PATRICK

                    Son of Ireland
                               by
                       Stephen Lawhead


   Seven years your portion, under a stone, in a quagmire,
without food, without taste, but the fire of thirst you ever
torturing; the law of judges your lesson, prayer your language;

  And if you like to return

  You will be, for a time, a Druid, perhaps.

  - Ancient irish poem

   In a book belonging to Ultan, Bishop of Connor, I have found
four names for Patrick: Succat, when he was born; Magonus,
which means “Famous”; Patricius, when he was ordained; and
Corthirthiac, when he served in the House of Four Druids.

  - MUIRCHU, CA. A.D. 680

                          PROLOGUE

   Ultan watches me with wary eyes. He is afraid. The others are
no less fearful, but they are older, so hide it better. I do not
berate them nor belittle their lack of faith. Their fear is well
founded. High King Loegair has decreed that to strike a fire on
this Beltaine night is certain death to him who strikes it. And
here on the hill of Cathair Ban we are about to kindle a beacon
that will be seen from one end of this dark island to the other.

  I do what I can to calm them. “Brothers,” I say, “I pose a
question. Answer if you can. Which is greater, a salmon or a
whelk?”

   “The salmon, king offish, is obviously greater,” answers the
trusting For-gall.

   “Beyond all doubt?”

  “Beyond any doubt whatever,” he replies; the others nod and
murmur in agreement.

   “Then tell me this: Which is greater, a salmon or a man?”

   “Not difficult, that,” replies Forgall. “A man is certainly
greater.”

   “And is God then greater than a man?”

   “Infinitely so, lord.”

   “Then why do we stand here with long faces?” I say. “Kindle
the flame and light the bonfire. King Loegair-for all his warriors
and weapons, horses, chariots, and strongholds-is but a whelk
upon a rock that is about to be overturned by the hand of God.”

   They laugh uneasily at this.

   To demonstrate the power I proclaim, I make a motion in the
air with my staff and speak the quickening words. The damp air
shimmers, and a sudden warmth streams around us. Raising the
staff, I touch the topmost branch on the heap we have labored all
day to raise. A red spear of flame leaps from staff tip to sodden
branch. “Great of Light,” I cry, “honor your servant with a sign
of your approval!”

   The dull red flame flickers, clinging to life. High in the unseen
sky above, there is a rush of wind, and brightness falls from
heaven; fingers of light trickle downward through the thick
tangle of wet wood we have erected. Down, down it seeps. The
sodden branches sizzle and crack.

   The red flame fades and appears to die. The men hold their
breath.
   As darkness closes around us, I shout, “Behold! The rising sun
has come to us from heaven to shine on those living in the
darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet along the
paths of peace!” I stretch out my hand to my companions.
“Brothers, you are all Sons of the Light. You do not belong to the
night. Therefore darkness can have no dominion over you.”

   A flash of fire strikes up through the heart of the pyre. Blue
sparks rush into the air in a fountain of dazzling light. The good
brothers fall back as tongues of flame seize the rain-damp fuel.
Instantly the great heap kindles to blazing warmth, scattering
the shadows and illuminating the hilltop.

  The brothers fall on their faces in reverent awe, but in my
mind is kindled the memory of another night, long ago. And
another fire.

                              Part 1
                              Succat
                                 1

   Concessa Lavinia lived in fear of thieves carrying off her
spoons. They were fine spoons. Each teardrop-shaped bowl was a
masterpiece of smithery balanced on a long, elegant handle
capped by a tiny Corinthian finial: eight in all, and older than
Elijah. Our silver-the spoons and matching plate, an enormous
bowl, and two large ewers-was old and costly; it had come from
Rome sometime in the dusty past, handed mother to daughter
longer than anyone could remember.

   My mother’s treasured silver held pride of place on the black
walnut table in the banqueting hall: a large, handsome room
with a vaulted ceiling and a floor that featured a mosaic
depicting Bellerophon riding the winged horse Pegasus and
killing the Chimera with a flaming spear. This scene occupied
the center of the room and was surrounded by a circular
braidwork border picked out in red, black, white, and brown
tesserae and, in each corner of the room, a likeness of one of the
Four Seasons.

  On frigid winter evenings I would lie on my stomach on that
wonderful mosaic and feel the delicious warmth seeping up from
the hypocaust beneath. The floor above the hall was given to
sleeping rooms for ourselves and those few servants my mother
would suffer to abide in the house.

   Our villa was called Favere Mundi, an apt name for one of the
most pleasant places in the whole of our island realm. It was
built in the traditional manner: a low, hollow square with a
red-tiled roof surrounding a central courtyard that contained a
pear tree, a fountain, and a statue of Jupiter in repose. As a
child I thought the statue bore the likeness of my grandfather.
Scarcely a day went by that I did not run to greet the image.
“Hail, Potitus!” I would cry and smack the carved marble limbs
with my hands to make him take note of me. But the frozen,
sightless gaze remained fixed on higher things, perpetually
beyond heed of the merely mortal and mundane.

   Two long wings on either side of the enclosed square
contained the workrooms: one each for wood, leather, and cloth
and one where our candles, lamps, and rushlights were made.
Between the wings rose the main section of the house,
comprising two floors; the lower floor was given almost entirely
to the great hall, and the upper opened onto a roofed gallery
which overlooked the court.

   Like my father before me, I was bom in my grandfather’s
house. We were wealthy people, noble Britons, and our villa near
Bannavem Taburniae lacked for nothing. Sixty families lived on
our estate and worked our lands. We grew grain to sell in the
markets of Maridunum, Corinium, and Lon-dinium; we raised
cattle and sold to the northern garrisons-Eboracum and beyond;
we bred horses for the ala, the mounted auxiliary of the legions.
Harvests were bountiful; the land prospered; our labor was
rewarded a hundredfold.

   Wine from Aquitania, woven cloth from Thracia, Neapolitan
glass, Macedonian olives, pepper, oil -all these things and very
much more were ours. We lived well. No senator born in sight of
the Palatine Hill lived better. It is but one of the many follies of
luxury which lead men to believe that plenty now is abundance
always and fortune is everlasting. Pure folly.
   My grandfather was still alive when I was born. I remember
white-haired Potitus, tall and straight, towering in his dark
robes, striding with a face like thunder down the oak-lined
avenue leading from our gate. He was a presbyter, a priest of the
church-not well liked, it must be said, for his stern demeanor
frightened far more than it comforted, and he was not above
smiting obstinate members of his flock with his silver-topped
staff.

   That aside, he was not overstrict in his observances, and no
one ever complained about the length of his services. Unlike the
tedious priests of Mithras and Minerva-so careful, so exact, so
smug in the enactment of their obscure rituals -old Potitus saw
no need to weary heaven with ceaseless ceremony or meaningless
repetition. “God knows the cry of our hearts,” he would say,
“before it ever reaches our lips. So speak it out and have done
with it. Then get about your business.”

    My father, Calpurnius, did just that. He got on with business.
In this he displayed the remarkable good sense of his British
mother and refused to follow his father into the priesthood.
Industrious, ambitious, aggressive, and determined-a man of
little tolerance and less patience -hard-charging Calpurnius
would have made a miserable cleric. Instead he married a
high-born woman named Concessa Lavinia and enlarged our
holdings exceedingly. Owing to his diligence and tireless labor,
the increase in our family fortunes year by year was little short of
miraculous. With wealth came responsibility, as he never ceased
reminding me. He became a decurion, one of the chief
councilmen for our little town-a position which only served to
increase his fortunes all the more, and this despite the taxes
which rose higher and ever higher.

   Invariably, after depositing his taxes in the town treasury, he
would come home complaining. “Do we need so many servants?”
he would say. “They eat more than cattle. What do they do all
day?”

   “Certainly we need them, you silly man,” my mother would
chide. “Since you insist on spending dawn to dusk with your
blessed council, who else does any work around here?”
   There were perhaps only a dozen servants in all, but it was my
mother’s entire occupation to protect them from the sin of
idleness. In this she excelled. Lavinia had all the natural gifts of a
military commander, save gender alone. Had she been born a
man, she might have conquered Africa.

   Her sole weakness was myself. No doubt because I was the
third of three infants and the only one to survive beyond the first
year, she found it impossible to deny me anything. With her, to
ask was to have. And I never tired of asking. I beseeched her day
and night for one favor, one trinket, one pleasure after another.
My days as a child were a veritable shower of indulgence. It
never ceased.

    Of course, Calpurnius did not approve. As I grew older, he
insisted I should apply myself to books and such in order to
improve my mind and build a steady character. But inasmuch as
my father was ever only seen through a blurred haze of busyness,
it fell to my doting mother to arrange for my education.

   Here, if only here, little Bannavem showed its provincial
meanness. The mild green hills, fertile fields, and sweet-flowing
rivers of my homeland might have been blessed with nine
separate aspects of paradise, but a decent school was not one of
them. The nearest of any repute was at Guentonia Urbs, and it
was a pitiful thing-full of horny-handed farmers’ sons and
mewling merchant boys united in the singular misfortune of
being taught by witless drudges too indolent to secure better
employment elsewhere.

   Be that as it may, the fault lay not in Guentonia’s deficiency
but in my own. I was never destined to wear a scholar’s cope.
Difficult to say in those early years just what my destiny might
be. Nor, as I came of age, did the augury improve. Old Potitus
ceaselessly assured me I was going straight to hell by the swiftest
means available. My father despaired of making his spendthrift
son a prudent man of business. My own dear mother could only
cluck and shake her head and gaze at me with her large, doleful
eyes. “Succat, there is more to life than revel and games,” she
would say, sighing. “One day you will wish you had made some
account of your lessons.”
   “Fair Lavinia,” I would reply, taking her hands and spinning
her around, “the sun is high, the breeze is warm, and the birds
sing sweetly in the trees. Who but a dullard would spend such a
day scratching chicken tracks in wax when there are cups to be
drunk, girls to be kissed, and silver to be wagered?”

   With a carefree peck of her matronly cheek, I would be off to
the village, where I would meet Julian, Rufus, and Scipio.
Together we would ride to Lycanum, a market town and the
nearest proper civitas with a garrison. Wherever there were
troops, there was gambling and drinking and whoring aplenty.

   My friends, like myself, were sons of noblemen. Julian’s father
was a magistrate, and Scipio’s family owned the tax-gathering
warrant for the town and outlying region. It was, of course, a
source of deep embarrassment to my grandfather the priest that
I should be openly consorting with tax collectors.

   But what could he say? “One of our blessed Lord Jesu’s best
friends was a tax collector,” I would tell him, “and he became an
apostle. Who knows? Maybe I shall become an apostle, too!”
Then off I would go to some fresh excess, some greater, more
debauched dissipation, as fast as my feet could carry me.

    Usually we would hie to the Old Black Wolf, a public house
serving indifferent meals and rude lodging to unwary travelers,
but also beer to the local population of sots and
soldiers-marvelous beer which they cellared in oaken casks in
underground vaults so it became cool and dark and frothy and
vastly superior to the thin, tepid brew made at home. Like the
town and the garrison it served, the poor decrepit Wolf was now
much reduced from its former glory. It was ill thatched and
filthy with smoke from the half-collapsed chimney, and the
floorboards sagged and creaked; the perpetually muddy yard
stank of stale beer and urine, and the presence of soldiers meant
it was always hot and crowded, reeking of sweat and garlic, and
deaf-eningly loud.

  To us it was a palace.

  Many a night we plumbed the depths of youthful
bacchanalia-nights of roister and revel which will forever live in
my memory. It was there I lost my virginity-the same night I lost
my purse in my first game of dice. It was there I discovered the
ways of the world and men in the talk around the Wolfs bare
boards. It was a haven, a sanctuary. We were there on the night I
was taken, and even now I cannot help but wonder what might
have happened if I had stayed.

                                   2

   Hail, Succat!“ called Rufus as I came into sight. He and Scipio
were waiting for me in the shadow of the column beside the well
in the center of the village square. Rufus was sitting on the edge
of the well, kicking his heels against the moss-covered stone;
Scipio was leaning against the column, flicking the reins of their
horses back and forth against the side of his leg.

   The two were near enough in appearance to be brothers-both
slim, dark, and fine-featured; Rufus was slightly older and taller,
more gregarious and daring, while Scipio cultivated that air of
wry detachment much admired by the aristocratic and
intellectual elite. Their clothes, like mine- long, loose linen tunics
over short bracae, or riding trousers, good leather belts and high
riding boots-resembled those favored by the legionaries in
appearance but were of the finest cloth bought from merchants
who traded in Gaul, where the best quality was to be obtained.
In fact, we all prided ourselves on our exquisite taste in clothing.
No one ever saw more preening, self-congratulatory peacocks.

    It was past midday in high summer; the sun was beginning
its long, slow, sinking decline into the west, and Bannavem’s
little square was empty save for the mangy, half-blind dog that
lived in a hole behind Hywel the butcher’s stall.

   “Does your father know you’ve taken his best horse?” inquired
Scipio, regarding the fine black with languid envy.

   “Calpurnius, as we all know, is generous to a fault,” I replied,
reining up before the well. “When he learned we were to go
a-roistering, why, the man insisted I take Boreas here. I tried my
best to talk him out of it. ‘No, father,’ I said, ‘I will not hear of it.
Just let me take old, lame Hecuba and I shall be perfectly happy.’
And do you know what the man said?”

  “No,” sniffed Scipio, feigning disinterest. “What did he say?”

   “He said, ‘No son of mine will be seen riding a broken-down
plow pony. It is Boreas for you, my boy, or I shall never be able to
hold my head up in the council again.’ ” I reached down and
patted the proud black’s shapely neck. “So, here we are. But
where”-I glanced around - “is Julian?”

  “He should be here,” agreed Rufus. “We have waited long
enough. I say we go.”

   “Leave without him?” said Scipio. “We can’t do that. Besides,
we’ll need his luck if we are to win back our losses from last
time.”

   “It is because of his inscrutable luck that we lost so much last
time,” answered Rufus. Snatching the reins from Scipio, he
made to mount his horse.

  “Here!” shouted a voice from across the square. “You there!”

   I turned to see Hywel the butcher charging out into the
square. He was a squat, bull-necked Briton, as wide as he was
tall. “Greetings, my good man,” I called, adopting my father’s
tone of breezy condescension, “I trust that the gods of commerce
have blessed your tireless industry with the wealth you deserve.”

  He glared at me dismissively and shook his fist at us. “You
know you cannot bring horses into the square! Clear out!”

   Little Bannavem Taburniae entertained ideas far above its
humble station. It seemed someone had heard that a few of the
great market towns had, for purposes of cleanliness and
decorum, banned horses from their squares and marketplaces,
and so the practice was instituted for our village, too. We, of
course, happily ignored the prohibition.

   “Just look at that!” shouted Hywel, pointing at the pile of
fresh dung Sci-pio’s brown mare had dropped onto the dusty
flagstones. “Just look!”
   “What, have you never seen horse shit before?” inquired
Scipio idly.

   “You are going to clean that up!” cried the butcher, growing
red in the face. “We keep an orderly square in this town. You are
going to clean it up now.”

   “Since you put it that way…” said Rufus. He glanced at me,
and I recognized the wicked glint in his eye. Stooping to the
green clods of manure, he took a soft, ripe ball into each hand,
then straightened, and, with a quick flick of his wrist, lobbed one
right for the butcher’s head.

   “Here, now!” squawked Hywel, ducking as the first missile
sailed past his ear. The second struck him on the chest just
beneath his chin. “Here!”

   “Stand still, rogue,” said Rufus, stooping for more dung. He
sent two more handfalls whizzing straight to their target. Each
left a satisfying green splat on the butcher’s round chest.

   Hywel back-stepped quickly, hands waving before him. “Here!
Stop that, you!”

  Scipio quickly joined in. The dung flew, and the little butcher
could not elude the stinking clods swiftly enough. He dodged one
missile, only to have another strike him full on the face. “Now!
Now!” he spluttered, wiping muck from his cheek. “I warn you, I
am telling the council about this!”

   “My father is the council,” I replied. “Tell him whatever you
like. I am certain you will find a sympathetic ear for your
complaint despite a distinct lack of witnesses.”

  Another clod splatted onto his mantle. Realizing he was
beaten, the butcher beat a graceless retreat under a heavy hail of
horse manure. He disappeared into his stall, cursing us and
shouting for someone-anyone -to witness the outrage against his
honest and upright person.

  “Let’s leave,” said Scipio, glancing guiltily around the square.
    “You can go around smelling like a stable hand if you like,”
replied Rufus coolly. “I am going to wash.” He pulled up the
leather bucket from the well and proceeded to wash his hands in
it. When he finished, he dumped the water into the street, then
mounted his horse and, with a snap of the reins, cried, “Last one
to Lycanum buys the beer!”

    “Wait!” shouted Scipio. Caught flat-footed with the leather
bucket halfway down the well, he dropped the rope, vaulted into
the saddle, and pounded after us. Rufus reached the archway
first and galloped through. I followed, emerging from the square
and onto the track just as Julian came ambling up on his brown
mare. “After us!” I shouted. “We’re for Lycanum. Scipio’s buying
the beer!”

   Julian slapped life into his mount and fell in behind me,
ignoring Scipio’s cries to wait and allow him to catch up. We
struck the single track leading out from the village and flew
toward the high bluff on the edge of the town where it joined the
coast road. Upon gaining the top of the hill, we came in sight of
the sea, gleaming like beaten brass beneath the clear, cloudless
sky.

   The day was warm, and it was good to let the horses run and
feel the wind on our faces. Rufus led a spirited race all the way to
Lycanum, stopping only when he reached the town gates.
Unaccountably, one of the doors was closed, and there were
soldiers from the garrison standing in front of the other.

  “What goes here?” called Rufus to one of the legionaries.

   “There is report of a raid last night near Guentonia,” replied
the soldier.

  “Guentonia?” wondered Rufus. “That is miles away.”

   The soldier shrugged. “The magistrate has warned everyone
to be on guard.”

  “Well, we saw nothing on the way just now,” put in Julian.
“Guentonia is full of old women.”
  “Just so,” replied the soldier, waving us through.

   “Come to the Wolf later,” called Rufus, moving on. “We will
give you a chance to win back your losses.”

   The soldier laughed. “If your purse is that heavy, friend, you
can count on me to help lighten the load, never fear.”

   We clattered through the gate and into the town. Because it
was market day, the streets were thronged with buyers, sellers,
and their various wares. We moved through a herd of sheep
being led by an old man and a ragged boy. Oblivious to what was
going on around him, the toothless yokel stepped right into the
path of Julian’s horse and was knocked down. He rolled on his
backside and came up shouting unintelligibly and waving his
stick.

   “Imbecile,” scoffed Julian. He wheeled his horse and scattered
the sheep, which sent the old rustic into a paroxysm of rage. His
boy darted after the panicked beasts, and we rode on deaf to the
shepherd’s ranting.

    The market square swarmed with cattle and pigs making a
foul stench in the hot sun, so we did not linger but went straight
to the Old Black Wolf for the first of many good pots of beer that
day. The revered institution was owned by a Briton named
Owain, a jovial fellow who knew neither stranger nor enemy in
all the world. Possessed of a naturally tolerant and
magnanimous nature, his fat, round face beamed with good
pleasure on all that passed beneath his serene, slightly
nearsighted gaze. Fond of barking halfhearted orders and
threats to his hirelings, he governed his tumbledown empire
with all the bluff and bite of a hound grown comfortable and
complacent in its warm place by the hearth.

   His wife, a sturdy matron of indeterminate years, wielded the
real power behind the throne. She clumped around the Old Wolf
in wooden shoes, her long gray hair bound in a dirty white cloth,
deploying her sloven brigade of gap-toothed handmaids. With a
word or a wink, cups and bowls were swiftly filled and loose
order maintained within the rowdy precinct of the inn. Her
name might have been Bucia, or perhaps Becca - I never knew
which - and though she had a face like a ripe prune, she also
brewed the incomparable black beer, which made her a goddess
in our eyes.

   We arrived, as was our custom, clamoring for drink and
sausages. “Good lads!” cried Owain, wiping his hands on the
damp, greasy scrap of apron hanging from his broad belt.
“Splendid to see you again. There is beer aplenty, of course, but
sausages we have none.”

   “No sausages?” wondered Rufus in feigned anguish. “Man,
what are you saying? We have ridden all the way from
Bannavem on the mere promise of one of your incomparable
sausages. What are we to do?”

   “What am I to do?” countered Owain genially. “They come
from Guentonia, you know. And there has been no sign of a
delivery today.”

  “But it is market day,” offered Julian, as if trying to help the
misguided fellow see the error of his ways.

   “My point exactly, sir,” replied the innkeeper. For some
reason, even though we were all of an age together, Owain
always regarded Julian as the elder and more sensible of the
four. In truth, he was neither. This disguise of respectability
masked a dissident spirit; it was one of Julian’s best deceits.
Nevertheless, Julian was “sir” while the rest of us were “lads.”

  “They come from Guentonia, as you - ”

  “As you never tire of telling us,” said Rufus.

   “Right you are! They are saying the fortress there was
attacked last night,” continued Owain.

   “We saw no sign of any trouble along the way,” Scipio
informed him. “No doubt the gatemen saw their own shadows
and pissed themselves with fright.”

   “No doubt you are right.” The innkeeper sighed. “As for the
sausages… well, the little darlings were to have been here this
morning, and I am still waiting.”

   “A sorry state of affairs,” agreed Rufus.

   “There will be chops later, if you like,” said Owain, moving to
the back of the inn. “But now I will send the beer.”

   He disappeared into the fuggy darkness of the kitchen, and
we heard him calling for someone to come and serve his thirsty
guests. A few moments later a round-hipped young woman
appeared with a pottery jug and a stack of wooden cups. She
dropped the jug onto the board with a thump and clacked down
the cups, eyeing Julian with a peculiar warmth in her cow-like
gaze.

   “Why, hello, Magrid,” Julian said. “And how is my buxom,
broad-beamed beauty?”

  She smiled with dumb modesty. “Hello, Julian,” she said,
pouring a cup and pushing it toward him. “I’ve missed you these
past days.”

   “For me the absence has been torture beyond enduring. But
pine no more, my dainty flower, for the love of your life is here.”

   His flattery was as thick as it was insincere. Nevertheless her
smile broadened, and the light came up in her eyes. She glanced
around furtively and bent nearer; her bosom threatened to spill
from the top of her dress. “Will you come to me later?”

   Julian reached out and took the top of her low-cut bodice and
pulled her toward him; one overample breast bobbed free for all
to see. “Not even wild animals could keep me away, heart of my
heart,” said Julian, cupping the wayward breast.

   She slapped at his hand and straightened, rearranging her
clothing. “Wait until tonight.” She gave him a seductive smile
and moved off.

   “Would you bed that blowzy cow?” wondered Scipio
incredulously.
  “Life is short and youth shorter still. Take your pleasures
where you find them,” replied Julian with a superior shrug.

   “The trouble with Scipio is he finds no pleasure in anything
but his own company,” said Rufus. “Not so, my virgin son?” He
ruffled Scipio’s hair.

  “Better a crust in humble solitude than a banquet with
barbarians,” muttered Scipio. Reaching for the jar, he filled his
cup and one other, which he shoved across to me. “Succat
understands, if you do not.”

   “Of course,” I said, raising the overflowing cup. “I have been
known to utter the same sentiment myself from time to time.
But tonight, my friends, it looks like a banquet with barbarians.
So fill the jars, I say! And let the doxies beware!”

   Rufus laughed and raised his cup to mine, adding, “Let chaos
reign!”

  “To chaos!” shouted Scipio.

  “Chaos and rebellion!” cried Julian, lofting his cup.

   We drank until the beer flowed down our chins, and smacked
the empty cups on the board with a solid thump. Then we filled
the cups and drank again. After a fair time Owain returned with
a pile of chops on a wooden plate. We sent Magrid for two more
jars and set about working our way through the chops, tossing
the bones to the dogs as we went along.

    We were just finishing when the first of the legionaries came
into the place. There were three of them: Darius, a tall, rangy
fellow with short curly hair and a scar that puckered the side of
his face; Fillipio, a squat, square-headed, bluntly good-natured
trooper; and Audager, a large brooding lump of a man, a
Saecsen and member of one of the many auxiliary cohorts which
now supplied the British legions.

  We had seen them before and diced with them on occasion.
“Hail, Le-gioni Augusti!” called Rufus when he caught sight of
Darius stooping under the lintel. “Come! Bring your cups and sit
with us.”

   We made room at the table, and the soldiers joined us. “So,”
said Fillipio when he had settled himself on the bench, “the ala
of Bannavem honors us with its exalted presence.” He looked at
each us in turn. “What are you doing here?”

   “Where else should we be?” answered Rufus. Of the four of us,
he most imagined himself a legionary-a general perhaps, or the
commander of an elite cavalry troop. “A fast ride in the hot sun
raises a thirst which nothing but the Black Wolfs best will slake.”

   “You heard about the trouble at Guentonia.”

   “We heard,” said Rufus. “What of it?”

   “Two cohorts departed as soon as word reached the garrison,”
Fillipio said. “They have not returned.”

   “Sleeping off their wine beside the road, I should think,”
offered Scipio.

  “Guentonia is a fascinating place, of course,” Julian said.
“Perhaps they decided to stay and take in the cultural
amenities.”

   The soldiers grunted and dashed down the contents of their
cups. I took up the jar to pour them each another drink, but
Fillipio stood. “No more. We are back on patrol soon.”

   “Well, then,” I said, still holding out the jar, “just a small one
to keep your tongues wet.”

   Audager took the jar from my hand and placed it firmly on
the table. “You should go home.” His words were thick in his
mouth, but the warning was clear.

   “When we feel like it,” Rufus replied, rising to the implied
threat, “and not before.”

  The big Saecsen looked at him, then turned on his heel and
walked away.
   “Audager is right,” Darius told us. “You should not be on the
road after dark.”

   “Go home, lads,” said Fillipio, moving away. “If you leave now,
you can be back in Bannavem before nightfall. We will drink and
dice another day.”

   We watched the three soldiers out the door, and then Rufus
said, “Afraid of their own shadows.”

  “Obviously,” replied Julian. His agreement lacked force, I
noticed, and Scipio did not voice an opinion at all.

  “Are we going to let them spoil a good night’s roister?” I said,
pouring more beer.

   In the end, however, the revel was spoiled. Although we
waited long, few people came to the inn: just some merchants
and a heavy-footed rustic or two stopping for a drink before
heading home from the market. There were no more soldiers
and, to my particular disappointment, none of the local girls of
easy favor whose company we often purchased for the night.
Even the promise of Magrid’s bountiful charms failed to ignite
our damp spirits.

    As dusk fell, so, too, did a pall. The effort of forcing mirth and
merriment into the increasingly dull proceedings grew too much
at last. Julian disappeared after a while, and the rest of us sat
clutching our cups in the gathering gloom as a dank uneasiness
seeped into our souls. Finally, I grew weary of the squalid drear
and rose. “Friends,” I said, “let us bury the corpse of this
stillborn night.” I drained my cup and tossed it aside. “Misery
and woe I can get at home for nothing.”

  I called for our horses and bade farewell to Owain, who said,
“The rumors have everyone frightened, is all. Come again
another night, and you will find us jolly enough.”

   “Don’t worry,” replied Scipio, “we’ll return another day to
redeem this misspent night.”

   “Until then,” said Rufus, “farewell.”
  We went out into the yard and waited for our horses to
appear. “Where has Julian got to?” wondered Scipio. “Why are
we always waiting for that laggard.”

   “I’ll fetch him,” I said, and walked around to the back of the
house, where I found him and Magrid leaning against one of the
outbuildings. Magrid had her mantle up around her hips, and
Julian was pumping away, his face buried in her mounded
bosom.

   I gave a little cough to announce my presence, and Magrid
pushed Julian’s face around. “What now?” demanded Julian, his
voice thick with lust.

  “We are leaving,” I said.

  “In a moment,” he replied.

  “Now.” I turned on my heel and walked away. “Good night to
you, Magrid.”

   I returned to the yard, where the stable hand brought our
horses, and Julian joined us soon after. We gave the boy a
denarius for his trouble and then rode out; the guards at the
gate were not for allowing us on the road, but Rufus told them
they were behaving like fretful maidens, and they grudgingly
opened the gate and let us go.

    The dying embers of a fiery sunset still glowed in the western
sky, gleaming dull red and gold in the dark clouds sailing in from
the sea. We turned onto the coast road and urged our horses to
speed. Evening deepened around us as we rode; stars kindled
and began to shine through gaps in the clouds. After a while we
slackened our pace and continued in silence. The road was well
known to us, the hills were quiet, the air warm and calm; it was
a fine and peaceful night to be out in the world beneath the
stars.

  Then, as we crested the last hill and turned inland toward
Bannavem, I halted.

  “What is it?” said Scipio, reining up beside me.
   “Can’t you smell it?”

   “Smell what?”

   “Smoke.”

   “There!” said Rufus, joining us. I looked where he was
pointing. A faint ruddy glow stained what appeared to be a dirty
fog hanging just above the hilltops.

   “Christ in heaven…” I murmured; then, with a slash of the
reins, I lashed Boreas to speed.

   Julian, last to join us, called after me. “Succat, what are you
doing?”

   “Bannavem is burning!”

                                 3

   I reached the top of the last hill and paused to look down
upon the town below. Gashes of flame streaked the filthy sky.
Along with the stench of smoke came a thin, almost ethereal
wail, snaking along the trail to reach us as a cry of terror that
chilled the warm marrow in our bones.

   Behind me I heard Scipio suggest, “Someone has been
careless with a lamp.”

   I turned on him. “Fool!” I cried. “Bannavem is attacked!”

   I started down the slope, but the others hesitated.

   “Follow me!” I shouted.

   Still they hung back.

   I wheeled my horse and urged them to follow. “Hurry! The
town is attacked!”

   The three looked uneasily at one another. None made a move
to join me.
  “What can we do?” said Rufus.

  “We have no weapons,” added Julian.

   “It won’t help anyone if we get ourselves killed down there,”
Scipio pointed out.

   Their stubborn refusal angered me. “Cowards!” I shouted, and
left them behind.

   “It is too late for them,” Julian called after me. “We can only
help ourselves.”

  “The devil take you!” I shouted. “The devil take you all!”

   Heedless of the danger, I rode for the town, fearing only that I
would come too late to help save our lands, and that my mother
would be worried about me. As I came nearer, I could hear
shouting and the sporadic clash of weapons. In the darkness I
could make out the walls and what appeared to be a knot of men
on the road: raiders. I glimpsed flames through the broken gates
and knew that the town was lost. I turned Boreas off the trail
and raced for Favere Mundi.

   The countryside between the town and our estate was quiet;
so far as I could see, none of the smallholdings outside the town
had been attacked. I arrived at the entrance to find the gate
securely barred and locked. My shouts failed to raise anyone, so I
left the trail and continued along the boundary hedge to a
particular place I knew-I had long ago discovered how to enter
and leave the estate when the gates were shut after dark-and,
pausing to listen one last time, urged Boreas through the
hawthorn gap and into the grain field behind the house.

   Sliding from the saddle, I ran for the open archway leading
into the courtyard, where, to my great relief, my mother stood
calmly ordering the packing of the family treasure. “Mother!” I
shouted, running to her.

  “There you are, Succat,” she said, turning from a wagon
which was being loaded with various objects from the house.
“You came back.” A frantic servant tossed a carved box into the
wagon and hurried away again.

   “Bannavem is attacked. They will come here next.”

   “Yes, of course, my darling boy. As you can see, I have grasped
that much.”

   “We must flee.”

   “All in good time.”

   “No, Mother. Now. We must go now, while there is still time
to get away.”

  “I will not have my precious things dumped into a hole like so
much rubbish.”

  “There is no time,” I said. An elder servant, a man named
Horace, hurried past carrying one of my mother’s fine glass
bowls. I grabbed him by the arm and took the bowl from his
hands. “Saddle the horses, Horace,” I ordered. “Run!”

   I placed the bowl on the ground, took my mother by the
elbow, and pulled her away from the wagon. “We are leaving.
Where is Father?”

   “He rode to town to help the militia.”

   “You let him go?” I cried.

  “He is leader of the council,” she replied. “It was his duty.”
She picked up the bowl and turned to place it carefully in the
wagon.

   “He will be killed,” I said. For the first time a quiver of fear
passed through me. “The town is overrun.” Snatching the bowl
from her hands, I threw it against the trunk of the nearby pear
tree. The bowl smashed, scattering pieces everywhere.

   “Succat!” shouted my mother, aghast at my action. “Can you
even imagine the value of that bowl?”

   “Leave it,” I told her, pulling her away again. “Leave it all.”
  “I will not have you shouting at me like this.”

   “Go to the stable, Mother, and get on a horse. I know a place
nearby where we will be safe until the invaders have gone. I’ll
look after this.” I pushed her away from the wagon. “Hurry!”

   She seemed to understand at last and moved off toward the
stable. Frantic now, I turned and ran into the house in search of
a weapon. My father and the men of the estate had taken all the
swords and javelins, of course, and the shields, leaving only a few
light hunting spears behind. I took two of these and ran through
the house shouting for everyone to abandon the place.

   Then, with the help of one of the servants, I pulled the wagon
to the end of the courtyard and pushed it out into the field,
where, at the near end, lay a pile of straw. “There!” I said,
indicating the straw. We pushed the wagon to the pile and then
heaped straw over it until the wagon and its cargo of valuables
could no longer be seen.

    Returning to the courtyard once more, I found my mother
holding yet another of her large glass bowls. I was about to shout
at her to drop the damned thing and get back to the stable when
I heard a sound which seemed to come from the front of the
villa. I darted inside and ran to the entrance hall, opened the
door, and looked out to see a dozen or more men on the path
leading to the house. My heart leapt to my throat.

  I fled at once to the courtyard, took my mother by the arm,
and led her away. “I thought we were to take the horses,” she
complained.

   “No time.” At the archway I stopped and shouted a last time
for everyone to flee. Horace reappeared, and several of the
younger women servants ran from the house. “This way!” I
shouted, desperate to get everyone clear of the house. “Follow
me, everyone. Horace, see to my mother. I will lead the way.”

   At the end of the field stood a small grove of beechnut trees;
they grew low to the ground, their branches forming a screening
breastwork of dark leaves. In the full leaf of summer, no one
would know we were there-a fact I often put to good use in trysts
with one of my mother’s handmaids. Inside the hollow of their
protecting branches was an old disused well that still held water.
This would be useful if we were forced to stay any length of time.
The ground sloped sharply down behind the grove where a small
brook ran to the woods from which our fields had been cut. If
worse came to worst, I thought, we could make an unseen escape
along the shallow waterway and into the woods.

   We reached the grove and settled down to wait. I crept to the
low-sheltering edge of the branches and lay down on my
stomach, staring at the house and straining for any sound. The
small ticks and chirps of the night creatures and insects seemed
to fill the entire valley. The servants grew restive, and the sound
of their scratching and twitching distracted me. “Quiet!” I
hissed. “Keep still.”

   As I spoke, I heard a door slarn. Instantly everyone froze. A
long moment passed, and then I heard someone shouting from
the courtyard.

  “… Succat!… Concessa!… Succat!”

  “It’s Calpurnius,” I said.

  “There. You see, dear?” replied my mother. “We are saved.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “We can go back now.” She started to her feet.

  “Wait,” I said, taking hold of her arm. “I’ll go and look. Stay
here until I come for you.”

   Leaving the spears with the servants, I darted out from the
grove and ran back through the field to the villa. I paused at the
archway and heard my father call again, whereupon I entered
the courtyard and ran to him. “Here! Here I am!” I shouted.

    “Thank God you are safe.” His face was smudged black with
soot, and he was bleeding from a cut to the side of his neck, but
he appeared unharmed otherwise. He looked behind me. “Where
is your mother?”
   “At the old well,” I told him. His smoke-grimed face wrinkled
with incomprehension, so I added, “In the beech grove.
Remember?”

  “Ah,” he said, “good thinking.”

  “Shall I go get them?”

   “No,” he said, turning away. “Leave them. They are safer
there.”

  “Father, wait,” I called, hurrying after him as he dashed to the
house.

  He turned to me abruptly. “Where were you tonight?”

  “In Lycanum,” I answered, “with the others.”

  “Was it attacked?”

  “There was no trouble when we left.”

   “Good. We still may have a chance.” He placed a hand on my
shoulder. “I want you to go to Lycanum and bring the
soldiers-bring as many as you can.”

  “But I could never reach - ”

   “I sent two riders to Guentonia,” he said, hurrying on, “but
they will not reach the garrison in time.”

  “Father, listen, I-”

  “Go, Succat. We do not have much time.”

  Still I hesitated. “What should I tell them?”

  “Bannavem is lost,” he said. “But there is still time to save the
outlying settlements if they hurry. Tell them that.”

   There came a sound from inside the house. “Come with me,” I
said, and made to pull him away. “They are here already.”
   “It is the militia,” he said, removing my hands. “I brought
them here. We will hold the villa until you return with troops to
aid us.” He saw my indecision and put his hand to my shoulder
once more. “You can do nothing here,” he said. “Ride to
Lycanum and bring soldiers. These Irish thieves will not stand
against legionaries. Go. Quickly.”

  “Very well,” I said, accepting his judgment at last. I turned
and rushed away.

   “Take Boreas!” he called after me. “And God speed you, my
son.”

   I paused at the bottom of the courtyard and called farewell,
then hastened through the arch once more. Boreas was still in
the field where I had left him. He would be tired from the
evening’s ride, but he was young and his strength green; I
reckoned that, even fatigued, Boreas was still the fastest mount
we had.

   Snatching up the reins, I leapt to the saddle and streaked
across the field to the break in the hedge wall, passed through,
and raced out across the open countryside to the place where the
path from our villa joined the coast road. I flew along the gently
rippling road: dark hills on my right hand, the wide,
moon-speckled sea on my left, and the high, bright, star-dusted
sky above. My heart pounded in my chest, thudding with every
beat of brave Boreas’ hooves.

   I drove that good horse hard and reached Lycanum far more
swiftly than I imagined possible. Because of the rumored
trouble, there was a watch before the gates: six legionaries
standing around a fire, leaning on their javelins. They started
from their gossip as I clattered up, and three of them ran to
meet me with weapons ready.

  “Help!” I cried. “Bannavem is attacked! We need soldiers!”

  “Is that Succat?” said one of the men.

  I looked down and recognized Darius. “Hurry! The town is
overrun. My father sent me. We need soldiers.”
  “How many?”

  I stared at the man. “All you have!” I shouted.

    “I mean,” replied Darius evenly, “how many raiders? How big
is the attack force?”

  “I cannot say. Hundreds. Maybe more.”

  “Ships?”

  “I did not see any.”

  “Did you look?”

  “Of course I looked.”

  Darius regarded me with a stern, searching expression. “Do
not lie to me, boy. Did you look?”

  “No, but-One of the soldiers spat a curse of exasperation.
Darius remained unmoved. ”How many militiamen do you
have?“

  “A dozen, I think, maybe a score.”

  “Bannavem is lost, boy,” said one of the soldiers, turning
away.

  “Sorry, Succat,” said Darius.

  “You will not help us?”

   “We cannot, lad,” replied the legionary. “Most of the troops
were sent to Guentonia. There are only two cohorts left behind to
protect the town.”

   “Then bring them, for God’s sake!” I snarled. “There is still
time to save the settlements. Hurry!”

  “Know you, if it was my decision, I would,” answered Darius.
“But we cannot leave Lycanum unprotected.”
  “Besides,” added the other legionary, “with those odds it
would make no difference.”

   “You mean to do nothing?” I said, my voice growing tight
with disbelief. Tears of frustration welled in my eyes.

  “I am sorry.”

  “Not as sorry as the dead of Bannavem.” Wheeling my horse, I
made to gallop away before the soldiers could see I was crying.

   “Stay, Succat,” called Darius. “We can protect you here. You
will be safe.”

   “Damn you to hell!” I cried, my voice shaking with rage as I
blindly lashed Boreas for home.

   Back we raced, over the empty, night-dark road.
Boreas-lathered, sweating, his sides heaving-gamely answered
my command. Foam from his muzzle spattered my leg; I looked
down and saw the white flecks streaked with blood. Still I did
not relent. I would not leave my family to face the marauders
alone. Help was not coming; it was time to abandon the villa and
save ourselves.

   On and on we went, at length reaching the slope rising to the
last hill above our estate. Boreas labored up the long incline,
gained the top, and galloped headlong into a swarm of Irish
raiders.

   Before I could dodge or turn, I was in among them. With a cry
of surprise, the dark heathens scattered, leaping in all directions.

   I put my head down and lashed Boreas hard so as to drive
through them.

  Two great half-naked hulks appeared directly in my path,
running, screaming, the blades of their spears glinting in the
moonlight.

  I threw the reins to the right; Boreas, frightened now, tried to
swerve, but his strength was gone. His legs tangled; he stumbled
and fell. I slid from the saddle as he went down, rolling free of his
flailing hooves. Still holding the reins, I scrambled to my feet and
tried to pull him up. “Hie! Boreas! Up!” I shouted, pulling with
all my might.

  The poor exhausted beast made one last effort, and then his
heart gave out and he collapsed. His head struck the road, a
shudder passed through his body, and he lay still.

   A strong arm encircled my waist, and I felt myself lifted from
the ground. I kicked the heels of rny boots -aiming for his knee
or groin. Instead, I caught his thigh. He gave out a roar and
threw me down on the ground. I hit hard; for a moment I could
not breathe.

   Gasping, gagging, I squirmed onto my knees and tried to gain
my feet. I heard a whiffling sound behind my ear and felt a jolt
that seemed to take off the back of my head. I was lifted up and
hurled facefirst into the dust. Flaming black stars burst before
my dazzled eyes. My head was filled with the sound of a
thousand angry hornets.

   Hands grasped me by the hair and arms. I was yanked
upright and half dragged, half carried away down the hill. When
my vision cleared somewhat, I saw that I was being lugged
toward the shore. I tried to wriggle free and received a sharp cuff
across the side of my face.

   As we descended to the coast, I twisted my throbbing head
around and saw, over my shoulder, a dirty red-orange glow in
the sky. Our villa was aflame. I cried out at the sight and
struggled once more to free myself. “Mother!” I screamed.
“Father!”

    My shouts were silenced by a crack on my skull which rattled
my teeth like dice in a cup and knocked all sense from me. My
stomach, bladder, and bowels emptied themselves at once, and
all strength fled. The raiders bore me up between them and
dragged me down to the sea.

                                 4
   I lay on the strand with a mouth full of sand and the roar of
the sea in my ears. Knowing I should get up and run away while
it was still dark, I lacked both strength and will, and instead
writhed on the beach, panting and groaning, my eyes squeezed
shut against the pain. The darkness was filled with rushing and
shouting and cries of terror, but I paid no heed to any of it.
Gradually, the frenzy and noise receded, and I sank into a dark,
empty silence.

   Sometime later I opened my eyes on a dawn raw as an open
wound, to find that I was lying on a heap of rotting seaweed with
no memory of how I came to be there.

   My horse threw me, I thought. Boreas had thrown me and
bolted. I must have crawled down to the strand from the road.
Or maybe I had fallen and rolled down. We were at the inn-my
friends and I. But where were they now? And why had they
deserted me when I needed them?

   These thoughts, fragments only, circled lazily in and out of my
hazy memory. There was something else… the sound of breaking
glass… a cry for help… someone whimpering… the moon glowing
red through a dark pall of smoke.

  Smoke…

   With the word came the scent in my nostrils-and with that,
the awful memory of what had happened: the attack… the villa
ablaze… my home destroyed.

   I raised my head, which started a cascade of pain. When it
passed, my vision cleared and I looked around. In the dim dawn
light I could make out the huddled forms of others nearby. I
heard the sound of sobbing and carefully turned my head to the
left, where a young girl was sitting-knees to chin, arms wrapped
around her legs, hugging herself, rocking back and forth,
whimpering in her misery. Her eyes were closed, and tears
glistened on her thin, dirty face.

  “Who are you?” I croaked. The voice which issued from my
mouth was as dry and feeble as an old man’s, but the girl opened
her eyes and gazed at me.
  “I thought you dead,” she said after a moment.

  “Not yet,” I gasped.

   She regarded me with an expression that said she was far
from persuaded.

  “Where are we?”

  “They killed my mother,” the girl replied, her lips quivering.
She sniffed back the tears. “They came for us at night. I don’t
know what happened to my father.”

   “Where are we?” I asked again, raising my voice slightly. Even
that sent spasms of pain spinning though my head. I closed my
eyes and gritted my teeth.

  “Are you injured?” asked the girl.

  “My head hurts,” I replied between breaths. When the pain
subsided, I opened my eyes and said, “What is your name?”

  “Drusilla.”

  “Do you know where we are?”

   She shook her head slowly. The entire side of her face was a
mass of purple-black bruises; her hair was matted with dried
blood, her slender arms streaked with soot and dirt.

   I looked beyond her to some of the other survivors farther
along the beach. I made to call to them, but the pain in my head
began as soon as I raised my voice, so I desisted until I could
make myself heard without setting the waves of agony
thundering through my poor battered skull.

   Carefully, I turned and looked back up the rising slope to the
top of the cliff, then along the strand to the right and left. The
coast seemed vaguely familiar. I guessed we were no great
distance from Bannavem. The enemy seemed to have gone, and I
thought that if I could get to my feet and gain the clifftop, I
might yet reach home.
  “Drusilla,” I said, “I’m going to climb up to the road. I need
you to help me.

   She looked at me sadly and shook her head again. The
resignation in her expression angered me.

  “Why not?” I demanded. “We have to try at least.”

   Without a word she stretched out one leg to reveal an iron
shackle tight around her skinny ankle. Glancing quickly down at
my own feet, I saw that I was shackled, too. Cold, hard drops of
sweat stood out on my throbbing temples as I beheld the iron
rings and chain.

   I grabbed at the chain with my hand and loosed a strangled
cry of rage and frustration. Captive! The word beat in the pulse
of my broken head. Captive! I had been taken prisoner. My
vision dissolved in tears of helplessness, humiliation, and defeat.

   After a moment I swallowed my distress, drew a deep breath,
and turned to the young girl once more. “Listen,” I said, “we can
do this if we help each other.” I rolled onto my knees and held
out my hand. “Here. Take hold of me.”

   She crawled to where I was kneeling, took my hand, and
allowed me to help her to her feet, whereupon she took my elbow
and held me up while I tried to stand. The movement brought a
rush of nausea, and my stomach heaved, but there was nothing
to vomit save the bile which burned my throat. I stood bent
double until the rippling ceased, then wiped my mouth with my
sleeve, put my arm around Drusilla’s bony shoulder, and we
started forth one painful step at a time -like blind beggars
hobbling uncertainly over alien ground.

    I coaxed Drusilla along much as I would a skittery colt:
soothing her with reassurances, telling her she was doing well
and that we would soon be free once more. Together we crept to
the foot of the cliff; here the ground was covered with shattered
slate, fallen from the rocky cliffs above to form mounded heaps.
The flat rock tilted and slipped beneath our feet like smashed
tiles, and we fell; I struck my knee on a sharp edge, and the
impact set the pain beating in my head like a drum. I knelt there
gasping for breath until the pain receded.

  When I was ready to go on, Drusilla helped me to my feet and
we continued.

   The cliffside rippled with many eroded ravines and shallow
furrows filled with brush and small shrubs. Although these little
valleys were steep, I thought we might at least have branches
and suchlike to hold on to as we climbed. We made our way to
the nearest defile. “I’ll go first,” I said. “Follow me, and do what I
do.”

   On elbows and knees I pulled myself up, grasping stones and
sticks and clumps of sea grass, wriggling like an eel through the
undergrowth. It might have worked, too; we might have
succeeded but for the dogs.

   We had just begun our ascent when there came a shout from
the beach, and then I heard barking. Glancing back over my
shoulder, I saw two huge brown hounds bounding toward us,
growling as they came. Behind them ran three raiders carrying
spears; two others stood on the strand watching.

   The dogs were on us in an instant. Drusilla screamed. One of
the beasts snatched at my leg as I kicked out. It seized me by the
cloth of my trousers and began pulling. I slid down the defile and
lay curled on the broken slate with my arms before my face to
protect my head and throat until the handlers came and pulled
the hounds away.

   No doubt they would have punished us more severely for
trying to escape, but their hands were full-what with the dogs
and spears-so they cuffed me halfheartedly about the shoulders a
few times and hauled us back to the beach where, with a whack
on the arm with the butt of a spear, they shoved me back down
on the sand. Drusilla began sobbing again, and my head
pounded with such ferocity I could not see. I lay on my back with
my eyes sqeezed shut, moaning, bereft in my misery.

   In a little while the sun rose full and with it the tide. When I
stirred myself again, I saw there were more raiders on the beach
now-fifty, maybe sixty or more-standing in a clump, many
leaning on their spears in postures of fatigue. They seemed to be
waiting for something… With this thought I turned my eyes to
the sea as the first sails came into view: three brown-and-red
squares billowing in the light morning breeze, gliding around
the far headland and into the bay. These were soon joined by five
more, and then seven.

   Fifteen ships! Even if most were not fully manned, it still
meant five or six hundred warriors. I reckoned that Guentonia
boasted but two centuries, Lycanum only one, and Bannavem
none at all -fewer than three hundred soldiers for the defense of
three towns. While it is true that a trained legionary is worth
five or more barbarians, even legionaries cannot be three places
at once. Bannavem was lost before the battle ever began, just as
Darius had said.

   The first of the ships came close to shore, and one bedraggled
knot of captives after another was led out into the surf, men,
women, and children-whole families ripped from their beds in
the dead of night and marched to the coast. I looked for any
familiar faces among the first unhappy passengers but saw no
one I knew.

   And then it was my turn. Two raiders came, and without a
word I was pulled to my feet and dragged out to a nearby ship.
The cold waves washed around my legs, and then I was roughly
hauled over the side like a fish. Drusilla tumbled in after me, and
we huddled together in the bottom of the boat. When the
shallow hold was full, the warriors turned the ship and pushed it
out into the bay. I heard the hull grind against the sand and
hoped for a moment that we would be grounded and unable to
sail. Then a wave lifted the ship, the sail puffed out, and we slid
away.

    I pulled myself up the side and looked out over the rail at the
slowly receding coast. Black plumes of smoke rising into the
clear morning sky marked the ruins of Bannavem; around the
countryside smaller gray-white columns indicated other burning
villas -of which Favere Mundi was but one of many. I wondered
if my parents had escaped or whether my bull-headed father had
stayed to fight to the death. I wondered what my friends would
say when they learned I had been taken. I wondered if I would
ever see my homeland again.

   Leaving the bay, the ship bounded out into deeper water, and
more of the coastline came into view. Away to the south, in the
direction of Ly-canum, a great, heavy dark cloud of smoke hung
like a continuous storm above the gentle hills; and to the north
more ships-and still more, strung out all along the coast. I stared
in disbelief at the low knifelike hulls, and the full extent of the
attack broke over me: it was not a raid, it was an invasion.

   Sadness such as I have never known descended over me as I
watched the land of my birth slowly shrink and shrink, growing
ever smaller until at last the green headlands disappeared
beneath the clear horizon. My heart felt as if it would crack in
two; I wanted to cry, but, stunned by grief, I could only stare in
dry-eyed wonder.

   Out on the open sea, the breeze stiffened, the sail snapped
taut, and the sharp prow bit deep into the waves. I settled back
in my place and turned my attention to our captors. There were
eight of them aboard ship: big men all, well muscled, and
dressed in coarse handwoven, voluminous trousers dyed red,
orange, or brown. Most were bare to the waist, with long hair
that they wore in one or more braids down their naked backs.
Their beards were shaved except for mustaches, which they wore
untrimmed. Two had smeared pitch on their faces, chests, and
arms in rippled stripes; three had armbands of gold, and all
wore tores around their necks: one of silver, the rest of bronze or
iron. They were filthy brutes, one and all.

   My fellow captives sat slumped against the sides of the boat
or curled on the narrow central deck. Sunk in despair, they did
not lift their heads. Young and old wore the same witless, dead
expressions. Most were, so it appeared to me, farmhands and
servants. I knew none of them. They stared with dull eyes at the
far horizon, mute in resignation, patient as cattle awaiting the
slaughter.

   The pilot of the boat was an older man with a blackened
stump on the end of his right arm where his hand should have
been. He worked the steering oar keeping one eye on the sail and
one on the sea. Three other ships traveled in our wake, and the
waves, running smooth and calm, seemed to fly beneath the
prow. We sailed through the morning, and while our captors
talked among themselves and drank from wineskins and the
water stoup from time to time, none of them spoke so much as a
word to any of us nor offered us anything to drink.

   After a time, the tedium of the voyage began to tell. I dozed,
awakening once to find that Drusilla had fallen asleep with her
head against my chest. My first instinct was to push her aside,
but I restrained myself. Her troubles, like mine, were just
beginning, and I did not care to add to her distress by even such
a trivial act. I was thirsty, but there was no relief, so to prevent
myself from thinking about it, I went back to sleep.

   I woke again later with a burning thirst and decided to do
something about it. Gently shifting Drusilla aside, I rose
unsteadily and made my way to the water stoup. One of the
guards saw me as I dipped the ladle; he challenged me, but,
ignoring him, I drank my fill and then turned and offered the
ladle to the captive beside me. The guard, angry now, came to
where I stood and snatched the water away from the man. He
shouted something at me and pushed me aside, but the pilot
called something to him. An argument ensued, which ended
with the truculent guard being forced to fill the ladle and pass it
along to the captives until everyone had been given a drink.

   I crawled back to my place and dozed again until sunset,
when I awoke and saw, against the crimson and purple sky, the
low humps of an island far off in the west. I thought this our
destination, but when the island had drawn close enough, the
pilot turned the ship, and we proceeded on a northerly course.
The sky held the light long, and the sea remained calm. I lay
back in my place and listened to the ceaseless swish and surge of
the waves against the hull. It was a tranquil sound, and the light
of the rising moon turned the sea to liquid silver. Stars in wild
abundance filled the sky bowl with glittering light.

   How, I wondered, could heaven look down upon such a great
calamity as if nothing had happened? Was not the desecration
perpetrated on my homeland worthy of God’s consideration?
   Yet, the moon rose in perfect serenity in a calm, untroubled
sky; the peaceful stars turned in their slow, steady arcs; the sea
spread out like a friendly meadow-and all as if the catastrophe of
the day were of such small consequence as to be unworthy of
heavenly regard.

   The more I thought about this, the more absurd it seemed
and the angrier I became. That the distress of so many innocent
people should fail to provoke even so much as an angry retort
from the Ruler of Heaven and Earth was an outrage.

   It was then I learned one of life’s fundamental lessons: the
lord of this world is a coldhearted king, unmoved by the
suffering of his subjects, demanding complete homage,
unstinting love, and total, unthinking obedience of all who pass
beneath his stony gaze, yet lifts nary a finger to lessen the
severity of their travails.

   If this was the way of things, then I would look to myself for
the preserving and sustaining of my life. There was despair in
this conclusion, true, but there was freedom, too. For I reasoned
I could go my own way and never trouble myself with another
thought about God, his church, or any of his insufferable mob of
simpering damp-eyed priests, ever again.

   And yet… my grandfather’s hold on me was stronger than I
imagined. His stern, disapproving voice seemed to call to me
across the years. Blasphemy and sacrilege! I could hear him
rumble. What do you know of things, boy? What do you know
of the world? What do you know of anything?

  The thought chastised me sufficiently to amend my harsh
appraisal somewhat. I decided to put the Good Lord to the test. I
would propose a simple bargain.

  God of my fathers, heed me now, I said within my heart. Aid
me in my escape, and I will worship you with all my soul. Aid
me not, and I will turn my back on you forever. Hear me:
Succat of Morgannwg makes this vow.

  That done, I closed my eyes and slept again for a while,
awakening when I heard shouting. I opened my eyes. It was near
dawn, and one of the other ships had drawn up beside us; the
guards were calling to one another. I looked across the narrow
distance between the hulls as the warriors from the other boat
hauled a man onto his feet. Gray-faced, his hair matted with
sweat, he seemed to be pleading, begging, his voice shaking.

   Two brawny barbarians picked him up like a sack of meal and
made him stand atop the rail. He balanced there, clinging to one
of the mast ropes while they removed his shackles. Even from a
distance I could see that the poor wretch’s arm was broken; the
limb flopped uselessly, and the hand was blue.

