Patrick: Son of Ireland

  Darkest dread spread its numbing tendrils through me, but before it could take root, another thought sprang up: a grave mistake had been made. I was neither a rustic nor a pagan. I was a Christian from a noble family. I could easily raise the ransom price. A slender shaft of hope, like a beam of light striking to the bottom of a well, suffused my soul. I set the matter squarely before me and marveled at the simplicity. All I had to do was make myself known, and the error would be rectified. I would be taken back to Britain, where my father, the wealthy decurion, would gladly and handsomely pay for my release. Thus encouraged, I settled down to bide my time until I found someone in authority to whom I could explain the blunder.

  Toward evening the last ship arrived, and its captives were brought to our now-sizable conclave. I added their number to the rest: seven hundred and eighty-five. It was, I felt certain, the largest raid ever known in Britain.

  Yet for all our numbers, there was no outcry or struggling; a thick silence of misery prevailed. Men and women stood or sat, silent, faces impassive, sight turned inward. They seemed to me like houses in which the roofs had collapsed; the walls were still intact, but the interior—indeed, everything that made it a house—was gone.

  A hump-shouldered man standing nearby saw me counting on my fingers and seemed anxious to know what I was doing. Despite the guards, I made bold to tell him the tally as I made it. The ignorant lout merely gawped at me like a deaf dog. I explained again, and still he stared, shaking his head slowly and muttering under his breath. I realized then that he did not speak Latin. “Cretin,” I muttered, dismissing him with a sneer.

  Little wonder they were such easy pickings for Irish raiders. Unschooled, backward boors, I thought. However do they keep themselves alive? Nevertheless the insight bolstered my hope, for it served to heighten the difference between myself and the others. No one could fail to see the mistake for the gross error that it was, and I would soon be returning home, where ransom would be arranged and I would be set free.

  The guards were now joined by a host of warriors—more than a hundred of them, big brutes in full battle regalia—who stood watch while their comrades came among us and removed the chains of any who, like myself, were still shackled. They then divided the throng into two companies, one somewhat larger than the other. The larger of the two was led apart, leaving the smaller one behind. Some families were divided by this exercise. I saw many women distraught and weeping to have their husbands torn from them. I would gladly have stayed behind to allow two to remain together, but heaven decreed that I was among those chosen to depart, and we marched off into the wood. During this confusion, I lost sight of Drusilla; I determined to watch out for her, but I did not see her in the crowd.

  A path led up through the wood into the low hills beyond the coast, and we were pushed onto this path and commenced walking, singly or two together, with the setting sun on our right hand. As I walked along, I listened to the woodland sounds—birdcalls, small rustlings in the dry leaf matter along the path. For all our numbers we passed as silently as fog through the trees—silently, silently, as if we ourselves might disappear in silence.

  All the while a blue dusk deepened around us, and still we did not stop. By the time the moon rose, I reckoned we were going to walk all night. With darkness, the way became uneven underfoot. The guards grew more watchful, lest anyone try to escape into the night. Whenever anyone stumbled, the guards ran to thump him with the butts of their spears by way of punishment for his clumsiness, then yanked the unfortunate to his feet and pushed him back onto the path.

  The moon was high overhead when we finally stopped to rest. The wood ended, and we came out into a wide clearing on the top of a hill, where in the starlight I saw the rings and ditches of an old ráth, or ring fort. The palisade walls were gone and the ditches filled with briars and nettles, but a large, reed-thatched house still stood in the center of the ring, and beside it a small enclosure for sheep and cattle.

  We sat down in the long grass to rest while the guards shared out their drink among themselves from the skins they carried. The captives, however, were given nothing. For many of us it had been a long day without food, and our hunger was growing onerous. Some began chewing grass and so received some small comfort that way. Grazing like a dumb animal was beneath me, and I refused.

