
The big druid crossed the distance between us in a bound, swept me up, and crushed me hard. “Cormac…,” I said, gasping for breath. “I did not know if you would be here.”
“It is you, Succat. You have returned at last.”
“I have that,” I replied.
He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and held me tight. “On my life,” he declared, “it is good to see you, brother. You left a stripling youth, and you have returned a man full grown. It looks good on
you.”
“And you, Cormac, have not changed at all.”
“A little fatter perhaps.” He smiled. “And a little wiser, I hope. But now the king is waiting, I will tell him you are here—if,” he added, growing suddenly serious, “you are ready. Are you?”
I nodded my assent, and he hurried inside. I stood waiting, surrounded by the silent, watching tuath and felt the dread I had so long held at arm’s length fall upon me in a rush. Even so, as the door opened once more and Lord Miliucc appeared, tall and stern, followed by his principal warriors and advisors, I squared my shoulders, straightened my back, and prepared to accept his justice.
“So!” said the king, folding his arms over his chest. He glanced at me, then called to his serving boys. “Bring torches. I want to see him better.”
The torches were fetched, and while they were placed in their sconces, the king stared at me across the distance between us. I could not tell what he was thinking, and I knew better than to speak before I was addressed. He appeared exactly as I remembered him. His long dark hair was gathered and tied in a single braid and bound in a ring of bronze at the side of his head. A gold torc gleamed at his throat. Queen Grania, solemn and silent, assumed her place beside him, her gaze quick with interest and I took heart that she at least did not scowl when she regarded me.
“How is this?” he asked.
“Lord Miliucc,” called Cormac, “see here! A wandering sheep has returned to the fold. This is a cause for rejoicing.”
“A runaway slave,” corrected the king firmly.
“I am that, my lord,” I replied, trying to calm my rapidly beating heart.
“How is this?” he asked again, and I heard in his voice a cautious note. In that moment I realized that he was genuinely mystified and more than a little fearful. Never once had I imagined that my reappearance could have frightened anyone, let alone a king with fearsome warriors at his back. Yet for all that he seemed less surprised than alarmed.
Patrick: Son of Ireland Page 54