   As soon as the leg chains were removed, one of the guards
raised a spear and prodded the man in the back to make him
jump. The fellow refused. He began weeping in anguish, howling
like a beaten dog. The coward with the spear prodded him
again, harder, poking him in the shoulder.

   Still the man refused to jump. There came a cry from the
boat, and a woman thrust herself forward. She wrapped her
arms around the man’s legs and held on to him, crying for the
thugs to let him back in the boat.

   Phis went on for a time, drawing great snorts of laughter
from the barbarians in both boats. Then, tiring of the game, the
warrior with the spear slashed the man in the back of the leg,
severing the cords behind his knee. Unable to stand, the wretch
toppled into the sea. He came up spluttering and coughing,
flailing in the water with his good arm. The woman screamed
and held out her hands to him, receiving a blow in the teeth with
the shaft of the spear. Even then she did not desist. She wailed
the louder through her bloody lips and stretched out her arms,
trying to reach him. When that failed, she leaned out over the
rail and would have joined him in his fate-indeed, she was half
in the water before the thug noticed; he snagged her by the edge
of her mantle and dragged her back into the ship. I saw the butt
of the spear rise and fall sharply, and her cries ceased.

  I looked back in the water and saw the man’s hand nutter
above the surface of the waves, fingers reaching for a last,
hopeless, fleeting grasp of life. And then he sank from view.
   When I saw he would not rise again, I turned my eyes away,
my face burning with pent rage at the way he had been treated.
When my anger subsided, I saw that the land was now much
nearer than before. Soon we were passing through the low
scattering of islets and rocks of the darkly wooded coast of my
new home.

                                 5

   The bay was wide and deep, stone-lined and sheltered by a
high, craggy promontory on either side. On the rocks stood a
rude settlement of mud huts, inhabited, so far as I could see, by
barking dogs and barefoot, snotty-nosed brats. There were
already four ships in the bay when we arrived, delivering their
human cargo to the shore.

   I counted the captives as they went ashore; there were more
than sixty in the first three ships alone. Then it was our turn.
The raiders manned the oars, and the pilot maneuvered the boat
to the loading place -a crude wharf where men with ropes and
poles held the vessel in place while the boards were extended,
one to either end of the boat. With shouting and gestures our
captors indicated that we were to disembark. Because of the
shackles, most of the captives had difficulty getting onto the
narrow timbers; when prodding with spears did not help, the
brutes would heave the struggling wretch onto the plank and
push him along. More than one captive fell into the water, to the
amusement of the ruffians on shore, who made great sport of it
before hauling out the half-drowned victim.

   I, too, almost fell, but refused to give the thugs any delight in
my misfortune, so went down on my knees instead and, gripping
the edges of the board with both hands, made my way onto the
rocks, where I joined the others. There were almost eighty of us
now, by my reckoning. We were made to stand in the sun while
the other ships unloaded their unwilling passengers. One ship
after another entered the bay, and when I thought that must be
the end of it, more arrived.

   In a little while we were marched a short distance into a
clearing in the wood, where we were given water from the
hewn-stone basin of a cattle trough. Drinking from such a vessel
was humiliating, certainly, but I was thirsty, and the water was
clean and reviving. I gulped down as much as I could before I
was jabbed with the butt of a spear and forcibly moved on. We
were then herded together into the center of the clearing, where
we squatted on our haunches beneath the wary gaze of the
guards, who cuffed anyone who spoke or moved. The
surrounding trees provided a little relief from the sun, but we
were given no food, and by this time more than a few were
growing faint.

   All day long the ships came, and all day long we waited, our
numbers swelling with each arrival. For a while, I occupied
myself with trying to search out anyone I knew, but it was no
use. Few town dwellers appeared among the captives-a dozen or
so itinerant merchants, as it seemed to me-and no members of
the nobility at all. I wondered about this. Had the noble families
simply been slaughtered outright? Or had they been singularly
successful in fending off the attack?

   Neither possibility seemed likely. Even given the enormity of
the attack, some few noblemen must have escaped slaughter,
and these would have been rounded up for slaves just like all the
rest. Then again, the invaders had overwhelmed the entire
countryside, so how was it that only the nobility escaped? I
puzzled over this a considerable time as, boatload by boatload,
the number of captives grew.

   Then it came to me: the poor folk, the rustics, the pagani,
those without recourse to ransom had been brought to Eire,
where they would become slaves. But the noble families, the
wealthy aristocracy, the landowners, had not joined us because
they were being kept in Britain, where they could be ransomed
for ready gold.

   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 rath, 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 thrist, 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 walked 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
tore 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.

                                6

   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 rath 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 Eire, 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.

   The fortress itself was made of wood, as were the low,
thatched houses inside. The rath was reached by a long, narrow
trackway which passed through two sets of high timber gates
separated by a deep ditch into which the tribe threw their
refuse. The entire hillside reeked of excrement and the rotting
entrails of butchered animals. A cacophony of carrion birds
circled the fortress, filling the air with their cries.

    Miliucc’s people were a dirty, stinking rabble. How else? They
all lived like animals. Lacking any civilizing amenities and
possessing only the most basic of human necessities, they
wallowed in their own filth morning to night, their crude
existence little better than that of the beasts to which they owed
their rough survival.

   Unlettered, unlearned, untroubled by any obligations of
intellect, they went about their temporal activities gabbling like
chickens and displaying the childlike love of ostentation and
extravagance of appearance shared by barbarians the world
over. If any possessed a trinket or bauble, it was worn with
inordinate pride, be it merely a painted shell or a carved bone.
Gold rings adorned filthy fingers, fine silver necklaces ringed
throats begrimed with sweat and soot, delicate bronze bands
gleamed on dirty arms.

   Their clothes, although grease-stained and muddy, were
nevertheless woven of the brightest colors: gaudy orange and
green stripes; red and blue checks; white-, black-, and
yellow-patterned plaids-the more garish the better. The men
wore loose, outsize trousers that they called briste, wrapped knee
to foot with long leather straps attached to their soft boots.
Women wore shapeless, ankle-length mantles bound at the waist
by wide, extravagantly woven girdles and fastened at the
shoulder with brooches of wood, bone, bronze, or other stuff.
Men and women alike wore a kind of simple cloak which they
called a fallaing, made of the same heavy wool as the rest of
their cloth and, again, striped or woven into closely worked
checked patterns in audacious colors.
   Judging from the inordinate number of naked infants and
dogs scurrying around the rath, they seemed overly indulgent of
children and animals, neither of which they bothered to
discipline or husband in any way. And all, young and old alike,
loved nothing more than listening to their hideous, screechy
music -played by men given the task and made listenable only
after numerous bowls of sour, heady beer, which they brewed in
vast quantities in great wooden tubs and then drank until
inebriation either put them to sleep or stirred their blood and
made them contentious and brawly. Should the latter condition
arise, as it usually did, they would fall out fighting. They would
be singing and laughing and, but a moment later, bashing one
another with fearsome blows-only to collapse in one another’s
arms with pledges of eternal friendship and loyalty when the
beating brought them to their soggy senses. A more tempestuous
and belligerent people I truly never saw.

   Oh, they were barbarians through and through, vile savages
in thought, word, and deed.

   On our arrival at Miliucc’s fortress, the other slaves and
myself were fitted with collars; mine was a simple tore of twisted
iron, much like those some of the servants and younger people
wore, save that it had an iron ring at the back by which I could
be tethered when the need arose. At the king’s command I was
held tight in the grasp of two hulking brutes while a third bent
the ring of still-hot iron around my neck. The heated metal
blistered my skin, and though it hurt with a fury, I refused to cry
out. As soon as the ends were closed, the tore was doused with
water and I was led away to be fed: a thin gruel of fish and
barley. Despite my hunger, the stuff was foul and I refused to
swallow more than a few bites. The next day I was established in
a shepherd’s bothy on the side of a mountain overlooking the
Vale of Braghad and this because, of all the slaves, I was deemed
most fit, and therefore most suitable to watch their precious
sheep.

   A hut of timber and mud was to be my home. It was small,
even for a hovel, measuring only a few paces on each side, with a
roof so low a man could not stand upright. Even so, it was
sturdy. The walls and roof were split logs, the chinks and gaps
between them stuffed with moss mixed with mud. There was
room inside to lie down fully stretched, but for little else. Nor did
I have this bucolic villa to myself, for I was apprentice shepherd
to an ancient, grizzled, half-wild pagan named Madog.

    Old Madog was, or had once been, a Briton. He had lived the
life of a slave so long he could not remember whence he came to
Eire. He could still speak a few words of the British tongue and
some of the Irish, but could no longer tell the difference between
them-a fact which, however frustrating, at least made our
discussions blessedly brief. Not that he ever had much to say.
His life was his flock: leading them out by day, gathering them
in by night, and watching over them all the time in between -the
only variation provided by the occasional sick cow brought up
from the herd for special treatment.

   Gray, thin, tough as boiled leather, Madog roamed the
mountain trackways barefoot, bounding like a ram over the rills
and rocks, arms flapping in his sleeveless mantle of rags, his
toothless whistle resounding from the crooks and crannies, his
inane cackle echoing through the empty heights. Bare-headed in
every weather, he stood out with his flock, his brain teeming
with half-mad thoughts and queer observations that kept him
chuckling to himself for days on end.

   He had a crook, which he had fashioned from a bound hazel
sapling, a flint knife that he had also made, and a small iron
caldron. His only other possession was a flint-and-steel striker
tied to a leather loop, hung on a knot inside the door of the
bothy and used only in the rarest circumstance to light the fire
when the embers had gone out and could not be coaxed to life
once more. Because the meadow was surrounded on all sides by
thick forest, we enjoyed a ready supply of firewood and kept the
fire going day and night-as much for warmth and something to
do as to keep any preying animals away from the nearby
sheepfold.

   Every so often someone would come up from the settlement
and bring us bread -hard black loaves that we hacked to pieces
with Madog’s flint knife and soaked in warm water to make
edible-and other bits of food: a turnip or two, a few leeks or
onions, some beer. This we added to our usual fare, which was,
without fail, mutton. Madog knew his sheep well, and he knew
which ewes were past bearing and which would not make it
through the next cold season. These he culled from the flock,
supplying the rath and giving us a fair store of meat, some of
which was boiled or roasted and eaten with sea salt and
mountain thyme, and the rest salted and dried in the sun.

   Over the first few days he showed me what was expected of a
shepherd in the keep of Lord Miliucc. I applied myself to the
work and found it not overtaxing, but the pleasures of sitting on
a damp rock watching sheep all day soon palled, and I began to
yearn for other ways to occupy myself. Thus I swiftly turned my
attention to planning my escape.

   Miliucc’s realm lay, as I say, in the northwestern part of Eire,
no great distance from the coast. From the upper heights of our
mountain perch I could glimpse the flat, iron-colored northern
sea. Once or twice I even saw ships -small, coast-crawling
vessels, but ships nonetheless -and reckoned that there must be
a port or fishing settlement somewhere within reach. I need only
locate the port, and I would find a ship to take me home.

   All that remained was to choose the right time. It would have
to be soon, I considered, before the winds of autumn brought an
end to sea travel. I had no wish to spend a cold winter on the
mountainside in the company of Madog and his sheep.

   While I waited, I readied myself as best I could. Obtaining a
food ration proved no difficulty; I merely helped myself from
Madog’s store of dried mutton and hid it where I could quickly
recover it again. Water was more of a problem. I would need
enough for two or three days, I reckoned, but had nothing in
which to carry it. I set about devising a container from wood. I
made a hand axe out of a piece of flint recovered from a
streambed and tried hollowing out a chunk of half-rotten log,
but gave up after several inept attempts.

  As it happened, Madog saw what I was doing and
misunderstood my purpose. One evening as we were sitting
outside the hut by the fire, he rose and went in, returning a
moment later with a thin, white, misshapen leathery bag, which
he gave to me, indicating with winks and pointing that I should
hang it around my neck.

   I did so, and he cackled happily. “Da, da!” he said. “Da!” This
outburst signified his approval. Then, winking and pointing, he
began jigging around the water stoup-a large stone basin filled
by the tiny trickle from a spring that welled up from an
outcropping of rock beside the bothy. I could not make out what
the old idiot intended until at last he pulled me up and, taking
the bag, plunged it into the water. Then I understood: It was a
wa-terskin. Made from the bladder of a sheep, it would hold, I
imagined, three or four days’ scant ration of water.

   I filled the thing and was pleased to discover that it did
indeed hold water admirably well. Grinning to signify my
pleasure, I thanked Madog with a bow, which set the old
addlepate chuckling and gurgling in delight all the rest of the
night.

   The next day dawned clear and bright, and I decided that the
time had come. As soon as Madog had gone to take the sheep to
the meadow, I gathered my provisions and set off walking
toward the coast, keeping to the sheep trails until I was out of
sight of the valley, then made my way down to the river and
followed it to the coast, reaching the shore a little after midday.

   Now came the difficult part of my plan, for I had no clear idea
which way to go. I had hoped on reaching the coast to be able to
see the port or some other settlement, but this was not to be. I
looked long in either direction and saw only the rough, rocky
shoreline and the towering headlands beyond, and no port in
sight. So, lacking any better guide, I decided to take my chances
and head north.

   Following the craggy coast, I walked quickly and steadily,
pausing every now and then to look back in case I should be
followed and laughing at the ignorance of my barbarian captors.
That escape should be so easy showed how utterly unthinking
they were.

  The day passed without my meeting anyone or encountering
any settlements. With the gathering twilight, clouds sailed in on
a keen northerly wind, and it seemed best to find shelter for the
night. I chose a hollow in an outcropping of rock at the base of a
cliff a short distance up from the shore. From my shallow cave I
could see a fair distance down the beach in both directions and
would have plenty of time to hide if anyone should come along.

    As darkness fell, so did the rain; in great, gushing torrents it
fell. My hollow in the rocks kept out most of the water but none
of the wind, which scoured the cave the whole night long. Sleep
was all but impossible, and I did not wait for the dawn before
setting off again as soon as the storm had ceased. I walked until
sunrise, and then stopped and ate a bit of dried mutton and
drank fresh rainwater from a pool in a rock.

    A great deal of seaweed had been heaved ashore on the waves
during the night, making the rocky shingle slippery. Skirting the
worst stretches and proceeding with care over the rest, I at last
reached a sheer rock wall that had its foundations deep in the
sea. The strand on which I had been walking came to an abrupt
end. I had no choice but to cross over the top of the headland.
Although it cost me considerable time, I retraced my steps until
I found a place to climb up without too much difficulty, and so
began the ascent.

   My effort was crowned with success; from the high ground
the shoreline stretched out below and, a short distance to the
east, settlement. A small place, little more than a handful of huts
set above the high-tide mark on the edge of a wood, it seemed a
very haven to me. What is more, there were three boats on the
beach. I hunkered down to watch the dwellings for a while, to see
what might be learned.

   When no one appeared, I moved down the hill for a closer
look. After a time a woman came out of one of the huts
accompanied by a child. They walked to the edge of the water,
where the child splashed in the shallow sea while the mother
gathered seaweed. When she had collected enough, she called
the little one to her, and they disappeared into the hut again. No
one else appeared after that. So, taking my fate in my hands, I
went down.

   Warily I approached the settlement, passing the first huts
without rousing any attention. When I came even with the hut in
which the woman and child dwelled, I paused and called out in a
loud voice, “Pax vobiscum!”

   I shouted twice more before I saw the woman’s thin face
peering out from the low doorway. As I had no weapons and was
obviously a stranger, she eventually came out, advancing
hesitantly and looking around to see if I might be accompanied
by anyone. I smiled and talked gently to reassure her and,
pointing to the boats, made gestures to indicate my wish to be
taken up the coast to the nearest port.

   She frowned mightily, shook her head, and jabbered at me in
her incomprehensible tongue, then flung her hands at me as if to
drive away a bothersome dog. I persisted in trying to make
myself understood, but to no avail. Finally she pointed out
toward the sea, where a boat was just then making for shore.
There were three men in the boat, and the foremost of these
leaped out and waded to meet us as soon as the keel touched the
shingle.

   A tall, gaunt, weather-beaten son of the sea, he greeted me,
presumably-it was difficult to tell from his rough speech -and I
repeated my greeting and indicated the boats. Thus, by means of
pointing and gestures, I conveyed my wish to be taken to the
nearest port. To my immense satisfaction, the ignorant fellow
agreed. He called to the others, who were pulling the boat onto
the shingle; they stopped at once, and the fisherman beckoned
me to follow. They held the boat while I climbed in, then pushed
off once more.

   Taking up the oars, the two others applied themselves to
rowing while the third man steered, and I sat on the small bench
in the center of the craft with my waterskin on my knees. They
rowed with solid strokes, proceeding up the coast as soon as we
gained deeper water.

   The sea was still somewhat high after the storm of the night
before, but they stood to their work, and we soon rounded the
headland to the north of the settlement. There in the distance,
beneath the sheltering brow of a high promontory, lay the port.
  With each strong pull of the oars, our destination came
nearer. I sat on my bench exulting in my shrewdness and
mastery. With the first fair wind, I would be on my way home
once more.

   The little seaport was an untidy aggregation of hovels and
houses large and small, all of which seemed to encircle the
standing stone that marked the center of the town. Despite its
diminutive size, the holding boasted a sturdy timber wharf for
larger boats and ships; as we came nearer, I was pleased to see
that there were two of these tied up there. Many other smaller
vessels lined the pebbled shingle, and we soon joined them.

   As the boat touched the shore, the foremost fisherman called
out to a group of men standing on the wharf. These, I reckoned,
belonged to one of the ships, and as they took an interest in me, I
addressed them politely and asked if anyone spoke Latin. “
Latinum loquamini?” I asked several times. They made no reply,
so I pointed out to sea. “Britannia,” I said, repeating the word
until the light of understanding dawned on them.

   They regarded me closely, talking among themselves the
while. They seemed to come to a favorable conclusion, and two
of the men ran off toward one of the larger houses, where, at
their summons, a white-haired man emerged. He looked out to
where we were standing and beckoned us to attend him.

  That this old rogue was head man of the town I had no doubt.
He looked at me, nodding with satisfaction at what he saw. “Pax
vobiscum,” I said, offering him a bow of deference. “I give you
good greeting.”

   He grunted and, lifting a hand, pointed out to sea. “Prytani?”
he said.

   I smiled and nodded. “Yes, Brittania. My home. I wish to go
there.”

   He smiled and nodded in return. “Prytani.” He spoke to the
fisherman and the others, who replied, and, dismissing them,
beckoned me to join him in his house. I supposed it was to
observe some formality of hospitality, so I agreed, hoping we
would soon come to terms regarding my passage.

   The house stank of dogs and rotting fish, but I followed him
in; a table and chair stood next to an open hearth in the center
of the single room. He bade me sit in the chair and poured out a
drink of sour beer. He drank and passed the wooden bowl to me.
Not wishing to offend him, I held my breath and took a drink,
quickly relinquishing the bowl when I had finished. He pointed
to my waterskin, so I unslung the strap from around my
shoulder and offered it to him. He examined it approvingly and
tried a drink, grinning as he returned it.

   An old woman came in, and he sent her scurrying away; she
returned a short time later with a small round loaf of bread,
which she put on the table, and hurried off again. The man
indicated that I should eat, which I reluctantly did, for although
I did not like to make myself beholden to these barbarians, I was
hungry and I could not risk offending them in any way.

   I ate, tearing off pieces of bread, chewing slowly, smiling, and
drinking from the beer bowl. Meanwhile, the old man busied
himself at the hearth and soon had a fire kindled. The old
woman reappeared with a dish containing three cleaned and
gutted fish. With practiced efficiency the old man spitted them
and set them to cook over the fire. Fearing to interrupt their
meal-and not wishing to stay in any event-I stood, thanked my
host, and started for the door. The old man jumped up and, with
smiles and nods of reassurance, led me back to my place at the
table.

    He sat me down, pointed to the bread, and made eating
motions. He poured more beer and placed the bowl in my hands.
I drank, and he went back to tending the fish on the fire. In a
little while the food was cooked, and he brought the plate to the
table. He selected a fish and offered one to me. We sat down
together then -he on a stone by the hearth, I in his chair-and ate
our simple meal.

   The fish was a change from mutton; it tasted good and, with
the bread and beer, made a passable meal. Indeed, I would have
welcomed another morsel or two but for a commotion that
commenced outside just then. There came a shout and then the
sound of voices and people running. The next thing I knew, there
appeared in the doorway a huge, black-haired warrior with a
sword in his hand.

   Two strides carried him into the room, where he stood over
me looking down impassively. Before I could think what to do, he
took hold of the ring at the back of my tore and pulled me to my
feet. The old man looked on with a self-satisfied grin. “You
scabby old toad,” I spat.

   He cackled in reply-which I did not, of course, understand
-and, lifting a hand, lay a filthy finger on my slave torc and
laughed. Until that moment, I had not given the iron collar a
thought.

   The warrior marched me outside, where the entire population
of the fishing village had gathered. Two more warriors stood
waiting to receive us and, as we emerged from the house, the
foremost of these stepped forward and honored the old man with
a curious salute, touching the back of his hand to his forehead.
Then, reaching into a leather bag at his belt, he withdrew two
small sticks of gold. He broke both of rhese in half and gave half
of one to the old man; the others he gave to the fishermen who
had brought me to the village in their boat.

   While the villagers and fisherfolk rejoiced, the warriors
returned to their horses, dragging me with them. They mounted,
and I was slung like a sack of grain across the front of the big
warrior’s horse and hauled in disgrace back to Miliucc’s rath.

                                7

   The discomfort of my return was nothing to the humiliation I
felt in being captured again so easily, for just beyond the sea
bluffs behind the fishing settlement, the Vale of Braghad opened,
and at the far end of it lay King Miliucc’s rath. I had traveled
many times the distance around the coast, only to bring myself
to a harbor I could have reached on an easy walk the morning of
my escape.

  My cheeks burned with shame at the recognition of my own
witlessness- made all the worse for the realization that my slave
collar had given me away. How could I have been so stupid?

   Then again, was it stupidity or arrogance which had led me to
believe escape would be so effortlessly accomplished?

   Both, I concluded: stupidity and arrogance in equal, ample
measure. Here was the clever and resourceful Succat, so proud,
so assured, full of scorn at the brute ignorance of the barbarians,
now returned in disgrace. The warriors had not even broken a
sweat to retrieve me. I could have wept at my foolishness, except
I did not wish to show any such emotion before my captors.

   We soon reached the hill fort, and I was presented to my lord,
who, without so much as a cursory glance in my direction, called
a command to his men, who seized me by the arms and set
about beating me with their fists. I took a blow to the stomach
that doubled me over; allowing me to collapse, they proceeded to
kick me. I lay on the ground, trying to protect my head with my
arms as blow after blow rained down upon me. There was no
anger in it, merely skilled, dispassionate efficiency as they aimed
and placed their kicks at the muscled areas of my body. When
this had gone on for a time, Miliucc called another command,
and the kicking ceased.

   I thought they would release me then, but they took hold of
my legs and stripped off my boots, and while two warriors held
me by the ankles, the third began striking me on the soles of my
feet with a stout willow wand. I had never felt such pain before.
With each blow new and amazing sensations of agony shocked
through me. Tears streamed from my eyes, and though I tried
not to cry out, the pain tore scream after ragged scream from
my throat.

   When they finally stopped, I lay limp and sobbing on the
ground. The king came and stood over me, spoke a few harsh
words, and gestured for the warriors to take me away. I was put
back on the horse and ridden up the mountain, where I was
dumped outside the shepherd’s bothy. They rode off, and I lay on
the ground, whimpering, throbbing, unable to even drag myself
inside.
   Madog returned at dusk and found me still curled on the
ground. He made clucking noises while he examined my feet,
then dipped out some water for me from the stone basin and set
about building up the fire. When he had the blaze going, he
brought out the caldron, filled it with water, and put it on a
stone at the fire’s edge. Too sore and miserable to move, I lay on
my side and watched as he took his flint knife and cut one of his
precious onions into pieces, which he put into the pot along with
a few handfuls of dried mutton, some barley, and a sprinkling of
leafy herbs and salt.

   He settled himself on a large round stone beside the fire ring
to stir the pot. Every now and then he would look at me and
shake his head. I could see he felt sorry for me, and I was
grateful for this sympathy; mute though it was, it comforted me
somewhat. I rolled onto my back and lay there listening to the
crackling fire and watching the stars kindle in the cloudless sky.
In a little while the caldron began to steam and boil, filling our
rude courtyard with the scent of mutton stew. When it was
finished, Madog dipped out the stew into two wooden bowls. He
broke pieces of black bread into the bowls and brought me one.

   I had no appetite for supper, but he placed the bowl beside
my head and indicated that I should take some. As I did not
wish to spurn his kindness, I raised myself up on my elbows and,
taking the bowl in both hands, lifted it to my mouth. The stew
quickly disappeared, and I found my spirits considerably
improved.

    Sufficiently strengthened, I dragged myself into the bothy and
went to sleep, waking the next morning at dawn. Madog had
already gone with the sheep to the meadow. I lay for a while,
taking stock of my bruises. Sitting up brought tears to my eyes,
and it was some time before I dared move again. Eventually, I
got myself outside. The embers were still hot, so I tossed some
twigs onto the coals and soon had the fire going once more. A
little stew remained in the pot, so I pulled it close to the fire to
let it warm.

   Meanwhile, I tried to examine my feet. Bending my stiff,
aching limbs was difficult; even the slightest movement sent
pain racing through me. Eventually, I got one leg crossed over
the other and turned my foot so I could see the underside. What
I saw made me gasp: the sole was a mass of purple welts and
puffed up so much it was almost round. In one or two places the
swollen skin had broken, and a thin watery pus wept from the
wound. I touched the broken flesh lightly as tears came to my
eyes, and I cried for my poor ruined feet.

   As I cradled my foot and sobbed softly, the full import of my
condition came crashing down. The death and destruction
unleashed on my homeland that dire and dreadful night-brutal,
swift, and terrible, easily overwhelming the inadequate British
defenses-the burning, the killing, the rampaging destruction of
whole cities defied belief. Whether my parents were alive or
dead, I knew not-nor did they know my fate. If they lived, they
might well think me dead. The thought would hasten my
softhearted mother to her grave if she was not there already.

   My friends -Rufus, Scipio, Julian-had they escaped? Most
likely they had been caught and held for ransom in Britain. Or,
perhaps like me, sold into slavery to some Irish king. No doubt
they were facing the same tribulation I faced now.

   All this and more settled like a mountain upon my bruised
and aching shoulders, bending me low to the ground. I eased
myself down and lay with my arm across my face, feeling the
immense weight of a limitless grief crushing the spirit within me
into a hard, stonelike kernel.

   I was utterly alone. I knew that now. Many were dead, but I
was alive, and while I was alive, I would hold my life in my own
two hands, trusting no one but myself. Friends deserted,
kinsmen failed, God ever turned his hard face away, and in the
end each man must look to himself for his own survival.

   The rising sun warmed me where I lay, and after a while I felt
well enough to raise myself up and sit straight-legged on the
ground. Pulling the caldron close, I ate some of the leftover stew
and looked around. The day was bright, the sky clean and wide
and filled with high, white clouds. Birds darted among the
branches of the trees behind the bothy, spilling liquid song into
the soft summer air. The quiet of our mountain retreat was a
balm to my battered heart, and I embraced it, willing it to do its
healing work.

   Thirsty upon finishing the stew, I decided to try to stand.
Carefully, achingly, I drew my legs beneath me and touched the
soles of my feet to the ground. Pain, as fierce and angry as ever
before, stole the breath from my lungs. I lay back gasping and
panting until the agony subsided, then rolled onto my stomach
and, on hands and knees, crawled to the water stoup, pulled
myself up, slid the cover aside, and drank, laving water into my
mouth with one hand while bracing myself on the side of the
basin with the other.

   When I finished, I washed my face and then eased myself
down to sit in the sun with my back against the bothy wall. Two
things were now clear in my mind: I would have to learn to
speak a little of the confounded Irish tongue-enough to express
simple needs at least-and I would have to find a way to remove
my slave collar or disguise it in some way. Then, and only then,
could I contemplate another attempt at escape.

   I spent the rest of the day deep in thought, and when Madog
returned at dusk, I set to work.

   He was pleased to see me sitting up. He squatted to look at
my feet, frowned, and shook his head sadly. As he sat back on his
heels, I placed my hand squarely on my chest and said, “Succat,”
repeating this a few times until he said it for himself.

    I pointed to him. With childlike glee he patted himself on his
chest and said, “Madog.” He repeated this many times for me,
although I was pronouncing it correctly the second time he said
it.

   I pointed to the fire. “Ignis.” Then, since he did not
understand Latin, I added, “Tan” thinking he might remember
the British word.

  “Tine,” he replied, repeating it happily.

  The similarity of the words instantly buoyed my hopes. If the
two languages were so close, the Irish tongue would be easily
mastered, for I possessed a great store of British words, since it
was what most of the servants and farmers spoke on our estate.
Pointing to the hut behind us, I said, “Tugurium,” Madog
frowned, so I abandoned Latin altogether and said, “Bwth.”

   Delight lit the old shepherd’s wrinkled face. “Bothdnl” he
cried, almost hugging himself with excitement.

   I smiled, too, elated at the easy similarity between the two
tongues. Next I pointed to the water basin. “Cerwyn.” Madog
frowned, so I tried another word: “Cawg.”

   He repeated the word and then paused. Pointing, his mouth
working, he rolled his eyes and tapped his head, but the word
would not come. At last the effort proved too much, and he
threw his hands into the air and grunted in defeat. That was the
end of our exercise.

   Next day, however, he returned to the bothy with a wide grin
of triumph on his ruddy, weather-creased face. “Dabhach!” he
exclaimed, pointing to the water stoup. “Dabhach… dabhach!”
Plunging his hands into the basin, he scooped up water and let it
dribble through his fingers saying, “Uiscel”

   “Uisce,” I repeated, then tried the British word: “Dwfr?”

   “Dal Uisce, da!” he said triumphantly.

   My heart fell. Neither word was remotely similar. In truth, the
Irish tongue might not be so easily learned as I had allowed
myself to imagine. But there was nothing for it. Casting
discouragement aside, I repeated the words until I could say
them to Madog’s satisfaction.

   This proved a durable game for him. Over the next days he
pillaged his raddled memory for more words he could teach me.
When he ran dry, I suggested some, pointing to the sky, the
sheep, the forest, a stick, a rock - anything near to hand. Often
his face would squeeze itself into a fist of thought in his strain to
remember, and sometimes the word would pop out. Other times,
he would go stumping off to the sheepfold, head down, shoulders
bent by the weight of cogitation, returning sometime later with
the word he had dredged up from the murky depths of
remembrance.

   In my idle times, of which there were many, I recited the
words to myself, repeating them until my tongue grew numb in
my mouth. As the days and weeks went by, I gradually built up a
knowledge of the barbarian speech, adding more and more
words as Madog was able to supply them. I knew that to speak
properly I would one day have to find another to teach me; until
then, I worked the old shepherd mercilessly. I made him tell me
numbers, colors; the names of animals, plants, and parts of the
body; the words for simple actions, for smells, for emotions, for
anything and everything I could think to ask.

   For his part, Madog warmed to the chore and surprised both
of us by his increasing abilities to remember. The more we
worked, the greater grew his capacities; words came back to
him-often in a rush, as if a disused spring suddenly gushed forth
with long-pent waters. On these occasions he danced around the
fire ring flapping his arms with infantile delight.

   One day I tried my speech on one of the women of the rath;
she had brought us some bread and turnips, for which I thanked
her. She looked a little astonished but smiled pleasantly and said
something which I did not follow. But I took the bread and said,
“Ardn.”

  Still smiling, she replied, “Is ea siud.”

  “It is that,” I repeated.

  Next she took up a turnip and held it between her hands.
“Tomapa ruta.”

   I dutifully repeated the word and thanked her, saying, “Go
raibh maith agat do na tornapa ruta.”

  She laughed and took her leave, calling something over her
shoulder as she went. I did not know what she said, but
considered my accomplishment a triumph and added the new
words to my growing store.
   The day finally came when I was able to walk comfortably
again, and I accompanied Madog to the hillside to watch the
sheep. We spent the day practicing our speech together; on the
way back to the bothy, he turned to me and said in the Irish
tongue, “This is good.”

  “It is that,” I agreed.

  “I am here many samhradh,” he said.

  “Many… samhradh? What is samhradh?”

   “Now,” replied Madog. “This.” He waved an arm to indicate
the world around, his gesture taking in the forest, sky, and
meadow.

  The meaning came to me: “Summer,” I said. “How many
summers?”

    He was silent for a time, and I could see him working it out in
his mind. But the calculation eluded him, and at last he gave it
up, shaking his head slowly. Our elemental conversation cast
him into a pensive mood. He ate little that night and went to
sleep without speaking again; next morning I heard the sheep
bleating before dawn and woke to see that Madog had gone. I
rose later to a light rain and went out to the grazing land, where
I found him hunched on a rock in the rain, his crook across his
lap.

   He was working with something, and as I drew nearer, I saw
that he had his flint knife and was carving notches on the shaft
of his crook. I greeted him and watched as he carefully carved a
new notch beside the last, brushed the chipping aside, and
rubbed it with his fingers. Then, starting with the first notch, he
moved his thumbnail along the row of notches to the end.

   Absorbed in this task, he paid no attention to me, so I walked
out to where the sheep were grazing, picking up a stick along the
way. Around midday the rain stopped and the sun came out. I
returned to the rock, where Madog still sat.

  The flint knife lay on the ground, having slipped from his
hand, and he sat gripping the crook, staring at the notches he
had made.

  “Finished?” I asked.

   He raised his head, and I saw the tears running down his
face. “Triocha is ocht.”

   It took me a moment to work out what he meant.
“Thirty-eight?” I asked. And then it came to me. I knelt down
before him and ran my finger along the neat row of notches: the
years of his captivity. He had been a slave for thirty-eight years.

  “A long time,” I told him. He nodded but said nothing.

   I left him to himself and returned to the sheep. Every now and
then I glanced over to the rock where he sat, wrapped in misery
for the waste of his life.

   I vowed I would escape -or die trying. I would choose death a
thousand times before I allowed myself to become like Madog.

   I labored at my words and speech with a diligence born of
insatiable ambition, practicing night and day, plundering
Madog’s memory tirelessly, amassing a trove of words like a
jealous miser. Summer was moving on; the days were growing
shorter, the nights cooler. If I was to make another attempt at
escape, it would have to be soon-or wait until next spring, and I
could not abide the thought of spending the winter on a freezing
mountainside watching a flock of poxy sheep.

   At last I judged my knowledge of the Irish tongue sufficient; I
felt I would be able to make myself understood wherever I went.
I knew, too, which direction to avoid. All that remained was to
find a way to disguise my slave tore.

   I had tried from time to time to remove the collar, but I was
not strong enough to bend the cold iron. I pondered this
problem while I busied myself weaving a bag out of the tough
grass which grew down along the river-bank in the valley where
we sometimes took the sheep to drink. I had often watched the
servants at home weave such bags, and though I had never done
it myself, after several attempts I soon mastered the skill. When
the bag was ready, I set about gathering the food I would need,
tucking away bits and pieces, taking scraps when Madog was
not looking. I saved a fair quantity of dried meat, hard bread,
nuts, and such and was soon ready-save for the problem of the
tore.

   In the end I could do no better than to cover it. This I did by
pulling up my tunic and tying it at the neck with a strip of cloth
ripped from the hem. The twisted metal ends protruded at the
front, and the ring stuck out at the back, but at least it was out
of sight. I thought that if chance allowed, I might get a cloak
somehow and, by pulling it up around my head, hide the thing
better that way.

   The next day dawned wet and cool. I made up the fire and
heated some gruel in the caldron. Madog and I sat in the rain,
dipping bread into the soup and watching the clouds. It looked
like clearing by midday, so when Madog left to take the sheep to
the meadow, I made a pretense of building up the fire and
cleaning the caldron. As soon as he had gone, I picked up my bag
of provisions and made my escape.

                                 8

   I walked to the sea, following the same track as before,
keeping well out of sight from the valley below until it passed
from view. On the mountainside the wind blew stiff from the
west, bearing the taste of sea salt on the heavy, damp air. Upon
reaching the coastal headland, I climbed down onto the strand
and this time, instead of turning to the right, I turned left.

   Again the coast was rocky and wild, with great black humps
of tortured stone tumbling into the foamy green water as far as
the eye could see. The wind whipped hard off the sea, driving a
light, misty rain into my eyes. I was soon wet to the skin and so
decided to stop for a while. I found a crevice in the rocks which
offered some protection from the wind and rain, and climbed in
to wait until the weather cleared. I curled up, wrapping my arms
around my chest to keep warm, and fell asleep.
    I woke to bright sunlight pouring down through a hole in the
clouds as they churned across the sky. The wind still blew,
flinging flecks of sea-foam across the pebbled shore. I rose and
began walking, searching the way ahead for any sign of
habitation, but the shore was barren, and it was all my own. I
walked until the sun began to drift toward the sea, and then sat
down to eat a little. I drank rainwater from a hollow in a rock
before moving on.

   I had gone only a few dozen paces when I heard a dog bark
behind me. I turned to see three riders in the distance. Led by
the dog, they were cantering along the sea strand.

   Turning, I scanned the cliffs above. They were steep and high,
but I reckoned I could climb them -or at least hide in one of the
many deeply seamed crevices until the riders had passed by.
Wasting not an instant, I scrambled up the nearest rill and
reached an eroded pocket, where I stopped and tucked myself
inside.

   The riders followed my footprints to the cliffside. I could hear
the hound barking below and the voices of the men as they
discussed the matter, but I did not risk a look to see what they
were doing. The barking quickly ceased, and all was silent once
more. I waited. And then, hearing no more, I leaned out for a
quick glance below; a single rider remained: judging by his
clothing and weapons, a warrior, most likely from Miliucc’s war
band. His two companions and the dog had gone; I could not see
them but assumed they had continued on down the beach.

   Quietly, and with the utmost stealth, I edged my way higher
up the crevice. I had gained a fair distance when my hand closed
on a loose rock that came away in my grasp. The rock fell,
alerting the rider on the ground. He looked up, saw me, and
raced back to the cliff face, dismounted, and began climbing.

   He was the bigger man, but I was quicker. Hand over hand I
pulled myself up the ragged face of the cliff, scrambling as fast as
I could, letting the rocks fall to hinder my pursuer as they would.

   Sweating and out of breath, I reached the top and, with a last
great effort, dragged myself up over the edge and into the long
grass. Gathering my legs beneath me, I raced straight across the
grassy plain for the line of trees a short distance ahead. I was
halfway there when out from the wood charged the two missing
riders. The hound uttered a long, baying cry. I turned and raced
back toward the seacliff, hoping to descend another way before
the riders could cut off my retreat.

   Just as I reached the edge, the pursuing warrior appeared. He
clambered up the rest of the way, and I dived for the slope a few
paces to his right. My descent abruptly halted when I felt myself
caught by the tunic. Thinking that a root had snagged me, I
tried to jerk free and was instead hauled back up and over the
rim of the cliff and flung like a bag of fish onto the grass.

   The warrior stood over me, scowling, breathing hard from his
exertion.

  The hooves of the horses drummed on the thick turf. The
warrior looked up as the others galloped in. His attention
momentarily diverted, I lashed out with my foot and caught him
behind the knee; he toppled backward. I rolled onto my stomach
and, squirming, diving, scrambled for the edge of the cliff once
more-only to be caught by the leg and dragged back.

  The one who had caught me raised his arm to hit me, but I
shouted. “I am King Miliucc’s man!”

   At these words the foremost rider called an order to his
comrade. The warrior let his fist fall, aiming for my head. I
threw my hands up, and he struck my arm. I shouted again, and
the rider called, “Cernach! Stop!”

  My captor hesitated, still glaring murderously at me. He
made a reply I could not understand.

  “He is King Miliucc’s man,” the rider said.

  “The king’s daor,” sneered the warrior, meaning “slave.”

  “Then it is for the king to punish him. It will be dark soon.”
With that the rider wheeled his horse and began riding away.
    Cernach gave a growl of frustration, reached down, and
yanked me roughly to my feet, shaking me once or twice for
spite. He dragged me to the second rider, who passed him down
a length of braided leather rope with which he tied my hands.
Thus secured, I was led away, and Cernach disappeared over the
cliffside to retrieve his horse on the strand below.

   It was dark before we reached the rath. Even so, I was taken
to stand in the yard outside the king’s hall. Larger than all the
others, it housed his queen and children and some of the more
intimate members of his retinue, which I estimated to be twelve
or fifteen men, mostly warriors. Upon our arrival they all came
spilling out of the hall to gather behind the king, who stood in
the flickering torchlight, gazing impassively at me.

   After a moment he said, “My slaves do not escape.” Just that,
nothing more. But I understood. He lifted his hand, and four
great brutes of warriors advanced bearing stout branches pulled
from the fire.

    The foremost approached and swung at my head with the
flaming brand. I ducked as the flame whiffled through the air.
He swung again, and I dodged to the side, but my hands were
still tied and the warrior on the other end of the rope pulled
tight so I could not move as freely as I might. A second man
approached from the side, swinging at me. I darted away, and he
missed, but the first warrior caught me a glancing blow on the
shoulder. The searing heat made me cry out.

   Sparks flew from the end of the firebrand, and this delighted
the crowd, which now consisted of the entire population of the
rath. A third warrior, taking up a position behind me, thrust his
torch at my legs. The fourth joined the others to form a loose
circle around me, and they began taking it in turn to swipe at
me with their burning torches.

   I moved to the side and kept moving, dodging and feinting as
the fiery cudgels whirled around me. The circle tightened, and
the strikes came faster.

   A blow caught me on the arm and another on the hip. The
crowd roared its approval. I kept moving, circling. The
firebrands riffled and fluttered in the air. I covdd feel the heat on
my skin when they passed near. More and more often they found
their mark-one struck my hand, another found my shin, my
back, my side. Each strike left a burn mark on my ragged
clothing or skin. The rope prevented me from evading all the
blows, but I stayed on my feet and kept moving-eluding one
brand only to have another catch me. One of the warriors struck
me hard on the shoulder, and another landed a solid thump to
my chest. The flames licked my throat.

   The circle tightened further. I could no longer avoid the
swift-flying branches, and the warriors began striking at will. I
covered my face with my arms and tried to keep moving, but my
feet soon tangled, and I fell. I climbed to my knees. The rope
jerked taut, dragging me forward.

   The strokes were coming thick and fast now. One after
another. Crack! Crack! Crack! Again and again. They stood over
me, raining fiery blows. I curled into a ball and rolled in the dirt
to keep from getting my clothes and hair set alight.

   The beating proceeded with rhythmic precision - as if they
were chopping wood, hoeing weeds, or thrashing grain. Even
when, one by one, the firebrands went out, the men beat me with
the smoldering ends. They were not glancing blows now but
solid, hurtful thumps and knocks. I ground my teeth to keep
from crying out and endured the pain as best I could.

   Just when I thought I could take no more, the king spoke a
word, and the frenzied thumping stopped. They lifted me to my
feet, but I could not stand, so they dragged me to one of the
nearby horses and threw me across the back of the beast. As
before, I was carried up the mountainside and dropped outside
the shepherd’s bothy.

   Madog emerged from the hut as soon as the warriors had
gone; he stood for a time clucking his tongue and shaking his
head. Then he built up the fire and fetched some water from the
stoup. I drank and eased my battered body into a more
comfortable position. Madog sat with me for a little while, but as
there was nothing he could do, he gave soon up and went back to
bed.
   I lay by the fire and felt the fierce ache spread through my
body-one weal melding with another until I was a single great
palpitating bruise. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep but could
not for the pain.

    Thus I lay awake all night, unable to move, watching the fire
and wishing I had that arrogant king and his cowardly warriors
trussed up and spitted to turn slowly over the flames. I would
listen to their screams, exulting in their agony as I tossed more
sticks onto the fire.

   Morning found me still awake but incoherent with pain. My
limbs had grown stiff, and I could not move. The fire had burned
to embers, and I was cold, but it hurt too much to try to reach
more fuel, so I stared at the cooling ashes until Madog awoke
and came out. He built up the fire again, gave me another drink,
and then left to take the sheep out to the grazing land. Before he
departed, he paused to stand over me one last time.

  “You should not run away,” he said, then turned on his heel
and moved off, leaving me to my torment.

   He did not speak to me that night when he returned, nor the
next morning either. This, I concluded, was my punishment for
leaving him. During the day the shadow of the high trees drew
across me as I lay there on the ground, and it was to me the
shadow of a powerful guilt: not for trying to escape my slavery-I
would do that again in an instant-no, I felt guilty for deserting
Madog, for running away without a word of farewell.

   My coming had been the saving of him, in a way. Under my
urging he had recovered more and more of himself-his speech,
his memories, his life. My companionship -contemptible, selfish
thing that it was - had nevertheless allowed him to regain some
small, sacred shred of his former humanity. Running away again
as I did had shown him just how little I cared about him. He
liked me, he honored me, and I esteemed him not at all. He knew
that now, and it cut him deep.

   I dozed through the day, my conscience squirming with
shame, and awoke as the sun passed behind the western ridge of
the mountains. Although it hurt to do so, I roused myself and sat
up, nearly swooning from the pain. I dragged myself to the water
stoup, drank and washed my face, and then crawled to the
woodpile and pulled out some loose sticks and branches to feed
the fire.

   Each of these simple chores required a rest until the pain
subsided and I could breathe again. I pulled up my tunic and
looked at myself. Chest, ribs, and stomach were a lumpy mass of
bluish-black bruises; likewise my thighs, shins, and arms. My
once-handsome clothes were blackened from soot and singed
through in a dozen places. The warriors had been most thorough
in their beating; there was scarcely a place on my whole body
where I could put a finger without touching discolored flesh.
And when I could not put it off any longer, I got up to pass
water; it hurt so much I could hardly unbuckle my belt, and
when I was at last able to relieve myself, I was alarmed to see
that my piss ran red with blood.

   I sat down and cried. When the tears ceased, I crawled back
to my place by the fire and dragged more fuel to the flames. By
the time Madog returned with the sheep, I had a fine fire going
once more. A small thing, but it pleased the old shepherd to see
that, battered as I was, I had at least made an effort to help with
the daily chores.

   He brought with him a lamb that had fallen from the rocks
earlier in the day and broken its back. He had put the poor
creature out of its misery, skinned and cleaned it with his flint
knife, and brought the carcass back to the bothy for us to eat. I
watched as he quartered it and put two meaty haunches on
spits.

   We sat opposite one another across the fire ring as the sky
grew dark, watching the meat sizzle, turning the spit from time
to time, smelling the oily smoke, and listening to the rooks croak
and call as they flocked to their treetop roosts. As the meat
cooked, we pulled juicy bits from the spitted haunches and ate.

  “Where did you go?” asked Madog at last. The smoke swirled
up from the roasting meat, rising silvery blue in the evening air.

  I looked up to see him watching me across the flames. “To the
sea.”

   He shook his head gently. “They will always catch you there.”

   I accepted this in silence, and we sat for a while longer. The
first stars came out, and the moon peeped through the high, thin
clouds. “Did you ever try to escape?” I asked.

   “No,” he said. “But if I did, I would not go to the sea. They will
always catch you there.”

   “Where would you go?”

   He looked down and busied himself with the spit.

  “Please, Madog,” I said, “tell me. If you wanted to escape,
where would you go?”

   He thought for a moment. “I would go that way,” he said,
indicating with a jerk of his head the unseen mountains rising
behind us.

   “Into the forest?”

   He nodded.

  “But that would be very… ah…” I faltered, searching for the
word.

   “Baolach,” Madog suggested.

   “Dangerous? For fear of wolves and such?”

   “Aye.”

   “Then is not escape through the forest a very dangerous
thing?”

  “It is that,” he agreed. “But you can hide. There are many
good places, and they will not hunt more than a day or two.”

   We spent the whole of the night talking and eating, and in
this way made peace with one another again. As dawn edged
into a low, gray eastern sky, Madog yawned and rose. “I am glad
they did not kill you,” he said.

   The simple, heartfelt sentiment moved me deeply. I thanked
him and meant it. He merely nodded and picked up his crook
and went down to the sheepfold, lowered the top two timber
poles, and led the sheep up the track toward the high meadow. I
slept then and did not awake until late in the day. I rose and
went to the basin, hobbled and shuffling like an old man, and
bent stiffly to remove the cover. I drank and washed and then
went into the nearer trees to relieve myself. I was pleased to see
that my piss ran clear once more. I knew then that my bruises
would heal and I would live to escape another day.

   But that day would have to wait until next summer, I
concluded. Already the nights were drawing in; soon the gales of
autumn would arrive, and none but a fool would trust a boat to
the unchancey seas of Mare Hiberniae when the wild wind
blows. I would have to spend the winter on the mountain with
Madog and his sheep.

    The thought produced a melancholy that laid my spirit low. I
remembered all that had been taken from me: my home, my
family, my friends, the easy life I had known. Down and down I
sank, into an unfathomable sadness -a sorrow as full and deep as
the sea separating me from my homeland. Away in Britain, I
imagined, life had resumed much as before the raid, and I was
all but forgotten. Julian, Scipio, and Rufus were riding the
coastal road and plaguing the girls at the Old Black Wolf,
laughing and drinking, their old friend Succat nothing but a
distant, swiftly fading memory.

   For two days I lay beside the fire and wallowed in this sick
bereavement for my former life, wishing I could by some
miraculous power simply rise from my bed and fly across the sea
and that all I had lost would be returned to me. I vowed I would
escape again as soon as I was well enough to walk. Ah, but no,
there was nothing for it. By the time I was hale once more, the
ships would be securely anchored in snug harbors awaiting the
gentler tides of spring.

  I resigned myself to enduring this hardship as best I could,
and decided that my time was best spent learning as much as
possible about the mountains and forest surrounding our bothy.
Thus, when I was well enough to resume my wood-gathering
chores, I took to walking farther and farther into the forest,
searching out unexplored paths and following them as far as the
short days allowed. In this way I gathered a fair knowledge of the
place Madog called the Wood of Focluit-a great forest that
covered, so far as I could tell, the whole of the northern part of
Eire.

   All through the bleak, cold days and endless nights of winter, I
consoled myself with the thought that by the time the sun
reclaimed the heavens for its own, I would be ready.

                                 9

   One morning I awoke to a fine white powdering of frost on
the ground and a crisp, cutting edge to the air.

   Shivering, we rose and built up the fire, and as we went about
our chores the dark clouds came in a long line, concealing the
tops of the mountains. The air took on a tingling of ice, and I
knew that snow would not be long in coming.

   I had no cloak, but Madog had saved the fleece of the injured
lamb, and, using brine and oak bark, I had tanned this after a
fashion; at least it did not stink too badly. Draping this skin over
my shoulders and fastening it with a string of plaited rawhide, I
busied myself fetching wood, building up our stack, which
already towered above the bothy. On my second trip into the
forest, I saw a wolf.

   Now, I had seen wolves before, once or twice when hunting
with Rufus and the others -always at a distance, however, and
always running away. This one was young and hungry and
unafraid.

   I caught sight of its lean, ghostly shape gliding silently among
the dark boles of the trees, and I froze, the small hairs prickling
on the back of my neck. It is never a good idea to try to outrun a
wolf. Huntsmen say it is best to stand your ground and hope for
the best.

   After circling me several times, the animal disappeared. I
dropped the armload of wood I had collected, save for one stout
stick which I kept to use as a club. I waited, gripping my weapon
and peering into the mist-filled shadows. When the beast did not
show itself again, I quickly gathered the wood and made a hasty
retreat to the bothy.

   As soon as Madog returned, I told him what I had seen.

   “Are you certain?”

   “I am that,” I replied.

   He gripped his head with his hands. “This is very bad.”

   “It was only one,” I said, “and a very young one.”

   “There is never only one,” he said, the whites of his eyes
showing in the gloom. “They smell the sheep, and they will come
for them.”

   “What should we do?”

   “We will build up the fire here and light another down at the
entrance to the sheepfold. Then you must go to the rath and tell
the king.”

   While Madog and I spoke easily enough to one another on
most things, there was still much I did not know, and I had little
confidence that I could address the king in his own tongue. Also,
there was the fact that I was possibly the last person the king
wished to see; he had nearly killed me last time we met, and I
had no wish to confront him again so soon -even if I could
somehow make myself understood. Madog, on the other hand,
had become almost garrulous; indeed, he had recovered the
greater portion of his speech during our time together.

   “Maybe it would be better if you went to tell the king,” I
suggested. “I do not speak well.”
   Madog dismissed this idea at once. “If the wolves came while
I was gone, you would not know what to do.”

   We carried a double load of logs and branches down to the
sheep enclosure and built a large heap before the opening. The
walls of the pen were made of stone and topped by a rough
timber palisade to keep the sheep from jumping out and
predators from climbing in. Once the fire was burning strong, I
departed for the rath, taking a blazing brand for a torch to light
my way.

   The path down the mountainside to the settlement is well
traveled, and even in the dark I had no difficulty. On the way I
tried to think of all the words I might possibly need and repeated
them to myself over and over again until arriving at the rath.
The gate was closed for the night, and so I had to stand out on
the rampart shouting until someone came to see what I wanted.
“Faolchünna!” I cried at the first head to peer over the top of the
palisade. “Wolves!”

   The fellow disappeared, and a few moments later the gate
opened and a skinny youth emerged with sword in hand. He
looked at me and sneered. “Why are you making this unseemly
noise?”

   To my relief I understood him clearly enough. “Wolves,” I
repeated. “Madog says to send warriors.”

   “The king’s warband is at meat,” he informed me. “I will not
disturb them.”

   The superior smirk on his face sent a sheet flame of anger
flashing through me. I wanted nothing more than to shove my
burning torch into his smug barbarian face. Instead I said,
“Then I will tell them. I am not afraid.”

   He made to stop me, but I pushed past and strode directly to
the hall, my face hot as the torch in my hand. The door was
wooden and covered by an ox hide to better keep out the wind.
Throwing aside the skin, I pulled open the door and stepped
within.
   The air was thick with smoke from a large fire in the center of
the hall. A long board lined one wall, with benches on one side,
and these were filled with men, their shields and weapons hung
on the wall behind them. Young women of the rath knelt at the
edge of the hearth with long flesh forks in their hands, roasting
meat, which they brought to the warriors at the board. Other
members of the king’s retinue reclined on piles of rushes covered
with hides and fleeces to form large beds in nooks along the wall
opposite the board.

   King Miliucc sat at the center of it all surrounded by his
warriors. He balanced a drinking bowl in his hand and held it
high for the serving boy who stood behind his seat. No one
seemed to take the least notice of me, so I moved boldly into the
room. The youth from the gate entered behind me and stood
sniggering behind his hand as I walked to the board and stopped
opposite the king.

   “Mo tiarna!” I said in a loud voice. “My lord.”

   He looked up to see me standing before him and rose to his
feet, instantly angry. He slammed down the bowl, splattering its
contents. The hall fell silent. I could feel the eyes of everyone on
me, but what did I care for that?

   “Slaves are not allowed in my house!” he shouted.

  I stood to his wrath. “And are wolves allowed in your sheep
pen?”

  He regarded me with a frown as my meaning broke upon
him. “The sheep have been attacked?”

   “Madog says to send warriors.” Having delivered my message,
I turned and walked from the hall; the youth tried to bar my
way. I stopped a pace before him and regarded him with searing
righteousness.

   Slightly taller than myself, he was thinner; his long dark hair
hung in a thick braid from the side of his head, and he had a
slim gold bracelet high on his right arm next to his elbow. “You
smell like a pig,” he told me.
  I stared back at him, trying to work out what he had said.

  “I said,” he repeated, enjoying himself extravagantly, “you
smell like a Pig-”

  “Better the pig,” I replied, “than the pig’s turd.”

   He drew back his hand to strike. I still held the torch and
would have hit him with it, but the warriors, having taken up
their weapons, came clattering to the door just then. “Lead the
way, slave!” roared the foremost warrior, pushing me through
the door and into the yard outside.

   We hastened up the mountain track to the sheepfold, where
Madog stood guard over the flock with his crook in one hand
and a firebrand in the other. The warriors looked around and,
seeing no wolves, began laughing at him and calling him a
cowardly old woman. One of them picked up a stone. “Here,
shepherd! I found a wolf!” He tossed the stone. “There, it’s gone.
I chased it away.” The others, half drunk, laughed all the more.

   “These wolves of yours, Madog, where are they?” demanded
the foremost warrior. He was, I realized, the same man who had
prevented Cer-nach from throttling me when I was captured the
second time.