  Even so, I did, I confess, pluck a few leaves on which the dew was beginning to form, and drew these through my lips. It did little more than wet my tongue and stoke the fire in my throat all the more, so I desisted. I lay back and rested for a time, and when the moon had all but set, we were awakened once more. I sat up and looked out at the captives scattered here and there across the hillside like the corpses of a defeated army after a great and terrible battle. The guards moved among them like grim survivors, prodding the bodies with their spears as if trying to rouse the dead. Stirred to life, the dead arose, stood on their feet, and walked.

  The trail took us further inland and into heavier wood—larger trees surmounting a thick undergrowth of brambles: hawthorn, blackberry, and elder. The thorny vines of the blackberry snatched at the unwary, scratching flesh and snagging clothing—a trifling obstacle in the daylight but a very danger at night. I walked with my hands before my face and caught more than one swinging branch before it reached my eyes.

  After a time the path began to descend, the slope growing gradually sharper until it became clear we were coming into a valley. Soon there arose a cry from far ahead on the trail, and the captives began to shuffle more quickly. And then, passed back along the line, came the word: water!

  The mob surged forward in a rush. Like horses with the scent in their nostrils, they put their heads down and charged blindly for the stream that was yet a short distance ahead. Pushing and jostling one another, they ran, heedless of the brush and branches of the undergrowth. Some of the less agile became tangled in vines or tripped up on roots and went down; these were shamefully trampled by those behind.

  Just ahead of me I saw a woman fall on the path; two more fell atop her, and all three were overrun. They screamed and kicked, but failed to slow the onslaught. As I came near, I looked down and saw that one of them was Drusilla. The girl shrieked and reached out to me, her fingers clutching like claws.

  “Here!” I cried. “Take my hand.”

  She lurched toward me, and I snagged hold of one thin wrist. The mob, desperate for water, plunged over and around us. Tumbled along like a pebble in a swift-rushing stream, I tried with all my strength to haul the young girl upright. I succeeded only in dragging her a few paces down the path before my grip failed.

  Jostled, pummeled, knocked sideways by the swarm, I could not fight my way back to her. I watched in horror as the life was crushed from her slender body by the feet of those charging blindly to the stream.

  Using the shafts of their spears, several guards forced their way to the place, but arrived too late to save her. Battered and injured, the other two women were at least able to rise. Poor Drusilla, however, was left were she had fallen. Anger and sorrow surged up inside me, and I cursed the senseless waste of that small, insignificant life.

  But there was nothing to be done. Driven by their thirst, the crowd raced on, and I was carried along with it. I was well back in the pack, so by the time I reached the ford, it had become a mud bath. In their inhuman haste the fools had churned the small, clear-running stream into a pig wallow. Men and women were flopped facedown in the muck, eagerly sucking up the stuff. Some had drunk too much too fast and were choking and puking on it, fouling the water for the rest; others knelt in the middle of the stream, laving the gunk over themselves. The mire ran in filthy rivulets down their faces and beards and from their gaping mouths.

  I tried to go upstream to get at cleaner water, but the guards refused to allow anyone to move even a few paces apart, so I had to make do with a few mouthfuls of muddy slop sucked from the hollow of my hand. And then, with much shouting, shoving, and threatening, we were moved on once more.

  We w
alked until dawn and emerged from the forest and onto a well-traveled track that passed between two sown fields. The grain was green and high, the fields clean and well tended. In the distance rose a large, conical hill, and it was to this prominence we were led. As we came nearer, I observed that the top of this hill had been leveled; ramparts and ditches formed rings around the upper elevations, and the top was crowned by a high palisade wall of timber lined with sharpened stakes at its base. A great wooden gate, surmounted by a walkway on which warriors strutted and gestured as we drew nearer, formed the entrance.

  It was not for us to enter this settlement; we were taken instead to a stone-and-timber cattle enclosure at the base of the hill, where we were watered from a wooden trough and penned up like so much livestock. The enclosure was mean, and we were packed in until there was no room to move about. We stood in mounting misery as the sun rose higher through the clear morning sky, beating down on our sorry heads.