  “They are coming, Forgall, never fear,” answered the old
shepherd, speaking with a fluency that surprised the war chief.
“The snow brings them.”

   As if in answer to this assertion, a long, wavering cry came
snaking down from the forest, plaintive as the wail of a lost soul.
The warriors fell silent, the laughter dying in their mouths. In a
moment the cry was repeated, and another, more distant voice,
made a long, ululating reply, echoing out across the valley before
drifting off on a falling note of feral loneliness.

   “Only a dog that has lost its mate,” scoffed Forgall. But I
noticed he raised his eyes to the darkling forest and held his
breath when the cry came again, slightly closer. “And there is no
snow.”
   “The wolves are coming,” insisted Madog. “And so is the
snow.”

    “Perhaps,” allowed Forgall, “it would be no bad thing to wait
a little.”

   The howls from the forest grew in frequency and number as
they came closer and ever closer; I counted no fewer than eight
animals giving voice from just beyond the circle of light thrown
out by our fire. The sheep heard the sound and careened around
the pen, bleating piteously and leaping over one another,
desperate to escape the terrifying sound.

   The howling seemed to swirl around us in a weird, unseen
dance. We watched and waited and listened but saw not so
much as a sliver of firelight reflected in a yellow eye or the
glimmer of a curved fang. Still, we waited.

   And then there came a snarling growl from behind the
sheepfold. Forgall called for two men to follow him; they took up
torches and ran around to the back of the pen, shouting and
waving their firebrands.

   Glimpsing a dark shape moving just out of the circle of the
firelight, I yelled and pointed to the place. One of the warriors
cried out, “There!” as two more dark forms glided by, drifting
into the light. I saw their gray-black shapes slide out of the
darkness and melt away again. Another warrior shouted, and
suddenly the wolves seemed to be everywhere.

   They ran at darting, glancing angles to the fire. Every time
one of the phantom creatures appeared out of the darkness, a
warrior would charge at it with torch and spear, and the wolf
would snarl and disappear. When the sly beasts understood that
they could not get us to give chase one at a time, they came at us
by twos.

   Defense became more difficult then, for the warriors had also
to charge at them in twos, which drew strength from the
numbers standing guard at the fire. And while we were occupied
with guarding the entrance, the wolves turned their attack to the
unprotected sides of the sheepfold.
   Time and again they came at the pen and were chased away. I
saw a large black wolf leap up onto the stone wall and try to
climb over the top. I shouted the warning, and one of the
younger warriors dashed forward as the animal clawed at the
timbers to pull itself up and over. The warrior took aim with his
spear and let fly.

   I thought it a good throw, but Forgall rounded on his
kinsman. “Hold!” he cried as the spear sliced the air just above
the wolfs shoulder. The animal jumped down from the wall and
bounded away. “You do not throw at a wolf.”

  “Why?” demanded the youth angrily. “I could have hit him.”

   “But you did not,” replied Forgall. Raising his hand, he
pointed into the wolf-ridden darkness. “Now, tell me, who is
going to go out there and recover your spear? You, Echu?”

  The warrior looked to his swordbrothers for help.

  “Well?” demanded Forgall.

  Echu shook his head.

   “No?” said the big barbarian. “Stupid you may be, Echu, but
not a fool. Get away with you. Find a torch and stand over
there,” he pushed him toward the fire.

  So it went, all through the night. Never once did the wolves
make an outright attack. They ran here and there, sometimes
showing themselves, most often remaining out of sight. And they
wailed as if to wake the moon, but we would not be moved.

   Finally, as a raw, freezing dawn leaked into the eastern sky,
the howling ceased.

   When it grew light enough to see the ground, we went to
inspect the tracks. Taking flaming branches from the fire, we
walked around the perimeter of the sheep pen and up to the
bothy and wood beyond, finding no end of tracks-so many that it
was impossible to say how large the pack had been.
   “Here is the leader!” called Forgall, squatting over a paw print
in the mud. Others gathered around as he held his torch near
and spread his hand over it. The print was almost as big as his
hand.

   “It is too big for a wolf,” said the warrior called Echu. “It must
be a sídhe.”

   The others laughed at this; although I did not know what
Echu meant, it seemed to me the word was spoken only half in
jest.

   “It will take more than a few changeling sídhe to keep me
from my bed,” declared Forgall. He rose and turned to Madog,
who was leaning exhausted on his crook. “It was good for you to
call us when you did,” he said. He looked at me and chuckled to
himself. “You are a bold one,” he declared. “Coming into the
king’s hall like that…” He shook his head as if it were a wonder
he could not fathom, and I felt an unaccountable flush of pride
warm me head to heel. It was instantly followed by a pang of
disgust that I should exult, however trivially, in the praise of a
brute barbarian.

   Some of the warriors meanwhile had gone to retrieve Echu’s
errant spear; Forgall called to say that he was ready to leave, and
as they started through the trees, he turned to Madog and said,
“Perhaps you should bring the sheep down to the rath tonight.”

   Madog frowned. “I will think about it.”

  The warriors departed then; Madog and I watched them
descend the mountain track until they were lost in the morning
mist. When they had gone, I said, “This word they used-what
does it mean?”

   The old shepherd lifted his eyes to the forest that was rising
like a black, bristly cloud behind us. “Some words it is not wise
to speak aloud.”

   “Echu said it. I only want to know what it means.”

   “Sídhe,” Madog replied, his voice falling to a respectful
whisper. “It is the name of a great and terrible race of…” He
faltered, struggling for the words. “Of folk who delight in
destruction and harm. They are full of spells and evil magic to
befuddle men.”

  I rolled my eyes in exasperation. “Madog, these were wolves,
not magical beings.”

  “Aye,” he agreed uncertainly. “That may be.”

   He would say no more about it, so we set ourselves to putting
out the fire at the entrance to the sheepfold-scattering the
branches and throwing dirt on the embers until only a mound of
smoldering earth remained. Madog pulled aside the timber poles
to open the gate and walked into the pen. The sheep knew him
and came to him; they gathered around the lanky old man to
have their curly heads rubbed while he soothed them with soft
words.

   I went back up to the bothy and rekindled the campfire, for it
would be a damp, cold day. The snow arrived shortly after
sunrise, and soon a fair, even spread of white covered the grass
of the high meadow. The near trees looked as if they were
wearing woolen mantles, and the upper slopes became spectral,
disappearing in a snow-laden mist.

  Snow had come early to Sliabh Mis, and already the wolves
were gathering. It would be a long winter.

                               10

  Around midday I trudged up to the high meadow and found
Madog half asleep on a snow-covered rock. He started as I drew
near. “Hail, Madog Wolf-Fighter,” I said, and this made him
smile.

   I settled beside him on his rock and looked out at the sheep,
scraping the snow off the grass with their small hooves. “Maybe
we should do as Forgall says,” I suggested, “and move down to
the rath tonight.”

  “I do not like the rath.”
   “Nor do I. But at least we can sleep, and the sheep will be
safe.”

  “They will be safe here.”

   “We could ask the king to send his warriors out to hunt the
wolves,” I offered. “We could come back when they have been
driven off.”

   “Perhaps.” The way he said it gave me to know he had no
intention of leaving his sheepfold and bothy for the safety of the
rath.

   We watched the sheep for a while. Low clouds flowed over the
sides of the mountains like silvery hair, and wind gusted out of
the north in cold fits, making me shiver beneath my single small
fleece. “What is wrong with the rath,” I asked, “that you should
fear going there?”

   “I am not afraid,” sniffed Madog, wearing his petulance like a
cloak.

  “Then why?”

  “There are too many people and dogs. It bothers the sheep.”

  “Wolves bother them more.”

    He was silent for a moment; I could see him struggling with
it. His wrinkled mouth worked over the words a few times before
he said, “They laugh at me.”

  “The bastards.”

  He liked this. “The bastards,” he repeated happily.

   “Let them laugh, I say. What do we care? We are noble
Britons, you and I, and we fight wolves with our bare hands!”

   He laughed again. After a time he said, “Well, we can sleep in
the rath tonight.”

  The sun began to fade, drawing a freezing mist from the cold
heights. We herded our sheep together and led them down the
mountain trail to the settlement. As we were leaving, a thin,
wailing howl arose from the forest above the bothy-as if our lean
and long-legged brothers wished to let us know we would be
missed that night.

   Upon reaching the fortress, Madog and I busied ourselves
with penning up the sheep for the night, using a number of
wattle-woven hurdles that we found behind a storehouse. We
tied the hurdles together to form a crude enclosure to keep the
sheep from wandering around and then set about finding a place
for ourselves to sleep -not an easy thing, for, as Madog had
intimated, the old slave was such an object of scorn and ridicule
that no one would suffer us even to sit under the low eaves of a
house.

   “We must sleep with the sheep, I think,” Madog concluded
gloomily.

  “The king has horses, not so?” I said.

  “He does,” Madog affirmed. “Fine horses.”

   “Then he also has a stable full of hay, and that is where we
shall sleep.”

   He hesitated, unable to hope for such a luxury, but I took him
by the arm. “Come, Madog, show me this stable, and tonight you
shall sleep in the king’s chariot.”

    The king’s grooms gave us an uncertain reception. They
would have driven us out, and Madog would have let them, but I
stood behind him and made him stand his ground. “Tell them it
is because of the wolves,” I urged, preventing the old shepherd
from fleeing the confrontation.

  “You tell them,” he countered.

  “You are the chief shepherd, Madog,” I countered quickly, “so
you must tell them. They will listen to you.”

  “What should I say?”
   “Tell them if they let us stay here for the night, we will watch
the horses and they can go drink beer.”

   The old shepherd hesitated, his face rigid in refusal. “Go on,
tell them,” I said, prodding him in the back.

    He drew a breath and blurted out what I had told him to say.
The nearest stableman turned his face toward us, interest
flickering across his bland features. He called something to his
elder companion, who dropped the hank of rope he was carrying
and came to stand before us.

  “So!” he challenged. “You are shepherds and know nothing of
horses. What makes you think you can govern the king’s stable?”

   Madog stared back at him, his mouth open, unable to think of
a reply. I whispered, “Tell him we do not presume to take his
place. We only mean to watch them for one night.” Madog
looked at me in dismay. “He is listening,” I insisted. “Just tell
him.”

   Turning once more to the chief groom, Madog plucked up his
sagging courage and repeated what I had told him to say, his
voice trembling. The stableman regarded us narrowly, stroking
his mustache in thought. His fellow groom had come near, and
the two discussed the matter for a moment. I heard the younger
one say, “It is for one night only. What harm can come in one
night?”

   “That is true,” I put in. “One night only-and the horses are
asleep anyway.”

   The chief groom hesitated; his companion looked at him
hopefully, as did we all. Finally he made up his mind. “Let it be
as you say.” He raised a stern finger. “One night. And if there is
any trouble, you come for me, yes?”

   “There will be no trouble,” Madog said.

   “But if something should happen”-he walked to the door and
pointed to a low-roofed hut, one of four or five dwellings
adjacent to the king’s hall-“I will be in that house. You come tell
me, yes?”

  “At once.”

   Delivering himself of this command, he turned and indicated
a pile of cut hay that half filled an empty stall. “You can sleep
there,” he told us. “Come, Ruarhdri,” he said, but his fellow
groom was already out the door.

   They hurried away, leaving us alone in the stable. It was a
large, dry building, big as a house, its walls lined with stalls for
eight horses; only six were occupied. The room was warm and
pungent with the smell of horseflesh. I walked around and looked
in each of the stalls, one of which contained the king’s chariot.
“Here is where you will sleep tonight,” I told Madog. He fussed
and fluttered and said he would never dare so much, but he eyed
the graceful, curving yoke and gleaming wheels all the same.

   “The beasts have been fed and watered,” I said. “Now it is for
us to find something to eat.”

  Madog pursed his lips doubtfully.

  Seeing it was up to me, I said, “You guard the horses. I will go
and see what I can find.”

   Leaving a very anxious shepherd at the door, I walked out
into a damp twilight and moved down the narrow, winding lane
formed by a double row of storage buildings and small wattled
huts. The lane was well trodden and muddy, with puddles of
standing water in the footprints of men and animals. Smoke rose
through the hole high up in the thatch of some of the huts, and I
smelled meat and savory herbs roasting. I slowed as I came to
the first of the huts and paused outside the door, thinking how
best to ask for what I wanted. The thought of scavenging like a
contemptible beggar rankled, but I considered that as a slave of
the king I had as much right to a little food as anyone else.

   As I was standing there, I heard voices inside the house: a
man’s voice, flaring, angry, and a woman’s shrill reply.
Interrupting an argument would not likely produce the desired
result, I reckoned, so I continued along. From the next house
came the cries of a squalling infant. I moved on.

   The last house was quiet inside, and as I stood there listening
and working out what I would say, the door opened and a young
woman stepped out. She was, I think, about the same age as
myself, hazel-eyed and slender, with a sharp nose and small chin
that gave her a curious, birdlike appearance. Two small gold
combs held an abundance of long black hair, wayward strands of
which blew across the rounded oval of her face. Her cloak was
deep green, the color of winter ivy, and although the night was
cold, she wore it folded so that it exposed a bare shoulder and
arm. She pulled the door shut behind her and turned. Her eyes
widened in surprise.

  “Och!” she said. “You have given me a scaoll!”

  I did not know the word but said, “Please, I mean no harm.”

    She smiled-a slightly crooked thing, as if she did not trust
herself to share her amusement with the world-and I saw the
light leap up in her large, luminous eyes. She lifted a hand and
flicked her fingers at the air. “It is nothing.” She edged past me.

   I caught the scent of balsam as she passed, and I let my eye
trail down along the rounded curves of her shoulder, waist, and
hip. I felt a familiar stirring and hastened after her. “I am the
king’s shepherd,” I said, falling into step beside her.

  “You are that,” she said. “I know.”

  This assertion puzzled me. “Just so?”

   My expression must have amused her, for she laughed and
said, “Just so.” She regarded me out of the corner of her eye, her
crooked smile deepening as she explained. “I was in the king’s
house serving the ftanna last night.”

  “Just so?” I countered, grimacing at my own rank ineptitude.

  But she laughed again and repeated, “Just so.”

  “Because of the wolves,” I said, stumbling on, “we have come
to the rath.”

   Ignoring my presence, she continued walking.

   “But we have nothing to eat.”

   She stopped and looked me up and down, her glance quick
and dismissive. At once, I was acutely and painfully aware of my
dirty face, my un-combed hair, and the fetid smell emanating
from my filthy, unbecoming clothes. “And is it for me to feed you
now?”

   “I only-”

   She thumbed her nose at me. “Be off with you, beggar boy.”

   With that she was gone, leaving only the hint of balsam on the
cold night air. Stung by her remark, I stood and stared, feeling
very small and stupid.

   She flitted away, light as a bird darting through the gloom,
skipping over the puddles as she went. The wind gusted, and I
felt cold mist on my face as I turned and hurried back to the
stable. Madog was sitting in the hay waiting for me. “What did
you get?” he asked, starting up as I entered.

   I told him I did not get anything but that I met a girl, and I
asked, “What does fianna mean?”

   Madog tapped his head with his finger for a moment and
then said, “Ah, it is the warriors, you know?” He made a
circular, inclusive motion with his hands.

   “The warband?” I suggested.

   “Yes,” he agreed. “The fianna is the king’s warband.”

   “This girl serves the fianna.”

   “But she did not give us anything?”

   “No,” I replied.
   With no hope of getting anything to eat, we decided to settle
down to sleep. I bade Madog a good night and crawled into an
empty stall -but not before establishing the old shepherd in the
king’s chariot as I had promised. He protested but allowed
himself to be led to the chariot and covered with a fleece which I
found rolled on the small bench inside the vehicle.

   The gloom of the stable deepened around us. I lay in the
sweet-smelling hay listening to the soft snuffling of the horses as
they slept; now and then a hoof would chafe the wooden floor or
a board would creak, but all remained peaceful.

   Dawn came long before I was ready to wake. Madog, eager to
return to his flock, pulled me from my warm bed, and we walked
out into a morning white with frost to lead the sheep from the
rath. Since the upper meadow was mostly under snow, we stayed
in the valley that day and allowed the sheep to share the water
mead with the cows and pigs. They drank from the
clear-running stream and grazed the high grass along the
steeper banks where the cattle did not go. I watched them
through the day and wished I could appease my own hunger so
easily.

   The short day was filled with wind and clouds but no rain,
and we did not have far to go to return to the rath that evening.
Madog grouched and grumbled about his empty stomach and
kept reminding me that we had food at the bothy. “We do,” I
agreed, “if the wolves have not eaten it.”

  “We should not be here.”

  “I will get us something, never fear. We will not go hungry
again tonight.”

   Our welcome at the stable was less than cordial. “You again,”
the chief groom said. “Away with you now. One night only-that
is what you said.”

   I saw the face of the younger man fall and knew we had an
ally. “One night to prove ourselves worthy,” I whispered to
Madog. “Tell him.”
  Madog did as I said, but the stableman remained unmoved.
“Go on with you now.” He put his hand to the door and began to
pull it shut. “You are not needed here.”

   “But, Temuir,” the younger man protested, his voice tight
with urgency, “they kept a good watch. Aoife has caught a duck
and said she would make me a meal.”

  The elder man hesitated, pulling on the end of his mustache. I
could see him weakening.

   “Was not the beer sweet in your mouth?” I asked. “Was not
the hearth warm on your back as you slept? Why stay in the
stable when you have somewhere better to go” - I paused,
appealing to the younger man, and added - “and something
better to do?”

   The chief groom’s resolve collapsed. “Do tonight as you did
last night, and you can stay,” he said, and then he told us once
more where he could be found if anything should happen that
might require his attention. The younger man was out the door
and gone before his elder had finished. With a firm warning
about what we could expect if any ill befell the horses in his
absence, Temuir left, and we had the stable to ourselves once
more.

  “Wait here,” I said, “while I go find us something to eat.”

   Moving along the narrow lanes, I strode boldly to the door of
the first house I came to. I smacked the door with the flat of my
hand, and it was opened by an older woman. When she saw me,
her face creased into a scowl of distaste. “Shoo! Shoo!” she said,
as if I were an odious pest.

  “Please,” I said, putting my foot against the bottom of the
door, “we are starving. Can you give us anything?”

   “No,” she said, trying to close the door on me. She saw my
foot in the gap and tried to push me away. “Get on with you
now!”

  “We have had nothing to eat for two days,” I said, holding my
ground. “We are hungry.”

  “Why tell me?” she snapped. “Go tell the king.”

   She pushed me back and closed the door. I stood for a
moment and saw that she was right. Madog and I were Miliucc’s
slaves; it was his duty to feed us.

   Thus determined, I marched directly to the big house, where
my conviction wavered slightly. I paused in the yard outside to
observe what passed and to work out what to say. As I was
lingering there, trying to decide how best to make myself
understood, I heard voices and turned to see a group of young
women approaching. One of them was the girl I had spoken to
the night before.

  I watched as they entered the yard, heads together, deep in
conversation. My presence was beneath their regard, so I waited
until they had reached the door and then moved to join them.
“You!” said one of the young women, turning on me abruptly.
“You are not allowed here. Go away.”

  “Please,” I said. “I only want-”

  “You stink!” sneered another. “Get away from me!”

  A warrior appeared in the doorway just then. “Here now,” he
began, stepping into the yard.

   “Send him away,” said the first serving maid, thrusting her
finger at me. “He is trying to get into the king’s house.”

  “He is dirty and he stinks,” added the second.

  The warrior’s eyes shifted to me. “You! Get away from here!
Leave these women alone!”

  “Please, I must speak to the king.”

  The warrior moved nearer. “Slaves are not allowed here. Go
back to your dung heap.”

  “I demand to speak to the king.”
   “You demand!” snarled the warrior. “Demand?” Placing his
hands on my chest, he gave me a shove which sent me sprawling
to the ground. He stood over me, glowering down. “Here is what
your demand is worth.” His crude gesture made it clear my
request ranked very low in his estimation.

   To emphasize his point he drew back his foot and kicked me
in the side. I squirmed away from the blow, and my scrabbling
on the ground made the serving maids laugh. Angry now, I
glared at them. “Even slaves must eat!” I shouted. “We have no
food, and I am hungry. I will not leave until I speak to the king.”

   “Go on,” said the warrior, stooping to pick up a rock. “Move!”

   He drew back his hand to let the rock fly, but the young
woman I had encountered the night before stepped in quickly.
“Conla, wait.” She put her hands on his arm. “He is one of the
king’s herdsmen. They have had nothing to eat for two days.”

  The warrior hesitated, hefting the rock. “Let them beg scraps
somewhere else.”

   “There is nowhere else,” I told him.

    “Well, you cannot stay here,” Conla insisted. “Get you gone
now before I-” Minded to throw the rock, he raised his arm and
let fly. I twisted around, allowing the missile to strike me on the
back of the shoulder. It stung, and I cursed him between my
teeth.

  “Stand still, beggar!” muttered the warrior, bending down for
another stone.

   “No, Conla,” said the dark-haired serving maid, tugging on
his arm. “Leave him be. Go back inside.” She pushed him toward
the door. “All of you, go in.”

  The warrior flung the rock halfheartedly, and I dodged easily
out of the way.

   “Go now, Conla. A warrior of your rank should not be seen
tussling with a slave. Leave him to me. I will send him on his
way.”

   “Very well,” replied the warrior. With a last glare at me, he
opened the door for the young women. “But if he gives you any
trouble - ”

   “Go now. I will join you soon.”

  The other serving maids entered the king’s house behind
Conla, favoring their companion with scornful looks as they
passed. To her credit she ignored them. “The king will not see
you,” she told me when they had gone. “And you’ll only heap
more trouble on your head if you stay. They’ll beat you again.”

   “What do you care?” I spat bitterly. “It is not for you to feed
us -as you so rightly pointed out yesterday.”

   Her reply surprised me. “I am sorry I said that.”

   I shrugged.

   “Just stay here.” She went into the house, and I waited
awhile, watching the sky grow dark. When she finally
reappeared, her hands were empty.

  “I could not get anything just now,” she told me. “Conla and
Ercol are coming out. If they see you, there will be trouble.”

   “You are no better than the others,” I replied, my voice thick
with scorn. Turning on my heel, I started away.

  She took two quick steps after me. I felt her hand on my arm.
“Where do you sleep?”

   I stopped at her touch. “The stable. We sleep in the stable.”

   She nodded. “I must go now, but I will bring you something.”

   “When?”

   “Tonight. I must go in; the fianna are waiting.”

   I walked slowly back to the stable. Madog was less than
pleased to see me return empty-handed. “The serving maid,” I
told him, “the one I met before. She promised to bring us
something.”

  “Huh!” he sniffed, and crawled into the king’s chariot to sleep.

   I settled myself in the stall, pulled my fleece over my chest,
and dozed, waking from time to time to look out to see if she was
coming. On one such occasion I rose and went to the door. As I
reached for the leather strap, the door swung open and the
young woman stepped quietly in, almost colliding with me.
“Och!” she gasped in surprise. “And are you always lurking in
doorways, then?”

  “I am that,” I said.

   Pale light spilled in through the open doorway; the sky had
cleared in the night, and now the moon and stars were shining.
The girl brought out a cloth-wrapped bundle from beneath her
cloak. “Here,” she said, placing it in my hands, “I brought you
this.”

  “I thank you, banrion,” I said, using a word that I thought
meant “noblewoman.”

   I saw her crooked smile. “I am not the king’s wife,” she replied
lightly. “I just serve the fianna.” She turned and stepped quickly
outside.

  “What is your name?”

   She hesitated, looking back at me in the darkness of the
stable. “And is that any business of yours?”

  “Please,” I said, following her out, “tell me your name.”

  She walked a few more paces and, glancing back over her
shoulder, disappeared between the houses in the lane.

   I roused Madog, and we sat down to eat our meal in the dark.
Unwrapping the bundle, I laid it on the floor between us.
Instantly the aroma of roast pork pervaded the air. I reached
down into a mound of meat still warm from the king’s hearth.
There were also round objects that turned out to be small loaves
of rye bread.

    I divided the loaves and meat between us, and we fell to. The
pork was firm and succulent, and seasoned with salt and spices I
did not know but which left a pleasant, warm sensation in my
mouth. I savored each bite. Had we a little beer, I reflected,
lifting a juicy piece of meat to my mouth, we would have dined
like kings-or at least as well as Lord Miliucc had dined that
night.

   In our hunger we made short work of the meat and bread.
Alas, it vanished all too soon. I licked the last crumbs from my
hands, then bade good night to Madog and crawled back into
the stall to dream of lovely maidens serving me choice morsels
from long silver flesh forks while I reclined on a soft featherbed
in fine robes with a tore of gold around my neck and a band of
loyal warriors alert to my every command.

                                 11

   The king and warriors rode out the next morning to hunt the
wolves. Madog and I were still asleep when the grooms came
clumping into the stable; they pulled us from our warm
slumbers and pushed us out into a raw, miserable dawn. Along
with half the population of the rath, we stood stiff-legged in the
thin light and watched the king and his fianna depart. Spears
high, gleaming shields upon their backs, their many-colored
cloaks trailing as they galloped through the gate-I confess I
found it a stirring sight.

   I looked for the young woman who had fed us the night before
but did not see her in the close-gathered crowd. When the
hunters had gone, Madog and I gathered our sheep and led them
out to graze in the valley. The day began blustery and wet and
slowly sank into a grim, bone-gnawing cold. I huddled behind a
tree beside the river, my hands tucked into my armpits to keep
warm, and waited for the short day to end so we could return to
the rath.
   As dusk gathered over the valley, we heard the sound of
hooves and peered into the gloom to see the king and his
warriors approaching; the carcasses of five or six wolves were
slung over the backs of the horses.

  “Well,” said Madog, “the wolves will trouble us no more. Now
we can return to the bothy.”

   “Perhaps we should wait another day or two,” I suggested,
“just to be certain they are truly gone.”

   “They are gone,” he said, and began leading the sheep toward
the mountain trail.

   I pointed out that it was already growing late and that we
would not reach the bothy until after dark; I complained that it
would be cold and we had little to eat up there; I told him that
the grass was better for the sheep in the valley-but nothing I said
persuaded him to change his mind. Madog would not stay in the
stable another night, and that was the end of it. I had no choice
but to go with him.

    Although it was small, the bothy was snug, and the fire
burning outside warmed it well enough. We ate a hearty supper
of boiled mutton and turnips, and went to bed. I lay awake
listening, expecting the wolves to start howling at any moment,
but the night remained quiet, nor did we hear them the next
night or any night thereafter.

   Winter deepened. From time to time people would come up
from the rath to bring us provisions; occasionally they would
take back a sheep to slaughter, but we did not go down into the
valley again until the festival of midwinter which is called Alban
Arthuan. It came about like this:

   One evening, I found Madog standing before the entrance to
the sheep-fold gazing intently at the flock. I imagined he was
counting them and had discovered one missing. But when I
asked, he said, “No, it is for the fobairt. I must choose the one
which is to be given.”

  “Fobairt?”
   “It is…” he squinted one eye and stuck out his lip with the
effort of his thought-“when a thing is burned for the good of the
rath.”

   “A sacrifice,” I suggested. “The sheep is killed for the people.”

   He nodded. “It is that,” he said, and went on to describe the
event as a very great feast in which the entire tribe came
together to observe the rite and celebrate.

   “Celebrate what?”

  Madog thought for a moment, then shook his head. He could
not say.

   He chose a young male from the flock and around its neck
tied a length of braided rope, the other end of which he tied to a
post in one corner of the enclosure. The next morning he led the
sacrificial sheep out from the others, fed and watered it, and
then we descended the trail to the valley, leading the young
sheep by a bit of rope, with the rest of the flock following as they
would.

   It had snowed a day or so before, making the narrow track
slippery in places. The Vale of Braghad stretched out below: a
wide expanse of glistening white extending all the way to the sea.
By the time we reached the valley floor, the sun had broken
through the clouds; the sky cleared, revealing patches of
astonishing blue which grew larger as the day progressed.

   Tribesmen from the other settlement joined us on the trail
leading to the rath; among the usual barbarians were men I had
never seen before. In appearance they were wholly unlike any of
the others. There were six of them, walking in pairs, a young
man together with an elder. The younger men wore gray robes
and cloaks of the same color, the older men cloaks and robes of
various colors: one green, one blue, one yellow. They kept to
themselves, neither talking to nor joining in with the others on
the trail. The elder men carried long staffs or rods; the younger
held branches cut from yew trees.

   “Who are they?” I asked when they had passed.
  “They are,” Madog answered, his voice dropping to a whisper,
“… the filidh.”

  I could make little of the word-and Madog could tell me
nothing more - so I waited to see what I could learn.

   Upon reaching the rath the others on the road stepped aside
to allow these men to enter first, and then the rest of us followed.
The six went directly to the king’s house, where they entered at
once. Madog and I took the sheep to the far side of the
settlement, where a special enclosure had been set up; in it were
a young bull and a red pig. One of the valley herdsmen was
keeping watch over the animals, so we left the sheep in his care.

  “What happens now?” I asked.

  “There will be food,” Madog replied. He looked away and
added, “But they do not let me have any.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged.

  If they were going to deny me a portion of the feast, I would
need a better reason than that. “Show me where it is.”

   He led me to a place behind the king’s hall where a pit had
been dug in the ground and filled with burning embers. Over the
pit, timber beams supported an enormous spit on which an
entire ox was roasting. A long iron trough lay across the coals to
catch the melting fat, and the aroma of that roasting meat filled
the wintry air.

   Across from the cooking fire a large wooden vat rested on a
tripod of tree stumps. People thronged the vat as cups and bowls
of beer were poured and distributed. Nearby, another fire was
burning beneath an iron tripod from which was suspended a
great black caldron in which a thick stew of beans, salt pork, and
turnips was cooking.

  “Stay there by the fire,” I told Madog, indicating the pit
where the ox was roasting. “I will soon return,” I said, and
waded into the crowd around the beer vat. Intent on their own
cups, no one paid any attention to me; I stuck out my hands and
soon came away with two big wooden bowls of foaming beer.

   I returned to where Madog was waiting, gave him a bowl, and
said, “Salve, frater!”

   The first bowl went down quickly, so I fetched a second, and
we stood drinking and warming ourselves by the fire, watching
the men turn the ox on the spit. The beer was cold and good, and
the fire pleasantly hot on my face and hands. I was enjoying the
sensation when I felt something sharp jab me in the back, high
up between my shoulder blades.

   I turned and saw a young warrior standing behind me, a
short spear in his hand. It was, I recognized, the one who had
accosted me at the gate the night I entered the king’s house.

   “The fleá is not for slaves,” he said. Despite the cold he wore
neither cloak nor tunic but went about bare-chested. His face
was red, and I guessed he had been standing too near the vat for
some time.

   “If the king sends me away, I will go,” I told him. “Until then I
will stay.”

   “I say you will go now.” He advanced on me and, holding the
spear crosswise, shoved me with it. I lost my balance and fell,
sending the cup and contents flying. He stood over me laughing.

    As it happened, this deed did not go unnoticed. I heard a
voice call out and looked around to see Forgall and two other
warriors approaching. They said something to the young
warrior, who pointed to me and made a slurred reply; the words
‘filthy Briton’ were the only ones I understood.

   I rolled onto my feet and stood to face him. Forgall called the
youth, beckoning him away. “It seems you are the one who is to
go,” I told him.

   I turned from him and walked to retrieve my cup. I bent to
pick it up, and as I straightened, felt another sharp jab in my
back, harder this time. I let out a cry and whirled around. He
leveled the spear, ready to plunge the blade into my stomach.

   Forgall shouted. “Ercol, stop!”

   The youth hesitated. I saw his eyes slide away. Seizing my
chance, I took hold of the shaft of the spear and yanked it
forward and down. Ercol’s grip was strong; he did not release the
weapon but followed it. His face met the wooden bowl in my
hand as he went down. He fell on hands and knees, blood
streaming from his nose. I picked up the spear and stood over
him.

   “Enough,” said Forgall, putting out his hand. “It is an offense
to fret this day with bloodshed. Ercol was wrong. He has been
punished. That is the end of it.”

   “Let it be as you say,” I replied. Taking the spear, I turned and
tossed it into the flaming pit beneath the ox.

   There came a growl from behind and Ercol threw himself at
me. His arms went around my legs, and before I knew it, I was
on the ground and he was on top of me. He grabbed a handful of
my hair and began banging my head against the dirt. I swung
out with my fist and caught him on the neck, but he did not let
go. I swung again and again-to no avail. I could not loosen his
hold.

  Ercol gave my head a last hard slam and released me. I rolled
onto my knees, and he was there before me with a knife in his
hand and a wicked grin on his bloody face.

   I climbed slowly to my feet. He took a cautious step forward,
and I edged back-only to find myself hard up against the cooking
pit. Heat from the flaming coals lashed my legs and back.

   I made to move aside and away from the pit, but he lunged
and closed off my retreat. I could tell from the sickly look on his
face that he meant to either gut me or shove me into the fiery
coals. I glanced to the warriors for help, but they stood looking
on, content to let the fight take its course. Others had gathered,
too; they ringed the pit, jeering, and shouting advice to one or
the other of us. I could not see Madog; he must have fled when
the trouble started.

    Ercol swung out with the knife. I dodged. My foot caught the
edge of the pit and went in. I fell forward onto my hands,
dragging my foot up out of the hot coals. Ercol saw his chance
and swung again. I hurled myself to the side and felt the blade
slice through the sleeve of my shirt.

   A thin, cold sting nipped the flesh of my upper arm. I tried to
roll away before he could strike again, but he was there, standing
before me, the knife making lazy circles in front of my face. The
next thrust would cut deep, and there was nothing I could do
about it.

   I saw his face tense. His arm drew back. I braced myself to
take the blow, clinging to the desperate hope that I might yet
evade it somehow.

  He drew a breath, and I saw his hand start forward.

   In the same instant I heard a shout: very loud, very clear, and
with a force that seemed to shake the earth. The cry was a single
word, which I did not know, but which halted the headstrong
warrior’s hand in midstroke.

   In the uncanny silence that followed the shout, I stared at the
knife, expecting it to slash forward at any moment as Ercol’s
hate overcame the shouted command. One moment passed and
then another, and still the knife hung before my face. And then it
began to quiver-as if all Ercol’s strength were bent on pushing
that slender blade forward but he could not. I looked up and saw
that indeed his face was pinched in pain with the effort, but
something restrained him. Although he struggled against it,
some greater strength stayed his hand. The point of the knife
began to shake and then to dip toward the earth. Still Ercol
resisted. I stared in amazement at the strange sight of a man
striving with all his strength against an invisible opponent.

   This astounding contest lasted only a moment longer. Ercol,
the veins bulging from his forehead and neck, gave out a
strangled cry and then collapsed; the knife went spinning to the
ground, and he fell back, panting like a beaten dog, exhausted.

   I tried to stand, but my legs were unsteady, and I fell forward
onto my hands and knees. I became aware that someone was
there with me, kneeling beside me. I turned my head to see a
young man dressed all in blue - one of those I had seen entering
the king’s house.

   I tried to get up again, but he said, “Rest a little. Catch your
breath.”

   I gulped down some air, and my head cleared. The man
bending over me was but a few years older than myself. His
clothes were plain but well made; his belt was cloth and of the
same stuff as his robe and cloak. He wore neither brooch nor
pin, bands nor rings, his only ornament the thick silver tore
around his neck. Although no taller than myself, he was
stout-bodied, with big hands and a large, square, close-shorn
head of thick dark hair, giving the appearance of a much larger
man.

   “You are a bold one,” he said amiably, “taking on a warrior
like that.”

   “I am not feeling so bold now,” I said.

    “Perhaps it was a mistake to throw Ercol’s spear into the
fire.”

  “No doubt you are right.” I made to stand and felt a strong
hand take me under the arm and lift me to my feet.

  He plucked at the cut in my sleeve and looked at the gash on
my arm. “No great harm done,” he concluded. “Wash the wound
and keep it clean.”

   With that he inclined his head and walked away.

   “I thank you-whoever you may be,” I called after him.

  “I am Cormac Miach,” he replied, looking back over his
shoulder. “Farewell, slave boy.”
   Forgall directed the warriors to haul Ercol away. They picked
him up, set him on his feet, and led him off toward the beer vat.
Madog came puffing up, shaking with excitement. “He did it. He
saved you,” he said, brushing ineffectually at my clothes. “I knew
he would.”

  “I suppose he did,” I allowed. “But what did he do?”

  “He used the briamon. Did you not hear it?”

  “I heard. What is it?”

  “The druid folk have many powers. They can do wonders.”

  I stared at him. “Druids?”

   Madog paused. “They are druids, yes. That is what they are
called in Pry-dain.”

  “I know that,” I told him bluntly. “I thought you said they
were called fil-idh.”

  “Filidh… druid -it is the same.”

   Before I could question him further, there came a blaring
sound like the bellow of a bull elk. “Hurry!” said Madog, pulling
me away. We joined the crowd as it assembled outside the king’s
house, where a large stone had been set up in the center of the
yard. The throng formed a wide circle around the stone. It was
crowded, but Madog and I found places in the front rank, so that
my view was unobstructed and I could see all that took place.

    When the gathering was complete, the carynx-a large,
circular horn of worked bronze -sounded again, and the filidh
emerged from the king’s house, led by the young men in gray,
each of whom held a yew branch. Their elder brethren followed,
each with a different implement or instrument: One carried a
strange curved knife with a golden blade, another a small harp,
and the last a flat silver pan. They proceeded to the stone and
took their places beside it. King Miliucc, his brown-haired lady
Queen Gra-nia and several members of his house came to stand
a little apart while the warrior with the carynx moved slowly
around the outer rim of the circle, pausing at each of the four
points -north, east, south, west-to sound the long, low,
belly-shivering note.

  As that note faded into silence, the fellow in the green robe
wielding the curved knife stepped forward. “That is the ollamh,”
Madog informed me. “He is their chieftain.”

   The ollamh gestured to the one with the harp, who came forth
and took his place before the standing stone. This stone was
buff-colored, almost as tall as a man, domed at the top, and
shaped along its length so that it was nearly round. He stood a
few paces from the stone, facing it and cradling the harp against
his chest. At his behest the three gray-robed druids approached
and, using their yew branches, began to brush the stone all over
from top to bottom, slowly revolving around the stone as they
brushed. Then, still circling slowly, they swept the ground
around the stone.

  Striking a chord with his hand on the strings of the harp, the
druid sang out in a loud, chanting voice, “Dearcl” he cried,
“Behold! Kinsmen, brothers, sisters, behold: the Lia Oraid!”

   I puzzled over this for a moment before the meaning came
clear. Lia Oraid… Stone of Speech.

  “Alban Arthuan is at hand! Behold, the tomb of every hope!”

   At this, the gray druids carefully placed the yew branches to
form a triangle at the base of the yellow stone, whereupon they
retired to the perimeter to watch as one by one the animals were
led to the sacrifice.

   The ritual slaughter itself was quickly and skillfully
performed. The first to come forward was a young bull; the beast
was led to the stone and placed so to stand over one of the yew
branches. Then, after moving three times around the stone while
the ollamh strummed the harp, the two remaining druids
proceeded to where it stood. While one held the silver pan
beneath its neck, the other stepped close, spoke softly into the
animal’s ear and, with a swift motion, drew the golden knife
beneath its neck. The blood spurted hot and red, and in a
moment the bull collapsed.

   There was no terror, no struggle; the beast simply relaxed
into death. The blood of the animal was collected in the silver
pan and poured onto the stone. The sheep and the red pig were
likewise dispatched, and their blood mingled with that of the
bull.

   I had heard of such barbarities-many times, to be sure. My
grandfather had fulminated against them at every opportunity.
He used to condemn druids and their pagan practices, which he
called vile superstition of the most insidious kind. “They eat
children, Succat,” he once told me, “and worship demons. The
light of the Lord’s salvation shines not for them.”

   But as I stood there, a member of Miliucc’s tribe, the curious
ritual did not produce in me the revulsion I should have felt.
Instead I found myself strangely moved by the well-meaning
seriousness of the druids and the quiet respect afforded the
sacrifice by the people themselves. There was nothing lurid or
obscene about it, however misguided.

   As the last animal died and its blood was poured onto the
stone, the ol-lamh began playing the harp and singing. I could
not understand much of the song-a few words here and there,
but not enough to produce any meaning for me. When he
finished, he cried, “Behold!” again, and pointed to the eastern
sky, where the moon was just rising over the hills to pour a pale
light into the Vale of Braghad. “Alban Arthuan,” he called, “the
tomb of every hope, my people, for death is the gateway of all
hope. Hear and remember!”

  It was, I had to admit, very well done. The sacrifices were
completed and the new season marked at the precise moment at
which the sun set in the west and the moon rose in the east-a
most auspicious time, Madog informed me with a knowing
wink.

   There was more singing then, and the sacrificial animals were
taken away to be cleaned and cooked; their flesh would be
shared out among the people of the tribe the next day. Ceremony
completed, the feast resumed. There was singing and
piping-odd, bag-shaped bladders with shrill, screechy pipes
attached: an instrument to wake the dead-and a curious sort of
jerky dancing. But with coming of night, the meat and ale made
men belligerent. Both Madog and myself grew increasingly wary
and fearful as it soon became apparent our presence was not
warmly embraced by one and all. So after a little more to eat and
drink, we crept away to a quiet corner to sleep beneath the eaves
of one of the houses while the revel wore on.

   At dawn, when the celebration was just ending, we gathered
the flock and departed the rath to make our slow way up the
mountain. It would be many days before I saw either sun or
moon again, but the quaint ritual of Alban Arthuan did
somehow rekindle my hopes.

  And if it is true that death is the gateway, old Madog’s foot
was already on the threshold.

                                12

   Despite the sacrifice and celebration, winter, the old tyrant,
remained firmly enthroned. Day succeeded day, bringing fog and
freezing mist, rain and sleet, and nights of cold, raging wind.
One morning I awakened to the sound of Madog coughing. We
rose and went about our duties, and decided to take the sheep to
graze. Madog reckoned that the snow had melted enough on the
more distant south-facing slopes to make it worthwhile taking
the sheep all that way. As the day seemed good, we packed some
victuals and set off.

   By the time we reached the grazing land, however, a fierce,
biting wind had blown up out of the west. We had not thought to
bring the flint and steel, and could not make a fire. It was too far
back to the bothy to fetch it, so we huddled down behind some
rocks, and I spent the day shivering and listening to the old
shepherd snuffling and sniveling until, at last, he rose and
declared it time to gather the flock.

   Madog’s cough worsened that night, and the next morning I
asked him, “Are you feeling well, Madog?” His face was as gray
as gruel, his eyes red-rimmed and rheumy.
  “Well enough,” he replied, rubbing his watery eyes. “I will
make some stout broth, and that will put me right.”

   He tried to stand, and I saw how he shook and shivered. “No,”
I told him, jumping up quickly, “you sit by the fire. I will make
the broth.”

   “You should go. The sheep are waiting,” he complained,
struggling up once more.

  “Let them,” I said, easing him down. “We spend whole days
waiting for them. They can wait for us a little while.”

    He seemed satisfied with this and hunkered down beside the
fire while I filled the caldron and gathered a few ingredients. He
fell asleep again while waiting for the broth to boil - something I
had never seen him do before. I roused him when it was ready,
and we ate. He told me it was the best broth he had ever tasted,
and then climbed shakily to his feet. “Well, we have kept the
sheep waiting long enough,” he said, which brought on a fit of
coughing that doubled him over.

  “You are sick, Madog,” I told him. “Stay here by the fire and
keep warm. I will watch the sheep today.”

   But he would not. “The broth will see me right.” He picked up
his crook and stumped off. We did not go to the south slope; the
wind was still gusty and cold, the clouds thick and low, the day
unsettled. Once it started pelting down sleet on our wet heads,
and I went to Madog, “Look, even the sheep are miserable. Let us
go back to the bothy and get warm.”

   Shivering, shaking, sick as he was, he refused; so we stood out
in the icy sleet and waited for dusk. Only when the dark mist had
begun to claim the lowlands did the stubborn old shepherd allow
me to lead the sheep back to the fold. On our return, I built up
the fire hot and high and cooked some of the salted mutton into
a thick stew, using our last turnip, most of the barley, and two
onions-which Madog said was a sorry waste. “I will go down to
the rath and get more tomorrow,” I told him, throwing in the
rest of the barley and another onion for good measure.
   He sat watching me cook, hugging his knees and dabbing at
his nose while the snot streamed over his blue, quivering lips.
Despite the heat of the flames, he did not begin to waxm until he
had some of the hot stew inside him.

   “The bothy will be cold,” I said when we finished eating. “Why
not let me make up our beds beside the fire. I will tend the
flames and keep us warm all night.”

   He rebuffed the suggestion at first, but I saw that he lacked
the strength and will for an argument, so I coaxed him along,
saying, “The sleet has stopped, and the stars are coming out. The
moon will be bright-a good night to sleep by the fire.”

  “Let it be as you say,” he muttered, sinking deeper into
himself.

   I made him a bed as near the fire as I dared and fetched
enough wood to keep the flames high until morning, then settled
back to doze, rousing myself from time to time to add more fuel
to the flames. Madog slept fitfully; his cough had become a
ragged, brutal thing that shook him with increasing violence.
When he slept, he slept with his mouth lolling open and his
breath shallow.

   We passed a fretful night, and as soon as it was light enough
to see the trail, I rose and made ready to depart. “Listen,
Magod,” I said, bending low to his ear, “I’am going down to the
rath to get some more food. Understand?”

  He turned his rheumy eyes toward me and nodded.

   “Good. Now, I have put some wood close to hand so you can
feed the fire until I return. There is stew in the pot when you get
hungry. I will go and hurry back as quickly as I can, but you stay
here and keep warm.”

  “The sheep…” he protested weakly.

  “Do not worry about the sheep. One day in the fold will not
harm them. I will feed and water them when I get back. Rest
now, and stay close to the fire.”
   He muttered something and lay down. He was asleep again as
I took up his crook and departed.

   The morning was misty and cold; a freezing fog lay over the
valley. Lit by the rising sun, it looked like a sea of pearly water,
and the rath on its hump of rock an island surrounded by the
milky waves washing around its lonely shores. I gazed upon this
sight as I picked my way down the mountain trail, and it
produced in me a most powerful yearning, for it seemed to me
that I was that fortress, lost in a cold and obscure sea.

   By the time I reached the valley, the sun had burned off much
of the fog. I crossed the river at the ford and hurried up to the
rath, pausing before the king’s house to think how best to say
what I wanted. As I was standing there, another thought came to
me. I turned and ran to the hut of the serving maid instead. She
had helped me once, I thought; she might help me again.

  Not knowing what else to do, I pounded on the lintel of the
door with the flat of my hand. When nothing happened, I
pounded again and was about to turn away when I heard a
movement inside. “Is anyone there?” I called.

   The door opened, and a man thrust out his head. He had been
asleep, and I had awakened him. He stared blearily at me, and
his stare hardened into a glare. “You,” he grunted.

   I recognized him then. It was Cernach, the warrior who had
climbed the cliff to cut off my escape. I took a step backward,
unable to think what to say. A hand snaked out, snagged me by
the arm, and held me. “What do you want here?” he said, jerking
me toward him.

  I gaped at him, trying to make the words, but in my dismay
my mouth and tongue would not obey.

   A quick left hand caught me on the side of the face. The
resounding smack stung like the lash of a whip and made my
eyes water. He moved to strike again. I found my voice. “Please,
no. I mean no harm. I am sorry…”

   His hand flicked out. I ducked the blow, and he hit the back of
my head. I tried to pull away. He seized me with both hands and
held on. “Please!” I cried, “I mean no harm.”

  A voice called out from inside the hut. “Cernach, what is it?”

   In the doorway behind the big warrior’s shoulder, a pale,
round face appeared. It was the young servingwoman. She
stepped lightly around him. “Stay back,” he warned.

   “Cernach, stop.” She put her hands on his and tried to remove
them from my arm. “You are hurting him.”

  “Please,” I said, “I need help.”

   “Here is help for you, boy,” Cernach sneered, drawing back
his hand.

  “Let him go!” the serving maid shouted.

   “Sionan, get back!” he growled. “Do as I say!” He tried to
move her aside with a nudge of his elbow, but she lost her
balance and fell. His eyes turned to where she lay sprawled on
the muddy ground. Cernach’s lips curled in a gloating sneer and
a sheet-flame of anger flashed through me.

   The instant his eyes slid away, I swung my fist and struck him
with all my strength. I aimed for his neck, but missed and hit
him on his thick-muscled shoulder instead. “Leave her alone!” I
shouted.

   The big brute turned his gaze on me once more. “I do what I
please,” he snarled. With that he kicked out at the sprawling girl.
She tried to roll aside, but his foot caught her in the stomach.

   “No!” I cried and swung on him again. “I said to leave her
alone!”

   Cernach easily fended off my punch; he snatched me by the
arm and yanked me close. “It’s none of your business, slave,” he
said, his foul breath hot in my face. He hit me hard with the flat
of his hand; my head snapped back, and I tasted blood in my
mouth.
    “Cernach!” shouted the young woman, climbing to her feet
once more. She flew at him, and began striking him with her
fists. “Let him go.” When this appeal failed to produce the
desired result, she added, “I will tell Cor-mac about this.”

   A greasy smile appeared on the warrior’s face. “I am not
afraid of Cormac.”

  “I will tell him this time,” she said sternly. “And he will
denounce you before the king. Now let him go.”

  The warrior regarded me, his mouth writhing with disgust
and rage. “Save your breath, woman,” he muttered. “The filth is
not worth it.”

   With that he gave me a shove that sent me flying backwards. I
landed on my side in the mud. “Don’t ever come here again,” he
told me, then disappeared back into the hut.

  The young woman was beside me the instant he had gone.
“You defended me,” she said, her voice soft with awe.

   “He should not have hit you.” I replied, working my jaw from
side to side.

    “I thank you, but it was a foolish thing to do. He might have
killed you.”

   “Sionan -is that your name?”

   “You cannot come here anymore,” she said, helping me to my
feet. “I am married now.”

   “I meant no harm,” I told her. “But Madog is sick. He needs
help. I didn’t know what to do. I thought you could tell me.”

   She frowned. “You must go.”

   “But, Madog-”

   “Hush,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Go to the
king’s house and wait. I will come there as soon as I can. Now
go.”
   I did as she told me and moved off to the king’s house. The
rath was stirring now as people began going about their various
chores and duties. None of them paid any attention to me as I
took up my place outside the door of the king’s hall. From time
to time a warrior or two would come out, and several of them
carried weapons. I watched as they proceeded to practice among
themselves, perfecting their skill at arms.

   I was immersed in the clack and clatter of the warriors’
games when I saw Sionan darting across the yard. She glanced
at me as she came near, and I started toward her, but she
warned me off with a stern glance that gave me to know I was
not to speak to her. I stepped aside, and she entered the hall. A
few moments later a man emerged. “You there,” he said,
“shepherd.”

  I stood and turned as he addressed me.

  “I am told the old one has fallen sick.”

  “In truth,” I said. “Can someone come and help?”

  He pursed his lips. “Is it bad, then?”

  “It is that,” I told him, “or I would not have come.”

  He nodded. “Return to the flock. I will send for the filidh.”

  This made no sense to me. “What can they do?”

  “You may go.” He turned and opened the door.

   “We need food, too,” I said. He paused. “We have had nothing
from the rath since the flea.”

  He cast a dismissive glance over his shoulder.

  “Please,” I said, “we are hungry.”

   “Wait here,” he commanded, and went back inside the king’s
hall. In a little while the door opened again, and a young boy
came out lugging a leather bag.
   “This is for you,” the boy said, laying the bag at my feet.

   When he had gone, I stooped to the bag and opened it. There
were loaves of bread, a haunch of pork, a stoppered jar of beer,
and some other fragments left over from last night’s supper.
Closing the bag, I slung it over my shoulder and proceeded to
make my way up the mountain to the bothy. Before leaving the
rath, I paused to look back, hoping Sionan might appear. When
she did not, I shifted the bag onto my other shoulder and
departed.

  Madog was still asleep when I reached the bothy. The fire had
burned down, allowing the chill air to settle on him. I built it
back up and set about making a meal for us from the food in the
bag.

  The smell of roasting pork wakened the old shepherd.
“Geriandol?” he said, sitting up. “What is this?”

   He looked around our little camp, his expression at once
frightened and confused.

   “All is well,” I told him. “It is only myself, Succat-returned
from the rath.”

  “Succat?” he said, shaking his head. Recognition came over
him, and his fright turned to disappointment.

  “Look, I brought good meat, bread, and beer from the king’s
house. We shall eat like kings today.”

   He peered at the haunch warming near the flames and licked
his lips. I broke a small loaf of bread and offered him half.
“Here,” I said, “try this. It is still fresh.”

   He accepted the loaf but sat there holding it loosely in his
hand. “You should eat something,” I coaxed. “You might feel
better.”

  The old man gazed at the loaf for a moment, and then, as if
remembering what it was, he pinched off a bit and put it in his
mouth. When that was gone, he tried another, eating slowly,
forcing himself to make the proper motions to bite, chew, and
swallow.

   “Geriandol,” I said. “Who is that?”

  At my use of the name, his gaze quickened. “Where did you
hear that?”

  “You said it to me when you woke just now. Was it someone
you knew?”

   His head fell. “She was my wife,” he murmured.

   “You never told me you were married.”

   “She was to be my wife,” he amended.

   I did not know what to say to this, so I held my tongue lest I
trespass on a tender memory. I ate my bread in silence, then
fetched the bowls and poured some beer. As Madog lifted the
bowl to his lips, a shudder passed through him which set him
coughing-a deep, rattling, hack that amazed and worried me
with its severity. When it finished, I offered him the beer again
and then tried to get him to eat a little of the meat. He pulled off
a morsel and chewed slackly.

   “The king’s man said he would send the filidh,” I told him.
“Perhaps they will know how to help you.”

  Madog looked at me; a strange expression came into his eyes,
and I thought he had not heard what I said, so I repeated it. “I
know,” he snapped. “I have ears.”

   He threw down the scrap of bread and stood. He looked
around as if searching for something he had lost, and then
started walking toward the bothy. I thought he meant to get a
fleece from his bed, but when he passed the hut and started on
the trail leading into the forest, I jumped up. “Madog,” I called,
“where are you going?”

   Removing the meat from the fire and stowing the rest of the
food in the bag, I took up his crook and hurried after him. He
heard me on the trail behind him and turned on me. “Stay
away!”

  He started off again, so I followed. “Madog, what is wrong?”

  The old man mumbled something, lowered his head, and
walked faster.

   The forest trail was wet; there was snow in the shadows where
the sun did not reach, but the track was clear enough. I did not
try to engage him again but contented myself to follow a short
way behind -as much to prevent him from coming to harm as to
see where he would go. We were a fair distance into the forest
when he turned off the trail and started up the slope into the
deep wood.

   The climb grew steep, and Madog had to stop to catch his
breath-a thing I had never seen him do before. I came upon him
bent low, leaning against a tree, lost in a spasm of coughing.
“What are you doing, Madog? It is cold up here. Come back to
the bothy and warm yourself by the fire.”

   “Go back yourself,” he said, and charged off again. “Get away
from me.”

   I could make nothing of this behavior-only that the illness had
affected his mind. Nevertheless, he seemed to know where he
was going and made no further attempt to discourage me, and
we soon came to a rocky place on the mountainside: an
outcropping of huge old stones, some of them larger than the
bothy and covered with moss and lichen.

   Madog slowed as he approached the rocks; he circled the
heap, and I followed. As I came nearer, a strange sensation drew
over me-a dread anticipation, wanting to see but fearing what I
was about to find. The flesh on my arms and the nape of my neck
tingled with expectation. I drew nearer and saw that it was not,
as I thought, a natural outcropping. It was a dolmen.

  We had them in Britain, too, of course. The countryfolk
maintained that they were the burial houses of the Old Ones, the
people -or giants, as some would have it-that had held the island
long ago, even before the Celts. But where the dolmens I had
seen were made of three or four upright stones capped by a large
table stone, on the whole no larger than the height of a man, this
dolmen was easily twice the height of a man. The rear portion
was covered with earth and built into the slope so that the
ancient structure seemed to be the entrance to the mountain
itself.

   Madog stopped outside the cavelike opening and stood
staring into the gaping black hole, shivering and shaking as he
gazed into that dark gate. I crept up close beside him, saying
nothing, merely standing with him. In a moment, he seemed to
apprehend my presence. “Crom’s house,” he said. “And I shall be
Crom’s servant.”

  “What do you mean, Madog?”

  “All who enter Crom’s house become his servants.”

  He seemed disposed to talk about it, so I said, “Who is this
Crom?”

   “The Dark Lord of the Underworld,” replied the old shepherd,
“and Crom Cruach is his name. He feeds on the souls of those
who serve him. Once you enter his service, you are his forever.
There is no escape. You are his slave forever.”

   He moved closer to the entrance, and I followed. “That,” he
said, pointing to a crude symbol cut into the side of one of the
great slabs of stone “-that is his sign.”

  The carving was so old and so badly eroded that I could make
nothing of it myself-a blotch with a few lines-but Madog
appeared to set great store by it. “He is in there,” he said, and
began to shiver again. “He is waiting for me.” As he spoke, his
expression grew so anguished that my heart went out to him.

   “See here,” I said, stepping boldly into the entrance of the
dolmen. “The chamber is empty, Madog. There is no one waiting
for you.”

  Moving farther back into the chamber, I followed the thin
corridor of light that proceeded dimly from the entrance. A few
paces inside, a great pillar of rock stood in the center of the
chamber; on it was carved a half circle above a rough bowl shape
made of three curved lines. At the base of the standing stone sat
an immense rock which had been crudely shaped - chiefly, the
top had been carved out to form a shallow basin. It was empty,
but the center of the basin bore the same circle and bowl carving
with the addition of two small triangles also enclosed by circles.

   “There is nothing here, Madog,” I called, my voice booming
with a hollow sound.

   I moved deeper into the dolmen. Behind the center stone the
chamber divided; one side formed a stall-like box and the other
a long, low passage with short slab stones projecting out from
the sides. I could see nothing in the darkness at the end of the
passage, but I smelled the musty, damp, metallic scent of old wet
stone and earth. In the larger stall was a niche in the wall and in
the niche a small round stone. I stepped into the stall and took
up the stone; holding it in the thin light from the entrance, I
could see that it was incised with two slits for eyes and a slit
mouth. That was all: just three lines, but the shape of the stone
and the slant of the eyes combined to produce in me a sensation
of dread -or perhaps it was the force of Madog’s words working
in me, for I looked at the complacent arrogance etched on the
face of the stone head and my apprehension increased.

   I returned the stone to its place and backed away from the
niche, retreating from the curious encounter. But even as I
prepared to flee, I saw myself running from the chamber in
disgrace. That I, a noble Briton, should become squeamish and
fearful before such a vulgar image disgusted me. Instantly my
trepidation left me. I felt an inexplicable urge to smash the
thing.

  I reached into the niche and took up the stone head once
more. “Crom Cruach,” I said, “you have eaten your last soul.”

    With that I hurled the head into the corner of the stall, where
it collided with the wall. The impact broke a chip from the stone
head, and this emboldened me. I picked up the head and
returned to where Madog was waiting.
   “See here, Madog,” I said, “I have conquered Crom Cruach.” I
held up the stone head for him to see and then heaved it against
the massive slab which formed part of the entrance to the
dolmen. There was a loud crack, and the stone head split in half.
I retrieved the two halves. “Look, it is just a bit of stone after all,”
I told him, holding half in each hand. “There is nothing to fear.”

   The old shepherd regarded the broken rock dubiously. He
reached a tentative finger to the clean-cracked stone and felt the
rough edge. “He is gone?”

  “Crom is gone,” I confirmed, tossing the two halves aside.
“Come, let us go back to the bothy now and get warm.”

   Madog allowed himself to be led away; he was quiet on the
walk through the forest. Upon our return, I built up the fire and
set about warming the food once more to give him a fine supper.
He ate little, however, and soon lay down to sleep, exhausted by
the exertion of the day. While he slept, I fed and watered the
sheep and then sat to watch the day slowly fade. A blue-gray
mist rose in the valley as the sun bled to a pale, ghostly white:
the color of dead men’s bones.

                                  13

   Madog did not rise the next morning but lay the whole day by
the fire, shivering despite the heat of the flames. I gave him
some bread and the rest of the beer at midday, and he sat up for
a while. He did not seem to remember what had happened the
previous day, so I told him about visiting the dolmen. He liked
the story and lay like a child gazing at the flames while I spoke.

   When I finished, he made to get to his feet, but the effort
started him coughing. I was alarmed to hear the deep, liquid
gurgling sound as he struggled to catch his breath. I went to ease
him down again, but he pushed my hands away. “The sheep…”
he gasped between spasms. “… the sheep…”

  “I have already seen to the sheep,” I said. “We must stay here
and wait for the filidh to come.”
   I coaxed him back to his place by the fire, and he soon fell
asleep again. He passed a restless, fever-fraught night. His
breathing grew labored, and the coughing, when it came, was
deeper in his chest. Once he awoke and sat up, saying he was
going to take the sheep out to graze.

  “It is night, Madog,” I told him. “It will be morning soon
enough. We will take them then. Go back to sleep.”

   He lay down, and the trembling started soon after. He
shuddered and shook so much I thought he would break the few
teeth he had left in his mouth. I built up the fire and put his
fleece over him, but there was little more I could do.

    Later, as the sun rose, he woke, saying he was going to take
the flock to the south meadow. “Good,” I told him. “Just rest a
little and get your strength before you go.”

   He protested that he felt better, so I suggested that we eat
something before we departed. While I readied the meal, he fell
into a fit of coughing that squeezed him hard and left him weak
and breathless. After that he sank into a deep sleep and did not
wake again until evening. He ate and drank and then asked for
his crook so that he could get up to relieve himself. I had to help
him with this, and then he said he wanted to see the sheep, so I
helped him down to the enclosure, where he stood for a while,
leaning on his crook. He soon grew cold, however, and began
coughing.

   We went back to the fire, where he lay down, utterly spent. He
slept then, resting more easily, it seemed to me; he woke only
once, looked at me, and chuckled. “Crom Cruach,” he said,
repeating that portion of the story I had told him, “you have
eaten your last soul.”

   He liked that, and he made me tell him again how we had
walked into the forest and he showed me the dolmen, and how I
had gone inside and found the round stone head and… he was
asleep again before I finished.

  I dozed off and on through the night and rose just before
dawn, when I heard Madog call out in his sleep. I waited, but he
said no more, so I got up and went to the water stoup and
dipped out a bowl; I drank some myself and then took a bowl to
Madog.

   Though I shook him and snapped his ears with my fingers, I
could not rouse him. The old shepherd’s breathing was light and
shallow, with a deeper gurgling sound that reminded me of the
swish and surge of the sea. I poured a little water on his mouth
to wet his lips and went to fetch wood from the pile. There was
frost on the ground and on the trees; my feet crunched lightly as
I walked.

  I built up the fire and sat down to wait. At last Madog woke.
He looked at me and said something, but his voice was so soft I
could not make it out. “What is it, Madog?” I said, bending near.

   He swallowed and drew a shaky breath. “Take care of the
sheep,” he said in a voice thin as spider thread. Then, closing his
eyes, he gulped a little air, exhaled, and died.

   It took me a moment to realize that Madog was dead. He
seemed simply to drift away between one faint breath and the
next.

   I was still sitting there, wondering what to do next, when I
heard a voice on the mountain trail. I rose and went to look and
saw a man coming up from the valley. I hailed him and watched
as he toiled up the last steep portion of the track.

   “They told me the old shepherd was ill,” he announced. Over
his plain gray robes the druid wore a dark cloak ornamented
with tufts of white fur, which gave him a curious speckled
appearance. He carried a long staff made from a rowan sapling
and a large leather bag on a strap across his chest.

  “Madog is dead,” I told him. “He died this morning. You
came too late.”

  He nodded, his expression placid. “Show me.”

  “There by the fire,” I said.
   He walked to where the body lay curled by the edge of the fire
ring. He knelt down and put his hand on the old man’s neck,
rested it there for a moment, and then turned to me. “In truth,
his spirit has gone. He is dead.”

   “He is that,” I agreed snidely. “And he has you to thank.”

  He looked at me curiously. “I know you,” he said. “You roused
Ercol to fury at the flea.”

  I stared at him as a hazy recognition came to me. “Is it
Cormac?”

  His smile was wide and welcoming. “None other.” Indicating
Madog’s body, he said, “I am sorry.”

   “Why sorry?” I said. “He was nothing to you.” My peevish
tone irritated even me. I do not know why I took on so. I suppose
I wanted to rebuke him for taking so long to come to Madog’s
aid.

  “You are right to feel grief for your friend,” he said. “But he is
beyond hardship, beyond care, beyond the pains of this world.
Even now his feet are treading wondrous paths in the
Otherworld, and his joy is richer than any he has ever known.
You can believe this. It is so.”

   That a heathen druid, not much older than myself, should
lecture me so with words my old grandfather might have used
rankled me. “So you say.”

  He regarded me once more with a mild, almost pitying look
and then said, “There is a dolmen near here. We can take the
body there - unless you have any objection.”

   “It makes no difference to me.”

  The young druid made quick work of straightening the body
and arranging the lifeless limbs. He uncurled the crooked hands
and folded them over Madog’s chest, then took a bone-carved
comb from his bag and proceeded to smooth the old man’s hair.
Cormac’s care surprised and even moved me, but I was still too
irritated with him to credit the kindness.

    When he finished, he indicated that I should take hold of
Madog’s feet, while he took the head and shoulders. Together we
lifted the dead weight between us and started off. “Wait,” said
Cormac, stopping suddenly. “I forgot.”

   We lowered the corpse to the ground once more. Cormac
stretched out his staff and, walking slowly around the body,
spoke in a low, chanting voice. On the completion of his third
circuit, he lowered his staff and balanced it lengthwise on
Madog’s body. Then, taking his place at the head once more, he
indicated that I should grasp the feet. We raised the corpse
again, but this time it weighed nothing at all.

   We resumed our walk, but it was as if I did not so much carry
the body as simply guide it along the path. Thus, holding to the
old shepherd’s ankles, I led the way into the forest and to the
dolmen. Upon our arrival Cormac directed me to enter the
burial chamber. We placed Madog’s corpse in the long, low
passage; I bade him farewell and retreated from that damp
tomb.

   The druid lingered, performing some heathen rite; I heard
him singing, but the words were strange and unnatural. I
considered leaving him there, but waited nonetheless -more out
of respect for poor dead Madog than for any wish for
companionship from the druid.

   “He brought me here yesterday,” I told Cormac when he
joined me outside once more. “I think he knew he was about to
die.”

  “That is sometimes the way of it,” he replied.

  “He was afraid of Crom Cruach.”

  I watched the druid closely to see what his reaction would be,
but he merely nodded.

  “I told him Crom Cruach held no power over his soul.”
   I said this last part somewhat defiantly. I wanted to challenge
the druid to see what he would say in defense of his pagan
beliefs. I did not, however, tell him I had smashed the idol’s
carved head.

   To my surprise, Cormac’s gaze quickened with undisguised
interest. “Did he find some comfort in what you said?”

  “It seemed to ease his mind.”

  “Then you did well,” he replied. “The time for such fear is long
past. The world has changed, and men must change, too.”

  My attempts to rebuke the druid or raise his ire had failed.
Perhaps my efforts in the Irish tongue lacked the necessary cut
and thrust, but he seemed disposed to benevolence; no matter
what I said or did, he received it with benign-and
aggravating-tolerance.

   Even so, on the way back to the bothy, I could not help being
drawn to the pagan magician. “With Madog just now,” I asked,
“what did you do?”

   He glanced at me, his expression earnest and thoughtful, but
he made no reply.

   “And at the feast-Ercol was but a blink away from gutting me
like a fish, yet you prevented him with a word. How was that
done?”

  He nodded, considering the question carefully. At last he said,
“The fil-idh have their ways. It is not for everyone to know how
we do what we do. It is enough that we know, is it not?”

   “Perhaps.” His refusal to answer irritated me anew. “I was
always taught that druids consorted with, ah… deamhana,
yes?-with demons.”

  Cormac pursed his lips in contemplation and nodded again to
himself. Finally he said, “Now you have seen for yourself. Is that
what you believe?”
  “I have seen nothing,” I retorted. “Nothing to alter my belief.”

   “Then ask yourself this question: Would a demon have
rescued you from Ercol?”

   The question was stupid, and I did not deign to answer it, lest
I become entangled in a disputation I could not win. Everyone
knows that Satan is a liar, the Father of Lies, who can plait
words into pretty snares for the unwary, so I ignored him the
rest of the way back to bothy. On our return he said, “Have you
enough food here?”

  “When someone remembers to bring us something,” I said,
and then realized there was no “us” anymore; there was only me.

   “I will see that they remember.” He looked around the area of
my tiny settlement with the bothy, the fire ring, the sheepfold
below and the forest above. “You will be lonely here,” he said.

  “I am a slave,” I told him. “Slaves do not get lonely.”

   He smiled. “I will remember that.” He wished me farewell
then, but I gave no response.

   I watched him until the slope of the mountain took him from
view, then went to tend the sheep. It was not until I brought the
flock back to the fold that night and set about making a meal
from the remains of the food in the leather bag that I first
missed Madog’s presence.

    As the days passed, his absence became an ache which grew
stronger every day. I had not realized how much I had come to
depend on the old shepherd. Now that he was gone, not only had
I to do everything myself, but I had to do it alone. I missed his
quirky companionship. I also missed talking to him. From
Madog I had learned all I knew of the Irish tongue. Moreover, I
had seen how my presence had forced him to recover his failing
powers of speech. Without someone to talk to, I realized that,
like poor old Madog, I might soon lose all I had gained.

  Day after day I sat out in the rain and wind watching the
sheep, gazing into the mist at the dumb creatures wandering
around on the mountainside. And though my body was shivering
in the bone-aching cold, my mind and heart were very far away.
As the days passed, I could feel myself beginning to slide into
loneliness and despair. How long, I wondered, before my sanity
began to suffer? How long before I became as Madog had been
when I first saw him?

   I talked to the sheep, yelled at them; I hated them and vented
my anger and frustration on their dull, witless heads. When one
of them wandered off, I did not look for it. When one of them
died, I did not care. I simply hauled the carcass back to the
bothy, took the pelt, and gorged on the meat until I grew sick.

   My clothes, little more than flapping rags, failed to cover me,
but I did not care. By day I sat on the mountainside, picking lice
from my filth-matted hair and beard. At night I dined on putrid
meat, picking maggots from gobbets of flesh before searing them
in the flames. My fingernails grew long and hard like claws, my
skin tough as leather. Some days I roamed the mountainside
roaring with rage like a caged beast; other days I lay by the fire,
whimpering and whining like a beaten dog.

   In my misery I imagined I could feel madness circling me like
a wolf: wary yet, but soon, very soon, to attack.

   Then, as winter began to ease its icy grip and the weather
softened toward spring, I heard about the boru - the annual
tribute levied by High King Niall.

   I returned with the sheep one day to find two men waiting at
the bothy. They had brought me some provisions and said they
wanted to count the sheep. “There are the sheep,” I replied.
“Count them how you will.”

   One of the men drew out a length of rawhide rope and, while
the other told out the number, tied a series of knots and double
knots in the rope. The first fellow took out a second rope, already
knotted, and held it up next to the first. Both men studied the
ropes in silence, then looked from one to the other with
expressions of such desolation that I could not help asking what
catastrophe they saw in the knots.
  “There are fewer sheep than last year,” the man replied.
“There will not be enough for the boru.”

  I did not know what he meant, so I asked, and the second
man replied. “King Niall is king of all kings in Eire,” he said,
“Niall is Aird Righ, yes? And King Miliucc, his subject lord, must
pay him many cattle each year.”

  “Yes,” added the second man, his mouth squirming as he spat
out the words, “and every year greedy Niall wants more.”

  “Tribute,” I said. ‘Teyrnged.“

   The man gaped in ignorance, but his companion said, “The
high king’s demand is too great. There will not be enough left for
us, and we will grow hungry.”

  “Some of the sheep are near to lambing,” I suggested.

   “We will send someone to help you,” said the first man. “To
lose even one lamb would be a shame.”

  As he spoke, an idea formed in my head. “When must the
payment be made?” I asked.

  “Just after Beltaine,” he replied. “It is always the same.”

  “And where do you take the cattle?”

  “We take them to the high king’s rath at Tara.”

   The two left me then, and I sat down to think; for I saw in this
the shape of my salvation. When Miliucc departed to take his
cattle tribute to Niall, I would be among the herders. And once
we were far away from this accursed mountain, I would make
good my escape at last.

                                14

   I became diligent. My neglected sheep were my sole
obsession. I led them out early and brought them home late,
taking them to the best pastures, moving them from place to
place so that the land did not become overgrazed. I watered
them, pampered them, guarded them day and night; I even
talked to them, praising their excellence and sagacity.

  When the day came to deliver the boru tribute to High King
Niall, I wanted to be among those making the journey, and my
unstinting care of the sheep would create this singular
opportunity.

   As Miliucc’s man had promised, I received some help during
lambing time. Three herders came up; one of them was a slave
and a fellow Briton-Aud, by name, the thin young farmer who
had been taken in the same raid as myself. Ordinarily he worked
in the valley with the pigs, so I had not seen him since coming to
Sliabh Mis.

  “How do they treat you?” I asked. We were sitting out on the
windy slope a little apart from the others.

   “I have a bed in the shelter behind the swine hut,” he said. “It
is not so bad.”

  “Sleeping with pigs?” I said. “You think that is not so bad?”

  He pressed his mouth into a firm line and held his silence.

  “No doubt pigs are better company than sheep,” I allowed
generously. “For myself, I would chose horses.”

   He nodded knowingly. “The king would never suffer a slave to
tend his horses.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “I would rather tend sheep,” he said. “At least they do not
smell so bad.”

  “That is true.”

  He was quiet for a time, and then said, “Did it hurt very much
when they beat you with the firebrands?”

  “Of course.”
  “You must be very brave.”

  “I do not like being a slave,” I replied. “Do you? Would you
never try to escape?”

  “I never would,” said Aud. “I have nowhere to go.”

  “You could go home,” I suggested. “Back to Britain.”

  He shrugged. “It is not so bad here.”

  I regarded him narrowly. Upon my life, I could not believe
what I was hearing. “You like it here?”

  “It is not-”

  “I know,” I interrupted, “it is not so bad. So you say.”

  He grew petulant. “At least,” he muttered darkly, “it is no
worse for me here.”

   A great surge of shame drew over me like a cloud passing
before the sun. Embarrassment brought the color to my cheeks;
my face grew hot with the knowledge that, for Aud, the fate of a
slave to barbarians in Eire was not much different from his lot
among kinsmen in Britain.

  “I am sorry, Aud,” I told him.

   He turned to regard me, ignorant suspicion sharpening his
gaze. “Why?”

  “It must have been a hard life.”

   He shrugged again and looked out across the valley. “Was it
better for you in Britain?”

   Better? It was a thousand times better for me in Britain, I
thought. Instead, I merely nodded and said, “Better, yes.”

  “Then you were lucky.”

  “I suppose.”
   The herders stayed with me through the lambing season, and
seven more lambs were added to the flock. All lived, which made
the herders happy. When they left to return to the valley, they
said they would tell the king the good news. This made me
happy. I wanted Lord Miliucc to hear good things about my care
of his flock.

   Winter departed in a spate of howling gales, and then,
suddenly, it was spring. Small flowers appeared on the high
meadows, and the winds and rain softened. My sheep and I
roamed about the mountainside searching out lush grazing
places; besides those Madog had showed me, I discovered others
just as good. I groomed the sheep, too-pulling the burrs and
matted dung from their wool to improve their normal
bedraggled appearance. I also tried to groom myself: tying back
my long, uncut hair and mending my tattered clothing. I bided
my time, preparing myself as best I could, and at last the day
came.

   I sat up on the mountain before the sheepfold and watched
the king’s Beltaine fire in the valley below. I did not go down to
the celebration, though I wanted to, lest some unfortunate
incident befall me - Ercol, perhaps, might take it into his dull
head to sharpen his knife on me again. Wounded, I would be
unable to accompany the cattle tribute to Tara.

   The Beltaine observances lasted all night. From time to time,
the sounds of the revel reached me as a raucous commotion,
more akin to a battle than a festivity. It ended at dawn, and I
roused myself, retrieved my grass-cloth bag and water bladder,
took up my crook, and, without waiting for them to come to me,
I pulled the timber poles from the entrance to the fold and led
out all but twelve of the sheep.

   We arrived in the valley well before any of the others were
ready, but I set the flock to graze on the soft new grass beside the
river and waited. After a time the gates of the rath opened, and
some men emerged. I watched as they busied themselves at the
cattle enclosure below the settlement mound; presently one of
the men came to me. “You are ready,” he said, and I sensed
approval in his tone. “When the cattle have been gathered, we
will leave.”

   Not wishing to give any hint of the excitement I felt, I merely
nodded with what I hoped was dull indifference. As soon as he
had gone, I complimented myself on my cunning and
forethought. I watched as the cows and pigs were led out, and
before anyone could tell me otherwise, I joined the train, keeping
my flock a short distance apart-as if to allow them to snatch at
the grass along the way.

   As we prepared to set off, I heard someone shout, and I
turned. Two men came running, calling me to halt. “What are
you doing?” demanded the first to reach me.

   “I am leading the sheep for the boru tribute.”

  “Go back to your bothy,” he said, swelling with importance.
“We do not need you. Slaves have no part in this.”

   “Very well,” I replied. “You lead the sheep.” I shoved Madog’s
crook into his hand.

   I saw the two glance at the quickly scattering flock as I turned
and stumped away. I could hear the two men arguing, and I had
not gone far when the second man called me back. “Do not heed
Ladra,” he said, returning the crook to me. “You have care of the
sheep. See you keep them out of the way.”

   We moved through the valley toward the hills to the east in a
slow migration -twenty-five or so men with three wagons full of
provisions and more than a hundred head of cattle, pigs, and
sheep. As we gained the slope of the first hill, there came a rattle
and clatter behind us as Lord Miliucc and a dozen members of
his warband and retinue galloped past. They would go ahead of
us and prepare the place where we would camp for the night.
With cattle it was a seven-day journey to Tara, and the king
wanted to secure all the best places along the way for his
livestock to graze and water.

  One hill and valley, one wood and rill, gave way to
another-through sun mostly, but also fits of rain, and the long
day ended in a meadow beside a sweet-running stream. The next
six days were as the first. As twilight descended over the land on
the seventh day, we crested the last hill and saw the immense
Magh Fal, the Plain of Fal, spread out like a table. Many another
tribute party had reached the plain before us, for the great flat
expanse glittered with the winking light from dozens of
campfires.

   Looming over all stood the brooding black mound of the Hill
of Tara, royal residence of the Eireann kings, with its triple ring
of ditches surrounding not one but two great raths, strong
behind stout timber. From this hill the Aird Righ ruled the petty
kings of the north and kept a tight grip on the reluctant,
contentious subject lords of the south - many of whom had come
to bestow their tribute also.

   It was dark by the time we found our place among the camps
and settled the livestock for the night. As had become my
custom, I took my food and ate apart from the others, then lay
down to sleep near the sheep. Next morning we joined the great
gathering.

   King Niall of the Nine Hostages, High King of Eire, had
established a pavilion on the plain below the royal rath. Beneath
a canopy of red cloth stretched between a half circle of
yellow-painted pine poles was his throne. Here he received the
boru tribute of his subject kings, of which our Lord Miliucc was
but one of many-far more now than the nine that had won Niall
his name.

   The whole first day was given to ceremony, most of which I
observed from a short distance. Many filidh were in attendance,
dressed in their colorful robes. The leader of the druids was an
old man whose cloak was made from the feathers of birds,
mostly crows and ravens, as it seemed to me, but others also
-red, blue, green, and white -so that when he moved about in the
sunlight, he glistened and gleamed like a giant speckled bird
himself.

  The druid chief held forth with a long, obscure recitation. It
was difficult for me to follow, because the druid used many
words I did not understand; but the declamation seemed to
consist mainly of an exhaustive list of names-kings and more
than a few queens - and the salient qualities of their various
reigns. It went something like this: Brocmal Leather Cloak, King
of Ma Turand, peace and plenty blessed his nine years and two…
Scoriath Long Jaw, King of Fir Morcha, increased his realm
through toil and battle; short his rule, cut down in the sixth year
of his reign… Conn of the Hundred Battles, wise and generous
host, father of six kings; two tens and two his reign… and so on
and on.

   Our shadows stretched long on the ground before the
recitation ended, only for another to begin: a song this time, in
exaltation of King Niall’s life and reign, sung by a filidh
accompanied by another with a harp. The song was easier for
me to follow, for although it was extremely elaborate in its
lengthy, looping, intricate melodies and continuously repeated
refrains, the story was that of a prince born into the noble house
of King Eochaid, who took to wife a British-born slave girl
named Carthann and made her queen. By another wife Eochaid
had four more sons. This wife, the daughter of an Irish king, a
bitter, ambitious, and conniving woman named Mongfhinn,
soon grew jealous of her rival and plotted to make certain one of
her sons succeeded the old king as Aird Righ.

   But Niall, owing to his bright and winsome nature, won his
father’s heart while still a child. Seeing this, the jealous queen
did not rest until she had soured the king’s good opinion and
made outcasts of Queen Carthann and her son. Through
treachery, subtlety, and lies, Mongfhinn turned the king’s heart
against his British beauty, and she became a menial in the king’s
court; day and night she was made to serve the Irish queen, who
made her water carrier for the royal house.

   One day, Niall was discovered at play with some of the boys of
the tuath by Torna, the king’s ollamh and chief advisor. The old
druid observed the remarkable qualities of the boy, took pity on
him, and rescued him; he took young Niall into fosterage and
educated him in kingcraft. When Niall came of age, Torna
brought him back to court and restored him to his rightful
place. The first thing the young prince did was liberate his
mother from the drudgery of her slavery and install her in a
house with servants of her own.
   The old king was overjoyed to have his son restored, and he
devised a test by which he might choose from among his five
sons which was best suited to be king after him. So old Eochaid
sent the princes to the blacksmith’s forge in the middle of the
rath to choose weapons for themselves from among those the
smith was making. While they were about this task, the smithy
caught fire and the youths, seeking to rescue what they could
from the flames, rushed from the forge with the items they
reckoned of most value.

   The eldest, Brian, saved a newly finished chariot, pulling it
from the flames by hand; next Ailill rushed through the door
carrying the sword and shield he had been examining; Fiachra
followed, bearing the smith’s good water trough on his broad
shoulders; Fergus came close behind, carrying the king’s fine
harness for his favorite horse and an iron war cap. And then they
waited. When waiting availed nothing, they shouted, “Niall!”
They cried, “Out with you now! The flames are upon you!”

   Niall emerged from the smoke-filled doorway bearing in his
arms the anvil, hammer, bellows, and tongs. Torna, standing in
watchful observance beside the king, raised his hands and called
out, “See here! I call upon everyone to witness: Alone among his
brothers Niall has rescued the soul of the forge and saved the
smithy from ruin.”

   At this, King Eochaid leapt to his feet and declared, “By virtue
of his quick wit and good judgment, it is Niall who shall succeed
me to the throne!”

   When the hardhearted Mongfhinn heard about this, she tore
her hair and raged so hotly that no one dared approach her for
two days. Even so, the vengeful queen buried her spite deep and
set dark schemes in motion, so that when the aged king died
soon after, she took the sovereignty to herself and bestowed it
upon her brother Crimthann, who agreed to hold it until young
Brian came into his manhood.

   The plan succeeded wonderfully well; Crimthann took the
crown, and Niall fled with his mother that same night to a
remote and lonely place. But Mongfhinn, at first satisfied with
her handiwork, grew increasingly worried as her brother
developed a taste for the kingship. As Aird Righ, Crimthann
gathered his power and made successful raids in the south of
Eire, and against the Britons, capturing many slaves and
winning a mountain of plunder-which he shared out to his
warriors and noblemen, so they continued to uphold and
acclaim him.

    As Crimthann’s fame increased, so, too, did his sister’s wrath.
When her anger and bitterness reached the boiling point, she
plotted his downfall. In secret she concocted a strong poison,
which she introduced to his cup one night when he sat at meat
with his retinue. The Aird Righ drank from the cup and died
screaming in the night; he was laid to rest, and Brian, the bitter
queen’s favorite, was at last proclaimed king. As the young man
stood in the assembly of noblemen and was about to take the
kingship into his hands, who should appear but Niall, with three
fifties of warriors at his back.

   In the hearing of all, Niall reminded the noblemen that his
father, Eochaid, had decreed that he should be king after him;
he praised the dead Crimthann for keeping the kingship so well
and thanked Brian for his willingness to step into the breach and
occupy the throne in the absence of the rightful ruler. “But I am
here now,” said Niall, “so your services, and those of your
mother, are no longer needed. Stay with me if you like, or go.
The choice is yours.”

    Brian eyed the massed warriors thoughtfully and, to his
mother’s horror, chose to stay and uphold Niall in his kingship.
The old woman was so outraged by this twist of events that her
flintlike heart swelled with anger and burst; she gave out a
scream of rage and fell down dead. Niall wasted no time but
gathered a fleet of ships and set out to put the Picti and the
Al-banach Irish beneath his reign. With his warrior host he
sailed to Alba and was warmly received by the Dal Riada tribes,
who welcomed him as savior from the ever-encroaching
predations of the cruel Picti.

   In Alba, Niall rallied the Irish tribes of the Scotti and harried
the Picti over the moors; Niall chased the troublesome Picti
back to their mountain strongholds, where he fought them and
defeated them and claimed a hostage from each of the three
largest tribes. Then the young Aird Righ turned his attention to
the south, waged war on the Saecsen settlements along the
northeast coast, and made them acknowledge his rule-again
taking royal hostages in order to bind the belligerent tribes to
observe peace with him. He raided in Britain and in Armorica,
carrying all before him by the might of his warhost. When the
battle season ended, he had established himself as king of Eire
and Alba and overlord of nine subject tribes.

  Thus, with this reminder of the high king’s authority and
power fresh in our heads, did the ritual of the bom tribute
commence.

    As with most ceremonies of the Irish, it began with a feast.
Thirty oxen had been roasting since early that morning and,
after another recitation by the ollamh, the great king invited his
lords to eat and drink with him. Since no one told me otherwise,
I joined in the feast, too. Indeed, there were so many noblemen
and servants of noblemen that no one paid any attention to me. I
took some meat as it was carried through the throng by servants
bearing enormous wooden troughlike vessels on poles. Beer
circulated in wooden buckets, brass bowls, and large clay jars.
There was other food, too: salmon, venison, boiled eggs, and
three kinds of bread.

   I helped myself liberally to all that came my way, and what I
did not eat I secretly tucked away in the bag I wore beneath my
shirt. I did very well, and soon the bag was bulging, so I found a
place where I could retrieve it later and stashed it there for
safekeeping.

   Then I sharpened my eye for the best opportunity to make my
escape.

   The chance came the next day when, having eaten and drunk
their fill, the subject kings were summoned to council and, as
their names were called, stepped forward to declare the size and
composition of the tribute they had brought. I stood with
Miliucc and his men and sensed their growing unease as one by
one the lords, upon delivering the tally of their livestock, were
informed by the Aird Righ that their tribute was not enough.
  “This is very bad,” I heard one of Miliucc’s men mutter. “If
Gulban’s tribute falls short, ours will not fare better.”

   “We shall have to raid this summer to make up the
difference,” another grumbled. “And that, too, is costly.”

   When the audiences ended for the day, there was more eating
and drinking. This time, however, the mood was ugly. The first
noblemen were angry and agitated by the failure of the high king
to accept the payment of their tribute, and the rest were anxious
that theirs, too, would fall short. As is ever the way of things,
they took out their frustration on one another.

   At first it assumed the form of boasting and raucous humor
at one another’s expense-the sort of thing I had seen often
enough in the Black Wolf when the legionaries were displeased
with their commander. As drink took hold, the humor turned
cruel and tempers began to simmer, flaring now and then as
when fat hits the fire.

   I did not wait for the fights to start. As night drew in on the
increasingly brawly festivities, I left the flock, collected my bag of
provisions, ran for the shelter of the nearest wood, and
disappeared into the all-concealing shadows.

                                 15

   The plain of Fal stretches far to the west and south, but to the
east there are thickly wooded hills and streams. This is the
direction I chose, and I reached the edge of the wood before
night was half gone-pausing briefly to climb an oak tree to see if
I had been followed. Pulling myself up into the upper branches, I
looked out over the moonlit plain. There was no sign of pursuit,
so I quickly clambered down and hastened into the wood,
following an old and well-used hunting run.

  All night long I walked, without rest, stopping only at dawn
when I came to a divide. On one hand the run continued in a
wide, lazy arc around the base of the hill; on the other it
narrowed to a track which rose into the heart of the hills. One
way seemed as good as the other to me, so I chose the second
way and hoped for the best.

   All the next day, I followed the track into the wood-stopping
to eat when hungry and drinking from the fresh-running
streams whenever one could be found. I kept my waterskin filled
and refilled it often so the water would not grow stale. Midday
on the second day, the wood ended; standing in the shelter of the
trees, I looked out upon a hillside field which had been plowed
and sown. There seemed to be no habitation nearby, so I
continued, keeping to the wood and skirting the field until I
could see who tended it.

   As I came around the breast of the hill, two men leading an ox
and wagon appeared. They saw me, too, and, fearing that if I ran
into the wood a chase might ensue, I decided to brazen it out.
Plucking up my courage, I resumed my pace and hailed them as
they drew near. “Good day to you,” I called.

  They made no answer but regarded me warily.

   “I’ve come from the boru tribute,” I said, telling them the
truth. Touching my slave collar, I continued, “As you see, I am a
slave.”

   “What do you want here?” demanded the driver, swinging the
ox goad in his hand.

   “My lord has sent me to fetch him word of the nearest
settlement,” I replied, departing from the truth altogether.

  “The nearest settlement,” repeated the driver suspiciously.

  “Yes,” I affirmed. “Is your lord and master nearby?”

  They looked at one another, and the second said, “Our lord
maintains his rath at Lios Beag; that is the nearest settlement,
and it is not far from here.”

  “But you will not find him there,” said the first. “He and his
men have gone to the boru tribute.”

  “Of course,” I agreed. “Even so, if it is agreeable to you, I
might go there.”

   “Is there any reason we should object, friend?” asked the
farmer.

  “None that I can think of,” I replied.

   “The rath is that way,” the farmer informed me. “We have
just come from there, and you are welcome to try your luck at
the gate.”

   I thanked the men and continued on my way, making as if I
would go to the rath. Once around the hill, I saw the timber
palisade rising up across the way, and I saw also what I hoped to
find: a road.

   Hurrying by the small, mean-looking fortress, I headed off
along the path instead and was soon passing through a more
settled and prosperous-looking farming country of large fields
and grazing lands. In some of these, men and women were
working; I greeted them as I passed and likewise greeted anyone
I happened to meet on the road. Once I met an old man carrying
a young child in his arms.

    The child -boy or girl, I could not say-had a swollen eye
running with pus and matter. I knew the complaint, for I had
seen it once or twice among the children of our estate back
home, and knew my mother’s remedy. I stopped to greet the old
fellow and asked how far the road continued and what lay ahead.

   “This buthar?” He looked at me as if I were a fool for asking.
“Why, it runs to the sea, and some say it goes all the way to
Britain and back again.”

  “To the sea, you say.” I nodded respectfully, taking this in.
“And is it far?”

   “Far for some,” he said, eyeing my slave collar. “Less far for
others.”

   “I see.” I thanked him for his inestimable help and said, “I see
the child is afflicted with a stye.” Indicating the swollen eye, I
offered, “A warm cloth with - ” Here I faltered; I knew the
remedy, but not the Irish names for the plants. “Wait,” I said
and, darting into the wood beside the road, I quickly gathered a
handful dock leaves and a few twigs of green willow. “Here,” I
said, giving them to the old man. “Mash the leaves and scrape
the bark from the branches into a bowl of hot water. Soak a
cloth and press it gently to the infant’s eye. Leave it for as long as
you can, changing it now and then. This will draw out the
venom.”

   The old man stared at me in wonder. “Truly?” he asked. “And
are you slave to a Brehon?”

  “I have seen it work before,” I replied, and continued on my
way.

   The old fellow stood in the road and watched me until I was
out of sight. I waved to him once or twice until I could see him
no more.

   Dusk found me on a hillside looking toward the east, where
the road descended into a valley to run along the bank of a river.
On a rise overlooking the lowland was a large hill fort, and there
were a number of huts and barns ranged along the valley floor
between the river and the rath. A trio of herdsmen was leading a
small herd up from the river. As it was soon dark, I decided to
wait and make my way past the fortress under the cover of night,
so I found a hidden place off the road and settled down to sleep
until it was time to move on.

   I lay in my secluded hollow listening to the ravens as they
flocked to their roosts high in the surrounding trees. They filled
the wood with such a cacophony of creaks and croaks that I
despaired of getting any rest. I dug into my bag of provisions,
brought out some bread and meat, and ate a little while I waited
for the sky to grow dark.

   Owing to the commotion raised by the birds, I did not hear
the horses on the road until they were well upon me. Probably
they would never have found me if not for the hounds. The first I
knew of them, they were already bounding into the wood,
barking as they came. I threw aside my meal and leapt to my
feet. There was no place to hide, and the trees were too tall to
climb; I could not outrun them, and even if I could, such a race
would only alert the riders that they had found something worth
pursuing.

   My only hope, I decided, was to brazen it out with them as I
had with the others I had met; it had worked for me before, and
the small successes elevated my confidence. So, adopting the air
of a weary traveler, I put my food away, hung the bag on my
shoulder, took up my staff, and waited for the dogs to arrive.

   Within moments they came plunging into my little
glade-three of them, great black, slat-sided beasts; they tumbled
in one after another, saw me, and halted at the perimeter, where
they stood stiff-legged, baying as if at a prize stag.

   Right behind them came two warriors on foot with spears at
the ready. I suppose they thought they had a wild boar or a
badger, but the sight of a lone youth standing calmly in the
center of the hollow brought them up short. While one of the
warriors called off the dogs, the other approached, his spear
leveled.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

   I greeted him politely and said, “I am as you find me-a
traveler seeking a little rest beside the road.”

    “This is King Eoghan mac Fionn’s land,” he informed me
stiffly.

  “I am glad to know it,” I answered. “Please give my respects to
your lord when next you see him.”

   He looked at me, unable to decide what to make of me. His
friend, having leashed the dogs, called something over his
shoulder as he led the pack away. “You can pay him your
respects yourself. He is waiting on the road.”

   He gestured with the spear, indicating that I was to go before
him. We walked the short distance to the road, where eight
riders were waiting. The warrior presented me to a white-haired
man with a red cloak over his shoulders, saying, “We found him
lurking in the wood. He says he is a traveler.”

  I raised my hand in greeting. “Mo tiarna,” I said. “My lord, I
am a stranger to these lands. It was not my intention to trouble
you or your people in any way.”

  “Why are you hiding in the wood?”

   “I am about an errand on behalf of my master,” I replied. “I
hid because I was afraid of the dogs.”

  The nobleman nodded. “Who is your master?”

  “Lord Miliucc of Sliabh Mis and the Vale of Braghad.”

  “Your collar,” said the sharp-eyed king, “declares you a slave.”

   “And so I am,” I replied calmly. “I serve at my master’s
pleasure.”

   A frown appeared on the lord’s wide, good-natured face. My
free admission of slavery and my forthright answers to his
questions perplexed him. He scratched his jaw, then gestured to
the man who had fetched me from the wood. “Bring him,” he
said, lifting the reins, and he and his retinue rode on.

   I fell in behind the dog handlers who, once they saw I meant
to do as I was bade, ignored me. It was no use trying to run away
in any case. I could hear them talking as they walked along but
could judge little from their voices, save that the tone was
strained and peevish.

   The ominous mood continued after we reached the fortress.
The tuath came out to welcome home their king and the
menfolk, but after the greeting the crowd departed in a somber
humor. The boru tribute had gone badly for everyone, I suppose,
and now that it was over, tribes were having to come to terms
with how to deal with the shortfall penalty imposed upon them
by the Aird Righ.

  I was taken to Eoghan’s hall, which was similar to Miliucc’s
except that it was larger and the houses which surrounded it
more numerous and in better repair. I was brought to stand
before the king, who sat in his big chair beside the hearth, while
his queen and sons greeted him and his handmaids prepared his
bowl.

  The white-haired lord was served, drank deep, and set the
bowl aside. Only then did he deign to notice me. He slapped his
knee with his hand and said, “A slave you are, a slave you shall
remain.”

  “My lord,” I objected, “I am Miliucc’s man.”

  “Miliucc’s loss is my gain.”

   “Certainly I am not worth the trouble which will come of this.
I think it would be best for all that I should be allowed to
continue my journey.”

   Ignoring my implied threat, he said, “Your loyalty to your
previous lord is laudable. What service did you perform for
Miliucc?”

   I saw the way the thing was going and swallowed my
disappointment; to resist would only make matters worse, so I
tried to improve my position as best I could. “I was chief of my
lord’s stables,” I told him.

  His white eyebrows arched in surprise. “Indeed?”

  “My lord keeps but six horses,” I added. It helps to mix in as
much of the truth as possible in these situations. “Most of his
wealth is in sheep and pigs.”

   Eoghan rubbed his whiskered chin and slowly made up his
mind. “Then you shall serve me likewise.” He gestured to one of
the men standing ready beside the door. “Take this one to the
stable.”

   The man took me by the arm and pulled me away. As I
reached the door, the king called out, “What is your name,
slave?”
  “I am called Succat.”

  “You will find me a fair and generous master. Serve me well,
Succat, and you will be well treated.”

   I did not know what to say, so I thanked him and followed the
king’s man to the stable, where I was put under the command of
the chief stabler, a grunting, humpbacked fellow with a potbelly
and a squint.

  “Eoghan sends you to me, does he?”

  “He does,” I replied.

  “You a Briton?”

  “I am that.”

  “You smell like one.”

  “Thank you.”

  That brought a smile to the stabler’s lips. “I like you, British.”

  “My name is Succat.”

   “I am Gamal. I keep fifteen horses, but only five in the rath at
any time. I will show you the others tomorrow. You sleep over
there.” He pointed to an empty stall. “Hungry?”

  “Of course.”

   “We eat after the king eats. They bring us our food here. You
look a strong lad. Mind what I say, and we will get on.”

   “Fifteen horses are a good many for one man,” I said. “Do you
care for them all by yourself?”

   “I had two servants to help me,” Gamal answered. “One was
kicked in the head by a horse and died. The other allowed a
mare to founder; she died with loss of the colt besides.”

  I shook my head as if in dismay at this regrettable news.
    “Aye,” said Gamal. “It cost him a hand, and he is now herding
pigs.” He nodded, satisfied with this punishment. “Lord Eoghan
is a fair-minded king.”

   What little I knew of horses I had gained on our own estate.
In truth, I knew far more about riding than stabling, but I
reckoned it would not be difficult to learn-and to disguise my
ignorance in the meantime. In any event, I did not plan to stay
in Eoghan’s employ any longer than necessary. As soon as the
next opportunity presented itself, I would be gone.

   Eoghan proved better than his word. He was indeed a
generous lord, and on the whole I did not mind my work. It was
not demanding, and it gave me a chance to gain the measure of
the tuath and search out the ways by which I might make my
escape.

   The aftermath of the boru tribute continued to exercise
Eoghan and his people mightily. The tuath was so unsettled that
even I, a stranger, could tell that they were not only displeased
but near to despairing. The dark undercurrent of fretfulness and
unease bubbled away like a caldron on the boil. I was not
surprised when, a few days after my arrival at the rath, the
announcement came that, in consequence of failing to meet the
demand of the boru, the king had no choice but to raise his
warband and go raiding.

   I thought this meant they would sail across to Britain, and I
saw my chance. When those boats set sail, I wanted to be on
board. Once I set foot on shore, they would not see me again. Of
that, I was more than confident.

  I schemed how best to get myself included in the raiding
party but could come to no firm decision on how to bring this
about, and after two days I was no closer to finding a solution.

  “Oh, a raid is a very fearsome thing,” Gamal informed me
when I asked when it would likely take place. “It’s the horses that
pay the heaviest cost.”

   “I do not doubt it,” I replied, remembering poor Boreas’ last
ride.
   “We have not raided in more than fifteen years,” he said. “I
used to go.”

  “Truly?”

  “Oh, aye,” he said, “I may not look like much now, but there
was a time I could fight with the best of them.” He patted his
potbelly. “I am too old now, of course.”

  Before I could respond, he said, “Maybe you should go.”

  “Me?”

   “Aye, there is no need to look so surprised. The king often
takes a man along to mind the horses. You would not have to
fight.”

  “Well,” I allowed, “if you think I might lend a helpful hand, I
have no objection.”

  The next day I was called before King Eoghan. “Gamal thinks
you would be helpful on the raid, and I agree.”

  “My lord,” I said in all humility, “I know nothing about boats,
but if you think-”

   “Boats?” replied Eoghan, his face creasing in bewilderment
before I could finish. “I have neither boats nor need of them.”

  “How then shall we reach Britain?”

  “Ah!” answered the king. “We are not going to raid in Britain.
We are going to Tir Brefni of the Connachta.”

   I had no idea where this might be but reckoned that if I was
not to be taken to Britain, at least I would get a horse. With a
horse many things are possible. “Forgive your servant’s
stupidity, my lord. I await your command.”

   Thus, when the warband departed three days later, I rode
with them.
                                16

   The people of the Connachta are as harsh and wild as their
wind-ravaged, crag-riven land. If the people I had lived among
until now were barbarians, these were feral savages. Little liked
or respected -even by their own kind - they were forever warring
with one another and with everyone else. The tuatha of Connacht
were a race without: without learning, without culture, without
virtue, without hope.

   Thus, whenever any of the other tribes decided to raid in
Ireland, it was to Connacht that they went. Raiding in that
untamed realm was chancy and it was perilous, but it brought
no worrisome backlash of condemnation or retaliation from
other tribes, for everyone did it, and the Connachta were so
fractious they could never unite under one war leader to mount a
serious raid beyond their own borders.

   King Eoghan kept but a dozen warriors. My private qualms
about such a small warband were quickly dispelled, however; by
the end of the first day’s journey, we had been joined by two
more lords and their retinues. On the third day our number had
effectively quadrupled, and by the fifth day the warhost had
swelled to ten times the size it was when we first set out, and
more joined the nearer we came to our destination.

   The evening before we crossed over into the realm of the
Connachta, there was a celebration of sorts: a riotous revel of the
kind common to gatherings of warriors - useful, I suppose, for
exciting courage and hardihood in men who must fight the next
day. As one of the many slaves and servants who did not take
part, I stayed near the horses and watched as the warriors
engaged one another in trials of mock combat. As the sun faded
in the west, the vigorous boasting and foolhardy demonstrations
of skill took on an increasingly threatening aspect. I was more
than content to remain a safe distance apart.

   As I had the care of the king’s horses, it was my normal chore
to water them at sunset before settling them for the night. I was
leading two of the beasts down to the stream when I met a group
of late-arriving warriors hurrying to the celebration. As they
passed me, I glanced over at one of them, and my heart seized in
my chest. It was Forgall, Lord Miliucc’s chief of battle.

  I quickly turned my face away, fell back a step to hide behind
one of the horses I was leading, and hurried on.

   While the horses drank, I stood at the water’s edge quivering
in frantic distraction, trying desperately to think what to do.
There was no telling where or when I might encounter my
former master or one of his men. Next time they would
recognize me.

  I decided that the only course open to me was flight-as soon
and as swiftly as possible. I would leave at once. Now.

   Pulling the horses’ heads from the water, I led them back to
the picket. Stealing a horse was a serious offense, and I was of
two minds: while it represented my best hope of getting away
fast, if I were to be caught with a stolen horse, I would certainly
lose a hand-or worse.

   Tempted though I was, I came to the conclusion that it was a
risk too great. I would go on foot. With the raid to occupy them,
I could be well away before anyone thought to look for me. So as
night descended over the camp, I set about collecting a few
provisions to take with me.

   One of the lords had brought a small, two-wheeled wagon that
was loaded with food - hard bread, salt pork, and the like. It was
to this wagon I went, hoping to filch a few loaves and some meat.
As expected, there was no one near the wagon when I arrived, so
I took what I could carry, stuffing it into the grass bag beneath
my tunic. I turned to hurry away, making for the perimeter of
the camp, where I thought to pause and wait until darkness was
complete and I could slink off unseen.

   I darted around the side of the wagon and ran headlong into
three warriors. I humbly excused myself and begged their
indulgence, turned and started away again-only to be yanked
backward by a strong hand on my arm.

   “I know you,” said a too-familiar voice in my ear. I froze. My
captor spun me around to face him. Disaster clasped me to its
thorny breast-in the form of my old adversary Cernach. “All that
time looking for you, and now here you are.”

  “I can explain, Cernach,” I said.

  “Good,” the beefy warrior said, his voice thick with menace,
“Lord Miliucc will be glad to hear it.”

   “Let me go.” I appealed to the other two warriors, who stood
looking on with puzzled expressions on their faces. “He is
making a mistake.”

   “You are the one who has made a mistake, my slippery
friend.” The deeply malicious grin widened on his face. “And
now you are going to pay.” He turned to the two with him and
said, “He’s a runaway slave.” The two nodded knowingly, quickly
losing interest in the affair.

   In that instant Cernach’s grip loosened slightly. I took the
chance and pulled my arm free, ducked around him, and raced
off toward the center of the gathering, hoping to lose him in the
general confusion of the massed warhost. I reached the near
edge of the assembly and dived into a clump of warriors
standing on the periphery. I wormed through them and out the
other side, sliding deeper into the knotted clusters of men
standing around the fire ring, where the flames were just being
kindled.

   I heard shouting behind me, but I ran on, flitting around the
circumference of the ring. I reached a fair-size group and pushed
in among them as they stood watching a wrestling contest. I
could hear Cernach and his two friends shouting as they worked
their way through the crowd. As they came nearer, I squatted so
as not to be seen.

  My intentions were mistaken, however, and one of the
warriors looked down and, seeing me, cried, “Here! What are
you doing?”

   Laying his hand to my slave tore, he jerked me to my feet and
shoved me out from among them. I fell to the ground, and before
I could gather my feet under me, Cernach pounced. He clasped a
heavy hand to my slave collar and hauled me upright.

   He held me with one hand and punched me in the stomach
with the other. The first blow forced the air from my lungs; the
second brought bile to my mouth. I swallowed it down and,
gasping, cried for someone to help me-thinking that if any of
Eoghan’s men were near, they might come to my aid. But if they
heard me, they did not heed my cries.

  “Cernach, please!” I screamed. “You have caught me.
Enough!”

   “No, boy, I say when it is enough. We are just getting
started.” With that he drew back his fist and smacked me on the
side of the face, splitting my lip and loosening the teeth in my
jaw.

  “Cernach, please! I surrender!” I spluttered, spitting blood.

  The sight of blood seemed to satisfy the two who were with
him. “Leave off,” said one of them. “You might kill him.”

  “Save your strength for tomorrow, brother,” the other
advised.

  Cernach gave me a last, halfhearted punch and then pulled
me roughly away. “Come, you,” he said. “We will see what
Miliucc will do with you.”

   King Miliucc, although surprised to see me, hid his
astonishment behind a frown of regal rebuke at my disloyalty.
He was standing with two other lords, one of a number of
noblemen, and clearly did not wish to deal with me then and
there, however much he might have preferred it. He glanced at
me indifferently and said, “Chain him.”

   Cernach, exulting in his authority over me, imagined it was
his superior cunning which had allowed him to capture me. He
dragged me to the place where Miliucc had established his camp
and, with a mouthful of boasts and curses, passed one end of a
chain through the ring on my slave tore and proceeded to tether
me to a tree. And there, with a kick in the ribs for good measure,
he left me.

  When he had gone, I tried to find how he had fixed the chain,
but it was not long enough. I could kneel down but not sit, and I
could not reach around the tree to find the end of the chain, nor
could I move it one way or the other. I was well and truly caught.

   Disappointment sharp as the burning ache in my side surged
through me, and tears came flooding to my eyes. No criminal
destined for the chopping block ever felt worse than I did then. I
knelt whimpering in shame and misery, cursing my luck and
wishing I had taken the horse after all. If I had followed my first
instinct, I would have been far away from the camp and out of
reach of the bloody-minded Cernach. I cursed him, too, and
damned him to hell for his infernal interference.

   All through the night, the warriors stoked their courage. I
remained by my tree -sometimes standing, sometimes kneeling,
as the chain permitted-and listened to the sounds of the
warriors as they lashed themselves to fighting frenzy. The cries
echoed into the surrounding wood and resounded in the empty
hills ‘round about: loud, bellowing, bloodlusting cries.

   They left at dawn -close to two hundred mounted warriors
riding out in ranks and waves -and an uncanny silence
descended over the camp. The few of us left behind settled back
to await the warhost’s return. I tried to get one or another of the
servants to release me. Every time someone would pass, I would
plead and whine to be let go, but no one heeded me. A chained
slave is a forlorn and fearful sight, and few will make bold to free
him, lest they suffer a similar fate.

   I languished through the day, forsaken and alone.

   As the sun began to slide down behind the rim of rocky hills,
the lords and their warbands returned-fewer in number than
when they rode out, to be sure, and far less zealous. Some of the
dead were brought to camp; the majority were not. I suppose
they had fallen in the most hotly disputed places, and retrieving
their bodies was not possible.

   Despite the losses, the raids seemed to have produced the
desired effect, for the victors came leading sheep and cattle, and
carrying bags of treasure: objects and ornaments of gold, silver,
and bronze which they had plundered, along with weapons they
had taken from the dead on the battlefield.

   Immediately upon their return the warhost set about
preparing to leave. I suppose that, having made a most
successful sortie, they did not wish to linger any longer than
necessary in case the Connachta tribes regrouped and came
looking to reclaim their stolen goods. The warriors washed in the
stream and bound their wounds, some of which were fearsome
indeed: One man I saw had a long, ragged gash in his side that
oozed blood with every movement; another had lost three fingers
on his left hand, and the rags he wore were stained bright
crimson.

   I stood watching as the warriors went about their business,
and I wondered whether Lord Miliucc would return and what
would happen if he did not. For a brief moment I entertained the
hope that I might yet evade the king’s wrath-but that was folly,
and it swiftly vanished at the appearance of Miliucc and his
warband with the last of the raiders. Like the others before
them, the tired warriors bathed in the stream and hastened to
break camp.

   The entire gathering moved out, and I with them. Whatever
words passed between my former master and my new one, I
never learned; from the moment Cernach caught me, I did not
see Eoghan again. I was unchained from the tree by one of
Miliucc’s warriors and led away behind a horse, and that was
that.

   Exhausted by the day’s fighting, the warhost did not travel
far-just far enough to put some small distance between them
and any retaliation the Connachta tribes might attempt. The
night passed quietly-but not without event for some; morning
found three dead among the warriors. They had expired in the
night. The kings would not countenance their burial so far
beyond the borders of their own realms, so the dead were rolled
in their cloaks and tied to the backs of their horses.

  We broke camp once more and started off. I was tethered to
the warrior who held the end of my chain. As the day passed, the
various warbands dispersed one by one, going their separate
ways, and taking with them the cattle and plunder each had
won. Just after midday, Lord Miliucc bade farewell to his
brother lords and turned his face to the north. The clouds closed
in soon after that, and it began to rain.

   Thus we made our way back to the Vale of Braghad. When the
wide green valley opened before us, my spirits were as low as my
chain dragging in the mud. I had tried not to think what would
happen to me when we reached the rath, but now that it was in
sight, a deep and sickening dread came upon me. Images of the
beating I was to receive pushed their way into my thoughts; as
fast as I could quench one, another would spring up to take its
place.

  Oh, but as violent as was my imagining, the ordeal, when it
came, was far worse.

   We rode up to the fortress to be welcomed by the entire tuath.
The king announced that the raid had been successful and that
though they had lost four good warriors, they had acquired
enough plunder to meet the boru tribute. He then dismounted
and embraced his queen, who had the welcome cup ready. She
placed it in his hands, and he drank. The people cheered their
lord’s success with shouts of praise and acclamation for him and
the warband.

   Then, turning to the warrior who held my chain, he said, “I
will deal with the slave now. Bring him to me.”