  At midday the fortress began to stir. From where I stood I could see through a chink in the enclosure onto part of the road. People were arriving in groups, large and small: most on foot, but some on horseback, and one—I tell the truth!—in a chariot pulled by two fine gray horses. I caught the glint of gold at this fellow’s throat and perceived that he styled himself a prince of some account. He was accompanied by six riders bearing spears and large square shields which were painted black and embellished with symbols copied from Roman insignia. The ignorant savages did not know what the symbols meant, I could tell, for the images were all mixed and mingled together: the jagged lightning bolt of II Augusta and the winged pilum of XX Valeria Victrix, the proud eagle of the legions along with the double-ended trident and the triple running foot of the infantry, and others which were not emblems at all but merely letters jumbled up anyhow.

  They rode up to the fortress and through the open gate. The others on the path moved aside to let them pass. They were followed by at least seven wagons pulled by heavy horses; these wagons were stacked high to overflowing with the treasure pillaged from towns they had ransacked, and it made my heart sick to see it. More people followed after that, some with lengthy retinues in their wake, but most without. All day long we stood in the cattle pen: thirsty, tired, the hot summer sun striking down through an empty sky. Many captives, weak from lack of food, could not endure this abuse and fainted. There was no place for them to lie, so they remained propped between those on either side, or held upright by members of their family. If that were not bad enough, others who could no longer hold their bladders and bowels relieved themselves where they stood, and the bare earth soon grew wet and rank.

  As evening approached, there came the blast of a horn from the fortress above. This was followed by a mighty cry and then silence. After a while we could see smoke rising in a thick column from behind the high palisade, and wood ash drifted down upon us like warm gray snow. As night descended, the glow from the fire lit the sky above the fortress; sparks ascended into the night, forming a glittering ladder to heaven. The revel continued through the night, and shortly after dawn the cattle pen was opened and we were led out onto the plain at the base of the hill.

  There slaves passed among us with buckets and stoups of fresh water, while bags of broken bones and fragments of food were brought out and dumped upon the ground—the leavings of the previous night’s feasting collected for us to eat. Most disgraced themselves by rooting through this garbage like rats, but I would not demean my family name with such a low spectacle. Instead, I contented myself by drinking my fill of the water and held myself aloof from the waste pickers.

  Some of the guards passed among us then, and we were separated men from women, youths from adults—although younger children, of which there were a few, were allowed to remain with their mothers. We were formed into groups of five, six, or more. I watched this haphazard process and decided that we were being sorted according to the strength and fitness of those making up the group.

  This went on for some time, with much discussion and arguing on the part of the guards. Once established in a group, we were allowed to sit down. Meanwhile, the population of the hill fort emerged from the gates and assembled on the plain. A large table was erected, beside which a chair was placed. When all was ready, we were made to stand for the inspection of the barbarian dignitaries who walked among us, stroking their mustaches, examining the various groups, and discussing the captives between themselves.

  When this ritual had been observed, the prince—the one I had seen in the chariot the day before—sat in the chair and, with the aid of several advisors who stood around him with lengths of rawhide rope in their hands, began receiving the petitions of those present. One barbarian approached, stretched himself prostrate in front of the chair, and caressed his lord’s bare foot. When he was given leave to rise, he turned and pointed to the group he had chosen. There followed a brief negotiation, whereupon the buyer produced a bag of coins. The price was counted out and placed on the table, and the transaction recorded by a servant who tied a knot in the length of rawhide he held in his hand.

  The subject honored the prince once more and then quickly departed, leading his newly acquired slaves. I saw then how the thing would go and determined I would make myself known to the prince and present my case for ransom. The bargaining and slave selling continued apace. Those who went quietly walked away of their own accord; those who shouted and struggled were beaten, bound, and dragged off. I waited patiently for my turn, and as the sun mounted higher, so, too, did my hopes, for the prince seemed more interested in the money he was receiving than in the homage from his subjects.

  My chance finally came when my group—a thin young man a few years older than myself, a farmer and his boy, a toothless old woman, and two young girls—came to the attention of one of the buyers. As he examined us, I looked him in the eye and said, “Salvete! Colloqui cum una tu et ego!”