   I was dragged to where the king waited. They forced me to my
knees before him, and he stood gazing down at me, his
expression calm but determined. “Three times you have run
away, and three times you have been caught. What I do now, I
do for the last time. If you should ever defy me and escape again,
I will catch you. And when you are caught, you will be killed. Do
you understand?”

  I nodded.

  “Hear me,” he continued. “You are my shepherd, but you
abandoned your flock. A good shepherd never leaves his sheep.
He watches over them through all things. Do you understand?”

  Again I nodded. Abject and wretched, I nodded.

  Then, with a gesture, he summoned four warriors. “Spare
nothing but his life.”

   The first blow took my breath away-the shaft of a spear
brought down hard on the top of my shoulder. I screamed in
spite of myself and struggled to my feet, only to receive a sharp
jab in the gut from the same spear shaft. The second warrior
joined in. Taking up the end of my chain, he pulled with all his
might, yanking me backward off my feet. I tried to rise, but he
kept pulling the chain, dragging me by the ring attached to the
iron collar around my neck. I had to hold on to the tore to keep
from being choked.

   Meanwhile the other warriors began kicking me and
thrashing me with spear shafts. I rolled on the ground, trying to
avoid the blows, but to evade one was to open myself to another.
No part of my body was safe. One of them landed a kick to my
face; my jaw clacked, my head snapped back. Blood filled my
mouth. Another kick caught me full in the ribs; I heard a dull,
meaty pop and felt something give way deep inside.

   Curling on my side, I tried to make myself as small an object
for their abuse as possible. Each time I gained a modicum of
protection, however, the chain was pulled to strangle and
straighten me.

   I gathered my strength and made one last attempt to climb to
my feet. Confused, my vision blurred, I struggled upright and too
late saw the butt of a spear swinging toward my head. The
fire-hardened ash struck the back of my head with a crack that
opened a rift in my skull and set my stomach churning. I
vomited over myself, and my sight dimmed. My ears filled with a
loud, juddering roar, and I was once more back on the beach in
Britain on the night I was taken. I smelled the rank seaweed and
heard gulls shrieking overhead as bloodred stars streaked to
earth.
   “I surrender,” I gasped as my last conscious thought sped
from me.

                                17

   The ocean’s ceaseless soughing filled my ears through the
night. I woke with the sun in my eyes and blood on my tongue.
My lips were gashed and puffed. My legs were numb, but my
side ached with a fiery fury-as if a live coal had burned its way
through my skin to lodge beneath my ribs. My hair was stiff with
sweat and blood, and I lay on cold damp ground. I tried to sit up,
and the movement brought a dazzling torrent of pain. I cried
out, and this started my lips bleeding again.

  From somewhere below me I heard the bleating of sheep, and
knew that I was outside the shepherd’s bothy on Sliabh Mis.
They had returned me to my place and left me to live or die as I
would. I chose to die.

    Indeed, I was as good as dead already. My breath was but a
shallow thready wheeze that rattled in my chest; any attempt to
draw air more deeply made the ache in my side flare with an
agony that brought tears to my eyes. My left arm tingled oddly;
it felt as if mice were nibbling at a place just below the elbow.
But most worrisome was the feeling in my head -as if a fog of
wool enfolded every wispy thought, blunting it, stifling it. I
drifted in and out of a waking sleep, aware but distant, drifting,
dreaming. Everything seemed remote and insubstantial, as if the
world were as thin as the surface of water and the slightest
movement would shatter it into millions of tiny reflections.

   Sleeping or waking brought no comfort. My side burned, my
head boomed with a hollow noise that was at once a gnawing
ache and a soporifle balm; the crack in my skull had grown a
lump the size of a swan’s egg. My mouth tasted foul from the
sick-sweet blood I had swallowed; I longed for a sip of water to
wet my tongue. The acrid stink of vomit was rank in my nostrils.
My clothes were clammy with sweat and bile and blood.

  My bladder, unrelieved since the day before, stretched
uncomfortably taut, but I could not move. Instead I drifted into
a reverie in which I strolled beside a clear stream winding its
way through a peaceful valley in the full blush of summer; I came
to an apple tree and stopped to smell the fragrance of the
delicate white blossoms. When I woke, I found that I had pissed
myself.

    Unable to move, I lay wet and cold beside the dead ashes of
the fire ring, whimpering like the beaten dog that I was. I do not
know how long I remained there-a single moment stretched to
fill whole days of agony-but once I felt a shadow move across my
face as a cloud passed before the sun. The momentary cessation
of heat caused me to open my eyes. I looked up to see a
disembodied face gazing down at me. A fiery corona of living
light blazed all around the angel’s head.

   “So you are still alive.” The voice seemed to come streaming
from an immense distance. Even so, it hurt my ears.

   “Are you an angel?” I asked, my voice little more than the
creak of a dry reed.

   “I was worried about you,” replied my visitor, and I felt a cool,
feathery touch on my forehead.

  “Have you come for me?”

  “Yes.”

   There was a swift movement, which I tried to follow with my
eyes, but the angel was gone. I drifted back to the weird, sleepful
waking which extended an eternity; a thousand suns burned
through the sky path, spinning like firebrands thrown through
the empty heavens. Suddenly I was being lifted up and held
close. A bowl was pressed to my lips.

  “Drink,” commanded a voice. I opened my eyes to see that the
angel had returned with a bowl of water.

  I obeyed the command and opened my mouth to let the cool
water slide down my throat.

  “Again.”
   Once more I dutifully obeyed. I drank down the clean water,
and the sick-sour taste in my mouth was washed away. I looked
up into the face of the angel to see that her large brown eyes held
an expression of motherly concern. What is more, there was
something about the face of this angel that made me feel I had
seen it before, but I could not think where, or when.

  “I am going now,” she said; her voice, though gentle, pierced
me to the marrow, and I cringed from it.

  “Take me with you,” I whispered.

   I felt myself lowered back to the damp earth that was my bed,
and Madog’s old fleece was placed over me. “There is water in
the bowl beside your head.”

  “Please,” I gasped, “I want to go with you.”

  “Rest now. I will come back soon.”

   The angel vanished, and I sank into an unquiet, pain-filled
sleep in which I dreamed strange, portentous things: ferocious,
pelt-covered men battling with clubs and spears against
steel-clad Romans… morning sun striking through a cloudless
sky, filling a silent dolmen with light… a great beacon flame
burning on a high, windy hill in the dead of night… an enormous
basilica of red brick without a roof, its walls slowly crumbling,
sinuous tree roots lifting its colored mosaics…

   I woke in darkness to the sound of crackling flames. The
forest seemed to be on fire; the heat of the flames scorched me,
but I could muster neither strength nor will to move out of its
path. I closed my eyes instead and consigned myself to the
inferno.

   Sometime during the night the fire ceased. I dreamed of
warriors bathing in a stream, washing the blood from their
battle-weary limbs, and I awoke once more to the touch of a
cool, wet cloth on my forehead. I opened my eyes to see that the
angel had returned, and she had brought another angel with her.
He was large, with wide shoulders and strong hands; his face,
too, was curiously familiar, but I could not place it. They hovered
in the air above me, the light of the morning sun filling their
eyes, their countenances grim and disapproving.

  “Forgive me,” I croaked.

  “Has he eaten anything?” asked the larger angel, drifting from
my sight.

  “No,” answered the other, vanishing on the word.

   “Soak some bread in sheep’s milk,” he advised. “See if he can
eat that.” His darkly angelic face moved into view again. “Can
you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to live, Succat?”

   “I want to go with you,” I said. “Please, don’t leave me here
alone.”

   “If you want me to stay, I will,” he said. “You must eat and
drink something.”

   Suddenly the bowl was at my lips. I opened my mouth, and
water gushed in-too much; I choked on it and coughed. The
cough awakened the pain in my side. It felt as if a spear point
lodged between my ribs was being twisted in the hands of an
enemy. I screamed aloud. The bile rose in my throat; my
stomach heaved, but it was empty, so nothing came up. I gasped
for breath, but the pain was excruciating. Cold mist descended
over me, and I passed from consciousness.

   Sometime later I revived. I opened my eyes on a brilliant
golden sunset and the smell of meat roasting on the fire. I
moaned as I opened my eyes to find the large, dark angel
hovering over me. He held a bowl to my mouth and dipped out a
morsel of milk-soaked bread, which he pressed to my lips. I
opened my mouth and allowed him to put the soggy tidbit on my
tongue. The milk and bread were warm. My jaw was stiff and
aching, but I chewed and swallowed, and the procedure was
repeated-once more and again - until I could eat no more.
  “That is better,” said the angel.

  “Am I dead?”

  “Almost,” he replied, then smiled. “Almost, but not yet.”

   The mice which had from time to time been nibbling on my
arm returned and began gnawing with a vengeance. “My arm
tingles,” I said.

   “Let me have a look.” He pulled away the fleece covering me
and lifted the arm. I could see it from the corner of my eye, and I
no longer recognized it as my own: The limb was swollen,
discolored, and misshapen, with an odd, bulging knot in the
middle. He laid the palm of his hand on the knot, and instantly
the tingling sharpened to a throbbing ache that made me cry
out.

  “Move your fingers,” he commanded.

  I obeyed, but nothing happened.

  “Again.”

  I worked them again, but they moved only very slightly.

  “It is as I thought,” he said. “The bone is broken.”

  I understood the words but could not think what they meant.
“The bone is broken,” I repeated.

   “Yes,” the angel replied, “and two or three of your ribs.” He
lowered the all-but-lifeless limb gently to my side and replaced
the fleece. “The arm is more worrisome, but I can help it to
heal,” he said. “The pain will be unbearable.”

   I looked up at him, wondering why he appeared so pleased
with my wounds. “Where is the other angel?” I asked.

   “Sionan?” he said, and laughed. “She has gone to get
supplies.” He produced the bowl again and said, “I want you to
eat some more. We must strengthen you for the trial ahead.”
  Sionan, I thought, is my angel-she who came to me, she who
brought help and healing to me.

  “And is it Cormac?” I asked.

  “Cormac and none other,” the dark angel replied. He gave me
another milksop, and I swallowed it down.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Are you not one of the Good God’s creatures?” he asked,
pushing another gob of milk bread into my mouth. “How else
should I behave?”

  I chewed and swallowed. “You could just let me die.”

  “No,” he said, his smile quick and light, “that would be a sin.”

   This small exchange exhausted me, and I lapsed into a deep
and dreamless sleep, waking once in the night to see Cormac,
wrapped in his cloak, gazing up at the stars, his face illuminated
by the fire. His lips were moving, and a soft droning sound
issued from his lips-a gently undulating tone that rose and fell
like the ocean’s swell; if there were words, I could not make them
out. The sound was pleasing, however, and I quickly fell asleep
again.

   Sometime later I was shocked by a shattering pain which
brought me screaming from my sleep. I woke to find Cormac
crouched at my side with my broken arm in his hands. Sionan
knelt at my head, holding my shoulders firmly to the ground
while Cormac straightened the arm, grasping it tightly above the
wrist. Ignoring my cries, he reared back with a mighty heave,
pulling on the injured arm with all his strength.

   I felt a grating, grinding sensation in my forearm and heard a
dull snap- like the sighing crack of a damp twig-and a pain
unlike any I had ever known stole the breath from my mouth. I
screamed, but no sound emerged. The agony seemed to last
forever, but in a moment the fiery torture had dulled to an
angry, livid, throbbing ache, and I lay on my back on the ground
and wept. Meanwhile Cormac busied himself over me, deftly
binding my arm to a slightly flattened rod with short strips of
cloth he had prepared.

   “There, now,” Sionan said gently, cradling my head in her
hands. “The worst is over.” She raised my head a little and
pressed a bowl to my mouth. “Here, drink this. It will help dull
the pain.”

   I drank, and the thick sweetness of honey mead filled my
mouth; I tasted also the dark tang of another substance mixed
into the mead, but I was past caring. I emptied the bowl; Sionan
set it aside and laid my head in her lap. Then she began to sing,
very softly, very gently-and stroked my head until I fell asleep a
short time later.

   More herbs and elixirs followed, and slowly, achingly slowly,
my body began restoring itself. In my waking times, which were
few and brief, either Sionan or Cormac attended me, hovering
like the ministering angels they were. I ate and drank what was
given me and, having eaten and drunk, I eventually had to get up
to relieve myself. As it happened, only Sionan was there with me,
and though I put it off as long as possible, the time came when I
could hold it off no longer.

  “When will Cormac return?” I asked.

  “Tonight,” she said, adding, “perhaps. He had duties with his
master.”

  “I see.”

  “Are you disappointed?”

  “No, it is just that-”

  “If you are uncomfortable, Cormac said I could give you some
more of the potion.”

  “I have to relieve myself,” I told her.

  “Oh.” She looked at me for a moment. “Well, we will get you
up, then. Here”-she bent near and took me beneath the arms to
raise me - “let me be your strength.”

   With a deft movement she lifted me into a sitting position,
where, despite the ferocious ache in my side, I remained panting
to catch my breath.

   “Are you certain you want to do this?” she asked, the corners
of her mouth bending down in sympathy. “I could bring you a
bowl.”

  “I will not pee into a cup like a child. I want to stand.”

   It was a tedious procedure, fraught with pain and not a few
curses, but in the end I was on my feet-dizzy, swaying, half faint
with exhaustion. Every bone and sinew in my body hurt, every
muscle ached. My bruised skin stretched tight on swollen limbs.
The splint held my broken arm at an unnatural and
uncomfortable angle, but I was on my feet.

   Resting my weight on Sionan’s shoulders, I hobbled a few
steps beyond the edge of the fire ring, then stood in humiliation
to pass water while she bore me up. That finished, she helped me
pull up my trousers and stagger back to my place.

  “Would you rather lie in the bothy?” she asked.

  “No, I like it better by the fire. It is warmer.”

  “Wait a little,” she said on our return to the fire ring. “Stand
here and do not move.”

   Sionan darted away, retrieving Madog’s shepherd’s staff,
which she put into my hand. “Lean on this while I prepare you a
proper bed.”

   I stood gripping the staff with my good hand while she rushed
around making up a bed for me from stuff she had gathered.
Upon a bed of fresh pine boughs she placed several armloads of
dry reeds, which she covered with the pelt of a red deer and
some fleeces from the bothy. Then the excruciating act of lying
down commenced. By the time I was settled again, I was shaking
and sweating, and one or two of the wounds had reopened, but I
felt as if I had conquered an entire army. I knew then that I
would live and not die.

   The bed of pelts and pine boughs was more comfortable by
far than the damp bare ground. “Thank you, Sionan,” I said. “If
not for you, I would be dead long since.”

  She smiled sadly. “I could not believe they would beat you so
and then leave you up on the mountain by yourself.” She shook
her head. “Stupid, stupid men.”

   “What will your husban - ” Somehow I could not say the word.
“I mean, what does Cernach think about you spending all your
time up here tending me?”

   “Cernach was killed in the raid against the Connachta.” She
said this as if describing yesterday’s weather. There was neither
sadness nor regret in her tone, and she did not seem the least
sorry for the death of her new husband.

   I thought back to the day of the raid. I had, of course, seen
Cernach before the raid-if not for him, I would have made good
my escape-but I had not seen him after. And when the warriors
returned, I had worries enough of my own. “Oh, I am sorry,
Sionan.”

   “Why should you be sorry?” she asked simply. “Cernach was
no friend to you.”

   “That is true,” I agreed. “But I thought you might be sad.”

   “Well, I am not,” she replied, the fire flaring up in her eyes. “I
was given to Cernach by the king. Our marriage pleased one
person and one person only, and that was never me.”

   “I see.”

   “Cernach was a dull and ill-tempered man. He cared little for
anything save fighting and drinking. He raised his hand to me
more than once, and I vowed he would die -or I would - before
the year was out. The Connachta saved us all a lot of trouble.”
  Sionan’s bitter outpouring surprised me, and I could think of
nothing to say.

   “You condemn me for my hardness of heart,” she said, gazing
at me defiantly.

  “Not at all,” I replied. “Who am I to condemn anyone?”

  “I don’t care what you think. I did not like Cernach, and I
never loved him. That is the truth of it.” She frowned, lowering
her dark eyes. “Still, I tried to be a good wife to him…” she
paused, shaking her head, “but he should never have beat me.”

   She raised her head and looked away. I saw tears glimmering
in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Sionan.”

   She rubbed away the tears with the heels of her hands, and an
awkward silence stretched between us. “What about the sheep?”
I asked at last.

   “The sheep?” she tilted her head to one side. “Oh, they have
been moved down to the valley. One of the pig lads is looking
after them for now, never worry.”

  “When will Cormac come back?”

   Her lips bent into a slow, teasing smile. “What, are you tired
of me already?”

  “By no means,” I said quickly. “I only wondered.”

  She regarded me with benign concern for a moment. “You
should rest now. When you awake, Cormac will be here, no
doubt.”

  “Thank you, Sionan,” I said, overcome by a sudden
outpouring of gratitude. “Thank you for saving me.”

   “You said that already,” she answered lightly. “Now, go to
sleep.”
   She sat with me a long time, watching over me while I slowly
sank into a deep, exhausted sleep. The next morning when I
awoke, she was gone.

                               18

   It was late morning when Cormac returned to the bothy. The
young druid stayed with me for the next three days, and we had
many wide-ranging talks. His knowledge of his island realm
seemed inexhaustible. I, however, was too easily exhausted. Try
as I might, I could not keep up with him. Our mild encounters
left me bemused, bewildered, and slightly disconcerted by the
things he said.

   For example: One day, as I was lying on my bed looking up at
the dark clouds swirling overhead, he sat down cross-legged
beside me and said, “Do you believe there are objects of such
potency that the sick are healed simply by touching them?”

   “I suppose.” Certainly the rustics and pagan Britons held
similar beliefs.

   “It is true,” he affirmed with a sharp nod. “There are other
objects which protect their bearers from all harm and still others
that cause no end of harm and mischief to anyone unfortunate
enough to encounter them.”

  “That seems reasonable.”

  “Likewise there are seers able to view the past simply by
holding an object.”

  “Have you ever witnessed this?”

  “Oh, aye.”

   “How do you know what they say is true?” I asked, drawn into
the discussion somewhat despite myself. The pagan practices of
the godforsaken heathen were beneath the regard of civilized
men. Yet, Cormac was my physician and friend, and I had no
wish to insult him. He seemed intent on talking, so I listened.
  “Ah! You are a quick one, Succat. You cut to the heart of the
matter there.”

  “Well? How do you know?”

   “Alas.” He sighed. “It is hopeless. You see, no matter how
persuasively they speak to earn their meat and meal, it is
impossible for anyone to tell how much of what they say is true
and how much is merely dream, how much speculation, and how
much invention. Not even they themselves always know.” He
leaned slightly forward. “To this I can testify,” he said
confidently, “for I myself have the same gift.”

  “Truly?”

   He nodded. “Even so, I can tell you that something is retained
in objects that have been used and loved by their owners over
time, or which are associated with great good or powerful evil.”
He picked up a twig and began scratching in the dirt. “A certain
subtle power remains that can be felt and interpreted. But it is
vague and dreamlike and fully as illusory as it is true.”

  “That is interesting,” I told him. “Is there any more of the
mead left?”

   “And did you know,” he said, warming to the subject, “there
are sacred places so potent with holiness that they can be
recognized by anyone who sets foot within the charmed circle of
their grace-although no altar, no votive stones, no carved images
mark the site?”

  Before I could reply, he continued.

    “Usually these are places where tremendous good has
triumphed over evil,” he said, rocking back and forth slightly, “or
where unimaginable calamity has claimed a victory over the
forces of light and reason. To step within the radiant sphere is to
join the human spirit to the spirit of the place, for good or for
ill.”

  I thought of the dolmen Madog had shown me and where we
had laid the old shepherd to rest when he died. “It does not
surprise me.”

   “All this I know.” Cormac regarded me with a wise and
judicious look. “All this I have observed.”

   We talked then of his druid training, and he told me many
things. All the time we talked, he seemed to be assessing me,
trying me -though for what purpose I could not guess. Perhaps
my receptiveness to the ideas he expounded interested him. In
my own way I was agreeable-at least I did not wish to offend
him. I owed him a great debt of gratitude for my healing.

   Whatever he saw in me, he seemed determined to delve deep
and bring it out; thus our discussions grew by turns more
earnest, solemn, and weighty.

   “All men yearn for certainty,” he proclaimed one night. This is
how our discussions usually began; Cormac would announce the
topic, and off we would go. Sionan had been with us earlier in
the day but had gone down to the rath, leaving Cormac and me
to talk long into the night. “Do you believe this?”

   “I do. It would be a great boon to know where we stand in this
world, what is, what has been, what will be. And to know it
absolutely.”

    “Indeed.” He seemed well satisfied with my answer. “All men
pray for assurance that time cannot corrupt nor doubt corrode.
Thus the soothsayers compare the liver of a slaughtered sheep
with the clay model in their hands and declare sureties which
can never exist. Divine inspiration is lacking, therefore they are
fallible.”

   “My grandfather said such men were wicked for deceiving
those who trusted, and it was a sin even to speak to them.”

   “Nor is that all. There are priests who have learned the secrets
of discerning the future from flights of birds.” At my questioning
glance he said, “Truly. But when they are confronted with signs
they do not recognize, they become confused and utter their
predictions blindly. Likewise, there are some who seek answers
in the smoke and flames of sacrificial fires and others who claim
to read destiny in the issue of blood and bile of dying men.”

  “How is this accomplished?” I asked.

   Cormac frowned. “No, I will not speak of them. Nor will I
stoop to mention the interpreters of lightning who ascend the
hilltops before the storm in order to rank the thunderbolts
according to their color and position in the vault of heaven,
which they have divided into sixteen celestial regions, each ruled
by a separate deity.”

  “Tell me, Cormac,” I insisted.

   But he would not. “I will not speak of such things, for thus it
has ever been and thus it shall ever be. Nothing is more
lamentable than dead and ossified knowledge: fallible human
understanding instead of divine perception. A man can learn
much, but learning is not knowledge. The only true source of
infallible certainty is divine illumination.”

  “Now you sound like my grandfather,” I told him.

  “So you say. Tell me about him.”

   “Potitus? There is little enough to tell. I was still very young
when he died. He was the presbyter of Bannavem. He performed
the observances of the Holy Church for our town and the
surrounding countryside.”

  “He was a Christian.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you?”

  “I was,” I replied, “but no longer.”

  “Why not?”

   “Do you need to ask?” I said, my voice growing tight with
irritation.

  “Look at me, Cormac. I am a slave. I prayed for
deliverance-with all my heart I prayed -and this is how God
answered me.”

  “Then why not accept his answer?”

  “Bah!” I sneered, exasperation getting the better of me. “Now
you do sound like my grandfather.”

  “Is that so strange?”

  “Strange? It is uncanny,” I retorted. “I mean no disrespect,
Cormac, but I find it more than strange that you, a heathen,
should hold the same views as my grandfather.”

   “Where is the difficulty?” he asked. “Is it that your
grandfather and I should agree, or that a heathen should know
something of God?”

  I stared at him. “What do you know of the Christian God?”

   “I know what is to be known,” he answered. The druid-kind, I
was learning, rarely answered a thing straight when they could
evade it somehow.

   Before I could protest that this was no answer at all, he said,
“losa the Mighty, son of the Goodly Wise, has long been known
to us.”

   It was such rank nonsense I could think of no apt reply, so I
said, “Who is this ‘us’ you speak of? You and your fellow idol
worshippers?”

   My nasty remark cut him; he did not expect it, and it stung.
He winced, and fire came up in his eyes, but he held his tongue.
In a moment, his expression softened. “You should not mock
what lies beyond your grasp.”

  He stood.

   “I am sorry, Cormac. You are right. It was a stupid thing to
say. Please, forget I said it.”

  “Three things cannot be called back: the arrow when it speeds
from the bow, the milk when the churn is upturned, the word
when it leaps from the tongue.”

  The color crept to my cheeks, and my ears burned under his
gentle rebuke. “I am sorry, Cormac.”

   He drew himself up. “Words are worth little when the heart
refuses to hear. Therefore, judge us by our works.”

   The offended druid turned and stumped away. I tried to call
him back, to no avail. I was left alone with my regretful thoughts
for the night.

   Sionan arrived late the next day with supplies. “Never fear,”
she said when I told her what had happened. “He cannot remain
angry for long. Cormac is the mildest of men; when next you see
him, he will have forgotten all about it.”

  “You seem to know him very well.”

  “How not?” she asked. “He is my brother.”

   “Then I’m even more sorry than before. You and Cormac have
been nothing but kindness itself. I had no right to speak to him
as I did.”

   “And I tell you he has already forgiven you.” She regarded me
with an expression I could not read, then said, “But if you wish
to make amends - ”

  “I do.”

  “Then take off your filthy clothes and let me wash them.”

  “ButI-”

  “Teh!” she said, raising a smooth eyebrow. “You should be
happy someone is offering.”

  “Sionan, I cannot move as it is,” I complained, “and anyway, I
have nothing else to wear.”

  “All you have to do is lie there beneath the fleeces until they’re
dry.” She lowered the bag of provisions to the ground and
stepped nearer. “Here, now, I will help you get them off.”

   “Sionan, please, can we not let it wait?”

   “I think it has waited too long already,” she said crisply. “Off
with them, now.”

    I began removing my tunic, every movement a trial of
stiffness and pain. I got it raised to my shoulders and could go
no further. Sionan had to help me get it over my head, but as she
tried to draw it over my splinted arm, I heard a rip as the
well-worn fabric gave way.

   “Not to worry,” she said, tossing my tunic aside. “Now your
brfste.”

   This was more difficult; I could do little more than lie back as,
having loosened my trousers, she slid them down over my
unbending legs. I pulled the fleeces over me once again, and
looked at my once-fine clothes-now merely filth-crusted rags. “I
fear they will not survive the washing,” I told her.

   “Well,” she said doubtfully, holding up the threadbare
trousers, “I will see what can be done.” Then she cast a critical
eye over me. “And how long since you were bathed and washed?”

   “I bathe,” I replied.

   “When?”

   “You cannot expect me to wash like this.” I held up my
splinted arm.

   “When?” she demanded.

   “Not since the last beating.”

   “And not before either,” she said.

   “We have no soap,” I offered by way of explanation. “No one
ever brings us any.”
  “Well, I have soap,” she said. “I was going to use it for
washing your clothes. You can have that.” She looked around.
“Now, then…” She saw the stone basin outside the bothy.
“There!”

  “Sionan, have a heart,” I pleaded. “I cannot bathe in that. I
am too big. Besides, what would we drink?”

   “Come.” She moved quickly to me. “Get up on your feet. I will
put some water aside for drinking, and then you can stand in the
stoup.”

   “Even if I could move, I would not do it,” I told her
vehemently.

   But she was no longer listening. She filled the bowls and
waterskin and, taking some heated rocks from the fire, put them
in the stoup to warm the water. And then, with no thought or
care for my dignity, she pulled away the fleece and began pulling
and prodding me to my feet. I shuffled on her arm to the basin
and carefully stepped in, holding to the side of the bothy with my
good hand. Even with the heated stones, the water was still icy
cold, and I had to cling to the rough timber of the bothy to
remain standing as Sionan doused me until I was drenched, and
then she began to wash me.

   The soap was hard and strong, and she was vigorous and
unrelenting in her scouring of my poor, battered hide. Aching,
shaking, humiliated, I stood to her ministrations. She talked
while she worked, but I paid no attention; every movement
brought a wince or a twinge of pain, and it took all my strength
and concentration to keep from crying out.

   Finally the ordeal was over. She emptied a few more bowls of
water to rinse away the soap and then pronounced her victim
clean. “Here, take my fallaing,” she said, draping her cloak over
my shoulders. “There,” she cooed, “is that not better now?”

   “It is,” I lied.

   She helped to dry me and then stood a little apart, her head
held to one side. “Human again,” she declared at last, and, with
a quick, calculating glance at my long, unkempt hair, added,
“nearly.”

    She led me to Madog’s stone beside the fire ring and made me
sit down. She fetched from the bag a bone comb and a pair of
shears, small and finely made. “What is this?” I asked.

   “Every sheep needs a good shearing now and then,” she
replied, “and likewise every shepherd. Not so?”

    With some difficulty she began dragging the comb through
the wet, massed tangles of my hair, clucking her tongue at the
wretched condition I had allowed myself to get into. There was
still a large bump on my head where the spear shaft had cracked
me, and I cried out whenever she passed over it. “Be quiet,” she
ordered. “You could be making it easier, you know.”

   “You could just let the warriors have at me again,” I whined.
“I am certain they’d happily finish the job.”

   “No one is ever going to beat you again,” she told me, her
voice taking on an edge.

   The quiet confidence of that bald declaration astonished me. I
wanted to ask her how this miracle would come about, but dared
not, for fear of proving her false. I held my tongue, and let the
assertion go unchallenged.

   Sionan worked over my bruised head and with quick, skillful
snips reduced the untidy crop of hair to a more acceptable
length. When she finished, she ran her fingers lightly over the
short stubble of my lumpy pate and admired her handiwork.

  “Better?” I asked.

   “Not so bad. Next time will be better still.” She stepped before
me and frowned. “When I come up next time, I will bring a
razor.”

   I rubbed my palm over my fuzzy jaw. “Do you not like a man
with a beard?”
  “Only savages wear beards,” she informed me blithely. Once
more she regarded me with that look I still could not decipher.

   “Savages,” I muttered, thinking it was because of the savages
that I looked the way I did.

   “Savages, aye, and men who have no women to keep them
shorn.”

  “And the clothes-you’ll find me some clothes, yes? I cannot be
wearing your fallaing forever.”

  “No?” She smiled wickedly. “Well, I like it. Maybe I will keep
you in it.”

  “Sionan, please. It is cold.”

   She relented. “Very well. I will see what I can find and bring
them next time I come.”

   She helped me back to my bed, then busied herself with
making up the fire. I lay there and felt a warming peace come
over me. In truth, I felt better without my rags, but it was more
than that. For the first time since coming to Sliabh Mis, I was
content. Despite my infirmity I was happy.

    I lay on my bed of pine branches and watched a golden dusk
descend upon the mountains. As the shadows deepened in the
valley, turning the river at its bottom into a gilt thread winding
its way toward the distant silver sea, Sionan set about making a
supper for us of salt pork and beans.

  I watched her going about her chores, deft in her movements,
her features composed and radiant in the firelight. My heart
moved toward her with such strength that I was glad she was
not paying the slightest attention to me.

   When she finished and sat down to wait for the stew to cook,
she looked out across the blue-misted valley and sighed. “I like it
up here.”

  “It is not so bad,” I replied. I would have agreed to anything
just then.

   “Are you lonely?” She did not look at me but gazed out across
the wide vale toward the sea.

   “Sometimes,” I said. “But at least it is not so noisy as the rath.
All those dogs-how does anyone sleep?”

   “I would not be lonely.”

   The way she said it-a soft, almost reverent defiance -made me
think she was making a vow, or a wish.

  “There are the sheep,” I said. “They are always to be
watched.”

   “Better sheep,” she said, “than warriors.”

   I ate well that night, slept soundly, and awakened feeling
better than I had for many days. Around midday Cormac
returned with his staff and bag. He strode to where I lay, took
one look at me, and said, “Well, now, there is a man I would not
mind getting to know.”

   “Salve, Cormac,” I replied, “come and sit. Tell me the news of
the wide world.”

   “Salve?” he wondered.

   “It is Latin,” I explained, “a greeting of respect and welcome.”

  “Ah, now, that is a fine thing.” He stood beaming down on
me, and it was as Sionan had said: he had forgotten all about my
poor behavior. “How are you, Succat?”

   “I may live yet,” I said.

   “I am pleased to hear it,” he said, his smile spreading across
his wide, good-natured face, “for there is something I want to
ask you.”

   “Ask and consider it answered.” I glanced at Sionan, standing
beside him. “I have no secrets anymore.”
   “When you are on your feet and able again, how would you
like to come and serve in the druid house?”

   The question caught me unawares. I gaped at him, unable to
credit what I had heard. Sionan held her head to one side,
studying me for my reaction.

  “Of course,” he continued, “if you would rather tend sheep…”

   “No! Not at all. The sheep can tend themselves for all I care.
But tell me, how will this come about? Lord Miliucc will never
agree.”

  “I tell you the king has agreed already.”

  I still could not believe my good fortune. “Are you certain?”

   “As certain as sunrise,” he said. “No king would dare refuse a
druid anything he asked, so long as it was in his power to
provide.”

  “You asked for me?”

  “I did, yes.”

  “Why?”

   “Because you are far too intelligent to be wasted on the
sheep,” he replied lightly. “And unless something is done about it
very soon, I fear you will die here alone on this mountain.”

   “Help me up.” I raised my good arm to him. “I want to thank
you properly.” The big druid reached down and pulled me to my
feet with a single strong tug. “Thank you, Cormac,” I said,
gripping his arm tightly, “for befriending me and helping me.”

   Turning to Sionan, I took her hand and raised it to my lips as
I had seen visiting dignitaries do with my mother. “And thank
you, Sionan, for saving me.” I kissed her hand.

  “You have thanked me already,” she replied, but her eyes
shone with delight all the same.
   “And I will go on thanking you both for as long as I live,” I
said. “Truly, I owe you nothing less than my life.”

  “Then it is settled,” Cormac concluded. “You will stay here
and rest until you are well enough to take up your new duties.”

   “I am ready now,” I boasted. In my exuberance I stretched too
far, causing my broken ribs to shift; a sharp pain pierced my
chest, and I winced. My eyes teared up, and I swayed on my feet
so that Cormac and Sionan had to help me back to my bed.

   “Well, perhaps another day or two would do no harm,” I
allowed. Cormac lowered me back to my place, and we talked the
day away, discussing my new position in the druid house and
what would be expected of me there. As the sun began to set, he
and Sionan prepared a celebratory meal of smoked fish stewed
with black bread, fresh greens, and the last of the old year’s crop
of turnips. Cormac had brought more mead with him, so while
waiting for the food to cook, we drank and watched the day end
and a fine twilight begin.

   That night, as the stars spun slowly through the wide heavens,
Cormac sang. The wonder of his song is with me still, for it was
the first time I glimpsed something of the power of a True Bard.

                              Part II
                            Cothirthiac
                                 19

   Now commenced the slow torture of waiting. I writhed in an
agony of anticipation, impatience, and fear: anticipation for the
glorious day when I could leave the sheepfold behind forever,
impatience for that day’s arrival, and fear that I would yet be
denied. I itched and groaned for leaving. However, the healing of
my body would not be hurried. My head and ribs remained sore
and tender to the touch, my broken arm still throbbed when I
moved it, and the splint was heavy and made my shoulder ache.

   Sionan continued her daily visits and insisted she could tell I
was getting better, though I was far from certain. True, I no
longer needed help to walk, but I grew breathless if I went too far
or too fast. Sometimes, when I tried to do too much, my head
began to ache and dark spots swam before my eyes so that I had
to lie down and rest until they went away.

   Each night I went to sleep thinking that the next day my
healing would be complete, only to awaken the next morning to
find that nothing had changed. Summer was passing, and I felt a
sense of rank futility growing in me-as if the good thing
promised would never come to be or that it would be withdrawn
before I reached it.

    “Why worry so?” Sionan asked one day. “The word of a filidh
is stronger than a forest oak. Cormac will not forsake you.”

   “But if I can’t carry out my duties, he will find someone else,”
I complained. Raising my useless arm, I said, “Look! It’s
hopeless. It refuses to heal, and I grow weary carrying it around
like a dead stump.”

   “There was a time,” she reminded me, “and not too long ago,
when you could not raise that arm at all. See? Rest and take your
ease. The day will come soon enough when you will wish you had
lingered here a little longer.”

 “Why?” I asked, suspicion quickening. “You know something.
What is it?”

  “I only meant-”

   “If you know something, you must tell me, Sionan. What is
it?”

  “Succat, hush. I meant only that those who go to the druid
house are kept very busy all the time. From what Cormac tells
me, there is no end of work needing done.”

   This, of course, only increased my worries. What if they found
I was not suitable for their purposes? What, in fact, were their
purposes? What if they changed their minds about me? How
long would they wait? I desperately wanted a chance to prove
myself. Not because I cared a fart for druids. No. I had instead
conceived a new plan for escape. This time, however, I would not
run away. Lord Miliucc threatened to kill me if I ran away again,
and I had no doubt he would do it. Never again would I allow
myself to be caught and beaten like that.

   When I left Ireland, it would be as a free man. Cormac had
given me the inspiration. No king would dare refuse a druid
anything he asked, he had said. They had asked for me, and
their request had been granted. Very well, I would so ingratiate
myself to the druids that one day they would ask the king to
grant me my freedom, and, like it or not, Miliucc would obey.

   Oh, it was freedom I was after, make no mistake -but I would
bide my time; I would wait as long as it took. All the same, if I
could not escape Eire tomorrow, then I would at least leave
Sliabh Mis and the daily drudgery of the flock. The thought-nay,
the fear-that something might yet prevent me filled my every
waking moment and not a few of my dreams as well.

  Thus I waited, fizzing with fidgety anticipation-until one
day…

   “See here, Succat,” Cormac said as he finished his latest
examination, “the day after tomorrow is Danu Feis-the Feast of
Danu. The filidh will be leading the observance at the rath. Come
down and attend. When the celebration is finished, we will
return to the druid house, and you can come with us.”

  I rose slowly, and looked him in the eye. “Thank you,
Cormac.” I embraced him, which sent a sting of pain through
my arm and side. “I thought this day would never come.”

  Sionan stood a little apart, her brow creased in
contemplation. She said nothing.

   The big druid accepted my thanks and we talked of the feast,
whereupon he took his leave, saying he had many things to do in
preparation for the festival. “I will look for you tomorrow,” he
said as he departed.

   I stood at the top of the trail and watched until I could see
him no more, and then I returned to the fire ring to find Sionan
with her chin in her hand, her face drawn and weary.
  “Ah, tomorrow!” I said. “This is wonderful, is it not?”

  To my astonishment she did not appear as delighted with the
prospect as I might have thought. She smiled wanly and said it
was a fine thing and that she was happy for me.

  ‘Yet you wear disappointment like a crown, Sionan,“ I told
her. ”See here. After weeks of waiting, the day has finally come
when I can leave this miserable mountain forever. You of all
people should be glad, because you won’t have to lug food and
supplies up here every other day in the rain and mud.“

   She looked at me glumly, then turned her face away. “I
thought you welcomed this as much as I did,” I said, “but here
you sit looking like you just swallowed a putrid egg. Why is
this?”

   She did not look at me, but kept her eyes on the smoldering
ashes of the fire ring. “You have what you want. Why should
anything be wrong?”

  “I thought you would be glad for me.”

   “And have I not already said that I am?” she snapped. Angry
now; her glance grew sharp, her voice tight. “It is good for me,
too. As you say, I will not have to climb this mountain anymore
or sleep beside this filthy fire one night and another.” She stood
up and, fists on hips, glared at me with defiance. “Best of all, I
will not have to listen to you moaning and groaning about how
miserable you are! I can go back to the rath and…” Here she
faltered, her anger giving way to anguish. “Anyway, what do you
care? Go on with you.”

   “You are annoyed because I am leaving,” I said, trying to
tease it out of her.

  She sniffed and turned away.

   “Yes, you are,” I challenged. “You are annoyed because I am
leaving and going to the druid house, and you think you won’t
see me anymore.”
  She turned on me with a vengeance. “Why would I want to see
you anymore? I do not care where you go or what you do.”

   “Yes, you do,” I told her. “You like me.”

   “No, I do not like you at all.”

  “Yes, you do.” I stepped closer. “That’s it isn’t it? You like me,
and you are afraid now that I’m better, I won’t need you
anymore.”

   She regarded me from beneath lowered brows, her frown
pushing out her lower lip. On impulse I leaned forward and
kissed her. Sionan reared back as if struck. She glared at me and
then, stepping close, took my head between her hands and
returned my kiss with an eagerness that was both gratifying and
breathtaking. I felt a rising hunger in the pit of my stomach and
heard the sound of the sea rushing in my ears.

   We stood and clung to one another for a moment and, still
entangled in a tight embrace, lowered ourselves onto my bed of
pine branches and fleeces. I caressed her with my good hand.
Beneath the coarse-woven stuff of her mantle, her skin was soft
and cool against my fingertips. I let my hand glide up her leg to
the rounded smoothness of her hip and then down to the silky
warmth of her thigh.

   Sionan’s hands were not idle. She slid her palm down my
chest and stomach and then lower, until I stirred beneath her
hand, thrilling to her touch. There was nothing but Sionan and
then -nothing at all in the world. I pulled her over on top of me.

   We made love fiercely, two young and hungry animals feeding
a physical appetite, each taking pleasure from the other, once
and again. I was, alas, too easily exhausted, but Sionan appeared
well satisfied as she gave out a shuddering sigh and collapsed
upon my chest.

  We rested in the warm sunlight, our bodies joined in a
wanton embrace. “I will come and see you every day,” I told her.

   “They will keep you very busy,” she said.
   “Then I will come to the rath whenever I can,” I told her. “I
will sneak away if I have to.”

    “You must not,” she told me. Turning in my arms to face me,
she warned me solemnly, ‘You must not break faith with the
filidh. If you leave the druid house, you will not be taken back
again.“

   “Then you will have to come and see me.”

   “Why would I ever come to see you?” she asked.

   “What, and have you forgotten so soon?” I heaved a heavy
sigh. “Very well, I will just have to show you again, so you
remember.”

   Enfolding her in my arms, I nuzzled the hollow of her neck
and kissed her. Our passions roused, we made love again, slowly
this time, each motion deliberate and unhurried. She matched
my passion with her own, and we moved as one beneath the
sun-bright sky.

   That day was surely the best of my life. I found in Sionan
more than a lover; she was also a friend I knew I could trust.
Something changed in me that day, and though it would be a
long time before I could put a name to it, I felt the change.

   Sionan and I luxuriated in our pleasure, and when twilight
came, we lay before the fire -dozing, dreaming, wrapped in one
another’s arms. The next morning we descended the mountain
to join in the Feast of Danu, the celebration marking
midsummer.

    The journey was taxing to me. Perhaps I was not so strong as
I imagined, or perhaps the lovemaking the day before had taken
its toll. In any event I found I could not move quickly, nor
without frequent stops to rest. The flea had already begun by the
time we arrived. We passed through the gates and made our way
to the yard outside Lord Miliucc’s hall, where the tuath had
gathered to watch the first of many observances held throughout
the day- this one a recitation by the ollamh. So far as I could tell,
it was all about a pact made by the god Aengus with the Tuatha
DeDanaan, which ended a drought and blessed the rain in
perpetuity to the people of Eire so long as they honored him on
that day.

   After this there were songs and dancing. As at Beltaine an ox
and several pigs had been killed to provide food for the feast and
the vat of beer set up to wet throats dry from singing. Sionan
went to help with the cooking, and I drifted here and there,
watchful and wary, uncertain what reaction my presence might
provoke. I could have been a phantom for all anyone noticed. I
did manage to raise a sneer from Ercol when I encountered him
at the drinking vat, but even that lacked conviction.

   Just when I thought the day would end without the slightest
mischance, I ran into the king. He was more than a little drunk,
but he had not forgotten our last encounter. “So!” he said,
drawing himself up as if offended by the sight of me. “You are to
go to the druid house, and I must find another shepherd.”

  I did not know what to say to this, so I merely nodded.

   “I do not know what the druids want with you,” he
proclaimed loudly, his words slurring gently in his mouth. “I
suppose that is their business.”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “Well, they are welcome to you,” he told me, “but try to escape
again and nothing will prevent me from making good my vow.”
He paused, glaring at me. “Understood?”

   “I understand, lord.” I bowed low, and the king moved off
without another word.

  “Here, Succat! I have been looking for you.”

  I turned to see Cormac striding toward me. “Hail, Cormac
Miach,” I called. “I am glad to see you.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Never better,” I lied. “What is more, I am eager to begin my
new duties.”

  “All in good time,” said Cormac. “The ceremonies will end at
dusk,” he told me, “and although the flea will continue until
dawn, we must return to the druid house.”

   “I will be ready.”

   In all it was a fine celebration, and it put me in mind of the
harvest festivals my father hosted for the families and laborers
on our estate at Favere Mundi. The Irish were noisier by far and
more contentious, to be sure, but their childlike exuberance put
the British to shame. When they danced, their bodies were
seized and taken up by the fleeting joy of the dance -as if the
moment would never come again and they must wring the
utmost from it. Although I could but sit and watch, it was
exhilarating just to see them.

   The weather remained dry and warm; the food was good, the
drink plentiful. Very few fights broke out, and there was hardly
any bloodshed. I ate and drank with the rest of them, and the
beer eased the dull ache of my wounds until I could almost forget
I had been injured at all. Every now and then I caught a glimpse
of Sionan; once she smiled when she saw me watching her. I was
just on the point of suggesting we sneak away somewhere to be
alone when Cormac appeared to tell me it was time to leave.

   “So soon?” I said, looking quickly around. Sionan had
disappeared once more.

   “Was there something?” the druid asked.

   “I wanted to bid Sionan farewell.”

   “Oh? Well, she must have gone to the king’s hall.” He turned
abruptly. “You will see her again one of these days. But now it is
time to go.”

   Still I hesitated. I hated leaving without telling her good-bye.
Frantically I searched the crowd, but she was nowhere to be
seen.
   Cormac stopped and turned back. “Changed your mind
already?”

  “No,” I said, hurrying to join him.

   At the gate of the rath, I paused to take a lingering look
behind me, hoping for one last glimpse of Sionan, but no one
appeared at the gate. So, swallowing my disappointment, I fell
into step behind Cormac and went to begin my new life in the
druid house.

                               20

   The druid house occupied the center ofa wood atop a hill on
the other side of the valley from the king’s rath. The house was a
large, round structure of ancient design; whole tree trunks had
been embedded in the ground and their tops joined with stout
beams. Slats of unfinished timber were attached to the upright
posts, which also supported a steep, conical roof thatched with
reeds. The floor was clay, smooth as polished stone, packed hard,
and overlain with mats woven of dry river grass. There was but
one door and no windows.

   Inside, the single great room was divided into two levels, the
lower of which was further divided by screens of stretched skin.
The upper level was a circular platform with sleeping places that
overlooked the round fire pit in the center of the room. Save for
certain occasions, the fire was never allowed to go out, and the
smoke rose through a large open hole high up in the roof.

  “Welcome, to Cnoc an Dair,” said Cormac.

   “Mound of the Oak,” I said. The huge round house, with its
high sloping roof, did look like a hill made of solid oak.

  “Come.” He beckoned me in. “I will show you our house.”

   The other filidh had gone before us, and I thought to meet
them, but the house was empty. When I asked where they were,
Cormac explained, “Tonight is the summer solstice-a good night
for watching the stars. We observe their movements and mark
their courses. Here, now” - he led me to a wooden stairway and
up to the circular platform -“our sleeping places are here.”

   Although there was room for perhaps twenty or more people
to rest comfortably on the platform, there were only four places
prepared, each equally distant from the others. “As you can see,”
said Cormac, “there are only four filidh in residence now.”

  “Now?” I wondered.

   “There were more. When I came, there were seven, but now
there are only four of us.” The way he said it made me think that
something lamentable had happened to reduce the population to
an undesirably low number.

  “Will I sleep here, too?” I asked.

  “No,” he replied, “your bed is below.”

   My sleeping place was a square reed mat on the floor beside
the hearth. The mat was covered with a pile of rushes topped by
a double fleece, which in turn was covered by a thick woolen
batting-like a cloak in size, but much thicker and woven of
undyed wool. I would sleep near the hearth so that I could tend
the fire and keep it burning. “This fire,” Cormac told me,
indicating the glowing flame, “is the need fire for King Miliucc
and his people. It must never go out.”

   Beside the bed place were a pottery jar and a small oil lamp in
a stone bowl. I picked up the jar, removed the stopper, and
looked inside. “Water?” I asked, thinking it must be used in
some odd ritual connected with my duties.

  “Do you never get thirsty in the night?” wondered Cormac.

   He then led me around the ground floor and showed me how
the large, circular expanse was divided for the principal
activities of the filidh - most of which had to do with study and
learning. Some of these were screened off from one another, but
mostly the great room was open, save for a single large area
hived off behind thick timber walls.

  “This is the storeroom,” said Cormac, pushing open the door,
“and here, as you can see, are our provisions.” The room was
filled with bags, casks, bundles, and baskets containing all kinds
of supplies: grain and ground flour; oil; dried peas and beans;
dried, salted, and smoked meats; ropes of onions; chains of
garlic and leeks; whole honeycombs; and even huge jars of wine.
The storeroom was almost as well-supplied as my mother’s
kitchen at Favere Mundi. There was also a caldron, two smaller
pots, and an assortment of vessels of various sizes made of
pottery, stone, and wood. There were spoons, flesh hooks and
toasting forks, and several good sharp knives.

   “This will be your realm, Succat. You will prepare and cook
our food,” the druid told me, “and maintain the stocks of
provisions.”

   “With pleasure.” I saw one sumptuous meal after another
stretching into the future. There would be no more hungry days
for me and no more miserable nights trying to sleep with a
gnawing emptiness in the belly because someone could not be
bothered to bring provisions to the shepherds.

   “You will also fetch water, fill the lamps, cut wood for the fire,
and tend the garden and midden heap-all the things which make
for the proper and efficient function of this house.”

   “I will do my best, Cormac.”

   Cnoc an Dair occupied the top of a sacred hill, site of an
ancient spring which fed a pool and holy well. The pool, although
considered holy, too, was where the druids bathed at least once a
week. After showing me the house, Cormac led me out to the well
and pool, provided me with a chunk of soap, and told me to
bathe. The water was cold, and I made short work of the
exercise. While I washed, Cormac took away my old clothes and
brought me a new tunic, mantle, and fallaing.

   Unlike most of their countrymen, the filidh did not wear
trousers; they robed themselves instead in the finest tight-spun
cloth. The tunic was a close-fitting garment with long sleeves,
covering the body from wrists to ankles; the mantle was shorter,
fuller, and had wide, slightly shorter sleeves. Both garments were
woven of pale, wheat-colored linen; the cloak, for summer, was
linen, too, and a fine light green.

   The druids loved good leather; their shoes, belts, and satchels
were the best of their kind anywhere. I was glad to get new
shoes-my old ones had long since worn through - and the belt,
although plain, was as thick and broad and easily as fine as any I
had ever worn.

   When I was dressed, Cormac pronounced me fit to begin my
new duties. That night, while the filidh watched the stars, I
made myself comfortable in my new bed and went to sleep full of
determination to make a good beginning.

   The next morning, however, I rose too late. My masters came
to the table ready to break their fast, and I was still asleep. How
was I to know druids rose before dawn and went out to greet the
new day with a song of welcome?

   I leapt from bed and set about making up the fire and
preparing the first meal of the day. The filidh were accustomed
to two meals: one in the morning and one in the early evening.
They most often fasted from sundown to sunrise the next
morning and broke fast before sitting down to their work for the
day-which, I soon discovered, consisted mainly of learning.

    That first day I made a simple porridge of cracked oats with a
little milk and salted fish, which I served with bread and butter.
After they had eaten, Cormac and Datho, master of the house,
came to me. “That was well begun,” the ollamh said. “Continue
likewise and you will be happy here.”

  I thanked him and said, “You must tell me what food you like,
and I will do my best to make it.”

  “As to that,” said Datho, “I am very fond of honey bread. Do
you know it?”

   I confessed that I did not know how to make honey bread, nor
any other kind, whereupon Cormac said, “Perhaps my sister can
show you.” Turning to Datho, he said, “With your permission,
Ollamh, I will ask Sionan to come here one day soon and show
Succat how to make the honey bread.”
   “Of course, yes. You have my permission,” said the chief
druid. He turned and started away, “Come, Cormac, let us return
to our labors.”

   They left me then to get on with my duties, and I spent the
afternoon in the pleasant knowledge that I would see Sionan
again very soon. Although my injuries still pained me and the
splint made movement fatiguing and awkward, I did my best to
get on with my chores. I emptied the jars and refilled them with
fresh water and topped up the lamps with oil; I brought in wood
for the hearth, scrubbed the pot, and carried water from the well
to the cistern inside the house. When I had finished all this, it
was time for me to begin preparing the main meal of the day,
which was taken early in the evening.

   For Madog and myself it was simply a matter of boiling up or
roasting whatever came to hand. For the druids, however, meals
were more elaborate; also, they were more particular in their
preferences, especially where seasonings were concerned. Thus
my cooking responsibilities took a great deal of thought and
effort, and I had little time for anything else. I marveled at how
quickly the days sped past.

    On the mountain I would sit on a rock or laze in the meadow
with the sheep whole days at a time-swooning from the blinding
tedium. In the druid house I worked as fast as I could all day and
still failed to get everything done as required. The cooking,
cleaning, washing, sweeping, chopping, carrying, and all the rest
kept me occupied from dawn’s first gleam until I collapsed into
bed at night, my injured limbs throbbing from the exertion.

   I quickly came to know my masters. Foremost among them
was Datho, the ollamh, or Chief Bard: he of the high-domed
head, and beaklike nose. Tall and thin, possessed of an intense
and penetrating gaze, he reminded me of a great heron. Like
many of his rank, he shaved the hair from the front of his head,
passing the razor in a line from ear to ear. This gave him a
fiercely stern, almost frightening aspect-an expression belied by
the glinting kindliness of his dark eyes. Forbidding in aspect,
exacting in his demands, he was nevertheless a tenderhearted,
thoughtful man, and I liked him.
   Slightly below him in rank was Iollan, eldest of the druids in
the house, with sparse gray hair-also shaved from the front of his
head -and a long nose above a small, even mouth. Quiet, he
rarely spoke, his thoughts so deep and impenetrable he was apt
to forget where he was or what he was doing. At supper one
night he reached for bread, but his hand paused halfway to his
mouth and stayed there, its motion suspended until sometime
later when the inner turmoil had been resolved and he could
continue his meal. On another occasion I found him standing
outside the house, immobile, lost in thought, oblivious to the
rain pelting down on his uncovered head. I led him back inside
to stand by the hearth until he dried out.

    Then there was Cormac, a big man, as I say. He and Sionan, I
learned, were offspring of the former king’s champion; Cormac’s
father had placed him in the care of the Learned Brotherhood
when he was still an infant. Having never known another way of
life, he was a druid heart and soul.

   Buinne, last and least among the filidh, had no discernible
virtues. He was a dark-haired, dough-faced youth with a lumpy
chin and small, close-set, suspicious eyes set in a narrow,
disapproving face, which gave him the appearance of an
aggrieved weasel. He had the temperament to match. Indeed, in
petulance and rancor he reminded me of the departed Cernach,
lacking only the dead warrior’s endearing strength of character.
How Buinne ever came to be among the high-minded druids was
a mystery I never solved.

   In those first days and weeks, my work occupied me entirely.
As I became better acquainted with my chores and more
proficient at performing them, I began to find little snatches of
time here and there for myself. When I had a moment to spare, I
would usually go listen to the others as they engaged in learned
discussion with Datho. Creeping near, I settled quietly to hear
what they said.

   “Consider the Wheel of the Winds,” Datho declared one day,
“all-encompassing, perpetually turning, forever assailing, its
manifold constituents producing both benefits and calamities.”
To Buinne he said, “Tell me, brother, what is the name of the
principal wind and its qualities?”

   “Hear me, my brother, and judge my reply,” Buinne
answered, bowing slightly from the waist as he sat cross-legged
on his reed mat. “The Chief of Winds is named Solan, Champion
of a Thousand Battles: salutary to all fruiting things, yet
plague-fermenting.”

  “Continue,” said Datho with a nod.

   “Next in rank is Saron, Benefactor of Rich Harvests and also
fish of wondrous size.” The ollamh gestured with his hand for the
young druid to continue. “Just below Saron is Favon: Destroyer
of Corn when heavy and cold, Sifter of Blossoms when light and
warm.”

   “Good,” said Datho. “Now tell me, if you can, what Favon
signifies when it departs its true path and roars out of the west.”

  “It signifies the death of a king when it comes out of the west,
my brother.”

   “Well said,” affirmed Datho with satisfaction. Turning to
Cormac, sitting at his left hand, he said, “Recite the lineage of
true poetry, if you please.”

   “With pleasure, brother,” replied Cormac. Placing the palms
of his hands together, he tilted back his head and, in a voice
imbued with the rhythm of song, replied,

  True poetry is born of scrutiny,

  Scrutiny, the son of meditation,

  Meditation, the son of lore,

  Lore, the son of inquiry,

  Inquiry, the son of investigation,

  Investigation, the son of knowledge,

  Knowledge, the son of understanding,
   Understanding, the son of wisdom,

   Wisdom, the son of Surrender to the Divine Will.