  He looked at me as if I had fouled myself. Clearly, he did not understand Latin. Nevertheless I repeated my wish to speak to him, and he turned to the nearest guard; the two held a brief discussion, whereupon the man nodded and turned to walk away. I saw my chance fading, so I reached out and took the fellow by the arm. He shook off my hand and kept walking.

  I darted after him but ran only a few steps before I was tripped up; I fell, sprawling on the ground. The guards hauled me to my feet and dragged me back. “I must speak to the prince!” I shouted. “There has been a mistake!”

  This brought no response save that the guards produced a rope and began tying my hands together. I did not struggle but shouted the louder. They began leading me away. “Ransom!” I cried. “I demand to be ransomed!”

  At this the prince stood up and called an order. To my immediate relief he gestured to the guards, and I was brought before him. They forced me to my knees and pushed my head to the ground. Still I did not struggle, but allowed myself to remain in this posture until the prince spoke to me.

  I lifted my head and saw him looking at me with dark, inquisitive eyes. He was a young man—younger than I had first imagined—strong, well formed, and proud in his strength. A great torc of twisted gold bands—an archaic ornament indicating nobility—encircled his throat, gold bracelets and arm rings adorned both arms, and a belt of silver rings sewn onto soft black leather girdled his waist. He wore a short red-and-yellow checked cloth that reached to his knees. His feet were bare, but there were thick gold bands on each ankle. His mustache was long and trimmed to a fine point at either end; his long dark hair was brushed back on his head to fall over his shoulders like the mane of a lion. On the right pectoral of his well-muscled chest was a woad-stained scar in the shape of a hand, made up of a spiral pattern with slender protrusions where fingers and thumb would be. He was, I thought, as imposing as any Roman emperor and, in his rude way, just as majestic.

  He spoke a word, which I did not understand. When I did not reply, he motioned one of his advisors to attend him. He spoke again, and the advisor turned to me and said something
which I could almost grasp. Although the sounds and rhythms were faintly familiar, I could not make out the words. Thinking it might be a dialect of British, I tried the speech of our estate farmers, saying, “Please, hear me. A grave mistake has been made. I should not be here.”

  The advisor repeated his statement, and I repeated mine, whereupon he shrugged and turned away.

  “I am a nobleman!” I shouted, my Latin falling on deaf ears. “I was brought here in error. I demand to be taken back to Britain and ransomed.”

  The advisor stepped before the prince and shook his head. The prince made a motion with his hand, and the guards began hauling me off.

  “My father is decurion of Bannavem Taburniae!” I shouted desperately. “He will pay my ransom. Whatever you ask, he will pay it! Listen to me!”

  My pleas went unheard and unheeded. I was led away. The man who had purchased me took leave of his lord, gathered his retinue of warriors and women, and departed. Angry, frustrated beyond words, bereft, heartbroken, and sick to my soul, I was dragged along with the others. Thus began my life as a slave.

  SIX

  KING MILIUCC MOCU Bóin, Lord of Sliabh Mis and the Vale of Braghad, was ruler of a wilderness realm of mountain, stream, and forest; of rocks, barren heath, and steep, sun-shy valleys. The land was poorly suited to farming, so he and his people lived by breeding cattle and sheep, fattening the beasts on the lush grass of the hillsides and high mountain meadows. He possessed more sheep than subjects, did my lord Miliucc.

  In my first days and weeks, I learned all I could from what I observed around me. I saw that he and his tuath, his tribe, lived in either of two principal settlements, one high, one low: the former a sizable ráth on a broad hump of rock overlooking the valley, the latter a circle of stick-and-mud huts near the banks of the small, fresh-running river where the only fields could be sown and crops grown and tended. There were other smallholdings as well—fishing camps on a nearby bay—but these were occupied only in summer. Within sight of the western coast in the north of Éire, the region was cool and wet during the summer, cold and wet in the winter, and damp and chill all the rest of the time.