   The chief bard nodded serenely and pronounced, “Well said,
brother, and worthy to be remembered.”

   In this way they proceeded throughout the day, and I
gradually began to learn the order of their existence. Sometimes
Datho held forth on subjects the others required to make their
learning more complete. At other times he set them a question
or a challenging task which they were to explore or undertake;
they would go away to perform their explorations or
undertakings, returning later to discuss what had happened and
what was learned. Sometimes the filidh would question the
ollamh, who would answer them by means of riddles they would
have to solve in order to discover the answer.

   Iollan pursued his learned activities on his own; he neither
consulted much with Datho nor engaged those beneath him in
the same way as the ollamh. His method - his purpose,
perhaps-was to ask awkward questions. Indeed, he often posed
questions so difficult that either discussion ceased or disputes
broke out which could only be settled by lengthy study and
investigation.

   I listened to everything they said, spending as much time with
them as my never-ending duties allowed. One night, as they sat
at their supper, I stood a little apart and listened to them discuss
one of the many uses for a druid’s staff. “This is why,” Cormac
said, “the staff must be chosen very carefully.”

  “It is the power of the filidh that works through the staff, is it
not?” said Buinne.

   “Of course,” granted Cormac.

   “If that is so,” continued Buinne, “then any tree or indeed any
object fashioned of wood may serve for a staff, since one length
of timber is much like any other.”

   “So it would seem,” agreed Iollan. He smiled wanly, paused,
and then drew a weary breath. “But have you considered what is
told of the clidh?”

  Cormac and Buinne glanced at one another and winced.
Datho only smiled, nodding to himself.

   “The clidh, like the filidh, partakes of the nature of his staff,
which is strong and straight. It elevates and is elevated; it
protects and is protected. Thus it is with the poet himself: His
art is powerful, protecting, elevating, and his judgment straight
and strong. The staff of a True Bard must be likewise.”

   Cormac accepted the assertion with a bow of deference to the
elder’s wisdom, but Buinne pounced. “Forgive me, brother,” he
said. “It seems to me you speak of mere similitude only.
Certainly a slight rhetorical semblance cannot imbue power or
potency.”

   Iollan nodded in acceptance of this view, and Buinne in
triumph looked to his brothers for approval of his mastery.

   But Iollan was not finished. “And yet,” he said, “I recall what
the great Oengus said in this regard: To what shall the filidh be
compared if not to the staff by which they are known? For they
shall be exalted in their resemblance to the Sacred Tree.‘ ”

   “Well said, brother,” Datho replied.

   Buinne was not willing to acknowledge defeat so easily.
“Again I must ask your indulgence, for I do not understand. In
what way do the filidh find their exaltation in the likeness of a
tree?”

   “What else can it mean,” said Datho, “but that the filidh and
the Sacred Tree are united by the likeness of their common
attributes? As it is said: Under the oak shall the poet acquire his
art.”

   This was not the first I had heard of the Sacred Tree.
Grandfather Potitus used to fulminate against the heathens who
bowed the knee in secret groves, as he said, and worshipped
forest shrubs rather than Almighty God. What he might have
said had he known that his grandson would be serving tree
worshippers at that very moment, I could scarcely imagine.

   Still, for all their interest in trees, they did not appear to
worship them but merely to hold them in high regard. When the
discussion ended and the others prepared to go their separate
ways, I approached Datho and said, “Forgive my presumption,
Ollamh, but I am curious. Of all the things which inhabit the
earth, why should trees be held sacred?”

   He regarded me for a moment, and then said, “Why do you
ask?”

    “Because it seems to me that trees live, grow, and die like any
other living thing. Also, a tree can be cut down and burned, and
it is no more. Would it not be better to worship a thing which
cannot be so easily destroyed?”

   Datho gazed at me for a long moment, and I thought I had
earned the chief bard’s reproach for my impertinent
observation, but suddenly his tight-lipped mouth opened in a
wide grin. Extending his right hand over my head, he cried
aloud,

  Behold! A bard who has not chanted yet.

  Soon he will sing,

  And by the end of his song

  All the people will cry, “Amen! Amen!”

    This unnerved me more than if he had slapped my face for
impudence. He lowered his hand onto the top of my head and let
it rest there for a moment while he gazed into my eyes, as if to
confirm his unlikely prophecy.

   I grew even more uncomfortable under such close scrutiny,
but I stood to the examination. After a time he removed his
hand and said, “Your question is well considered. If you would
know the answer, hear then. This is the way of it: Trees live out
of themselves; they neither kill to eat-like the creatures of land
and sea-nor do they toil for their food, but the All-Wise
nourishes them in season, and their span outlasts all other living
things in creation. Their wisdom runs deep as their roots in the
earth, even as their branches reach toward heaven in exaltation
of their Creator.

   “Yes, they may be cut down, and when they fall, they die. But
whether they are burned in the fire or used for building, their
lives are given for those they serve-either for warmth in the cold
or to support the roof above” - he lifted a hand to the stout roof
beams over our heads - “so that even in death these giants of the
land serve those who depend upon them. In this they are the
emblem of the druid-kind, who seek to emulate these noble
qualities in all our ways.

   “Although trees such as the oak and hazel are much revered
by the filidh, we no longer worship them as of old. Worship of
the creature is blind folly, but worship of the living Creator is the
beginning of wisdom.”

   I thanked the ollamh for his thoughtful reply. His answer
raised many more questions, but I resisted asking and let him go
his way. As he walked off, I heard a sound behind me and turned
to see Buinne disappearing into the shadows. He had seen and
heard what had passed between us, and I wondered what he
made of it. Nor did I have long to wonder, for later, as I was
smooring the hearth fire for the night, Buinne approached the
hearth and stood watching me.

   I finished with the embers and ashes and made to greet him.
He moved quickly to my side, his face hard as the glint in his
eyes. “I know what you are doing, slave boy,” he sneered, “and
you will not succeed. I warn you, I will not suffer an upstart to
usurp my place.”

   “Usurp your place?” I said. “But I could never -

  Raising a cautionary finger, he leaned close, his breath hot in
my face. “You have been warned.”

                                 21
   A few days later, Sionan came to Cnoc an Dair. It was fair day
in high summer, warm and dry, the sky flecked with pale clouds.
Looking out from the hilltop, I could easily imagine it was
Morgannwg shining green and lush beneath the summer sun.
Longing flooded over me, and I wished I were home again in
Britain. On such a day my mother would be fussing about the
heat, and my father would be complaining about his taxes, and I
would be guzzling down beer at the Old Black Wolf with Julian,
Scipio, and Rufus. No doubt they would all be doing those very
things right now-but doing them without me… if, that is, they
had survived the raid.

   In truth I did not know whether my friends and family walked
among the living still or were long dead in their graves - and that
thought made it even worse somehow, as it was not for myself
alone that I felt sorry, but for those whose fate I could not guess.

   These thoughts plunged me into a forlorn melancholy which
left me as bleak and bereft as any new orphan. I spent the
morning adrift on a sea of sorrow for my misfortunes, real and
imagined.

   Then Sionan appeared. Cormac had gone to the rath the
evening before and returned with his sister. As soon as I saw
them on the path, I shook myself from my mirthless meditations
and walked down to meet them. Even from a distance, I could
see she had come dressed in her best clothes.

   Sionan smiled as I drew near. Her black hair glistened in the
sun beneath the glint of golden combs; her eyes, shaded by long
lashes, reminded me of the light on the high meadow when the
deep green glows with warmth. Desire flashed through me. In
that moment I wanted nothing more than to take her away to
some secluded place and make love to her, but I contented
myself with a modest kiss on the cheek instead. “Hello, Sionan.”

  “You are much improved since last I saw you.” She brushed
her fingers along my chest, feeling the fine cloth of my new robe.
She let her hand linger.

  “They treat me well,” I replied.
  “I am glad to hear it,” she said. Her smile grew sly. “Do you
not miss your sheep, then?” she asked. “Not even a little?”

  “There is only one thing I miss about the mountain,” I told
her, “and it isn’t the sheep.”

   Cormac, standing nearby with a bemused look on his face,
stirred himself then and said, “Here now, the day flies before us.
Sionan has come to teach you to bake bread, and bread you shall
bake.”

    Once in the kitchen she became purposeful and efficient. I
listened to all she said and followed her every move: mixing,
kneeding, setting, baking-everything just as she instructed.
Nevertheless it was all my soul was worth to keep my mind on
the task before me. I kept stealing glances at her and thinking
how good it would be to lie with her once more.

   The chance came when, as the bread was baking, we went out
to the well to wash the flour and bits of drying dough from our
hands. As she bent to retrieve the leather bucket, I stepped
behind her and pressed myself against her. She straightened at
once and turned; I put my arms around her and pulled her to
me. “I’ve missed you,” I said.

  “I can tell,” she said, sliding her hand down between my legs.

   I stole a kiss; her lips were warm and tasted of the honey she
had used in making the bread. “Come with me,” I said. “I know a
place we can be alone.”

   “Mmmm,” she said, pulling away. “I would like nothing
better, but the bread will be done soon.”

   “Leave it.” I pulled her close and kissed her again. “We can
always make more.”

   “Succat,” she said, pushing me away, “you’ve made a good
start. It would be a shame to ruin it now.”

  “Then after. As soon as the bread is finished.”
  “When it is finished, I have to go.”

  “So soon? I thought you would spend the night at least.” She
shook her head. “Stay,” I insisted, “and we can be together.”

   ‘Another time,“ she said firmly, then smiled. ”But it is good to
see you have not forgotten me.“

  “Sionan, how could I ever forget you?”

   We went back into the house and waited until the bread was
finished. At Sionan’s direction I removed the loaves from the
small hearthside oven, and we each pulled off a little. Sionan
chewed for a moment and pronounced the loaf edible. “You’ve
done well,” she said, “for the first time. Just remember all I’ve
told you and you can’t go far wrong. And now,” she concluded
briskly, “I must go.”

  She put a hand to my cheek. “But we will see each other
again.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

   I walked with her down the hill and across the valley as far as
the stream, then bade her farewell and returned to Cnoc na
Daire scheming how I might contrive a visit to the rath. Seeing
Sionan again roused a potent craving, and I felt slightly ill
treated that she had not stayed just a little longer.

   The shadows lay deep in the wood by the time I slipped back
into the house. I hastened to the storeroom and began selecting
items with which to make supper. I carried them to the hearth
and set about building up the fire so it would be ready when the
time came to cook. I was about this task when I heard a soft step
behind me and turned to see Buinne watching me. “I saw what
you did,” he said thickly.

  I could not think what he meant. “Have I done something,
Buinne?”
   “Do not try to lie your way out of it. I saw, and I will tell
Datho. Now he will send you back to the sheep where you
belong.”

   “What did I do?”

  “You know.” He took a menacing step forward. “I saw you-you
and that girl.”

   “It is nothing to do with you,” I said stiffly. “Anyway, ‘that
girl’ is Cormac’s sister, and her name is Sionan.”

   “Sionan,” he hissed, his eyes narrowed with lewd spite. “She is
a slut-as everyone knows.”

   I felt the heat of anger rising in me. Without a flicker of
hesitation, I reached into the hearth, snatched a piece of wood
from the flames, and swung out at the weasel-faced sneak. He
loosed a startled cry and stumbled back-but too slowly. The
flaming brand struck him on the side of the head. Had he not
been so inept, he would have taken the blow harmlessly on the
shoulder; as it was, the fire seared the side of his face and set his
hair alight. He screamed and danced, batting at the flames with
his hands, scattering sparks, and filling the room with the acrid
stink of burning hair.

   I caught him by the sleeve, reached down, and pulled the back
of his robe up over his head, smothering the flames in an
instant. He fell to the floor and lay there cringing and
whimpering, the left side of his face an angry red and the stubble
of hair above his ear still smoldering.

   I took up the water jug and poured the contents over him. He
spluttered and whined, glaring at me like a beaten dog but
saying nothing. I let him cower before me for a moment, then
tossed the burning brand back onto the hearth and, in a voice
hard and sharp as struck flint, said, “For Sionan’s sake, no less
than for your own, I will not tell Cormac what you said.”

  Reaching down, I took him by the arm and pulled him
upright. “Get up on your feet,” I told him. “Go see to yourself.
And if you ever so much as breathe Sionan’s name again, a few
burned hairs will be the least of your worries.”

   He shook himself free of my grasp and retreated a few steps.
Into his dull, hateful glance stole a small quiver of doubt. “You
cannot frighten me. I know the ways of the Dark Speech. I could
-‘

   I moved toward him, narrowing the distance between us by
half. “You keep talking when you should be leaving. Why is
that?”

   He sucked air as if he would spit me from his mouth.
Whatever was in his mind, he thought better of it, however, for
he turned on his heel and started away. When he reached the
safety of the shadows, I heard him snarl, “You will pay for this,
slave boy. And it will cost you dear.”

   The next day Buinne appeared with his head completely
shaved. He gave out that he had been bothered by lice. About the
puffy red splotch on the side of his face he said nothing, and no
one, to my knowledge, asked what had happened. He did not so
much as look in my direction the whole day, and I made a point
to stay away from him. I considered the incident resolved, but in
this I was more than mistaken.

   After the evening meal Cormac informed me that we were to
attend the Comoradh as Filidh -the Gathering of Druids -and I
would accompany them as cook and fire keeper. Gatherings of
one sort or another were common enough, but this one was
particularly important. “Every third year after Lughnasadh,” he
said, “the filidh gather to hold trials of skill and feats of
recitation. It lasts seven days, and druids from every part of Eire
take part.”

  “Lughnasadh?”

  “It is the Festival of First Fruits,” he explained. “Have you
never heard of it?”

   “Never.” I told him that my father and grandfather would
rather have had their tongues torn out than be seen creeping off
to the forest to offer sacrifices to a heathen idol.
  “Well, you need have no fear for your tongue. There will be no
pagan sacrifices at the gathering.”

   “I makes no difference to me,” I replied. “I am done with all
that mumbling in the dark.”

   He gave me that look of his he used whenever I said
something he considered outlandish -a peculiar blend of
interested yet abashed astonishment. “Would it surprise you to
learn that there are but few pagans among the Learned
Brotherhood?”

  “Perhaps,” I replied, unimpressed by this revelation. “Truly,
Cormac, I could not care less.”

  “Keep your eyes open, Succat. You will see wonders to charm
and amaze you.”

   The next days were given to preparations for Lughnasadh,
which the filidh would celebrate at the rath with King Miliucc.
As this did not involve me greatly, my chores continued much as
before. I practiced making bread so that I would not forget all
that Sionan had taught me. I enjoyed baking, because I thought
of her while I worked the dough and tried thinking of ways by
which I might sneak away with her.

   “Prepare whatever provisions you think we will need,”
instructed Datho. “It is a fair distance, remember, and we will
require supplies for seven days once we arrive.”

  “Of course, Ollamh,” I said. “But if I take that much, how are
we to carry it?”

  “The king will give us a horse or two if I ask.”

   This echoed what Cormac had told me, but I wanted to be
certain. “Ollamh,” I asked, “is it true that a king is bound to
grant a druid’s request?”

  “True?” he mused. “In what way do you mean?”

  Trust a druid to turn a simple question into a philosophical
inquisition. “Cormac told me that no king would refuse a druid
anything he asked, so long as it was in the king’s power to grant.
Is this the way of it, or have I misunderstood?”

    “Kings receive their sovereignty through the authority of the
filidh,” Datho explained. “Thus, for a king to refuse the request
of a druid would be to renounce his own kingship. No king could
do that and remain king; it would be an offense against nature.
The realm and the tuatha would bear great suffering.”

   As with much of what the filidh said, I did not understand the
close-pared logic of his assertion. I accepted that it was so,
however, and thanked him for enlightening me on this matter.
Confirmed in my plan, I renewed my resolve to increase the
druids’ indebtedness to me, so that when I asked Datho to
request my freedom from the king, the chief druid would be
more than happy to comply.

   That night I made a fine supper for them, and the next day I
helped Cormac and Iollan prepare for the Lughnasadh festival,
which was, I learned, only the first of the two-part harvest
observance. The second part took place at the conclusion of the
harvest season and was called Alban Elved.

   Of the two, Lughnasadh was much the more elaborate. There
were sacred fires to be kindled, cattle to be blessed, ceremonies
of earth and sky to be enacted; there was also dancing, feasting,
drinking, and games of strength, cunning, and endurance. For
many it was the most keenly anticipated festival of the year. For
many, I say, but not for all.

  “It is of course an important feis,” Cormac confided. He
wrapped the special fire-making utensils in a piece of soft
deerskin. “But there are those among the Learned who have
come to despise the festival and think it should be abandoned.”

   The way he said it made me ask, “Are you one of them?”

   He considered his reply for a moment. “No,” he answered at
last, “I do not despise it.” He tied a strap of thin leather around
the bundle he had made. “But I think our people abuse a very
ancient and holy rite and in their ignorance pervert what is
good.”

  My grandfather, never one to suppress his disapproval of the
more popular pagan rites, might easily have said exactly the
same thing. “If you think it perverse,” I suggested, “why not
change it?”

  Cormac frowned and straightened. “This is what some of the
Brotherhood have been saying-that the rites have grown into a
mockery and should be changed. I agree, but it is not so easy.”

   “How not?” I asked. “You are the ones who control the
festival.”

   “No.” He shook his head. “We have no such authority. As
always, the power of these rites derives from the belief of the
people. If the filidh wish to change even the smallest feature of
the observance, we must first change the hearts and minds of
the people to accept a new way.”

  “Then do that,” I said. The thing was perfectly simple after all.

   Cormac shook his head again and chuckled. “And do you not
think that is the very thing we are doing?”

  “Well?”

   “Only the most shallow-rooted weeds grow up overnight,
Succat. You must know that. We are not about planting a weed
which is here today and gone tomorrow. We are about growing a
mighty yew under whose spreading limbs the land will shelter
for all time.”

   I heard in his voice something I had never heard before. Pride
was there, certainly, and defiance, too-but also a quality I could
not readily identify. For, despite hints and insinuations, great
and small, which he had dropped from the very moment I first
met him, he had never put a name to this mysterious group to
which he obviously belonged. I sensed he was very close to doing
this now, so I said, “You make it sound like the work of many
hands, Cormac. Is anyone to help you with this great
tree-planting work?”
  “I am not alone, if that is what you mean.”

   “No,” I told him, “that is not what I meant. But if you do not
wish to tell me, I will understand.”

   “But will you understand if I tell you?” He regarded me
intently, his dark eyes weighing me against the worth of his
secret.

  “I can but try.”

   “Within the ranks of the filidh,” he answered, “there are many
who believe as I do, and our numbers are growing. We are the
Ceile De,” he said, savoring the name with evident pride, “and
one day soon our influence will stretch across Eire from one end
of this island to the other.”

 I accepted his assurance. “Ceile De,” I mused. “A good name.
What does it mean?”

  “I have said enough,” replied Cormac, tapping me on the
chest with his finger. “The rest you must discover for yourself.”

                                22

   The festival of Lughnasadh is one of the more enjoyable of the
many interminable and inexplicable celebrations the Irish
perpetrate. There is food and drink and music, as at every
celebration, combined with some extremely peculiar rites, the
purpose of which I could not grasp: Queen Grania sprinkling
beer over two young boys who were holding mice while the
smiling king looked on, for example. In another, a harvest cart
drawn by an ox and festooned with pine branches was paraded
three times around the well, whereupon a great loaf of bread
shaped like a maiden was pulled from the well and laid in the
wagon bed; Cormac said that the maiden loaf would be kept in
the king’s hall wrapped in one of the queen’s robes until the
harvest was complete, and then it would be broken into pieces
and distributed to each family.

  The concluding ritual came when the ollamh produced a
small golden knife shaped like a scythe and cut the first sheaf of
grain. This was bundled, tied with a specially braided rope made
of hair from the heads of all the women of the tuath, and carried
in triumph to the rath, where it was hung on a silver hook above
the door to the king’s hall. Then the feasting commenced, along
with its attendant revel. Clothed like a druid, I passed among the
people without incident or comment and found myself warming
to the raucous proceedings immensely.

   But all else paled in comparison to Sionan, for when the revel
began in earnest, we crept away to the stables and a deserted
stall. There, in the dry, sweet-smelling straw, we indulged
ourselves in our own private celebration.

   I lost myself in her warm, delicious flesh and exulted in the
way her body moved with mine. Sionan made love with zeal and
an abandon which delighted even as it astonished; she provoked
a passion in me to match her own and left me sweating and
exhausted in her wake.

   Spent with pleasure, we crept from the stable. No sooner had
we rejoined the feast, however, than Cormac informed me that it
was time for us to go. “So soon?” inquired Sionan, giving me a
sideways glance.

  “Might we stay just a little longer?” I asked.

    “We leave for the council in the morning,” he replied, “and it
is a long way to travel. Make your farewells and come along. The
king has given us the use of a horse. Go to the stable and see that
it is ready.”

   With a last furtive kiss, I took my leave of Sionan and hurried
off. The grooms, as I knew, were enjoying the feast like everyone
else, and since there was no one about to tell me otherwise, I
selected the finest-looking animal from among the three in the
stable, slipped a simple halter around his neck, and led him out.

   Cormac was waiting for me at the gate; the others had gone
ahead. He nodded with satisfaction when he saw me, and then
he turned and led the way out across the moonlit valley. We went
back to the druid house for a too-brief sleep, and when sunrise
was yet a distant rumor in the east, I rose and loaded our
provisions onto the horse. We departed shortly after, walking
through the still-dark forest-Iollan, Buinne, Cormac and myself
with the horse, and Datho leading the way along paths I could
not see: druid roads, Cormac called them, and he explained how
these unseen pathways stretched through the land in an invisible
web, connecting each of the five sacred realms of Eire: the
northernmost lands of the Ulaidh, Mumhain in the south,
western Connacht, Laighin in the east, and, in the center, little
Midhe, formed, it was said, of portions taken from all the others.

  Mi’dhe, he told me, was our destination. By the time the sun
was up, we were already well on our way.

   As we went along, I observed what a fine and splendid land
was Ireland, blessed with lush, low hills; wide, inviting meadows
watered by gentle streams; and, everywhere, mature forests of
oak and ash, beech and elm filled with wild pigs and deer. The
clouds sailed through a clean, wind-scoured sky, and the fertile
ground was warm beneath our feet.

   “Tara,” Cormac continued, “is where the high king reigns.”
Druids, as I say, cannot resist teaching anyone they suspect
might be ignorant of one thing or another. They love nothing
more than teasing the least triviality into a daylong lesson. “The
Hill of Tara is the omphalos -the sacred center of the island.”

  “Are we going to Tara, then?”

  “No,” the big druid answered. “A small distance away from
Tara is Cathair Ban, a temple of ancient origin, and that is
where the gathering of bards takes place.”

  “And will there be Ceile De at the gathering?”

   Cormac’s lips twitched into a fleeting smile at my clumsy
attempt to draw him out. “You shall see.”

   We walked on, and he told me about the various orders of
druids I might encounter in the days ahead. All filidh, he said,
were students of history, medicine, law, and the hidden order of
the natural world; in short, nothing passed beneath the gaze of a
druid that did not in some way concern him. Kingship and its
privileges and obligations, farming methods, trade between
tribes and nations, the lineages of noble houses, philosophy, the
movements of heavenly bodies, religious rites and observances
-in all these things and more, they were masters.

    Even so, not all filidh were equal. Within what they called the
bardic orders were particular, sometimes subtle, distinctions.
“Foremost among all druids are the filidh,” Cormac told me; they
were the most learned and accomplished of all, possessing great
powers of mind-including the ability to control the natural
elements and discern, through various means, the shape of
forthcoming events. Next came the bards, those well skilled in
recitation, song, and the power of the spoken word. These were
followed by the druids themselves, who excelled in healing the
ills and wounds of the body, whether in man or beast, and the
ability to converse with the myriad inhabitants of this world and
the Otherworld.

   All filidh were bards, he said, but not all bards were faidh.
Nor was this all, for within the ranks were further divisions,
mostly pertaining to the interests of the individual filidh. Some,
for example, made it their habit to inquire into the mysteries of
wind and rain and fog, while others delved into the properties,
uses, and creation of fire, water, air, and light. Yet others
charted the heavenly realm and everything in it, much as sailors
chart the seas of the world, and still others gleaned the lore of
plants and trees and animals and all living things.

   In their perpetual quest for knowledge, the druids were
indefatigable, searching everywhere for wisdom and sparing
neither expense nor hardship in its acquisition. As a result, no
obscure or hidden thing remained obscure or hidden from them
very long, for they would pry and pry until they forced the object
of their attention to yield up its secrets.

   “Any king worthy of the name keeps at least one druid,”
Cormac said. “The high king maintains nine. It would be a poor
king indeed who had no bard to be his advisor.” The druid kind,
he said, were held to be faithful and trustworthy beyond
reckoning, and so were often called upon to act as judges in legal
disputes and matters of justice. “The word of a filidh is to be
trusted in all things concerning the kingdom and the protection
of the tuath.”

   This assertion put Cormac in a contemplative mood, and we
gradually lapsed into a companionable silence. As for the others,
Iollan held his own council, and Buinne ignored me with a stiff
and ugly silence, for which I was grateful; I had no use for the
rancorous lump and would sooner address a poison-spitting
viper as talk to him. Thus, as the day progressed, I followed
along, letting my thoughts flit where they would. Mostly I
thought about Sionan, and experienced a delicious ache in the
pit of my stomach whenever I brought her to mind.

   The next day was much the same as the first. The pace was
not demanding. Much to my relief, my strength held good -
although I welcomed every stop and rested whenever I could. On
the third day we passed Mhag Fal, and I saw Tara in the
distance, the mounded hill crowned by its double-ringed timber
palisade. We moved on, meeting a road that we followed for a
time. “There are four roads in Eire,” Datho told me, “one to each
of the four realms, joining at the Hill of Tara. They are sacred
highways by which the king maintains the order of the land.”

   We ascended a ridge of low hills and crossed over into a long,
shallow valley through which a deep river pushed its sluggish
way. “Behold!” said Datho. “The Boinn, Mother of Waters,
nourisher of the land. And there” - he pointed to a low, rounded
hill which seemed to rise from the river-“is Cathair Ban.”

   Looking where he indicated, I saw only what appeared to be a
smooth hump rising from the roundness of the hill. As we came
closer, however, this unassuming hump slowly took on a more
commanding aspect. We walked along the path beside the river,
losing sight of our destination for a time, so that when at last we
turned away from the river and started our ascent, I was
surprised that the hill seemed to have grown inexplicably and
that what had first appeared to be a lowly hump was in fact an
enormous earthen mound. Two other, smaller earthworks stood
a few hundred paces behind the first and, just below it on the
right side, a tall, slender standing stone.

  The sun-facing side of the mound was flattened and lined
with course after course of spherical white stones rising to
double the height of a man; black stone balls were set in among
the white to form a loosely curved, rising pattern. In the center
of this white expanse was a low, dark door, blocked by an
enormous oval-shaped stone carved with curious swirls and
spiral designs and laid sideways before the entrance.

   “Where is the temple?” I asked, looking around.

   “This,” said Cormac, indicating the hill and mound and
standing stone altogether, “is the temple. As I say, it is very old.”

  It looked like no holy edifice I had ever seen-with neither roof
nor walls, open to the wind and sky. “Who built it?”

   “The Tuatha DeDanaan,” explained Cormac as we slowly
mounted the hill, where there were perhaps sixty or more filidh
gathered in groups around the hilltop and standing stone.
Ollamh Datho gave out a shout of greeting and hastened to join
his friends.

   The top of the hill was flattened and, on the ground a short
distance in front of the entrance to the mound, a fire pit had
been dug, and several pigs were roasting on spits over the
flames. A number of women in green robes stood nearby talking
among themselves while watching the men who were cooking
the meat.

   There were a fair number of younger children -boys and girls
of no more than six or seven summers -running here and there,
playing about the perimeter of the circular mound; others
climbed to the top, where they shouted and pushed one another
at the summit, filling the air with exuberant shrieks. Clearly they
were enjoying the fine summer day; nevertheless their presence
seemed incongruous to me, so I asked, “Why are there women
and children here?”

   “Women and children?” Puzzled, Cormac looked around,
trying to determine what I meant. “Those women?” He lifted a
respectful hand to them and said, “They are filidh. The children
you see are filidh-to-be.” At my expression of disbelief, he
chuckled. “Did you think only men could be druids, Succat? As
for the young ones, there is much to learn before one can become
a bard, so it is best to begin early, when the mind can be
properly trained.”

   The rest of the day was taken up with preparing a suitable
camp for my filidh masters. Many of the druids had established
their camps at the foot of the hill; I chose a place among these,
unloaded the supplies, and led the horse to the river to drink.
There were other servants watering their pack animals or
fetching water for their masters, and I noticed that, unlike
myself, they were not slaves. Indeed, there was not a slave collar
to be seen anywhere.

   When the horse finished, I led him along the riverbank to a
place where he could graze. In a little while another servant
came along leading a horse. “A fine animal, that,” I told him as
he passed.

  “I have not seen you before,” the youth said, stopping nearby.

  “This is my first gathering,” I said.

  “Who is your ollamh?”

  “Datho,” I replied. “Do you know him?”

   He shook his head. We talked a little more, and I asked him
how he came to be a servant to the filidh. “I am going to be a
bard myself one day,” he told me. I did not know what to say to
this, so I merely nodded amiably. “Are you?” he asked.

   “No,” I answered. “I am just a slave. But I thought the filidh
must begin their schooling very young.” He bristled slightly at
this, so I quickly continued, “I mean no offense. This is what I
was told. I have not been long in the druid house.”

   “Of course,” he agreed reluctantly, “most begin the training as
soon as they are chosen. Some of us have not such good luck.”

   “I know I have never been very lucky,” I replied, “and that is
the naked truth.”
   “For us older ones,” he continued, “the only way is to become
a servant to the filidh.” He went on to describe how by working
in the druid house he learned much about the filidh and their
ways, so that one day, having demonstrated his suitability, he
could, despite his age, enter the formal training.

   “Is this the way of all the servants?” I asked, the plan already
forming in my mind.

   “Most,” he granted, “if not all.”

   I thanked him for enlightening me on this matter and
returned to the camping place below the hill, where I set about
making supper, thinking of how best to use what I had learned.
In the end I decided that there was no harm in asking Datho if I
could become a bard. If he said no, I was no worse off than
before. But if he said yes, then I was a great deal closer to
perfecting my escape.

   It was past dark when the others returned to camp. I served
them their meal, whereafter they went to sleep. I sat by the fire
for a long time, thinking of what I would say, trying to guess how
the ollamh might respond, and how to counter any objections he
might make. I went to sleep that night determined to seek this
boon at first opportunity.

    I decided to ask Cormac what he thought. “Could I become a
filidh, do you think?”

  His expression took on a curiosity bordering on suspicion.
“Why do you ask?”

   I told him then what Datho had said about me: a bard who
had not chanted yet. Cormac considered this for a moment,
“Well, then, it must be that our wise ollamh has seen something
in you which has called forth this prophecy. In any case it is not
for me to say one way or the other. We must ask Datho.”

   The ollamh was occupied with discussions far into the night,
so it was the next day before the opportunity arose for us to seek
Datho’s opinion on whether I might be allowed to become a
bard. Cormac asked the question, while I stood waiting patiently
to one side. The ollamh pursed his lips and looked at the sky and
then at me. He looked at the sky again and finally said, “Well,
why not?” He smiled. “If that is what he wants, why not?”

   “Succat is well past the age when one must begin the
training,” Cormac pointed out.

  The chief druid shrugged. “What of that? The desire of a true
heart can overcome much.” Turning to me, he said, “Tell me,
Succat, is it in your heart to join the Learned Brotherhood?”

   “It is that, ollamh,” I replied. Then, having bent the truth as
far as it would go, I added, “I waited all night to ask you, and
while I waited, the desire grew in me. Indeed, I feel a burning in
my heart which I have never known before.” I did not tell him, of
course, that this burning was for freedom; it was not wisdom I
so desperately wanted, but escape. “You said that I was a bard
who had not chanted yet,” I reminded him. “How will I become a
bard unless I am allowed the chance to learn?”

   “How indeed?” He motioned me to him and placed his hands
on my shoulders. “You have shown yourself a willing and able
servant. Your curiosity is genuine, and your mind is quick.
Therefore let us strike a bargain, you and I: Serve us well for the
next year, prove yourself worthy, and let the desire ripen in your
heart-do this, and when we come again to the council, I will
oversee your initiation.” He gazed at me solemnly. “This is the
bargain I propose.”

   “We are here now, ollamh,” I pointed out. “Could I not begin
at once? As Cormac has said, I am already older than the others.
To wait another year…”

  The chief druid shook his head. “This is my decision.”

    I glanced at Cormac but received no encouragement there. To
begin by arguing with my benefactor did not augur well for any
future progress, so I swallowed my disappointment. “No doubt it
is for the best,” I conceded. “I accept your gracious offer, ollamh,
and I will abide.”

  “Good,” replied Datho, nodding with satisfaction. “I
understand your impatience, but the year will pass quickly.
There is much to be done.” He turned to Cormac, who regarded
me dubiously. “Cormac will aid you in this. From today he is
responsible for your preparation.”

   “If you think it best, ollamh,” replied Cormac. Although he
tacitly agreed, his disapproval was obvious.

  “I have spoken.”

   Cormac accepted his superior’s judgment with a low bow.
When Datho had gone, I asked Cormac why he doubted my
suitability. “Is it because you find me unacceptable in some
way?” I said.

  “I do,” he admitted. “You possess a most formidable will,
Succat. That is your strength and your great weakness. In the
days, to come you must relinquish your will a thousand times
over. Can you do that?”

  “I can do that.”

  “I wonder.”

  “Would you prevent me, Cormac?”

  “The ollamh has spoken, and I will obey.” He paused.
“Whether you succeed or fail, however, will be determined by
your own abilities.”

  “I ask nothing more than that.”

   The thought of having to wait another year chafed me sorely,
and Cormac’s distinct lack of enthusiasm irritated me more than
I would have imagined. That night, as I set about making supper
for my druids, I thought about what Datho and Cormac had
said. When we left Cathair Ban two days later, I was determined
to make the best of my year’s preparation.

                               23

  As Datho predicted, the year passed swiftly for me. I
performed every duty with utmost care and attention. All they
asked of me, and more, I did. Never so much as a sigh of
complaint passed my lips - even when Buinne ordered me about
on silly errands. Oh, he had not forgotten the beating I had given
him; if anything, his spite had only grown - not that I paid much
attention to him one way or another -but, needless to say, he
relished every opportunity to demean me. I took his routine
humiliation in my stride - as much for Sionan’s sake as for my
own -refusing to dignify his continual threats and insinuations
so that I would not betray her love. My meek acceptance merely
infuriated him all the more, however. He began to fulminate
against me whenever we were alone, and when I did not answer
his threats and slanders, he crowed like a cock in triumph over a
bloodied rival.

   I saved up his abuse, reckoning every slur and embarrassment
I endured, and one night at dinner I gave him a bowl of stewed
venison which contained a powerful purgative derived from the
dried root of a marsh plant -I had been keeping. That night he
did not go to his bed but remained outside in the woods with his
loose bowels.

   Sionan and I continued to see one another whenever we
could. Widowed and no longer a virgin, she could not serve in
the king’s house, but Queen Grania had taken pity on her and
given her a place among her own servingwomen. On rare
occasions Sionan would contrive some excuse to come to the
druid house on an errand for the queen; more often I went to the
rath. Once, during the winter, I was caught in a snowstorm and
forced to stay in the rath for two days. For two days and nights
Sionan and I ate and slept and made love in a bed heaped with
fleeces before the fire-bright hearth of her little house.

   Thus I occupied myself while I waited. I bore my captivity
with as good grace as I could, and tried not to think of Britain or
of the time passing. The year slowly turned, and the time came
to test whether I was well prepared for the ordeal of initiation. A
few days before we were to depart for the druid gathering, Datho
called me before him. He took a long time examining me -posing
questions, weighing my replies. Finally he declared himself
satisfied with my readiness. “Tell me, Succat, do you still wish to
join the Learned Brotherhood?”

   “I do, Ollamh Datho,” I replied, “more than ever.”

   “That is well. Providing you successfully complete the
initiation, I will undertake your instruction. In time you shall
become a bard.”

  As before, we celebrated Lughnasadh at the rath, where I
shared my good news with Sionan. “Tell me,” I said, “which you
would rather be: the wife of a druid or the wife of a shepherd?”

   “Wife now, is it?” She gave me a silky smile. “Well, if you are
as poor a druid as you were a shepherd, I would not be wife to
you for anything.”

   “I was a wise and skillful shepherd.”

   “You were a sorry shepherd.”

   “But I was sincere at least.”

   “Not even that.”

  “Well, then,” I said, pulling her close, “I can hardly be a worse
druid.”

   “True,” she agreed, kissing me lightly, “but it is the chief bard
for me or no one at all.”

  “If that is the way of it,” I said, pulling her down onto the soft
bed of fleeces, “then I shall become the best chief bard that
anyone this side of Sliabh Mis has ever seen.”

  “Do that,” she replied, settling herself on top of me, “and I
shall marry you after all.”

  We enjoyed a sweetly satisfying night together, and the next
morning I departed with the filidh to attend the Comoradh at
Cathair Ban.

   Anticipation grew with every step, so that by the time we
reached the hill with its temple mounds, I could hardly walk.
Truly, I had to keep reminding myself that I was only using the
initiation as a means to gain my freedom. That, only that, and
nothing more. This proved no easy task, however, for I had long
since fallen under the thrall of the druids. I had seen and heard
things in my year of preparation that gave me to know that the
fdidh were both wise and powerful and that their knowledge was
far above the blather and nonsense so prized by the ignorant
priests of Mithras, who still plied their disreputable trade
around the garrisons of southern Britain.

   The filidh, for the most part, possessed genuine skills which
they employed for the good of the people. The thought that I was
to join them, albeit deceitfully, filled me with an awe verging on
alarm.

   Upon arrival the others went up the hill to the temple mound,
leaving me to make camp. A little later Datho returned to say
that he had spoken with the other druid chieftains, who agreed
with his recommendation to allow me to be added to the
number of new initiates. “Tonight you will sleep on the hill,” he
told me. “You will be given a special meal of meat and broth, and
at dawn the initiation will begin.”

   Accordingly, dawn found me standing with two other skinny,
anxious boys-both much younger than myself-naked save for a
loincloth; we were each given a fresh-cut yew branch, which we
held in our hands while an ollamh examined us.

   “Let the initiation begin,” said the ollamh upon completing
his examination.

   Three druids approached and, each holding a torch, came to
stand before the trembling initiates. Datho took his place before
me. “All who would join the Learned Brotherhood must die to
their former lives so that they may be born anew into the life of
the filidh,” he said. “If this is your desire, follow me.”

   The other druids spoke likewise to their candidates, who were
then led off to the turf-covered mounds a short distance away. I
was taken to the great mound. Stepping over the oblong stone
blocking the entrance, Datho approached the doorway,
indicating that I was to stay close behind him. Crouching low, he
led me into the darkness of a long, narrow corridor, the walls
and roof of which were enormous slabs of stone. The floor was
uneven, rising slightly the further in we went; the walls pressed
tight and then, suddenly, opened into a large, roughly circular
room which, revealed in the fluttering light of Datho’s torch,
held several smaller chambers, or niches.

   Two of the smaller chambers contained great shallow stone
bowls. One of these held a haunch of rotting meat and the other,
rank and stagnant water. The stench made my eyes water, and I
gagged. In the third chamber a thick mat of rushes covered the
floor, which was itself covered by a bearskin. A rolled-up deer
hide lay to one side.

  Indicating the bearskin, Datho said, “Lie down, Succat.”

   I did as I was told, and the chief druid, placing the torch in a
crevice in the rock, stooped and folded my arms over my naked
chest. Taking the yew branch from my hand, he laid it across my
chest. “The yew is ever green and everlasting,” he said, “like your
soul. Let your mind dwell on this.”

   Taking up the deerskin, he unrolled it and drew it over my
body. Then, stretching out his hands over me, he closed his eyes
and chanted in a tongue I did not recognize. I listened to the
rhythmic rise and fall of his voice and felt myself growing sleepy.
After a time his voice seemed to fade into silence. I waited and
opened my eyes in utter darkness. Datho was gone, and I was
alone.

   I did not know what was to come or how long I would remain
in the chamber. I simply lay on the bearskin, waiting for
whatever would happen next.

    The air inside the niche was lifeless, neither warm nor cold;
there was not the slightest breath of movement in it. Even so, it
filled my nostrils with the smell of earth and stone and the faint
stink of rotting meat and rank water emanating from the niches
in the chamber beyond.

  The silence of the chamber was complete. I could hear
nothing of the world outside the great womb of earth. I
imagined that the sun had risen and men in the wider world
were going about their various activities -all without me. At first
this produced a curious disquiet-as if, forced to endure silence
and darkness, I were being made to bear a burden others did not
share. Oddly, as time passed, this feeling hardened into a sense
of oppression. Deprived of light and movement, I was made to
suffer while those outside went blithely about their affairs
without regard to my plight. I resented them for their careless
freedom. I despised them for their thoughtlessness. As my
discomfort increased, it was all I could do to keep from leaping
up and rushing out of the mound and castigating them for their
coldhearted indifference.

   At length I realized that this thinking was only making me
morose and angry, so I tried to think of something less irksome.
At once my mind turned to Sionan, and I wondered what she
might be doing. I imagined her making bread, as we had done,
and instantly the musty niche seemed to fill with the sweet,
warm, floury scent of her baking. I saw her face, features knit in
a frown of concentration, a slight sheen of sweat on her
forehead, her hands dusted with flour as she kneaded the pale
dough. I beheld her willowy form as she swayed to her work, and
my heart swelled with love for her. Yes! Sionan-my wife in all but
name, she was dearer to me than my life.

   I held my beloved’s image in my mind’s eye and sent good
wishes winging her way, and I suddenly found myself
surrounded by a solid yet gentle presence which folded all my
anxiety into itself, giving back only reassurance as fathomless as
the sea. I was buoyed up and carried along, a leaf swirled upon
on the broad, heaving breast of the ocean by unseen currents.

    In the dark and silence of my chambered tomb, my spirit took
flight. Into my mind came the image of countryside, and I saw,
as if spread out far below me, the rumpled green cloak of Ireland
with its hills and forests, streams and lakes, shining silver in the
sun. I saw the narrow sea and, away to the east, the mainland of
Britain. I saw the coast, with waves dashed white against the
tumbled line of rock cliffs, towering headlands, and high
promontories. I saw the fields and woods of my homeland
-farmers with teams of oxen, plowing, sowing, chopping wood to
clear the land. I saw soldiers on foot, marching along fine,
straight roads; they moved eastward, where, looming up before
them, rose great black clouds of smoke and storm.

   Bodiless and unencumbered, I streaked swiff as thought
across the empty sky, watching the rippling land and glittering
sea below me. I saw the coast of Morgannwg where I was taken
and, up beyond the protecting hills, our estate, Favere Mundi,
deathly still beneath the glowing sun, its courtyard empty. I had
feared it destroyed, but there it was. And while I looked, I saw
my mother come out into the yard with a jar in her hand; she
went to the pear tree and poured out the water around the old
tree’s roots.

   Beyond the villa I saw the road leading to little Bannavem and
then the town itself set in among the fields and meadow
pastures. I saw the town square and the busy market-only now it
was not so busy; there were fewer people in the square, and the
normally raucous mood was sharply subdued. I was taking this
in when who should come striding into the square but my friend
Rufus, and Scipio with him. They walked together to the well in
the center of the square and perched on the stone breastwork to
talk in the drowsy summer sun. I wanted to shout to them, to let
them know somehow that I saw them and that I was alive and
well. But I clutched my yew branch instead, and the world
rushed on beneath me.

   I saw the edge of approaching night, sweeping like a shadow
line across the land. It came so swiftly. The luscious golden
sunshine faded; the bright, flame-tinted sky relinquished its
light; and the evening stars began to shine. As night gathered
strength, the land sank away beneath a weight of darkness. Here
and there the quick glint of open fires burned holes in night’s
black robe, but for the most part the land was invisible beneath
the occluding veil.

   I turned my eyes to look above and saw heaven’s vast canopy
aglow with stars -a wide and glittering band of spangled silver, a
spray of gleam, illuminating the darksome nether realms no man
had ever seen. The moon shone like a great glowing wheel as it
rolled up and over the sky’s curved vault. I felt myself to be as
small and trifling as an empty shell upon the world’s enormous
strand. The universe spread before me, forever, without end.

   Out beyond the shining rim of stars, I saw the dark,
inscrutable heart of the deep, impenetrable and unknowable.
Here lay the mystery of all existence, wrapped in infinite layers
of time yet unwound. Though I could not see it, I could feel the
long, slow stirring of its elemental pulse in the pit of my soul. I
felt the steady, rhythmic beat as an ineluctable tide force, rising
and falling, drawing and sending, moving in arcing ripples
through the ordered ranks of creation, setting here an entire
world in motion, there a tiny heart.

   I saw these things - I know not how-and felt myself lifted high
and exhilarated by the vision. It seemed as if I had dipped myself
in a bottomless sea of wisdom; a knowledge older than the rivers
of the world, older still than the rocks beneath the mountains, as
old as the ever-circling heavens above the earth, flowed all
around me… divine knowledge.

    The unformed presence in my cavelike chamber took on the
aspect of a living being. What is more, this living presence,
closer than my own breath, bound me to itself, enfolded me
within its all-encompassing strength. It had ever been with me,
and it would remain with me henceforth and forever in whatever
realms I might wander. Though I live or die, it would be with me
still, enfolding me, upholding me, encircling me.

    Lying there in the silent darkness of my chambered tomb, I
allowed this knowledge to seep into me, into my hair and mouth
and nostrils, into the pores of my skin and beneath my skin; I let
it soak into my bones, into the pith and marrow of my frame -
until I became saturated with it. This knowledge trickled in,
filling all the hidden, hollow places within, suffusing body and
soul with the invincible awareness that I need never be lost or
alone again. And more, that my life had been given for a purpose
yet to be fulfilled.

  I lay on the fleece-covered bearskin luxuriating in this
knowledge, exulting in it, rejoicing in the very great gift which
had been given me.
    How long I remained like this, I cannot say. It seemed at once
a lifetime and only moment. Indeed, time seemed no more than
a trick of the senses, the flicker of a candle flame in a bowl, the
shirting of a water shadow in a stream. Presently I became
aware of my surroundings once more. I drew a deep breath and
threw aside the deerskin covering. In the darkness of the burial
niche, I rose and started crawling on hands and knees into the
main chamber and from there down the long, low passage
leading to the light.

   Upon emerging I stumbled from the entrance to stand
blinking in the early-evening sun. It took a moment for my eyes
to accept the light. I heard a voice. There was a rush of
movement toward me, and I was gathered in strong arms and all
but carried from the mound.

   They bore me away and sat me down in the shade of a cloth
canopy which had been erected on the grass a little distance
down the hill from the mound. “Are you well, boy?” asked a
voice. I turned to see Datho’s anxious face looming over me, dark
eyes keen and searching.

  I tried to speak but found I could not move my tongue.

  “Here,” said another voice, “take this.”

  I looked around as Cormac pressed the cool rim of a brass
bowl to my lips. “Drink,” instructed Datho. “It will revive you.”

   I drank and tasted water mixed with honey. I squeezed my
eyes shut and opened them again. “How long?” I asked. “How
long was I in there?”

  “Three days,” replied Cormac.

  This seemed impossible to me. “Truly?”

   Datho nodded solemnly. “Three days have passed since you
entered the mound.” He smiled. “We were beginning to worry
about you.”

  “Did you see anything?” asked Cormac excitedly.
  “I saw…” I closed my eyes; the images cascaded through my
mind. “Amazing things.”

  “Tell us quickly,” urged Cormac, “before you forget.”

  Datho intervened. “Hush, Cormac. He has been gone three
days. Give him a moment to come back.”

  I turned to Cormac, who was eagerly bending over me. “I will
never forget what I saw.”

                               24

   I rested for a time, sipping the honey water while Datho
rubbed my hands and feet. Gradually my limbs warmed as the
blood started flowing again and, under Datho’s gentle probing, I
began to tell them what I had seen. As I talked, Cormac crept
away, returning quickly with three other druid chieftains. They
settled themselves beneath the canopy to listen; occasionally one
or another would ask a question, which I would answer without
thought or hesitation as the words simply sprang to my tongue.

   When I finished, they rose and withdrew a few paces apart to
deliberate. Cormac offered me another drink of honey water,
which I gratefully accepted. “What are they doing?” I asked in a
low voice.

  “Thinking,” said Cormac. “Are you hungry?”

   I nodded. Now that I was once more in the land of the living,
my appetite was swiftly returning. Although it still seemed to me
that less than half a day had passed, I was suddenly hungry
enough to believe I had endured three days without food or
water.

   “Rest here,” Cormac said. “I will bring you something to eat.”
He rose just as the filidh chieftains returned from their
contemplations. “Stand up,” commanded Datho. Cormac helped
me to my feet; I rose too fast and became dizzy. The big druid
put out a hand to steady me. Datho, steeped in vast authority,
drew himself up and addressed me while his brothers stood
looking on.
   “Fortunate are you among men,” he said. “It is a rare gift you
have been given. Few who undergo the ritual death emerge with
a vision of such power. That this has happened to you is a great
and wondrous sign and a cause for rejoicing.”

   The three chieftains with him stroked their beards and
muttered their agreement. Datho continued, “Therefore, we
respectfully request that you allow us to honor this sign with a
rite of consecration.”

  I did not know what to say to this, so I replied, “If it pleases
you, Ollamh.” The druids murmured their approval.

   “The ceremony will take place tonight,” Datho informed me,
then bade Cormac to get me something to eat and allow me to
rest. He and the others moved away, heads together in fervent
conversation.

  “You have stirred the pot, my friend,” said Cormac, easing me
down gently.

   “What did he mean, ‘wondrous sign’?”

  “Visions are given for a reason,” he replied. “Yours - if it was a
genuine vision -was one of great power, and so the purpose for
which it was given is likewise very great.”

   “Do you doubt me, Cormac?” It rankled me to be disbelieved -
especially on those rare occasions when I was telling the truth.

  He regarded me with a dubious expression and shrugged.
“We will see if anything comes of it.”

   Leaving me with the bowl of honey water, Cormac went off to
fetch some food. I lay down beneath the canopy and felt the
warmth of the lowering sun on my skin, realizing for the first
time since emerging from the mound that, save for the loincloth,
I was naked. I closed my eyes and dozed, waking when Cormac
returned with some cooked fish and a bowl of blackberries.

   “Do you think I could have my clothes back now?” I asked,
accepting the fish on a skewer. He said that he did not see any
reason why this should be prevented, and went in search of my
missing garments. I ate the fish slowly and then started in on the
berries, listening all the while to the sounds around me as the
day faded.

   The filidh and their disciples dotted the hillside in small
clumps of three, four, or more. Wherever I looked, I saw heads
bent in earnest discussion. The murmur of their voices filled the
air like the drone of bees. I saw them, saw the hillside and the
valley beyond with its dark, snaking river. It all seemed to me
less substantial now-as if the fabric of the natural world had
worn thin. It seemed to me that if I concentrated very hard, I
might see right through it and into the world beyond - but the
effort required was too great, or I was too listless and lazy to try.

   After a time Datho returned, now in the company of an old
woman dressed in a long white robe. Her hands were gnarled
and curved like claws; her eyes glittered like polished pebbles set
deep in the orbits of her skull. “Here he is, Meabh,” he said. They
stood over me, gazing down as if at a curiosity of nature.

   “Come here, boy,” said the old woman, indicating that I
should rise. Her voice, though rough, held a firm note of
authority.

   I rose and stood. Her elderly face was a puckered web of
creases and crinkles, her hair a wispy nimbus through which I
could see her balding pate. She squinted one dark eye and leaned
close. “Handsome,” she said, and I smelled the scent of onions on
her breath. “They tell me you have had a vision. Well? I would
hear it.”

   I began to recite what I had seen. Meabh lifted her head and
gazed skyward while she listened to my somewhat disjointed
account. When I finished, she nodded. “It is good.” To Datho she
said, “You are right.”

  Then, turning to me she said, “The healing dream is as
powerful as it is rare. You have been blessed.”

   “Thank you… Banfilidh,” I replied, uncertain how to address
the hag. It was a word I had heard once or twice, one she
accepted without comment.

  “Datho has asked to be your ollamh,” she said, her gaze sharp
and shrewd as a weasel’s. “Are you content?”

  “I am that, Banfilidh.”

   “Very well, I consign you to Datho’s able care. Heed him
closely, that you may grow into your prominence.”

   I accepted her judgment with a bow, whereupon Cormac
returned with my clothes. “Ah, Cormac Miach! How well you
look. I am pleased to see you.” She held out her thin arms to
him, and he embraced her warmly. “Datho tells me you have
completed your twelfth year. He tells me also that you have made
good progress.”

   “Thank you, Ollamh,” he replied. “No one could ask for a
more able and resourceful teacher. His patience and wisdom are
inexhaustible -I should know, I have tried both often enough.”

   Datho protested this assessment. “It is the ability of the
student, in this case, who makes a master of his teacher.”

   Embarrassed by this odd gush of emotion between the two, I
took my clothes and quickly dressed, turning away so they would
not see the sour expression on my face while they carried on in
this peculiar, deferential way. When I turned back, old Meabh
was eagerly gripping Cormac by the arm. “I think the time has
come for you to sit at my feet for a season, Cormac. Would that
please you?”

  “Beyond measure,” he said. Glancing at Datho, he added, “If
my ollamh would allow it, I would be happy to serve you in any
way I can.”

   “Go, my son, and with my blessing,” said Datho, a slight
resignation creeping into his tone. “You will profit mightily from
Meabh’s tutelage. But know, too, that you will always have a
place with me when you are finished.”

  “Then I am honored to accept your offer, ollamh,” Cormac
said, scarcely able to hide his jubilation.

   “Come to me after the Comoradh,” she told him, and then,
taking Datho’s arm, she led him away down the hillside.

   “Who was she?” I asked Cormac when they had gone.

    “Meabh is the oldest ollamh in Eire - or Britain either, so far
as I can tell. Her knowledge of the masters is beyond that of any
living filidh. She is very particular about those she accepts for
instruction. It is a very great honor to be chosen.”

  “Then you will be leaving,” I said, suddenly aware of how
much I had come to depend on the big druid. “I will miss you,
Cormac. I will.”

   “Oh, we can still see one another from time to time,” he
replied lightly. “But you will be so busy from now on you will not
have time to miss anyone-not me, perhaps not even Sionan.”
Resting a heavy arm on my shoulders, he drew me close to
whisper in my ear. “I know that you and Sionan sleep together,”
he told me. “I said nothing because it was what she wanted. But
from now on you must think of her welfare.” His voice was firm
and his glance direct. “Understood?”

   “I understand.”

   “Good.” He gripped my shoulder hard. “Disappoint her and,
brother bard or not, you will soon wish you had never been
born.”

   He released me then with a hearty smack on the back. “I am
glad we are agreed.”

   When I made no reply, he slapped me on the back again and
said, “Cheer up, Succat, I do not begrudge you. In fact, when the
time comes, I will happily perform your marriage rite myself.”

   Later, as the moon was rising in the east, the filidh gathered
on the hillside. Along with two others I was led by Cormac up a
long, torchlit path to stand before the heel stone. Datho, who
was to be my teacher, received me, spreading wide his hands in
welcome. He raised his voice to the throng, saying, “Brothers of
the Oak! You will have heard that one among us has received a
healing dream. Here”-he indicated me with a wave of his hand
-“he stands before you now. I bid you welcome him.”

   To my surprise a loud shout of acclaim suddenly erupted from
the Learned Brothers looking on. I glanced around for Cormac
and saw him standing in the front rank of the crowd and, behind
him, Buinne, staring at me, his pallid face twisted into an
expression of such intense and malignant hostility that I almost
did not recognize him. The sight took me aback, and I looked
away again.

   “My son,” said Datho when the crowd had silenced once
more, “this is a sacred moment-neither day nor night, when all
creation hangs between light and darkness. It is a time when
decisions undertaken can bring manifold blessings. Therefore I
urge you with the strong entreaty of a father to a beloved son to
hallow this holy moment with the vow I shall give you.”

   Ollamh Datho took a step back from me. Holding his druid
staff in his left hand, he raised his right hand and, in a
resounding voice, began to chant. “Three kinds of light obtain:
that of the sun and, hence, fire; that of the knowledge obtained
from the instruction of wise teachers; and that which is
possessed in the understanding of God, which illuminates the
heart and is the true light of the soul.

   “Therefore, my son, seek the True Light in all your ways;
search diligently and with tireless perseverance. Take the Light
as your law, your love, and your guide, now and henceforth,
forever. If you would do this, answer now upon your life.”

   He paused, and nodded to me, indicating that I should
answer. I had not reckoned on having to make such a profession,
but the vision was still strong in me and the answer came readily
to my lips. “Upon my life, I make this vow,” I said, and in that
moment-if only for that most fleeting moment-I meant it with all
my heart.

  Oh, but the heart is desperately wicked above all things. For,
my first thought was not of how I might become a dutiful
student, but how I might use this chance to aid my longed-for
escape. This, and the vow was still fresh in my mouth.

   “Then I commend you to the path you have chosen. May the
blessings of the Living Light speed you on your journey so that
you may remain in the Land of the Living all your days.”

   Datho turned and addressed the gathered crowd, saying, “Do
you accept this man as a brother, and will you look to his welfare
as you look to your own, aiding him in every way as he begins his
journey?” He paused, turning to scan the druid throng. “How say
you?”

  The assembly answered with one voice. “We accept him and
welcome him as a brother.”

  He stepped before me once more and said, “Kneel and receive
your sacred name.”

   I did as he commanded and knelt in the grass on the hillside.
Then, in -the light of the rising moon, the wise ollamh placed his
hand upon my head. He struck the ground three times with his
staff and cried, “Succat you were, but Succat is no more. From
this day you are Corthirthiac: strong bulwark against the gale of
contention. May your strength endure to the end which the
Mighty Maker has ordained for you.

  “Rise, Corthirthiac,” he said, “and take your place among
your brothers.”

   I rose and, seeing Cormac standing nearby, went to stand
beside him. I crossed the short distance between us and saw
Buinne staring at me. Our eyes met, only for the briefest instant,
for as he realized I saw him, his features changed; the unvoiced
snarl of hatred vanished, and his expression became coolly
impassive. As I took my place beside Cormac, Buinne edged back
into the crowd and disappeared.

  The ceremony continued. The two young boys who had also
undergone initiation were added to the brotherhood; these, like
myself, were given to Datho to begin their training. This ritual
completed, it was then the turn of all who had completed one
level of training to be recognized and advanced to higher ranks.
There were many of these -including Cormac and, to my
surprise, Buinne as well.

   The next day the druids held council to discuss matters of
importance which had arisen during the interval since the last
gathering. “Watch and learn,” Cormac whispered as the
proceedings began. “Your questions will be answered.”

   Because Datho was one of the high-ranking bards empowered
to speak in council, we were allowed to stand behind him and so
had good places from which to see all that would take place. The
council began with a long recitation in a tongue I did not
understand, and then the filidh-an old man with a hump on his
back-declared that the council was begun.

  “That is Gwyn Gryggyn,” Cormac told me, “called the
Far-Seeing. He is Chief Bard of Midhe.”

  “Gwyn?” I wondered. “That is a British name.”

  “And so he is.”

  But-

  “Listen.”

   The old man looked all around him and smiled at those he
knew up front, including Datho, nodding and mouthing
greetings to his acquaintances while waiting for the crowd to
settle.

   When all was quiet, he said, “A year has passed, brothers,
since it was decided to defer the question of the Ceile De. In the
passing of the year, I trust we have all given the matter its due
consideration. The time has come to determine how we will
answer the charge that has been laid before us concerning the
institution of the Cadair Gldn.”

  The name was in my native tongue. Cadair Clan - it meant
“Holy Chair.”
   At this there came a fretful murmuring from many of those
looking on.

   Old Gwyn turned his kindly face this way and that, until the
grumblers had finished. “So now, brothers,” he continued, “I put
the question to you: Shall the Holy Chair be established among
us for the dignity and elevation of the Ceile De?”

   He had scarcely got the question out when there arose shouts
and cries of both affirmation and dissension. Again he waited
until the commotion had subsided and then said, “I observe that
the Brotherhood is divided on the issue. Therefore we will
proceed by the telling of stones.” He gestured to one of the
nearby filidh, who brought forth a large leather bag and took his
place beside the old druid. Gwyn raised his hand, and I saw he
held a small white pebble. “White for affirmation of the
question,” he said, “and black” -he now showed a dark pebble -
“for rejection.” Indicating the bag, he said, “Come, brothers,
render your judgment.”

    There was a general surge toward the center, where the druid
stood with the bag, but the jostling soon resolved itself into an
orderly line of filidh who passed, briefly dipping their hands into
the bag and moving on. Not everyone cast a stone into the bag;
it seemed to me the privilege of the higher-ranking filidh. When
the last stone had been cast, the bag was closed and, in the sight
of all, handed to Ollamh Gwyn, who raised it in his hands. He
carried it to Datho and declared, “I say that the cast was done
properly in the sight of all present. How say you?”

  “I am satisfied,” replied Datho.

   Moving on, the old druid carried the bag to several other
high-ranking filidh and asked them the same question. Upon
receiving a positive answer from each ollamh, he returned to the
center of the ring and summoned another bard, who approached
holding a large wooden bowl. Gwyn once more raised the bag,
untied it, and poured the contents into the bowl.

  “Who will count the stones?” he asked.

  From among the several volunteers, he chose Meabh. The old
woman stepped forth and gazed into the bowl. “More light!” she
said, and torches were brought near. She reached into the bowl
and picked out a black stone, held it up, for all to see, and said,
“One!”

   Returning her bent hand to the bowl, she brought out four
more dark pebbles in quick succession. “Two, three, four, five,”
she said, and then, reaching into the bowl, declared, “That is all.
The rest are white.” So saying, she picked up a handful of white
pebbles and let them fall back into the bowl.

   At this the dissident bards loosed a low growl of disapproval.
But the matter did not end there. As soon as the gathering had
quieted once more, wise old Gwyn chose one from among the
dissenters and called him forth. “Brother Senach,” he said, “I
would have you count the stones.”

    Frowning, the filidh proceeded to sort through the stones in
the bowl. The tally was brief, and Senach declared, “I also make
it five opposing and twenty sustaining.” He turned and stepped
back to his place.

   “Hear and know,” cried old Gwyn, “by the telling of the
stones, the Cadair Glan is established!” These last words were
swallowed in the shouts of approval which greeted his
pronouncement. “This night the will of the Brotherhood of the
Oak is declared. The Holy Chair of the Ceile De is herewith
created. Those who wish to make application to this chair may
do so now.”

   There ensued a lengthy disputation - much of which I did not
follow, but during the discussion the dissenters and their
followers gathered in a group and, crying defiance on the
proceedings, quit the gathering. There was much shouting on
both sides, and attempts were made to persuade the rebels to
stay, but they would not. They departed the Comoradh then and
there.

   When they had gone, I asked one of the lower-ranking
brothers why the dissenters were so angry. “Oh, they resent the
influence of the Christians.”
  “The Christians?” I wondered. “What Christians?”

  “The Ceile De,” he told me. “Do you not know this?”

   “I have not been among the filidh very long,” I replied. “Many
things are still new to me.”

  “The Ceile De are followers of the Christian god, Esu,” he told
me. “They revere him with the same esteem as An Ründa.”

  “An Ründa,” I repeated. “The Mysterious.”

   “Indeed,” he agreed. “The Ceile De have grown in number
among the Learned, and their presence is seen as a threat to
those who think that the brotherhood should remain forever
unchanged.”

  “What do the Ceile De think?”

   “Ah,” he said, “they think this Esu is the completion of
everything the filidh believe. Truth against the world-you have
heard of this, yes?”

  Unwilling to confess further ignorance, I said, “I may have
heard it once or twice.”

   “Well, this Esu,” he confided, “is the truth by which all others
must be reckoned. At least,” he added with a diffident shrug,
“that is what the Ceile De believe.”

  “And you?” I asked. “Do you also believe this?”

   “I do,” he confided, then glanced around quickly as if afraid
someone might overhear. He caught himself and smiled. “What
is more, from tonight there is no longer any fear or shame in
discussing these things. Now that the Cadair Glan is established
among us, we can all speak freely.”

   That very night the new chief of the Holy Chair was chosen
from among the applicants, and it was none other than Datho.
Cormac, standing beside me, was elated. He sprang forward and
wrapped his teacher in a jubilant embrace, lifting him off his
feet. The dignified ollamh protested weakly, patting his former
pupil about the head and shoulders, while the other fil-idh
acclaimed the choice with shouts and cheers.

    Several other matters were decided then, and it was after
midnight when the formal gathering concluded. We stayed on
two more days, however, to allow Datho to hold council with his
fellow Ceile De. I think they talked about how best to establish
and organize the Cadair Clan, but as I was not included in the
talks, I found time to fish in the river, pick berries, and laze in
the sun with Datho’s two younger pupils. I stayed out of Buinne’s
way for the most part, seeing him only at mealtimes; where he
went and how he occupied himself the rest of the time, I could
not say and did not care so long as it was far away from me.

   Finally the day of leaving dawned, and it was a sad day, for it
meant that Cormac was going with Meabh and I would see him
no more. “Of course we will see each other,” he told me. “There
will be gatherings, and I will come to the rath if I can. Anyway,
the time will pass quickly.”

   “You have been better than a brother to me, Cormac,” I told
him. “If not for you, I would not be alive to stand before you and
thank you now.”

  “I did only what anyone would do.”

  “Buinne would not have done it,” I replied. “He bears me ill, I
know.”

   “You may be right,” Cormac conceded. “But you need have no
further concern for him. He will be leaving Datho soon.”

  “Not soon enough for me.”

   He smiled and gripped me by the shoulder. “Farewell, my
friend. Work hard at your learning, and the time will pass swiftly
enough. I will come and see you as soon as I can.” He paused,
“Oh, yes-and tell Sionan I have advanced in rank and now sit at
the feet of Meabh herself. Tell her that, will you?”

  “I will.”
   Still smiling, he stood before me, reluctant to leave. From the
riverbank one of Meabh’s servants called him away. He
embraced me one last time and departed. “Farewell, Cormac!” I
called after him. “Until we meet again!”

   Alas, could even Gwyn the Far-Seeing have guessed how long
that would be?

                                25

   Life in the druid house resumed. I was no longer strictly a
servant, although I retained some of my former duties and still
wore the iron collar of a slave. The two younger boys, Heber and
Tadhg, took on the more menial daily chores; I began lessons
with Datho and Iollan, and the house quickly settled into a new
rhythm-one that, much to my relief, did not include Buinne. In
view of his advancement in rank, he was sent to house
somewhere on the other side of the mountains to learn the
making of elixirs, potions, unguents, and suchlike for healing. I
did miss Cormac at first, but it was as he said: With the
demands of learning, I soon had little time for missing anyone.

   I waited a few weeks and then asked Datho if my slave collar
might be removed. He regarded me with an expression of benign
curiosity. “Why?”

   Of all the questions I had imagined as I practiced the
discussion over and over in my mind, this was one I had not
anticipated. Without thought I blurted, “Because it is hateful to
me!”

   “Ah,” he said, accepting my evaluation, “I see.” He fingered
his beard thoughtfully for a moment and then said, “You have
shown yourself a trustworthy servant and a ready student. If it
would please you to remove this token of your bondage, then I
see no harm.”

   His decision was more than gratifying. I thanked him and
then respectfully inquired when he thought the deed could be
accomplished.
   “It must be done with the king’s permission, of course,” he
said. “I will ask him when next I go to the rath.”

   Sensing that I had found an opportune time, I decided to risk
the greater prize. Plucking up my courage, I asked, “And do you
think we might also ask Lord Miliucc to grant my freedom?”

   The wise old bard considered this for a moment. He looked
into the air, his lips pursed. I did not press him but waited,
trying to quell the uneasy feeling in my stomach.

   Finally he said, “Insofar as a king is bound to honor the
request of his druid, it is best to make only the most judicious
entreaties.”

   “I understand,” I told him. “Perhaps it might not seem a
thing of much account to some, but to one noble born it chafes
me worse than this iron collar ever did.” I gave the twisted iron
ring a hard yank for emphasis.

  “Lord Miliucc will no doubt ask a boon in return,” said Datho.
“Do you have anything to offer him?”

   I had not thought of this. “I have but myself,” I answered.
“Perhaps the king would look favorably on a pledge of future
service as a filidh. Certainly a willing bard would be more
valuable to him than an unwilling shepherd.”

   “Well said,” concluded Datho. “If you are content to offer
yourself as a bard in the service of the king-should he require a
boon to help persuade him-then I will ask him to grant your
freedom.”

  “Thank you, Ollamh, you have made me very happy.”

   Happy? It was all I could do to keep from leaping about the
room and yelping with glee. I thanked Datho again and then, lest
I betray my true intentions somehow, retreated with my victory.
Soon, soon, and very soon, I would be free! In light of this joyous
event, my vision and vow were all too swiftly forgotten.

  In the meantime, having secured Datho’s promise, I renewed
my ardor for my duties. I did not wish to give the chief bard even
the least cause for concern or suspicion. I threw myself into the
work of the druid house, adopting the air and attitude of the
perfect servant.

   Datho was an exacting but not unreasonable master. His
knowledge was veritably oceanic in breadth and his learning
encompassed the universe, both seen and unseen, and this deep
and boundless erudition he undertook to pour into my own
pitiful bowl of a brain. On good days we walked out in the wood
or meadow or up to the mountain. On rainy days we sat together
in the druid house, where I would listen to him expound on the
movements of the stars; on the lineages of kings and their
kingdoms; on the various shrubs, herbs, and vegetables and
their useful properties; on the habits of forest animals, the
migrations of races and nations, or the correct way of healing
certain diseases.

   Mostly, however, I spent my time writing. Datho would recite
whole movements of various songs-“The Protection of the Honey
Isle.”

   “Finn and the Phantoms.”

   “The Four Pillars of Song.”

   “The Contention of Bards.”

   “Mabon and the Mysteries,” and many others-while I,
struggling to keep pace, repeated the lines and wrote them on
the ever-present wax tablet all bards-in-training used for their
lessons. When the tablet was filled, front and back, he would
send me away to commit the section to memory. When I could
recite the tale perfectly without looking at the tablet, then I
would melt and smooth the wax and we would begin again,
adding the next section, building on what I had learned.

   In his first year a fledgling filidh is expected to learn no fewer
than twenty songs, or tales, and to be able to recite them
beginning to end whenever asked. In addition to this, because I
was not a native Irish speaker-and even my knowledge of the
British tongue was not extensive -Datho instructed me in the use
and meaning of words, which he said I would need if I were ever
to acquire the briamon, the word of power or, as it was often
called by normal folk, the “Dark Tongue,” by which the
druid-kind performed many wonders.

   Thus my days were filled morning to night with work and
study. Curiously, the learning appealed to me. I enjoyed
mastering the obscure lore - especially the songs and stories
-and delving deep into the peculiar wisdom of the Learned
Brotherhood. Be that as it may, what little time I could steal
from study or chores I spent at the rath with Sionan. Sometimes
she would walk back with me as far as the stream, where we
would sit on the bank and talk, or, if it was evening, we might lie
in the grass together.

   More and more she was in my thoughts-along with Cormac’s
stern warning not to disappoint her. Sionan herself breathed no
word of either frustration or hope; she seemed to accept the way
things were between us and did not seek to alter them one way
or another. Still I thought about her and about what she would
think when, one day soon, I left.

   That day seemed as far away as ever, for, despite the ollamh’s
promise, the days went by and Datho made no mention of going
to the rath. I began to fear he had forgotten or that he had
thought better of his decision and changed his mind. All the
same, I dared not ask him again in case my impatience provoked
or angered him. I bore my apprehension in silence, pretending
to be the dutiful student and then racing off to take my
frustrations out on Sionan.

   One warm day, upon approaching the rath, I saw her, alone,
by the stream; she was washing a garment in the water. I
sneaked up and surprised her with a kiss and then led her down
along the stream where some willow trees grew. There we
stripped off our clothes, swam in the stream, and then made love
in the long grass. Afterward we lay together and talked while the
sun dried us.

  “I asked Datho to seek my release from the king,” I told her.
“He said he would do it.”
  She rolled over on her stomach and looked at me with her
dark eyes. “What will you do then?”

  The question caught me off my guard. “What do you mean?”

   “You know what I mean,” she said pointedly, and I thought
she had somehow guessed my secret. But she continued, saying,
“Once you have your freedom, what will you do?”

   “I will keep studying,” I told her firmly, “until I become a
bard.” She regarded me silently, and I could not tell what she
was thinking, so I added, “Datho thinks I may have to offer the
king a few years’ service as a filidh in exchange for my slave
collar.”

   “Well,” she said, “then at least you can stay in the rath. We
can be together whenever we like. We can even be married.”

  That was all she said, but it cut at my heart like a knife. For
despite my exuberant-and ill-advised-words on the subject, I
knew I must soon forsake her.

   “Of course, my love,” I told her, Cormac’s stern warning
echoing in my thoughts. Not caring to discuss the matter
further, I reached out and pulled her to me. I kissed her mouth,
and throat, and breasts, and then rolled her on top of me.

    The first stars were showing through gaps in the clouds when
at last I took my final lingering kiss and started back to the
druid house. Sionan stood on the bank and watched until I was
out of sight.

   On the way I was assailed by guilt and shame for deceiving
Sionan. I hated myself for doing it. Moreover, I thought she was
beginning to suspect I was not telling her the truth. The only
solution, I could see, was to try to move the matter along
somehow. I resolved to speak to Datho again at the first good
opportunity.

   That night, I lay on my pallet and thought how best to do this,
and quickly arrived at several appeals he could not possibly
gainsay-and just as quickly discarded each as unsatisfactory in
one way or another. The next morning, when it came time for
my lesson, Datho took me out to one of the oaks where, in good
weather, he liked to do his teaching. Heber and Tadhg were with
Iollan, who was letting them practice scratching ogham lines on
a scrag of rock behind the house.

    Before I could ask about my slave collar, the druid said,
“Cormac told me your grandfather was a presbyter in the church
of the Holy Esu.”

   “He was that,” I replied, somewhat surprised that he should
raise the subject.

   Datho nodded and lowered himself onto a small three-legged
stool he kept under the oak. He put out his hand and indicated
that I should sit on the ground before him. “As chief of the Ceile
De of Eire, I have decided that it shall be my work to build a
bridge to Britain. What do you think of that?”

  “I think it most ambitious, Ollamh,” I answered. “Perhaps a
boat would be a better choice.”

   He laughed, his voice resounding through the little wood like
the peal of a bell. “The bridge I shall build, Corthirthiac, is made
not of stone or timber but of faith and goodwill.”

  When we were together as master and pupil, he always called
me by my filidh name; the rest of the time I was still Succat.
“Not the most durable of materials, Ollamh,” I replied.

   “Perhaps not,” he allowed. “But the ties between the
druid-kind of Eire and Britain are ancient and many. Those ties
will be strengthened, but it is the church of your grandfather
that I wish to reach with my bridge.”

   Unable to think of any possible value which might be derived
from this attempt, I could only stare and ask, “Why?”

  “Truth against the world,” he replied in the elliptical fashion
much beloved of bards.

   It was the same thing the young bard had told me at the
gathering. I still had no idea what he was talking about, but I
held my tongue.

   “This,” he continued after a moment, “is the soul of our
teaching: Truth against the world. So it has always been, so
shall it ever be.”

   I was about to ask what this odd saying meant, but Datho
held up his hand. “Only listen,” he said. Closing his eyes, he
began nodding his head, and in a moment he started to sing. He
sang:

   In every person there is a soul,

   In every soul there is intelligence,

   In every intelligence there is thought,

   In every thought there is either good or evil,

   In every evil there is death,

   In every good there is life,

   In every life there is God.

  He repeated the little verse once more. “Now you sing it with
me,” he instructed, and I sang it with him several more times
until I had it. “This the filidh believe,” he told me, “and it is the
beginning of wisdom. So tell me: Do you think your grandfather
would have agreed?”

   “Without a doubt,” I replied.

   “Even so,” he said. “This we have believed from the beginning.
But many people - especially the Roman priests of Britain -have
forgotten this. They look upon the Ceile De and see enemies
where they should see brothers. Everywhere they go, they strive
to uproot our traditions and plant their foreign observances
instead. Yet we have been in the land far longer than they. Our
traditions were not passed on to us by men but were given to us
by the All-Wise himself.”
   I suppose I could not disguise my skepticism any longer.
Datho read the disbelief on my face and said, “I see you are the
child of your grandfather.”

   “How should I be otherwise?” I asked.

   Datho did not reply at once. He laced his fingers beneath his
chin and looked down his nose at me for a long moment. “You
have never heard ‘The Tale of the Strong Upholder’?”

   “No, Ollamh, you have not told me.”

  “Then this,” he said, his eyes lighting with pleasure, “is a most
auspicious day. Listen, and I shall tell you how it is that True
Belief came to DeDanaan’s children.”

   Closing his eyes, he tilted his head back and, drawing a deep
breath, made a sound halfway between a moan and a sigh.
Rather than trailing off into silence, however, the utterance grew
until it seemed to fill the wood with a low, droning, sonorous
tone. When it finished, silence reigned in the wood-as the calm
and serenity that follows a storm.

   “In the days before the present age,” the wise ollamh began,
“when Aedh Slane was high king and Fintan mac Dara was chief
bard of Eire, word went out that the high king had determined
to build a great hall at Tara. This he decreed, and this he did.
Gathering the best builders and finest crasftmen in all the
island, he assembled them on the plain below the hill and set
forth his plan, which he had drawn in gall upon a deerskin.

   “One glimpse of the king’s plan and the workers fell back in
amazement. ‘To be sure,’ said Oscar, the Master Builder of Eire,
‘this hall is the most prodigious ever seen in all this land. A
whole forest will be required for the timber, and a lake of gold
for its fittings. Though we labor fifty years, it will require fifty
years more before it is finished.’

   “Hearing this, the king puffed up his chest with pride and
said, ‘Then why do you yet stand gaping? There is the plan and
yonder the forest. Go to work!’
    “So the king commanded, and so they did. The workmen had
not felled many trees, however, when the lords and princes of
Eire who had been deprived of builders and laborers began
grumbling about the high king’s new hall. They found fault with
its size, which was larger than any of their own, and with its
cost, which, like a flood running downhill, would eventually find
its way to them.

   “Now: Tuan mac Carell, filidh of vast renown, was alive in
those days, abiding in the wood by himself. He heard the axes of
the workmen cutting the great oaks, and he heard the grumbling
of the small kings and lords. Up he gets, and off he goes. He
summons the small kings and lords and addresses them, saying,
‘Why do you stand there moaning and making mouths at the
high king? If you have a grievance, why not go to him, speak out
your complaint, and demand satisfaction?’

    “The small kings looked at each other in dismay. One of them,
Lord Goiben, plucked up his quivering courage and said, ‘If we
fail to heed the wisdom of your urging, the reason, you will find,
is this: King Aedh is the greatest king ever seen in this island. He
will not suffer anyone to gainsay his decrees, and anyone who
tries is instantly set upon by the king’s warhost. That
unfortunate fellow is flayed alive, and his skin is sent to his
widow for a keepsake.’

    “Old Tuan mac Carell blew out his cheeks. ‘Is it a man who
speaks thus or an insect? Hear me then. Though he may not
listen to one of you, yet he might listen to two. And though he
may not listen to two of you, yet he will surely listen to three.
And though he may not listen to three of you, yet I believe he will
listen to four. And though he may not listen to four of you, yet I
insist he will listen to five. And though he - ’

   “The small kings threw their hands in the air. ‘Enough!’ they
cried. ‘We understand. We will all go together to the high king
atTara, and he will not fail to hear our complaint.’

    “The small kings and kinglets went home and gathered their
bards, their wise counselors, and their learned advisors, and they
all marched to Tara to confront the high king over the
extravagance of his great hall. Early one day, as dawn lit the
morning sky, the great company assembled on the Plain of Tara,
which is below the sacred hill, and called to the king to attend
them.

    “High King Aedh, making a circuit of the royal rath in the
morning, looked out and saw all the lords and lordlings gathered
with their bards and advisors and wise counselors, and he called
Fintan to him and said, ‘Chief Bard, look out upon Magh Fal and
tell me what you see.’

   “Fintan, wise and good, looked down from the sacred hill. ‘O,
Mighty King,’ he said, ‘I see a great assembly of nobles and
bards.’

   “ ‘And what, from this, do you foretell?’ inquired the king.

   “ ‘From the frowns on their faces, I foretell contention and
disputation, controversy and argument. In a word: trouble.’

   “ ‘Can it be eluded?’ wondered the king.

  “ ‘Great King, the time for evading this contention is long
past.’

   ‘ ’Well, if it cannot be avoided,‘ replied the king, ’then we will
go down and see what remedy they seek.‘

   “The high king gathered his counselors, advisors, musicians,
and not a few of his finest warriors; he mounted his noble
chariot with the silver wheels and, with the carynx blaring and
drums booming, he drove down to the plain with this great
company to see what had stirred the small kings from their
nests.

   “Driving his chariot into their midst, High King Aedh warmly
greeted his lords and lordlings and all their retainers and
retinues, and asked, ‘What event of great moment has brought
you here today, my friends? Can it be you have come to pay the
tribute yet owing?’

   “Lord Goiben, who had been chosen to speak for them all,
dismounted from his horse and approached the chariot; he
stretched forth his hand to touch the king’s foot. ‘Wise King,’ he
said, ‘Champion of Justice, Friend of the Oppressed, Generous
Giver, we come to you today because we cannot rest for the
torment of a question only you can answer.’

   “High King Aedh looked at the great assembly and shook his
head sadly. ‘Well,’ he sighed, ‘since I am not to have the tribute,
the least you can do is tell me the question that is causing you
such torment.’

  ‘ ’The question, Great King, is this: If the king is servant of his
people, is it right that he should have the greatest portion?‘

  “ ‘Now, that,’ said Aedh, ‘is an excellent question. Allow me to
confer with my wise counselor, and I will soon provide the
answer you require.’

   “The high king turned to his druid Fintan and said, ‘Evil is
this day! Some cunning is behind this, believe me. For if I say
the king’s portion must be smaller, then they will say I cannot
build the great hall. If I say the king’s portion must be larger,
then they will say that I am neither just nor righteous, and they
will take the kingship away from me. What wicked person put
them up to this? Tell me, and I will have his skull for a drinking
cup.’

   “Fintan, loyal as he was wise, replied, ‘If you would keep your
hall, then you must pose them another question. If they cannot
answer you, then you need not answer them.’

   “ ‘An excellent plan!’ cried the high king. Then, considering all
the fil-idh, bards, and ollamhs, he despaired, and added, ‘But
what question can I possibly ask that they cannot answer?’

  “Fintan leaned close; putting his lips to the king’s ear, he said,
The question you must ask is this: Why and wherefore is Eire,
most favored of islands, divided as it is?‘

   “High King Aedh embraced his faithful counselor and,
removing a gold band from his arm, gave it to Fintan, saying,
‘Now I know you are the wisest of the wise! Who else could have
thought of such a question? Tell me, what is the answer?’
  “At this Fintan merely shook his head and said, ‘I do not
know.’

   “The high king glowered. ‘If you do not know, let us hope no
one else does either. Come what may, I will ask them.’ Turning to
the great assembly, he raised his voice and said, ‘I will gladly
answer your question. Indeed, I am anxious to do so. But first
you must answer the question I shall pose.’ And he asked them
the question Fintan had given him.

    “When the members of the assembly heard this, they quickly
came together to discuss how best to answer. All the kings and
their wise advisors and counselors pondered long. One after
another cast, but failed to strike the answer. Finally Lord Goiben
called Tuan mac Cairell to him and said, ‘You have heard the
question. You are the wisest and most learned among us. What
is the answer?’

   “Wise Tuan shook his head. ‘That there is an answer cannot
be denied. But I have never heard it-and I am the oldest human
being who ever lived. Therefore I think you must accept your
defeat as gracefully as you can.’

   ‘ ’Though we do many another thing,‘ replied Goiben, ’that is
the one thing we will not do. Back to the forest with you!‘

   “The kings and kinglets fell to arguing then about what
should be done if no answer could be found. They were still
writhing in disputation when the sun soared high overhead.
Suddenly ugly black clouds boiled up to cover the sky and the
sound of a mighty wind filled all the world. And though it was
bright midday, the heavens grew dark as twilight after the sun
has set. Not the slightest breath of wind could be felt, yet the
roaring of the unseen wind grew louder. There was thunder but
no lightning, and the hair stood up on the necks of men and
beasts alike. Clots of hail fell out of the sky and lay in the grass
smoldering as if on fire.

   “All at once they heard a voice crying out to them. They
turned and saw, approaching out of the west in the direction of
the setting sun, a mighty champion, fair and tall-taller than any
three of the tallest warriors among them and more wonderful to
look upon than the most handsome man they had ever seen. His
eyes were the color of the windswept sky, and his teeth were
straight and white. His chin was smooth-shaven, and his brow
was high and fine.

   “For a cloak the magnificent stranger wore a shining veil as
radiant and rainbow-hued as crystal, and for sandals, hammered
bands of purest gold. His hair was pale as flax and uncut, falling
in curls to the middle of his back. This mighty champion carried
two stone tablets in his left hand and a silver branch with three
fruits in his right, and these were the fruits which were on the
branch: apples, hazelnuts, and acorns. Around his waist he wore
a girdle of bronze plates, and each plate could have served as a
platter for four kings. In his girdle he carried a knife with a
blade made of glass that was sharper than the sharpest steel.

   “Around the stranger’s neck was a golden tore as thick as a
baby’s arm, and on the ends were jewels: a ruby on the right and
a sapphire on the left. His hands were broad and strong, and
when he spoke, his voice sounded like the waves upon the shore
or like the rushing of many waters.

   “He came to stand before the assembled kings of Eire, and he
said, ‘Greetings, friends -if friends you be.’

   “The princes and princelings quailed before him, but High
King Aedh drove his chariot to where the stranger stood. He
raised his hand in kingly greeting and said, I am king here, and
this is my realm. I welcome you, champion -if champion you be.
What has brought you here?‘

   “ ‘I have come from the setting of the sun, and I am going to
the rising. My name is Trefuilngid Treochair,’ answered the
stranger.

  “ ‘A strange name,’ replied the king. ‘And why has that name
been given you?’

   “ ‘Easy to say,’ replied Trefuilngid, ‘because it is myself, and
no one else, who upholds the sun, causing it to rise in the east
and set in the west.’
   “The high king regarded the towering stranger with curiosity.
‘Forgive me, friend, for asking,’ he said, ‘but why are you here at
the setting of the sun when it is at the rising you must be?’

   “ ‘Easy to say,’ answered the marvelous stranger, ‘but not so
easy to hear, I think. For, in a land far away from here, a man
was tortured today-and for that reason I am on my way to the
east.’

   ‘ ’This tortured man,‘ inquired the king, ’of what account was
he that one such as yourself should take notice?‘

   ‘ You cut to the heart of the matter, to be sure,“ replied the
stranger, ’for the man of whom I speak was born to be the ruler
of the world. He was called the Prince of Peace, Righteous Lord,
and King of Kings.‘

   “At these words Lord Aedh and his noblemen groaned.
‘Certainly this is a grave injustice, and deeply to be lamented,’
observed the king, ‘yet such things are known to happen from
time to time. Even so, it does not explain why you have come
among us like this.’

   ‘ ’The man I speak of was crucified and killed by the men who
tortured him,‘ Trefuilngid explained. ’His name was Esu, and he
was the rightful High King of Heaven, Son of the Strong
Upholder, Lord of Life and Light. When he died, the sun stepped
aside, and darkness has covered the face of the earth. I came
forth to find out what ailed the sun, learned of this outrage, and
now I am telling you.‘

   “The king drew himself up and said, ‘I thank you for telling
us, friend. But tell us, one thing more: Where can we find the vile
cowards who perpetrated this injustice? Only say the word, and
rest assured we will not cease until we have punished them with
the death they undoubtedly deserve.’

   ‘ Your wrath is noble and worthy, friend,’ replied the
magnificent stranger, ‘but it is misplaced. For in three days’
time the same man who was crucified will break the bonds of
death and rise again to walk the world of the living. Through
him death itself will be conquered forever.’
   “When they heard this good news, the king and all the
noblemen and bards of Eire wept for joy. They demanded to
know how this had come about, and the glittering stranger told
them, ‘It has been ordained from the foundation of the world.
But it has been revealed to you now so that you may prepare
your people for the age to come.’ ”

    Here Datho finished his recitation. Silence stretched between
us as I contemplated the tale. “Now you know,” he said after a
moment, “how knowledge of the Truth came to Eire and why it
is that I wish to build my bridge.”

                                 26

   For all Datho’s good intentions, I was no nearer to gaining my
freedom. Discouraged and dissatisfied, I determined to seize the
very next opportunity to advance the matter -come what may.
Events overtook me, however; like a storm at sea that hurls the
poor sailor and his boat wherever it will, my plans and I were
blown far off course.

   It came about this way: The next day a rider appeared at
Cnoc an Dair with a summons from the king. It seems a party of
traders working the western coast had put in at the fishing
settlement on the shore. They were Gauls with a ship full of
goods obtained in Baetica, Lusitania, Aquitania, and elsewhere:
glass cups, bowls, beads, steel knives, fine cloth, leather, olives,
and suchlike. A few of the traders approached the rath to invite
the nobles down to the ship where they could see the goods for
themselves.

   The traders’ dexterity with the elusive Irish tongue was crude
and clumsy. Still, while they were trying to entice their
prospective buyers to come and view their wares Sionan
overheard one of the men speaking Latin to his fellow. She told
Queen Grania that I knew this speech, and so the king sent
Forgall to fetch me. “The king has need of his slave,” the warrior
said, and explained his errand to Datho. “He is to come with me
at once. I will return him to you when he is finished.”

   “Perhaps you might accompany us as well, Ollamh,” I
suggested, hoping that while we were at the rath, I could get him
to speak to the king about my release.

   Datho declined, but was more than happy to send me off, so I
rode to the seaside settlement with Forgall, whereupon I
performed the task of translating between the Irish and the
Gauls.

   It was easily done. The traders were little better than thieves,
and when they saw that I was not to be taken in by their
extravagant boasts over the qualities of their merchandise, they
assumed a businesslike demeanor and their prices became more
reasonable.

   In the end I made good bargains for Lord Miliucc, acquiring
for him a large jug of red wine and a length of fine blue cloth for
his lady at prices my own mother would not have been ashamed
to accept at home. I also gained a valuable boon for myself, as
the queen was mightily impressed with my ability to haggle with
the traders and asked if I might teach her some of this useful
speech. I suppose she thought that next time traders came, she
might bargain for herself.

    With Datho’s permission I agreed, of course; if nothing else, it
meant I could see Sionan more often. On certain days I would go
to the rath to teach rudimentary Latin to Queen Grania and
some of her ladies. She preferred meeting with me late in the
day, and it was almost always dark by the time we finished and
therefore too late to return to the druid house. So naturally I
stayed with Sionan in the hut the queen had given her. Sionan
told me the gossip of Miliucc’s court, and I told her what I was
learning from Datho. We held each other through the night, and
though I ached to leave the warmth of her bed, dawn found me
flitting across the valley and toiling up the hill to the druid
house.

   This arrangement, agreeable though it was, lasted a few
weeks and then began to sour. Despite my repeated offers, Datho
never accompanied me to the rath as I hoped he would;
therefore the subject of my freedom still had not been put before
the king. Sionan, for her part, began to speak as if our
arrangements should be formalized. Mindful of Cormac’s
warning, I resisted such a notion-but it did not take a druid to
see that, should we continue, Sionan’s cruel disappointment
loomed like a storm-troubled mountain before us.

   And then Cormac suddenly appeared one day to say that he
was leaving Eire. I happened to be in the rath when he arrived,
and I went to with Sionan to greet him. “Meabh is taking me to
Britain to learn from an ollamh there named Cethrwm,” he told
us. “It is a very great honor.”

  “Where will you go?” asked Sionan.

   “It is a druid house in the north,” he said, “not far from Cend
Rigmon-aid on the eastern coast. Do you know it?”

  “No,” I said. The name meant nothing to me.

  “How long will you be away?” asked Sionan.

  “Oh, a season or two,” replied Cormac lightly. “A year at the
most.”

  “A whole year?”

  “What of that? Before you remember I’ve gone, I’ll be back.
And when I return, I will be an ollamh.”

   I complimented him on his swift advancement and wished
him well. Although Sionan declared herself delighted with her
brother’s good fortune, it was all she could do to force a wistful
smile.

   “Now,” he said, “I must go and beg the king’s leave, but I will
return with beer and bread, and we will drink a celebration to
my safe journey and swift return.”

   When he had gone, I turned to Sionan. “Why so sad? We’ve
seen him little enough this summer. A season or two more will
make no difference.”

  She frowned and turned away. “It’s not that.”

  “What then?”
   “If he goes, he will never return.”

   “Of course he will return,” I insisted.

   Reaching out, I touched her shoulder; I could feel her
trembling.

   “Sionan, what is wrong?” She made no answer. “Tell me.”

  She turned her face to mine. Tears filled her eyes. “No one
who goes to Britain ever returns.”

   “They do!” I assured her.

   “No.” She shook her head firmly. “They do not.”

    “Of course, they do!” I insisted. I forced a chuckle at the
absurdity of her claim, all the while cringing inside with the
knowledge that I, too, would hie away to Britain as soon as I
could and never return. “It is only a day’s sailing from here, after
all.”

  She grew petulant. “Now you are mocking me,” she said,
pulling away.

   “Listen,” I reasoned, “people come and go to Britain all the
time-as I should know. Cormac will go and study for a while, and
when he is finished, he will come back. You’ll see.”

   Though Sionan said no more about it, I could see she was far
from convinced. I wondered what had put such a notion into her
head; I might have pursued it further, but Cormac appeared
with the food and beer, and we all sat down to eat and drink in
celebration of his good fortune.

   We walked back to the druid house that night so Cormac
might bid farewell to Datho and Iollan, and we arrived to find
that while we were at the rath, Buinne had also returned.

   In all the time he had been away, I had not held a single
thought about the contemptible bard. I had forgotten precisely
how unpleasant he could be. Before the night was through,
however, he more than reminded me.

   “You have wasted no time, I see,” he said the first moment he
got me alone.

   “Good to see you, too, Buinne. What happened? Did they
grow weary of your creeping around and throw you out?”

   “Busy, busy.” His smile was thin and icy. “But your schemes
will come to nothing. I will see to that.”

   I glared at him with dull loathing. “Let us make a pact, you
and I. Stay away from me, and I promise I will stay far away
from you.”

  “And let you cloud Datho’s good judgment with your tricks
and lies?” He shook his head slowly. “No. That I will not do.”

  “Then it will be on your head.”

   He ignored me, his lips writhed with distaste. “You vile,
insignificant worm. You sicken me.”

  “I warn you, Buinne, stay away from me.”

   I could feel the cold flame of his hatred on my back as I
turned and walked off.

   I did my best to avoid him over the next few days. I sensed he
was watching me, waiting for me to make some gross mistake he
could use as a wedge to drive between Datho and myself. I
remained on my best behavior, determined not to allow Buinne
the slightest opportunity to attack me for any reason. After all,
summer was going, and I still wore my slave collar.

   I worked hard at my studies, acquiring not only knowledge
but a little judgment along the way. I delved into the many
secrets of the earth and its subtle energies as Datho introduced
me to the manipulation of elements, which simple folk consider
magic. I even gained my first staff: the druid’s rod of power,
without which the filidh can do but little. It was merely a willow
wand, but I prized it nonetheless.
   “It appears you may surpass even my lofty hopes for you,
Corthirthiac,” wise Datho told me when presenting me with this
token of my achievement.

   “I trust you will never have cause to regret your decision,
Ollamh.”

   “What decision, my son?”

   “To allow me to become a bard. You saved my life.”

   He raised his hands in gentle reproof. “You honor me too
highly. The All-Wise has gifted you with everything you require
to thrive. If I have done anything, it was merely to open the way
to you.”

  “More than that, Ollamh, far more.” The time had come, I
decided, and I plunged ahead. “It is because of your unstinting
generosity that I hesitate to ask anything more of you.”

   “Ask me anything. If it is in my power, I will grant it gladly.”

   “If I hesitate,” I began, “it is only for fear of offending you
-and that I would never wish to do.”

  “I am your ollamh,” Datho replied with benign patience.
“How can anything you ask offend me?”

   “It is just that… well, some months ago you said you would
ask the king to grant my freedom.” I touched the cold iron at my
throat. “Yet the collar remains, and I am still a slave.”

   “Is that all?” he said, his voice ringing with good humor. “You
have no cause for concern, my son. Lughnasadh is soon upon us.
This is a most propitious time for making such requests. It has
long been in my mind to ask the king then. I thought I told you.”

   “I never heard it.”

   “Well, it makes no difference. You have worked hard and
achieved much. I am proud of you, my son.” Placing his hands
on my shoulders, he raised his eyes to the leafy canopy of oak
branches above. “A wonderful destiny stretches before you. I
have seen it. I have seen you standing among the brightest stars
of the heavenly firmament commanding a mighty army. You will
be a prince among bards, and men yet unborn will bless your
name.”

   I knew the proper response for a blessing of this magnitude,
and I was happy to perform it. Taking his hands into my own, I
kissed them, whereupon he embraced me like a son.

   Datho must have mentioned it to the others, for a short while
later Iollan complimented me on my impending freedom.
“Losing your slave collar,” he said. “Well and good -and not
before time.”

  “Thank you, brother,” I said. He went away smiling and
nodding, soon lost in the inexplicable thoughts that filled his
days.

   This, I think, is how Buinne also came to hear of it-or, more
probably, he overheard us talking and decided to make his move.

   “So here sits the smug slave,” he hissed, sidling up to me as I
sat beneath the oak. I was writing an epigram in the ogham
Datho had set for me that day, and I had stopped for a moment
to think, resting my head against the tree trunk. “Exhausted
from all your scheming?”

    “Did I hear a rat vomit in the wood?” I opened my eyes. “No,
it is only Buinne.”

  “You have overreached yourself, slave boy.”

  “I warned you to stay away from me.”

  “Something will have to be done.”

   He stood over me with such malevolent mirth that I wanted
nothing more than to strike the odious smirk from his impudent
face. Tossing aside the wax tablet, I took up my willow wand and
rose, ready for whatever he had in mind. “Do your worst, Buinne.
Go to it-I am not afraid.”
  “You will be, slave boy,” he said, backing away, his grin
widening to a deathlike grimace. “You will be.”

   I said nothing of this to anyone, of course, and returned to my
lessons as if nothing had happened. But the world changed that
day, and I was too blind with conceit and arrogance to see it.

                                27

   The past is seen with a clarity wholly lacking in the present.
Memory is an illusion formed of equal parts recognition and
regret. Nothing is ever what it seems.

   Of all men alive beneath wide heaven’s ever-circling sun, I
know this to be true. For, wrapped in false security, I continued
as if nothing had happened. Yet already the world and my place
in it were tumbling like a fragile greenwood bower in the first
fierce gale of winter.

   I saw nothing of this. Blissful in my ignorance, I strode boldly
forth, believing the path stretching before me into the future was
solid under foot. Poor, blind idiot that I was-there was no path,
no destination, no future. I was sinking in a morass and did not
know it.

   The days remained fair and full, the cattle grew fat and sleek,
the crops stood tall in the fields, and the tuath enjoyed an
uncommon prosperity. I saw Sionan whenever I could; we talked
of my freedom, and I continued deceiving her with easy words
about how it would be when we were free to marry. In truth I
intended escape, and the entanglements of marriage were the
last thing I wanted.

   I eagerly counted the days until Lughnasadh and the Festival
of First Fruits. Datho and Iollan occupied themselves with plans
for the Co-moradh, the gathering of bards; Buinne was nearly
always away collecting various herbs and plants to make his
concoctions, and so it fell to me to prepare for the festival. I
examined the cattle and chose those acceptable for the sacrifice,
and I saw that the wagon, maiden loaf, and scythe were
prepared to Datho’s exacting instructions.
   The first hint that anything was amiss came the day before
the celebration. I returned from the rath, where I had made the
final inspection to see that all was ready, and went to make my
report to Datho. I could not find him, and there was no response
to my call. I made a quick search, however, and eventually found
him in the nearby wood. He was sitting on a rock in a clearing;
the sun was on his head, but he was fast asleep.

  “Ollamh?” I said, creeping near.

  At the sound of my voice, he started. His eyes flickered open,
and he started up, his expression wild and fearful. The look
passed in an instant. He saw me and came to himself at once.
“Oh! You startled me, Succat. I grew tired… -.”

   I noticed he did not use my bardic name. “I have been looking
for you, Ollamh.”

  “Well, here I am.” He rose and quickly turned to glance
behind him, as if expecting to catch someone-lurking in the
shadows. “Where have you been?”

   “You sent me to the rath - for Lughnasadh. I was to make the
arrangements, remember?”

  “Ah, yes. Then come, tell me, is everything in order?”

  He started off toward the druid house and then turned again.
“My staff!”

   “Here it is, Ollamh,” I said, stooping to retrieve his good oak
staff from beside the rock where it lay.

   We walked back to the house-he striding ahead, myself
behind with a puzzled frown over his curious behavior. But the
lapse was soon forgotten as we busied ourselves with making
ready for the Comoradh. That night we ate a simple meal; Heber
and Tadhg cooked and served it and, while we ate, recited their
day’s lesson for us. Quiet, well-mannered boys, they stood
straight and tall and chanted a portion of “Fionn and the
Salmon of Wisdom,” a splendid tale, one of the first learned by
young bards.
   “… then Fionn lay down on the grassy banks of the stream,”
the boys chanted, their high, reedy voices ringing clear, “and he
began to sing. While he sang, he let his hand fall gently into the
water, dangling his fingers in the clear, glassy pool, where he
knew the ancient salmon was to be found…”

   We all sat listening: Iollan, eyes half closed, tapping his
fingers lightly on the table as the boys recited the age-old song;
Buinne, staring beneath hooded eyes, brooding and bored;
Datho distractedly fingering his mustache and glancing around
anxiously.

   “There in the cool, shadowed depths of the pool, the wise old
salmon heard Fionn’s fine, melodious voice and awoke. He said
to himself, ‘What manner of man is it who sings so sweetly and
so well?’ So saying, the venerable fish bestirred himself to swim
up and - ”

   Suddenly Datho leaped to his feet. “Enough!” His voice was
tight, his eyes wild, as he rushed from the table.

  “Ollamh!” I started after him but had run only a few paces
when he turned on me.

  “Stay back!”

  “Have you seen something, Ollamh?”

   He stared at me, and recognition came flooding back to him;
his eyes lost their wild appearance, and he flushed with
embarrassment. “Oh, Sue-cat…” He looked back at the others,
who were now gazing at him with concern.

  “Are you well, Ollamh?” I moved to help him.

   “Go back,” he said. “Go back to the table.” A sickly smile
appeared on his face. “Let them finish the tale.” He turned and
strode from the house. “I am sorry… I cannot… stay…”

   Later that night I was lying on my pallet, awake, and heard
Datho come up the stairs to the sleeping room. He lay down with
a groan and was soon heavily asleep. I slept, too, and woke early
the next morning. I gathered my things and went outside to
wash and then dressed in my new gray robe, for I was to take
part in the Lughnasadh ceremony.

   One by one the others rose and began making themselves
ready. I quickly finished my preparations and then, eager to be
off to the rath, where Sionan waited, went to help the young
ones. “Where is Datho?” I asked Heber as he tied the thin corded
belt around his slender waist.

  “He has not come down, master.” He glanced over to Tadhg,
who shrugged. “Do you want me to rouse him?”

   “No,” I replied, “I will do it. Finish dressing. We will leave as
soon as Datho is ready.”

   I went up to find the ollamh lying on his pallet, sound asleep.
Kneeling beside him, I touched his shoulder and said his name.
This brought no response, so I shook him gently. “Ollamh,” I
said, “all is ready. It is time to rise.” I shook him again. “Datho?”

   It was then I noticed the pale foam on his lips and at the
corners of his mouth.

   I shook him harder this time and called his name aloud, my
heart sinking into the pit of my stomach. When he did not
respond, I ran to the stairs and called Iollan to come help me.
“Hurry!” I shouted. “I cannot waken Datho!”

    As Iollan hurried up the stairs, I returned to the pallet and
lightly placed my hand to the druid’s neck, but felt no surge of
life there, and his flesh was cold to the touch.

  “Here!” said Iollan, joining me. “Datho! Datho! Wake up!”
The filidh took his old friend by the shoulder and began shaking
him violently.

   “No, brother,” I said, pulling his hands away. “He is not
sleeping. He is dead.”

  The old druid regarded me with a pale, bewildered
expression. “Dead, you say? Ah, no, no… dead?”
  “He must have died in his sleep.”

   Iollan turned his eyes to the body and at last comprehended
my meaning. He sat back on his heels, resting his hands on his
thighs. “Ah, poor Datho,” he sighed; his hands began to tremble.

  Buinne came running up the stairs. “What’s happened? What
have you done?”

   “Poor Datho,” said Iollan again. Raising sorrowful eyes, he
said, “He is dead, Buinne. Our ollamh and master is dead.”

   Buinne stared at the body for a moment. He drew a deep
breath, as if trying to calm himself. “How?”

   “I cannot say,” I answered. “I came just now to rouse him and
found him as you see him.”

   “We must send to the king; he must be told at once,” said
Iollan.

  “What about the Lughnasadh celebration?” I asked.

  “Oh, we cannot possibly lead the rites now,” Iollan said. “We
must make preparations for his burial.”

   Buinne frowned. “No, the celebration will take place as
planned.”

   “It is not possible,” Iollan objected. “When an ollamh dies,
there is much to be done -ceremonies to perform, services to
render. The Learned Brotherhood must be informed. We must
begin at once to -”

   “And I say it can wait!” snapped Buinne with a ferocity that
rocked doddering Iollan back on his haunches. The young druid
started away. “Leave him. We will go to the rath now.”

  “But we cannot just leave him,” protested Iollan weakly.

   Buinne rounded on the elder bard. “Get moving!” He
snatched Iollan by the arm and yanked him to his feet. “We are
going to lead the Lughnasadh ceremonies,” he said, his voice a
snarl of pent rage. “And then we will attend the gathering.” He
put his face close to the old man’s, his eyes hard and unfeeling.
“Everything will take place as planned.”

   There was a purpose at work in Buinne’s determination, and I
knew better than to disagree. What he suggested was, after all,
for the best; the celebration would have to go ahead as planned.
In any case a clash with him would avail nothing, so I decided to
bide my time and stood looking on without a word. Buinne
whipped his head around to glare at me. “Understood?” he
shouted.

  “Perfectly,” I answered softly.

   I turned to leave but instead watched as Buinne drew Datho’s
cloak over the dead man’s face. It may have been my
imagination, but it seemed to me that he took inordinate
satisfaction in performing that simple service. He had never
been able to disguise his thoughts-whatever he was thinking
appeared on his face for all to see -and in that instant I saw a
man who exulted in his elder’s death: an untimely death about
which I suspected even then that Buinne knew more than he was
saying.

   We gathered our things and proceeded to the rath, where the
people had assembled. The mood was high and bright as the sky
that day and, if not for Datho’s demise, it would have been a
splendid celebration.

   Soon after our arrival Buinne, Iollan, and myself sought out
the king and informed him of our ollamh’s death. “Datho dead?”
said Miliucc, taken aback by the news.

   “Lord and King,” replied Iollan, “we are confounded and
bereft. It has overtaken us without sign or warning.”

  “How did it happen?” asked Queen Grania gently.

  “Who can say, my Queen?” said Iollan. “Corthirthiac went to
wake him and found him dead.”

  “He died peacefully,” I offered. “His end was serene and quiet.
We knew nothing of it.”

   “Indeed,” confirmed Iollan sadly, “we knew nothing at all.”

  “It is unfortunate,” said Miliucc. Turning to Iollan, he said,
“Datho was a loyal and faithful friend. I will miss his wise
counsel and shrewd judgment.”

  “Of course,” said Buinne, deftly interposing himself, “you will
not lack the counsel and wisdom of a druid so long as I am here.”

   The king regarded him dully.

   “You are quick to dismiss your master and friend,” the queen
observed. “But Datho’s place will not be so easily or readily filled,
I think.” She regarded the young druid with a look of
unconcealed rancor.

    Buinne, realizing his mistake, quickly became solicitous.
“Naturally we are all mindful of our loss. With your permission,
lord, we will depart for the Comoradh as soon as the celebration
is completed, and we will take the body with us. There are rites
to be performed.”

   “You have my permission,” said Miliucc. “Do as you think
best.”

   “Thank you, my King. I will obey.” The snake -he made it
sound as if it were all the king’s idea and he but the dutiful
servant carrying out his lord’s command.

   The festivities were conducted. Owing to my having to take a
larger part in the observances, it was past midday before I found
a chance to speak to Sionan alone. I waited until our absence
would not be noted and pulled her into the stable with me. “I
have missed you,” she said, enfolding me in a passionate
embrace. She kissed me hard and, taking my hands, pulled me
down into the hay in one of the empty stalls.

  I returned her kiss, but she sensed my lack of ardor. “Well!
Have you grown tired of me already?”
   “Never say it,” I answered. “I have something to tell you.”

   “Tell me, then,” she said, kissing my neck. “And when you
finish, make love to me.”

    “Sionan, listen,” I said, taking her hands and holding them
still. “Something dreadful has happened. Datho is dead.”

   She stopped kissing me. “When?”

   “During the night, I think, or early this morning. I found him
in his bed.”

  “Oh, mo croi, I am sorry.” She put her hand to my cheek. “He
was a good friend to you and Cormac.”

   “That is not all. I think Buinne might have had something to
do with it.”

   “You think Buinne killed him?”

   “Yes -I mean, I think so. It is merely a suspicion, but I think
he poisoned Datho.”

   “Have you told anyone?”

   “Not yet.”

   “But you must tell the king.”

   “Not until I can be certain.”

   “What will happen now?”

   “We will take the body to the Comoradh. The other filidh will
help with the-”

   “No,” she interrupted, “I mean, what will happen to us?”

   “Us?” I could not think what she was saying.

   “Datho was going to ask the king for your freedom.”
   The shock of Datho’s death had completely driven that fact
from my mind. A great surge of dismay rolled over me, and I
went down beneath it. I stared at Sionan, unable to speak.

   “Succat, did you not think of that?”

   I fell back in the hay and lay there as despair clasped me to its
cold heart and claimed me for its own. “No,” I groaned, “I did
not think of that.”

   “What are we to do now?” she asked, her voice taking on a
shade of the woe I felt.

   I heard the question but was so dismayed I could make no
reply.

   “Succat?”

   “Well,” I said at last, “I suppose it will have to wait until I can
find someone else.”

   “What about Iollan?”

  I considered this possibility. “I could talk him into it, I
suppose. In any case he is my last hope.”

   “What about Buinne?”

   “Buinne hates me,” I told her. “He would know I put Iollan up
to asking the king for my freedom, and he would find some way
to prevent it. He would, I know it.”

  “Well, we can worry about that some other time,” she said.
Putting her hand behind my head, she drew my lips to hers.
“One way or another all will be well, I know.”

   She meant to cheer me, of course, but her vague assurance
only made it worse. The prospect of having to worry about what
Buinne might do cast me into a dismal, hopeless state which not
even Sionan’s ardent lovemak-ing could banish.

                                 28
   The journey to Cathair Ban was markedly unpleasant. It
rained most of each day, slowing our labored progress all the
more. The weather suited my mood, for we were carrying my
best hope for freedom to an untimely grave. Lord Miliucc had
given us an oxcart for the purpose of conveying the ollamh’s
body from the druid house to the Cormoradh, where Datho
would be accorded all the dignities of his rank. Now, wrapped in
his feathered cloak, oaken staff firmly grasped in his cold,
unfeeling hands, he rode for the last time through the land he so
loved.

    I remembered how Cormac and I had carried Madog’s body
with the aid of a simple rune of power, and I wondered why we
had not done so now. When I ventured to suggest that such
transport would be preferable to contending with an ox and cart
all the way to Cathair Ban, I received merely a growl of disdain
from Buinne and a shrug from Iollan, which suggested that
neither of them possessed this particular skill. Thus we were
forced to lumber along in a monotonous parade, wet to the skin
and miserable. Heber and Tadhg took it in turns to help, one
riding in the cart while the other led the ox, so I had little to do
but endure the long, slow march and keep out of Buinne’s way.

   I still had my suspicions that he had somehow abetted
Datho’s demise, and I watched for any sign that might betray
him, but Buinne gave away nothing, and so my misgivings
settled into a nebulous haze of doubt, suspicion, and sour
distrust.

   Forlorn, dispirited, and increasingly wary, I very soon began
to contemplate running away. I might simply slip off in the
night, I thought, and would be long gone before anyone thought
to search for me. With every step the impulse grew -until I could
think of nothing else.

   All that prevented me was the certain knowledge that if I was
caught, I would be killed. Without help or aid of any kind, I
would eventually be caught, and, fledgling bard or not, I
reckoned that Lord Miliucc would have no qualms about
carrying out his promised retribution. So I grimly slogged on,
heartsick with self-pity and writhing in a torment of frustration.
   The gathering received the news of Datho’s death with
profound sorrow. Owing to the inevitable fact of
decomposition-we had been more than a few days on the trail,
after all-within moments of our arrival, the necessary
ceremonies were begun. The whole of the first day was taken up
with rituals of passage devised to ease the transition of the newly
deceased to another form of life. The filidh believed that the
human soul not only survived death but continued its existence
in the Otherworld with all faculties intact. Sometimes,
however-as when the attachment to this life was unusually
strong for one reason or another-the soul had difficulty in
passing.

   An ollamh, it was thought-owing to the very nature of his
deep knowledge and appreciation of life - often experienced this
difficulty acutely. Thus the Learned Brotherhood had created a
series of rites to alleviate any suffering on the part of a deceased
brother and ease his passage into the world beyond.

   The first sequence of rituals was conducted around the
oxcart-declarations of lamentation mostly, along with staff
waving, bowing, and recitations of a highly symbolic nature that
I could not follow at all. When these were finished, Datho’s body
was taken up and carried to the nearer of the two small mounds
adjacent to the great mound; it was laid at the entrance to the
mound, and the eldest ollamh present sat with the corpse while
the rest of us stood off a short distance and chanted a simple
refrain of farewell. Spreading his cloak so that it covered both
his head and that of the deceased, the ancient ollamh remained
in this morbid communion despite the ripening stink of death.

   After a time the old druid emerged to announce that the soul
of Ollamh Datho had made its way safely and without undue
trauma to the Other-world. This declaration was met with
cheers from the filidh, and the next series of rites commenced;
in contrast to those already performed, these were to celebrate
the life and achievements of the departed brother and lasted
until dusk, when the body was taken up and carried three times
very slowly around the mound in solemn torchlight procession
while the filidh sang a song of triumph for a life journey well
completed. At the conclusion of the third circuit, the body was
borne into the mound, where it would rest until the bones could
be gathered and removed for secret burial elsewhere.

   Upon leaving the mound the principal filidh and all the rest of
us looking on placed our burning torches in a heap at the
mound’s entrance, whereupon the officiating ollamh invoked a
powerful rune of protection for the guarding of our dear friend’s
corpse. The rest of the night was spent in silence as we
meditated on life’s brevity.

   Next morning the main business of the gathering resumed.
During the course of the day, several of the filidh came to
express their sorrow over Datho’s passing. They made it a point
to inquire how I was bearing up under the loss of my master. I
told them in all honesty that my grief was more for myself and
those left behind than for Datho, since while he had a new world
to delight in, the rest of us were deprived of the presence and
company of our good friend. Beyond that I could not mourn for
him. In truth, this was how I felt.

   This frank sentiment produced a fair reaction among the
Learned, who took it as a sign of profound faith; perhaps it was.
I could not say one way or another. Nevertheless they
commended me to my studies. One of the druids, a high-ranking
ollamh named Calbha, came to pay his respects; we talked for a
while, and then he said, “As you know, our departed brother
considered you a filidh marked for greatness.”

   “I know he was encouraging to me in every way,” I replied.

   He nodded and pulled on his mustache. “Have you given any
thought to where you might go now?”

   “Indeed,” I answered truthfully, “I have thought of little else
since Datho’s death.”

   “Be assured,” the wise ollamh said, “this very question has
occupied our thoughts as well. It has been decided that you will
come and join my house.” He peered at me with hopeful intent.
“Is that agreeable to you?”

   “To be sure, I would like nothing better,” I lied, “but my lord
Miliucc may have other ideas about the best use for his slave. I
expect he will put me to herding sheep again.”

    Calbha’s brow furrowed slightly. “I assumed Datho had made
it clear to your lord that you were now to become a filidh.”

   “Datho was going to request my freedom from the king.” I
raised a hand to my slave collar. “But as you see, I am still
Miliucc’s slave. And now that Datho is dead…” I let my voice
trail off into uncertainty.

  “The king’s wishes will not be allowed to interfere with our
purposes,” Calbha declared. “After all, anyone can herd sheep,
but a filidh of promise is more difficult to find.” He nodded
sharply, deciding the matter then and there. “Let him find
another shepherd, I say.”

  “Will you intercede for me, Ollamh?”

   “It is as good as done,” Calbha answered. “I will come to Cnoc
an Dair in the autumn to celebrate Samhain. I will ask the king
to release you then.”

   I thanked the ollamh and asked what I should do until
Samhain. Calbha replied, “What I have told you will be formally
announced before the end of the gathering. Your questions will
be answered then.”

   Pleased as I might have been to receive the ollamh’s
assurance, the prospect of having to wait until Samhain to gain
my freedom only increased my despair. As the day drew to an
end, the clouds covered the hill and the rain set in, reflecting my
dismal state.

   I waited for word the next day, but none came. It was not
until the following day, just before the Comoradh broke up and
the druids began their journeys home, that Calbha summoned
me. He was standing with another, and he introduced me to his
companion. “This is Ollamh Tirlandaio, great among the
Learned of Eire. He will deliver the judgment of the
Brotherhood.”
  I greeted him and took my place before him. “Your bardic
name, son,” he said in a deep voice, “tell me.”

  “Corthirthiac,” I replied, “given to me by Ollamh Datho.”

   He nodded. ‘Your situation is unfortunate, Corthirthiac,“ he
told me, ”but not unknown. Our deceased brother considered
you a young man possessed of enormous potential. He had high
hopes that with the proper training you would become a great
and powerful bard.“ He regarded me thoughtfully. ”Did you
know that?“

   “I know he was pleased to allow me to serve in his house,” I
replied.

   This brought a smile to Calbha’s lips. “Modesty sits uneasily
on your shoulders, Corthirthiac-as it does on the shoulders of all
who are born for renown.” He glanced at Calbha and smiled.
“You can speak freely to us, as we will to you.”

   “Since the two of you have already reached an understanding
between one another, I will make this short,” said Tirlandaio.
“We have decided that Ollamh Calbha is to be your master.” He
paused, perhaps noting my lack of enthusiasm. “Is that
agreeable to you?”

  “In every way, master.”

  “You have no objection?”

  “What objection could I have?” I said. “Only perhaps that I
must wait so long to sit at the feet of my new master.”

    “I understand your eagerness,” said Calbha, “and I commend
it. Unfortunately, I cannot begin this undertaking until after
Samhain. I must see my present filidh through to the completion
of their fourth year. When they have moved on, I will be free to
take on a new and promising pupil.”

   They dismissed me then, and I walked back to our little camp,
where I learned, much to my dismay, that Buinne had not been
idle. Owing to lol-lan’s reluctance to assume Datho’s position,
Buinne had requested the honor of becoming the master of Cnoc
an Dair, and -beyond all reason - his request had been granted.
Buinne had assumed authority over the druid house.

   My heart sank as I heard the news. Afterward I sought out
Iollan to ask how this could have come about. “You should take
Datho’s place in our house,” I told him, “not Buinne.”

  “That is so,” he allowed. “But I asked to be excused.”

  “Why?” I said, far more sharply than I intended. “How could
you do that?”

   “The rule of a house is too much for me,” he said, his voice
breaking with sorrow. “Until they can find a new ollamh to
replace Datho, Buinne will be our master.”

   “But he is not ready for such responsibility,” I objected. “He
cannot possibly be master.”

   “It is only for a short time,” Iollan said, pleading to be
released from my remorseless inquisition. I turned and stumped
away. “It is only until Datho’s successor can be found,” he called
after me.

   Dreary as our outward journey had been, it was a festival in
comparison to our return. I walked through the rain leading the
ox and cart, which was empty save for the times Heber and
Tadhg rode in it. The two youngsters, mindful of the black mood
of their elders, talked quietly with one another and did their best
to stay out of the way. From time to time I diverted myself by
questioning them about their lessons or asking them to recite
portions of the stories they had learned -but nothing lifted our
spirits for very long, and we traveled mostly in an unrelievedly
grim silence.

    Upon our return to the druid house, Buinne let us all know
that he would be a very different master from Datho. He lorded
it over us with offensive and insulting impunity, swaggering
about, calling commands as if he were an emperor and we his
laggard minions. Meanwhile I swallowed the indignity and
schemed for a way to get to the rath to see Sionan and share the
bad news with her.

   Just when I was thinking I would have to risk sneaking out at
night, a warrior appeared with a saddled mount and a message
for me from the king. Lord Miliucc says you are to come at
once.“

   “Gladly,” I replied. “Am I to know the reason for my lord’s
request?”

   “The traders have returned. He wants you to speak to them.”

   “Of course.” I bade him wait for a moment and went to
inform Buinne that I would be away a few days helping the king.

   He did not like it. He glowered at me and fumed and went out
to see for himself if what I said was true. But as the king’s man
was there waiting with a horse for me, there was nothing Buinne
could do save let me go. Thus I spent the remainder of the day
greasing the axles of commerce for my lord. That night, instead
of returning to Cnoc an Dair, I accompanied the king and queen
back to the rath where, upon leaving my mount at the stable, I
hurried to the queen’s house in search of Sionan.

   “Succat!” She came into my arms in a rush and greeted me
with a kiss. “How long can you stay?”

   “Tonight at least-perhaps tomorrow as well. I am helping the
lord and lady with the traders. We have just come from the
ship.”

  “The queen has returned?” She pushed me away. “Then you
must go.”

   “In good time.” I felt the tingling rush in the pit of my
stomach and pulled her to me.

   “The queen will be here any moment! You must not let anyone
see you.”

   “Let them see me,” I said carelessly.
   “No!” She spun from my arms and shoved me toward the
door. “Go to my house and wait for me. I will come to you as
soon as I can.”

   I slipped out the door and entered the narrow path between
the royal houses. I walked around to the courtyard in front of the
king’s hall and then ambled here and there about the rath,
allowing myself to be seen in various places. I spoke to some of
the farmers as they returned from the fields and to a few of the
warriors, too.

  In a little while I made my way to Sionan’s house and, when I
was certain I was not observed, went in to wait. It grew dark,
and I fell asleep, awakening when she arrived. “I brought us
some food,” she said; kneeling beside me, she ran her hand along
my arm. “Are you hungry?”

  “Famished,” I replied.

  “Then light the fire and we will eat.”

   I set about kindling a fire in the hearth, and we were soon
sitting before a tidy blaze, drinking the king’s beer and holding
flesh forks to roast choice bits of pork. “The queen is very
pleased with her new silver combs and bracelet,” Sionan told me.
“She thinks you a shrewd trader.”

   “I wish I had been able to get combs for you.” I lifted my hand
to stroke her hair. “One day perhaps.”

  She caught the wistful undercurrent in my tone. No doubt I
had already decided in my heart what I would do, and now I was
beginning to realize what my leaving would mean. It must have
come out in my speech, for she turned and observed me with
concern. “What is wrong?”

  “At the gathering,” I said, “things did not go so well.” I told
her then about being given a new ollamh. “And if that were not
bad enough,” I concluded, “Buinne has been made master of our
house. He is making life a misery for everyone, and he hates me
most of all.”
  “Then it will be good for you to have a new ollamh,” Sionan
observed, misunderstanding the situation completely. Nor did I
have the heart to correct her.

   I spent that night with Sionan and the next as well. Then the
traders moved on, and I had to return to the druid house. I left
the rath reluctantly, dreading my arrival and the inevitable
confrontation with Buinne. Indeed, I had but reached the mound
when the disagreeable druid pounced. “I know where you go and
what you do,” he hissed, stepping out to meet me on the path.

  “Do you, Buinne?” I said.

   “How long did you and your whore think you could hide it
from me?”

   I had long ago decided to deny everything; whatever Buinne
knew or suspected would not be confirmed by me. “What are you
talking about, Buinne?”

  He took a step closer, his mouth twitching with hatred. “I
mean to put a stop to it.”

  I regarded him cooly and made no reply.

  “Nothing to say?”

  “When a man’s anus does the talking, I try as much as
possible to ignore the stench.”

   His eyes flared with anger, and his jaw bulged. “You hold
yourself so superior,” he growled, shaking with rage. “This is
what I have always hated about you. You should have remained
a slave. You have no business here.”

  “Datho disagreed.”

   “Datho was a fool; his liberality made him weak and easily
deceived.” He took a menacing step toward me. “But I am
master now, and you will not deceive me.” His lip curled back in
a savage, gloating sneer. “You will never become a bard. I will
see to that. I am going to have you sent back to your sheep on
the mountain.”

  I let him stew in his vile juices for a moment, then asked, “Tell
me, Buinne, have you finally gone mad at last?”

  “Mock me if you will, slave boy,” he growled, “but I swear on
my life you will never be free.”

  He grinned maliciously and tilted back his head. I wanted to
smash him in the face for his insolence and spite. Instead I
waited until he turned and started away, then called after him,
“Was it poison, Buinne? Was that how you murdered Datho?”

   He halted in midstep and turned. “What?” he said, the blood
draining from his face.

    He gaped at me, sucking air like a winded animal; and I
realized that until that instant the arrogant, duplicitous Buinne
had never imagined anyone might have suspected him of
bringing about Datho’s death. Consequently he had not thought
to create a denial, plausible or otherwise. Or perhaps the
accusation surprised him so that he forgot the lie he meant to
tell.

   He lurched clumsily toward me, demanding, “What did you
say?”

  “Your secret is safe with me, Buinne,” I told him, plunging
ahead recklessly. “I am not going to tell anyone - unless, that is,
you keep poking your rat nose into my affairs. I warn you,
Buinne, leave me alone.”

   White-faced, stunned into silence, the treacherous bard gazed
at me with dull horror. I decided to leave him before he
recovered his wits. I did not see him the rest of the night. He did
not come to the table and did not sleep in the druid house -nor
did I.

   Instead, I spent a wretched night, restless and wakeful,
tormented by the awful expression on Buinne’s face when I
guessed his guilty secret correctly. The dread realization pulsed
with every beat of my heart, producing an anguish that drove all
thoughts of sleep from my head. Again and again, like a circling
bird, my mind returned to the terrible question: How long
before he poisons me?

                                29

  I hurried to Sionan’s house, pulled the strap to lift the latch,
and let myself in. She was still asleep in bed, so I went and lay
down next to her. I kissed her forehead and stroked her hair to
wake her. She smiled as she opened her eyes. “Succat, you’ve
come to me very early.”

   I kissed her again and said, “I could not sleep. I had to see you
as soon as I could.”

  “Come here,” she said, and pulled me into her embrace.

  We lay for a time simply holding one another until I worked
up the courage to say, “I have something to tell you.” Before she
could speak, I blurted, “I must leave Sliabh Mis.”

  The smile faded from her lips.

  “Now. Today. I have to go.”

  She looked at me in disbelief. “Why?” she asked after a
moment.

   I had already decided on the lie; I had planned out my story
as I hastened to the rath. “It is Buinne. I know he killed Datho,
and now he has tried to kill me.” Oh, the lie came easily to my
lips. Indeed, I half believed it myself.

  “Succat!” Sionan gasped, sitting upright in bed. “How?”

   “Yesterday, when I left here, he was waiting for me. He said
he knew about us and that he was going to make trouble.” That
part was true enough. “Then last night at supper I tasted
something in my food. I pretended to eat but did not swallow. I
waited until he was asleep and came here as quickly as I could.”

  “You must tell the king.”
  “Buinne would just deny it, and then it would be a slave’s
word against that of a filidh. Buinne might even say I killed
Datho, and Miliucc might believe him.”

   She searched my face with her eyes. “What will you do?”

   “This is what I have been thinking,” I said, taking her hands
in mine. “I must go and find Cormac-find him and bring him
back. He will know how to deal with Buinne.”

   “Succat, no - ”

   “Now, listen,” I told her. “The traders who were here, they
have moved down the coast a little, but I can find them. I will go
to them and beg passage to Britain.”

   “If you escape again, the king’s warriors will catch you,”
Sionan told me gravely, “and this time they will kill you.”

  “That is why I need your help. You must make certain no one
knows I’ve gone.”

   “What if the king wants to see you?” she countered. “What if
he sends someone to fetch you?”

   “If he asks for me, just tell him that I have been sent to collect
plants for a potion. Tell him I will return in two days.” I squeezed
her hands to make her understand. “Two days are all I need. By
then I’ll be aboard ship, and no one will be able to stop me.”

   She bit her lip but said nothing.

   “Two days, Sionan,” I repeated. “That is all I ask.”

  She looked at me for a long moment and then wrapped her
arms around me and laid her head against my chest. In a
moment I could feel warm tears seeping through the fabric of
my robe.

   “Ah, Sionan, my love.” I sighed. “Don’t cry.”

  She did not raise her head but continued to sob. “If you go
away to Britain, I know I will never see you again.”
   “Of course you will. That I promise.” I lied boldly, trusting her
to believe me; my life lay in her slender hands.

   “No. It is true. Once you see your homeland again, you will
forget all about me.”

  “Sionan, listen to me.” Taking her by the shoulders, I pushed
her back gently. “The only reason I am going is to find Cormac.
When I have found him, I will bring him back to deal with
Buinne. But if I don’t go, Buinne will kill me. Cormac is the only
one who can help me now. Understand?”

   “Then take me with you,” she said. “We will go together. I can
help you.”

   I had thought of this -indeed, I had often entertained the
notion that she and I might make a life in Britain. But, blind as I
was, I could never see her there. I told myself I feared she would
not be accepted by my countrymen and would forever remain an
outcast no matter what I might do to help her. In truth I think
the thought of returning with a barbarian Irishwoman for a wife
embarrassed me. My embarrassment shamed me, yes, but I was
weak and could not help it.

    “You know I would take you with me if I could,” I told her.
“But if you go with me, the king will catch us both before the day
is out. If you want to help me, then you must stay here. I need
you here to delay the search as long as possible so I can escape
them.”

   Sionan had turned her face away and gazed into the darkened
corner of the room.

   “Now, look at me and tell me you understand.” I peered at her
intently, willing her to accept what I said as the truth.

   Instead her eyes teared up once more, and she bent her head,
letting the teardrops fall onto her breast.

  “Oh, Sionan.” I gathered her in my arms once more. “I will
come back, I promise.” After so much deception what was one
more empty vow?
  She refused to be consoled. “Then go! Be off with you.”

  “Sionan,” I pleaded, “believe me, if there was any other way, I
would take it.”

   She stared at me a long moment, making up her mind. “You
are right. This is the best way. You must go.” She rose abruptly,
strode to the door, and looked out. “There is no one waiting for
you. Go now while you have the chance.”

   I stepped to the door. There I lingered, knowing that this was
the last time I would ever see Sionan. It was she who had saved
me, and she had been my strong and sheltering rock ever since.
My debt to her was incalculable. I owed her my life.

   The terrible weight of my deception settled full upon me then,
threatening to crush me into the ground. My stomach squirmed
with the awful knowledge of what my leaving would mean to
her-no less than what Cormac would do when he learned I had
broken faith with him and shattered his sister’s loving heart. But
the yearning, the insatiable desire to be free once more, was
eating me alive. Despite all the good things that had happened
to me since coming to the druid house, I still could not accept
my lot. Since my feet had touched the soil of Ireland, my one
aspiration had been to regain my freedom. I had the chance now
as never before, and I could not let it pass me by. Somehow-God
alone knows how-I bore up under the fearful strain and even
managed a smile of farewell.

   Sionan drew me into a last embrace. I put my hand to her
face and caressed her cheek. “I love you, Sionan.” I had never
said those words to anyone in my life. I said them now, and even
though I was abandoning the one I spoke them to, they were no
less true. “I do love you.”

  She smiled sadly and lowered her head. “You will have your
two days,” she said, and then turned from me. “Now, go.”

   I could not bring myself to lie to her further, so bade her
farewell and forced myself to step through the doorway. I stood
for a moment on the path-hesitating even then, wanting to
return to her-but I heard the sound of someone coming and,
turning away, stole quickly from the rath lest anyone see me.

   With tears in my eyes, I made for the coast. Retrieving the
water gourd and bag of provisions I had hidden beside the
stream on my way to the rath, I hastened along the valley toward
the sea, pausing every now and then to look behind to see if
anyone was following and then moving on again. The whole of
the first day I followed the coastline; that night I slept in a
hollow in the rocks, rising again at first light. I ate a little from
the bag, and drank some water, and pushed on. When I finally
came in sight of the ship later in the day, relief washed over me
in waves, and my heart pounded so hard I became light-headed
and had to sit down to catch my breath.

    The settlement was little more than a fishing camp, and I
knew that the traders would not wait there long, so I hurried to
summon one of the fishermen to take me out to the ship in his
boat, which he reluctantly agreed to do -seeing that to deny a
filidh such a simple request was certain to bring bad luck, for
even a novice druid might satirize the witless drudge who
refused or chant a rune to drive the fish from the nets of the
villagers, thereby causing needless misfortune. Thus was I soon
sitting on the slippery bench of a small boat while the fisherman
rowed through the waves out to where the ship lay at anchor in
the bay.

   Upon drawing near the ship, I called a greeting to those on
board, and several men hailed me from the rail. I answered them
and asked to speak to the ship’s master, who duly appeared. I
made a respectful greeting and begged permission to accompany
them to their next destination. The master-a large, beefy,
bull-necked, rough-handed man, smooth-shaven but with dark
hair that he wore long and braided like a barbarian’s-returned
my greeting pleasantly and, recognizing me as the one who had
helped him with Miliucc, said he would be happy to allow me to
come aboard to discuss the matter.

   “Wait for me,” I told the fisherman, “until I give you leave to
go.”

   “We have good wine and fine cloth,” the master told me when
I had come to stand before him. He spoke the simple Latin of the
market, which most traders understood readily enough. “We
have also fine pottery, glass, worked gold, and many other
things, of course. Very valuable items, worth much, as you
know.”

   “Yes,” I replied, “you showed it all to the king and queen
yesterday.”

   “Ah! So I did.” He laughed. “But tell me, why are you running
away?” Indicating my iron collar, he said, “Will not the king
miss his slave? Perhaps he would reward me to take you back
instead.”

   “Take me back,” I countered with casual indifference, “and
Miliucc may give you a few bits of silver for your trouble. Let me
stay, however, and I will prove myself ten times over with the
wealth I will bring you.”

   “Ah,” replied the master, his dark eyes glinting shrewdly, “but
you are a canny bargainer. This I have seen. You know the value
of things and make good deals. We are trading in the south
next,” he said. “Help me in the same way that you have helped
Lord Miliucc and I will take you where you wish to go.”

   “Britain is where I wish to go,” I told him outright. “Can you
take me there?”

  He laughed. “As it happens, yes. After we finish in the south,
we go to the Dal Riada-do you know it?”

  “No,” I confessed, “I do not.”

   “No matter. Help me and I will see you safely ashore among
friendly people. I am Heracles, and that is my vow to you.”

  “I accept,” I told him.

  “Now, then,” he said, “let us seal the bargain we have made.”

   With that he pulled open his tunic and exposed his hairy
chest. “In my homeland,” he said, “it is customary to honor a
pledge in this way.” He offered me the fleshy part of his chest.
“Come, suck at my breast.”

   “That I will not do,” I told him. “For in my homeland such
customs place one man under the authority of another, and I will
not be bound.”

  Truly, that is the way of it. If I had sucked his nipple, I would
become his bondsman and that was the last thing I desired.

   “I am master here,” Heracles declared. “No one comes to my
ship unless they swear loyalty to me.”

   I thought for a moment and then raised a hand to my slave
collar. “Remove this iron ring from my neck, and I will gladly do
as you ask.”

  “That I cannot do,” he said. “It is death to him who frees
another man’s slave.”

   Heracles frowned and pursed his lips. “What is so important
in Britain that you must get there so fast?”

   I had decided on the story I would tell to disguise my true
intentions; I would tell enough of the truth to satisfy the curious,
without giving away my actual purpose. “My friend and master
has gone to Britain,” I answered forthrightly. “I am going to find
him and bring him back to help settle a matter that has arisen
in our village.”

   “I see.” The ship’s master regarded me with narrowed eyes.
“It must be a very important matter for you to go to so much
trouble.”

  “It is that,” I replied. “Nothing less than life and death.”

   Heracles accepted this with a nod. “Then let me propse
another bargain-serve me well and wisely, and the day we leave
Irish waters, I will remove your slave collar and see you safely on
your way.” Although the smile remained perfectly in place, his
voice now took on a threatening tone. “But if I catch you
cheating or stealing from me, then I will sell you back to the
Irish the next time we drop anchor.”
   He let the warning hang between us for a moment, then spat
on the deck of the ship. “Agreed?”

   With no other choice before me, I followed his example and
spat on the deck. “Agreed.”

   Heracles’ laugh was a sudden, violent burst; he put his hand
on my shoulder. “You are a stubborn bargainer, my friend. And
that is why I will take you-even though you refuse to swear fealty
to me. Make me rich and we will be good friends, never fear.”

   I thanked him, whereupon he gave orders for his men to up
anchor and make ready to sail. They set about the task with
reassuring alacrity, and we were under way before the fisherman
reached the shore. Once we were out of the bay, the master
turned the prow, and we sailed up around the northern tip of
Eire. Just before midday, we turned again and then proceeded
down along the eastern coast. Although I stood at the rail and
searched for the place where I and my fellow captives made
landfall years before, I did not see it. Or, if I did, I no longer
recognized it.

   I cannot say whether it was the coast that had changed or
myself. There is no denying that I saw the land now with
different eyes than I saw it then. Only when the last headland
rose between me and Miliucc’s realm did I turn away from the
rail.

    At last, I thought, sweet relief surging through me like a
wind-hurled wave, I am on my way home. Home! The word
filled me with a delicious ache. Home… I was going home at last.
Only this time there would be no chase, no capture, and no
beating on my return. Before my master Lord Miliucc knew I
was gone, I would be over the sea and far beyond his reach.

                               30

   Despite master Heracles’ oft-repeated assurances of a swift
journey home, three months later I was still aboard the ship with
him. The summer was fading into autumn golds and browns,
and still we plied the coasts, trading in every seaside settlement
we came upon and many inland, too, each stop taking a day, or
two, or more-days that chafed me raw with frustration.
Reasoning, pleading, complaining availed nothing; Heracles
blithely refused to hear my complaints. God knows I made so
many my teeth hurt. All my efforts met with the same knowing
smile and the words: “Soon my friend, very, very soon. Like the
wind, we go.”

   I slowly came to realize that I had wildly underestimated the
value of my services to the ship’s master. It was not just my
knowledge of the Irish language -a perpetual battle for the Latin
speakers -but that I understood the Irish people. I knew how to
present the trade goods in the best possible way to attract ready
buyers. For example, the lords liked wine - or they did as soon as
they tried it-but most considered it much too expensive for a
mere drink. But when I told them I knew in truth that the high
king of Rome drank only wine and drank it every day, they were
amazed and duly impressed. Eager to show themselves the
equals to any Roman king, they had to drink it, too, and
cheerfully bought whatever we could carry.

   Another time Heracles labored mightily against steady and
stubborn resistance from a tight-fisted pack of southern
noblemen. He showed his best wares-the bright-patterned cloth,
the sweet wine, the gleaming steel knives, and all the rest-to little
interest and no sales whatsoever. “It is hopeless,” he said, wiping
his hands on his shirt. “They are not for buying today.”

   He bade me wish the Irish lords farewell and tell them we
would come again next year when, perhaps, we might have
something they desired. But as the crewmen began packing up
the goods, I noticed one of the Irishmen eyeing the basket
containing a number of small glass jars of the kind useful for
storing unguents and aromatic oils. We sold a few of them now
and then, but mostly Heracles used them to sweeten a bargain,
throwing in a handful to help persuade a waverer.

   I moved to the man’s side and, taking up one of the little jars,
told him, “These are made in Rome. I will make you a good
price. A fine gift for your wife or daughter. How many would you
like?”
   He took the jar and held it between his thumb and finger,
turning it this way and that in the light, and then dropped it to
the ground and stepped on it. The glass surrendered with a
brittle crunch, and he removed his foot to reveal a pile of shiny
fragments. The fellow laughed, thinking, I suppose, that
anything so fragile could not be of significant value.

   He made to turn away but hesitated, looking once more at the
heap of glass jars. I followed his gaze and realized it was not the
jars he desired, it was the basket: a large pottery bowl topped by
a wicker ring onto which was sewn a coarse-woven cloth band.
Very useful aboard a ship, these were, as they could be securely
fastened by way of a drawstring to keep the contents intact even
on the roughest seas.

   “Ah!” I said, seizing the vessel at once. “You like the basket.”

   He nodded. “How much?”

   “It saddens me to tell you,” I replied with a sigh, “but this
basket is not for sale. It is too valuable on the ship, you see. I
cannot sell it.”

   He nodded and pointed again to the container. “How much?”

   “It is impossible,” I replied, clutching the basket and half
turning my back to him. “We have only so many of these to carry
our wares, and when they are gone, we cannot get any more until
we return to Rome.”

   Tell an Irishman that he cannot have a thing and that is the
very thing he craves more than all the world.

   “How much?” he said, unmoved.

   “My master would have my head nailed to the mast if I sold
his baskets,” I pleaded. “I could never do it. Where would we
keep the jars?”

  Adamant now, the chieftain folded his arms across his chest.
“Come, let us bargain,” he said. “Name a price.”
   Taking a glass jar from the heap, I held it up and declared,
“These are worth nothing compared to the basket.” Throwing
the jar to the ground, I smashed it beneath my heel. “See?” I
made to turn away again, saying, “Maybe if the basket were
empty… but no.”

   “I will buy them,” he declared, taking my hint. “Then you will
give me the basket, too.”

  I frowned, as if deeply troubled by this suggestion. “I would
have to ask my master,” I said at last.

  “Ask him now.”

   I turned to Heracles, who was by this time watching the
transaction with interest. “What does he want?” he asked me in
Latin.

  “The basket.”

  “Give it to him,” sighed Heracles, “and let’s be gone from this
miserly tribe.”

    Returning to the chieftain, I announced, “My master says that
if you bought all the jars, he would give you the basket to carry
them home.”

  “Then I will buy them all,” proclaimed the nobleman proudly.

   We quickly fixed a price, and it was done. I took his gold and
carefully tied up the strings at the top, whereupon the chieftain
snatched the basket from my hands and bore it away like a
trophy of war-much to Heracles’ amusement and gratification.

   Such was my service to my master in payment for my passage
and, his collusion in my escape. And while I strove to be fair to
one and all - I had no heart to cheat the local lords -the amount
of gold and goods that changed hands with my assistance
increased steadily from the moment I climbed over the rail.

   The ship itself was built for trade -spacious rather than
fast-and Master Heracles was a cautious sailor. He picked his
way along the coast with care, never in a hurry and always with
one eye on the weather. At first hint of a storm, he made for the
nearest cove to wait until it was safe to move on. “This is my
ship,” he told me once, “and my ship is my life. I cannot afford to
lose it, for I will never get another one.”

   The reason for this, I learned eventually, was that although
the ship belonged to Heracles, the cargo did not. The trade stuffs
had been purchased with money given to him by merchants in
the south of Gaul. These merchant traders were awaiting his
return and expecting a fair increase in their investment.

   Day after day we sailed unmolested along the coast while the
cargo dwindled and the sea chests filled to overflowing-and still
we did not turn and sail for Britain.

   I suffered Heracles’ cheerful lies and even found their
unvarying repetition somewhat reassuring, but I woke one day
as the sun tinted the sky with a low autumn light and knew that
Heracles had no intention of letting me go until the gales of
winter brought the trading season to a close-and even then he
might contrive to keep me with him somehow. This knowledge
produced such a heavy despondency in me that I did not bother
getting out of bed but lay there in my dark misery mourning, yet
again, my stupidity and lack of wisdom.

   When I did not appear on deck, the master sent one of the
crewmen to see if I had taken ill. “The master is asking for you,
Irish.”

  “Tell the good master that he can go merrily to hell.”

  “Are you sick, Irish?”

  “No,” I replied. “I am finished.”

   He did not know what to say to that, so he stood there for a
moment, thinking. “Do you want something to eat?” he said at
last.

   When I made no reply, he left-only to return a short while
later with a bowl of pea soup and some brown bread. He
approached quietly, and laid the wooden bowl on my stomach.
“It will make you feel better to eat something.”

   “Thank you,” I replied. “But I told you, I am not sick.” Lifting
the bowl in my hand, I flung it across the hold, splattering
porridge everywhere. “Now, go away and leave me in peace.”

   He went without a word, and I had just closed my eyes when
the master himself appeared. “Are you sick, my friend?”

  “I am not sick, and I am not your friend.”

   “Of course you are my friend.” He laughed, trying to cheer me
out of my gloom. He came and sat down on a box nearby,
smoothing the front of his mantle with his hands. “Do you think
I am staying in business this long without knowing who is my
friend and who is my enemy? Come, get up, let us go and make
some money.”

  “No,” I told him. “I am finished.”

   “What is this ‘finished’?” he said, chuckling to himself. “You
are my very good luck indeed.”

  “Good luck for you,” I agreed, “bad luck for myself. Since I am
never to see Britain again, I might as well stay here.”

   “Is this what is troubling you?” he cried happily. “You will see
Britain again. I declare it. Very, very soon now we are crossing
the narrow sea. I will see you safely among people who will help
you find your friend.”

   “So you say. But it never happens. Always there is one more
stop to make, one more settlement to visit, more goods to trade.
It will go on and on without end, I know that But it will go on
without me. I am finished.”

   “Ptah!” he scolded amiably. “You expect me to turn away
when we are making such excellent trade? This is madness.” He
clucked his tongue as if he had caught me uttering an obvious
falsehood. “Listen, I tell you what I will do-”
  “That is the very trouble, Heracles: You tell me anything that
comes into your head, knowing full well you will never do it.”

   He pretended umbrage at my harsh estimate of his integrity.
“I am a man of honor, my friend, as you very well know. I have
given you my word.”

   “Your word, like your honor, is worth whatever you can get
for it in the marketplace,” I told him. “You sell it every day to
anyone fool enough to buy. You know it, and I know it. Why
pretend otherwise?”

  He looked at me sadly for a moment. “Will you not come up
and help me?”

   “No. I am finished. Next time we make landfall, I will say
farewell.”

   “But you will never get to Britain if you leave the ship,” he
pointed out.

   I turned my face and looked him in the eye. “I will never get to
Britain so long as I remain with you,” I answered. “In truth I
could have swum there and back six times by now.”

  “You cannot leave,” he said, growing mildly irritated. “We
made a bargain, you and I.”

  “And I have honored my half of the bargain -more than half!
Yet you refuse to honor yours. So be it. I am done with you.”

   He sighed loudly. “Well, then.”

   I said no more, and after a while he left. Next day we made
landfall at a small settlement on the southern coast. The master
sent some men to fetch me, as I knew he would. This time they
did not ask me to come with them; they simply picked me up
and carried me onto the deck.

   “Ah, there you are,” Heracles said, smiling broadly.

   “Tell them to put me down.”
   He nodded to his men, and they set me on my feet.

   “I am a man of honor-” he began.

   “So you say.”

   “Now I will show you.” With that, he produced a small, flat
object and held it before my face.

  “A file?” I said, recognizing the tool at last. “But it is much too
small.”

   “It is the only one we have,” Heracles replied. “Yet, it will
serve.” He made a spinning motion with his hand. “Turn
around.”

   I did as he commanded, and he took hold of the back of my
slave collar. He drew the edge of the file over the hard iron a few
times and then proclaimed, “There! It is begun.”

   He took my shoulders and spun me around to face him once
more. “Hear me, my friend, and believe me when I tell you that
each day I will cut away a little more until the day comes to
depart. When we finish we will raise the sail and make for
Britain, and on that day, I will remove your collar.” He smiled
his oily, ingratiating smile. “One week more, my friend, is all I
ask.”

  “Very well,” I agreed, feeling foolish and abused. “One week
more.”

   “Maybe two.”

   “Heracles, no,” I groaned.

   “If the trade is good, we would be fools to leave before we
finish. Not so?”

   Against all experience and better judgment, I gave in and let
him have his way. For two more weeks I oversaw the exchange of
goods and gold in the weedy wilderness settlements in the far
south of the island. And every day, true to his word, Heracles
would take out his tiny file and scrape a little more off the
deepening notch at the back of my collar-a symbolic act only, I
considered, but it showed that he had not forgotten.

   At the end of the second week, with the clouds lowering in the
west, dark with rain, Heracles hoisted himself over the rail and,
with the wind in his beard, declared, “My friends! We have done
well this year. But it is time to go home.” Grinning wide, he
turned to me. “With the permission of my Irish friend, we will
set sail at once.”

  And we did set sail. But not for Britain.

   Without the bulk of the trade goods for ballast, the vessel rode
too high in the water and was easy prey for unpredictable
autumn blasts and blows. We sailed along the coast until we
came to a rocky bay where we could take on stones to fill the
hold and help lend some stability to the craft. We spent a whole
day hefting rocks into the hold, secured them well, and prepared
to depart the next morning.

   The wind gusted smartly out of the north as we set off.
Heracles chose an easterly course, hoping to bring us shortly to
the western coast of Britain. The wind rose steadily, however,
and, try as he might, the master could not hold the ship on
course. We were pushed farther and farther south, and for two
days were out of sight of land. When we finally glimpsed the
coast again, it was the southwestern peninsula of Dumnonia, a
wilderness of ragged hills and dense, low brush.

   Far south of our intended destination, Heracles offered me a
choice. “My friend, it is for you to decide. As you see, the
weather has turned against us. I cannot be blamed for that. You
know I would prefer it otherwise.” He stretched out a hand
toward the dark, rough hills before us. “There is Britain. If you
like, I will make landfall and you can go your way. But hear me,
Irish-and I hope you heed me well-if you wish, I will take you to
Gaul with me. You can winter in my house and return with us in
the spring when we come again to trade.” He grinned
expansively. “Well, what do you say? Come with me and live like
a king all winter, or go now and face peril and danger and wild
animals.”
   “Heracles, my wily friend,” I said, “you make the choice
difficult, to be sure. But, fearful as it may be, I must test my fate
against the wild animals.”

    The master frowned. “I hoped you would choose the other
way. I am a man of my word, as you well know. So I will tell you
what I am going to do. Spend the winter with me and I will take
you to Dal Riada in the spring. Surely that is where your friend
is to be found, and you could not reach him any more swiftly
even if you ran all the way.”

   “No doubt,” I conceded. “But after so late a start, I am
determined to make up the time I have lost. So,” touching my
collar, I said, “if you will finish what you have begun, I will thank
you and take my leave.”

   After a few more attempts to sway me, Heracles gave up and
while we sailed along the coast in search of a suitable cove, he
worried away at the iron collar with his tiny file. When he tired,
another of the ship’s crew took over, and then another, until at
last we came to a deep, rock-lined bay where the ship put in.

    “Here now,” said Heracles. He motioned the sailor with the
file to step aside and took his place before me. “It is time to
redeem my vow.” So saying, he took the ends of the iron tore in
either fist and, using his considerable strength, began to bend
the weakened metal. I felt the collar loosen and then give way.
There came a dull snap and suddenly I was free.

   It felt as if an anvil had been removed from around my neck. I
raised my hands and rubbed the place where it had sat for so
long. Tears came to my eyes, and I thanked Heracles for
honoring his word. Then, taking the two halves of the tore, I
walked to the rail and threw them as far as I could into the sea. I
watched the splash as the hateful thing disappeared, and then I
turned away. It was done, and I was free once more.

   Heracles handed me a bag of provisions and ordered one of
the crewmen to row me to shore in the small boat he kept as a
tender. The boat was quickly readied, and as I was climbing over
the side, the master called to me. “Wait! I have something for
you.”
   He disappeared belowdecks, returning a few moments later
with a small leather pouch. “You will need this, I think,” he said,
tossing me the sack.

    I caught it, opened it, and peered inside. It was full of the
little sticks of gold that the Irish used in trade. I thanked
Heracles, praised his generosity, and, feeling much better about
my parting, swung my leg over the rail.

   “Wait!” cried Heracles, rushing forward. “Here,” he said,
putting his hand to his belt. He brought out his excellent knife
and offered it to me. “You will be needing this, too, I think. For
the wild animals.”

   “Again I thank you,” I said, and, tucking the knife into my
belt, lowered myself into the waiting rowboat.

   Heracles and the crewmen stood at the rail and watched me
as the small boat pushed away. “Farewell, Irish!” called Heracles.
“Perhaps if you do not find your friend, you will come again with
us next year, eh? Look for me in Dal Riada in the spring!”

   I waved a final farewell and, upon reaching the shore walked
inland a short distance and climbed the sloping dune to watch
as they put out from the bay. As soon as the wind caught the
sails, they were gone.

    I struck off in good spirits, knowing that if I kept to the coast
with the sea on my left, I would eventually reach the great
estuary called Mare Habrinum by the Latin speakers and Mor
Hafren by everyone else-a wide tidal basin that split the lower
portion of Britain like a spearpoint jutting inland. Following
little sheep trails over the deserted moorland cliff tops, I walked
along with eager steps.

   Oh, but it was a forsaken, empty land. I met neither man nor
beast in all that wild region. I ate and slept as I would and
moved ever eastward over the barren hills and headlands. Any
people living thereabouts, though there could not have been
many, no doubt lived inland, away from the constant buffeting of
the wind off the sea. I did not attempt to seek them out,
however, because I wanted to get home as quickly as possible
and did not care to let the estuary out of my sight for long.

   On the third day I glimpsed land across the tide basin, and
four days later, I reached a small fishing settlement tucked in to
a dell where a stream emptied into the estuary. I called out a
greeting but received no reply. Nothing more than a couple of
huts and a few sheds, the place was lately abandoned; the
fisherfolk had moved elsewhere to avoid the cold winds and high
water of winter. All the same it was my good fortune to find a
hide boat in one of the sheds - a little coracle that had been left
behind. It was damaged, of course, but not so badly that it could
not be repaired.

   This I set out to do at once. Using bits of cast-off netting
which I unraveled to make stout thread and a fishhook for a
needle, I sewed up the dogleg tear in the underside of the boat,
then bound up the broken rib. In my search for something to use
as a paddle, I chanced to find some oakum, coiled for use and
stuck up over the lintel. This I used to pack the tear in the
bottom of the coracle. I broke off a section of flat-planed wood
from the door of the shed, and that became my oar.

   It was almost dark by the time I finished, and so I waited
until low tide the next day. Meanwhile I gathered blackberries
and currants to add to my ration of food and drank water from
the stream. Although I had nothing to make a fire, the larger of
the two huts was dry and kept the wind off.

   Next morning dawned cool and bright. I rose and sat for a
while watching the tide flow, trying to determine how the
currents moved. The water was dense and dirty; its long, lazy
swirls and eddies constantly shifted and changed. For all my
study I remained none the wiser. I did, however, determine the
best place to launch my unsteady vessel, so that when I saw that
the tide had reached the lowest ebb, I began to drag the coracle
down to the water’s edge, which, as it happened, could now be
reached only by crossing a great, flat expanse of mud.

  I started off well, but the farther out from the bank I went, the
deeper became the mud. I quickly sank in over the tops of my
shoes before I thought to take them off. Then, standing in mire
up to my knees, I decided to strip off the rest of my clothes, too,
before taking up the rope and proceeding on.

   By the time I reached the water, I was covered in muck to my
naked thighs. I tried washing off some of it before clambering
into the boat, but it was useless. I scraped off as much as I could
and then got in.

   Launching myself on the mudflat while sitting in the boat
proved far more difficult than I could have imagined. Using the
paddle, I humped and nudged my way forward and was heartily
glad no one was there to witness this ridiculous spectacle. I was
just about to get out and push some more when I felt the
rounded keel slide a little more easily. Two more nudges and a
few strokes of the paddle and I slid off into deeper water.

    Then it was simply a matter of making for the opposite shore.
I paddled with strong, steady strokes for a goodly while but did
not seem to make any headway. What is more, the
still-outflowing current in the main channel was far stronger
than I had calculated, and the opposite shore was moving past at
a worrying rate - such that I appeared in danger of being swept
down the channel and out to sea! Fool that I was, I had chosen
the wrong tide. If I had waited for the incoming tide, it would
have carried me closer to my destination, not farther away.

   Cursing my stupidity, I put my head down and redoubled my
efforts with the paddle. Another arduous stint produced no
better results; I succeeded only in raising blisters on my hands
and getting myself caught in a giant eddy that spun the little
coracle around and around. After a while the eddy dissipated
somewhat, allowing me to break out of the current.

   About this time the boat began to leak. I suppose the oakum
did not hold, or the thread stretched, or whatever; in any event I
suddenly found myself sitting in water. There was nothing to be
done but paddle all the harder. I rowed like a galley slave and
eventually reached what I imagined to be the middle of the
estuary, where I noticed that the shoreline had slowed its
relentless race. The water in the boat was much deeper, however.
I moved my bundle of clothing higher, ceased paddling long
enough to bail out some of the water with my hands, and then
resumed.
   In a little while the tide flow all but ceased. In the still water I
began making the first good progress since starting out. Indeed,
I entertained the hope that I would yet reach the bank before
disaster overtook me. In this I showed myself no seaman, for the
instant the thought was born in my head, I heard a popping
sound, and water began trickling into the boat.

   I rowed for all I was worth. My hands were raw and bleeding
by this time, but I had no other choice than to ignore the pain
and drive my increasingly waterlogged vessel forward. Paddling
like a madman, I was rewarded by the sight of the bank drawing
slowly closer.

   Too slowly, to be sure. Long before I reached the shore, the
stitches I had made in the hide parted, and the rip in the bottom
of the boat expanded. Water gushed through the rent. I had time
but to grab my shoes and clothes and abandon the coracle. With
the shoelaces in my mouth and the bundle of clothes on my
head, I departed my leaking craft-rather, I allowed it to sink
beneath me and began swimming.

   I made but a few strokes, and the soft ooze of the riverbed
met my toes. A few more strokes brought me to a depth at which
I could stand. With my feet under me at last, I strode for the
bank, wading through water to my waist. I reached the broad
mudflat, floundered across, and dragged myself up the bank
onto dry ground, where I collapsed into the long river grass,
sweating and panting, filthy with muck, but happy to have made
a successful crossing.

   The sun felt good on my skin, and I lay dozing, gathering my
strength, until dark clouds moved in and took the sun away.
Loath to rise, I nevertheless gathered my things and made for
the higher bank of the estuary. The mud had dried on my skin,
and I was disinclined to put on my shoes and robe until I could
wash properly; so, tucking my shoes and bundle under my arm, I
set off naked, climbing the rest of the way up the steep bank and
setting off along the trail.

   At every turn I expected to come to some holding or
settlement, but the day ended before I reached any habitation
-although I did find a clear-running brook where I could wash
off the caked mud and bathe my raw hands. When I finished, I
drank my fill of the sweet, clear water and then found a hollow
beside the stream filled with dry leaves, where I settled down to
sleep. Thus ended my eighth day in Britain, and still I had seen
no other human being.

                                31

   In a hollow near a river grew a little stand of ash saplings. I
cut one to act as a staff and to carry my provision bag. Anyone I
happened to encounter would take me for a bard, I reckoned,
and would not have been far wrong. Yet I met no one.

   Day by day I walked. Often in the rain and wind, but what of
that? In my time on Sliabh Mis, I had spent whole winters
outside in every weather under heaven. The chill damp of my
homeland did not daunt me. I walked along, in fog and mist,
content in my own company, secure in the knowledge that if I
continued in an easterly direction along the banks of Mor
Hafren, I would eventually reach Morgannwg and my home.
Before that, however, I would come to any number of
smallholdings and settlements along the coast, and inland there
were scores of villas and larger estates where I might get help.

   On the fourth day after crossing the estuary, I came upon the
old post road that linked the towns of the coast. The sight of it
snaking off over the low hills sent an unexpected pang of longing
through my heart. Who could have imagined that the mere sight
of anything so mundane as that scruffy, overgrown scrape of a
track could have moved me so? It came to me then, as I put my
feet on the long-familiar path, that I was indeed home at last.

  Oh, but it was a home I no longer knew.

   The first settlement I encountered proved this beyond any
doubt. Through the rain I saw a clutch of dark rooftops cramped
into the fold of a valley. There was no smoke coming from any of
the houses, and all was silent. No barking dogs greeted me as I
came into the midst of the holding- and I soon discovered why:
the place had been sacked and put to the torch. I looked in some
of the burned-out houses, but aside from a broken chair, a
cracked pot, and a worn-out broom, I found nothing of value.
Everything worth taking away had been removed-although I did
find some leeks growing in a disordered patch beside one of the
houses. I pulled a few to take with me, put them in my bag, and
moved on.

   This was not the last abandoned settlement I passed. Would
that it were! I put several more derelict holdings behind me
before I came to a villa - an estate, very like my father’s in size
and extent-and at first sight it, too, appeared deserted and
forsaken. Some of the buildings had lost their roofs, and most
bore the signs of fire. Even so, there were people living in the
ruined southern wing.

   Thinking me a druid, they hailed me as I drew near and all
but pulled me into the filthy yard. Needless to say, my hosts were
not the original owners of the villa. Far from it. Tenant farmers,
they had been driven out when their villa fell to a barbarian raid.

   “How long have you been here?” I asked, first in Latin and
then, when that brought no response, in Briton.

  “Four years,” replied the head man of the group after a
moment’s calculation.

   “What happened to the owners here?”

   He shrugged. “Killed or run off. Either way they’re gone.”

   I asked them how far it was to Lycanum, but, having come
from somewhere farther north, none of them seemed to know
the place. They asked me to stay the night with them then, and
as much as I would like to have moved on, I thought it unwise to
refuse the invitation. “Nothing would delight me more,” I lied. “I
am hungry and could use a good meal.”

   That night they all gathered to feed the bard and hear him
sing: this being the price of my food. I did not begrudge them
their song, mind. Indeed, adapting freely from the Irish, I sang a
lengthy portion of “The Battle of the Birds” and “Math ap
Mathonwy” in payment for my meal and lodging. I did my best
to make a good tale of it, and they went away well satisfied.
   They would have had me stay longer, but I told them I was
expected elsewhere. I promised I would come back one day soon
and see them again, and then took my leave. Wretched as they
were, they would not have it but that I should take some onions
and turnips with me. I intoned an elaborate declamation over
them, which prophesied coming abundance and prosperity for
the settlement, and then went on my way.

   More ruined settlements and half-populated holdings
followed; everywhere it was the same story: Those who could
leave had gone; those who remained eked out a niggling
subsistence in the wake of their much more prosperous
predecessors.

    Whether sleeping in ditches or welcomed as a bard, I held
firm to my purpose, moving on early each morning. In this way I
at last reached Ly-canum in Morgannwg, where I found the first
of my true countrymen-fifteen days after coming ashore.

    Sadly, Lycanum, like the rest of the southern region, so far as
I could see, had changed. The walls of the town were higher and
thicker now, encircling the little market town in a tight embrace,
broken only by the stout double gate through which I entered.
The streets were empty of the bustling activity I remembered.
Many of the houses were deserted, and most of those that were
still inhabited stood in urgent need of restoration and repair.
The market was gone, and in its place stood a small field planted
with grain. I walked around, looking at the once-thriving town,
recognizing it, to be sure, but not knowing it anymore.

   Hungry, footsore, thirsty, and disappointed beyond words, I
remembered the Old Black Wolf and, surprised that I had not
thought of it sooner, made my way to the inn without further
delay. On the way I wandered past the garrison. The big
iron-clad gate was open. I could tell at a glance that the
legionaries were gone. The parade ground had become a midden
heap for the people living in the barracks, stores, and
outbuildings. Three forlorn-looking cows stood in a too-small
enclosure beside the wall, and a skinny, swaybacked horse was
tethered to a chain; chickens strutted in and out of the houses as
they would, and goats stood watching from the rooftops.
  How, I wondered, could they allow it to come to this?

    I continued, meeting the same disheveled, desolated
appearance at every turn. And then, all at once, I found myself
running along a narrow street where I had so often come with
my friends. I turned the corner, and there it was: the Old Black
Wolf. The building was still there, but it was no longer a tavern.
Dark smoke rolled up out of the chimney, wheels and rims
leaned against the walls, bits of harness, broken plowshares,
mended scythes, and such lay about the yard. A trough stood on
the stump where the tree had been. The sight astonished even as
it appalled.

   From somewhere inside came the ring of a hammer and the
breathy whoosh and wheeze of a bellows. The place had been
taken over by a blacksmith, and I could but stand and shake my
head. Overcome by the unrelenting strangeness of the town, I
shuffled to the trough, sat down on its edge, and dipped out
some water to drink, thinking only to rest a little before
continuing on. While I was sitting there, a woman came out of
the house, saw me, and fled back inside. A few moments later, a
man in a leather apron emerged carrying a hammer.

   I stood to greet him. “Pax vobiscum,” I said, the Latin feeling
clumsy in my mouth after such long neglect. “I grew up near
here; I have been away and have only just returned.” He eyed me
suspiciously. Putting out my hand, I indicated the building
behind him. “I knew this place when it was the Black Wolf.”

   He looked me up and down before answering. “It’s no inn
anymore,” he concluded. “If your looking to buy something, I’m
selling-otherwise, I’ve work to do.”

   “What happened to the garrison?” I asked. “Where are the
soliders?”

   “I don’t know nothing about it, do I? You got questions-go ask
the magistrate.” When I made no move to leave, he said, “Now
clear off. I’m busy.” He hefted the hammer for good measure.

  I thanked him for his trouble, turned on my heel, left the yard
and walked back along the near-deserted streets to the center of
town. I asked an old woman where I might find the magistrate,
and she pointed to the house that had once belonged to the
garrision commander.

  I went to the house and presented myself to the sallow,
pockmarked youth who answered the door. “I want to see the
magistrate. Tell him I have traveled a long way to speak to him.”

  The young fellow took one look at me sniffed. “Wait here.”

   After a time the youth returned, and I was led to an inner
chamber where two men sat in chairs beside a table. One was
bald and thick-waisted, dressed in a long tunic, and the other a
tonsured priest in drab brown robe and hooded cloak.

   The sullen young man ushered me into the room without
ceremony and brought me to stand before the magistrate, who
glanced up angrily at the interruption, sighed and said, “I
suppose this cannot wait.” He cast a hasty eye over me. “Do you
speak Latin? Hmm? Can you understand me?”

  “I understand you perfectly,” I answered, drawing myself
upright.

   “Well, what do you want?” he said. Before I could reply, he
said, “Speak up. Where are you from?”

  “I was born and raised in Morgannwy.”

  His eyes widened. “The devil you say!”

  “My family owned an estate near Bannavem. My father was a
decurion there; his name was Calpurnius-perhaps you knew
him?”

  The magistrate stared at me. “Yes, yes, I knew him.”

   “Great God in heaven!” said the magistrate’s visitor, starting
up suddenly.

  I turned to him. “The name means something to you?”

  The man, agape with wonder gazed at me. “Succat? Can it
be… ?”

  “That was once my name,” I replied.

  “Do you know me, Succat?” he said.

  I stared at the man; full of face and form, a young man still,
but his body running to fat, he seemed somehow familiar.
Through the fleshy features of the man before me, I glimpsed the
ghost of the youth he had once been. A name came to my lips…

  “Julian?”

                               32

   For the love of Mary and Joseph!“ cried the priest, leaping
from his chair. ”It is Succat!“ He seized me by the arms, gazing
rapturously into my face. ”It is me -Julian! Of course you
remember. How could you forget?“

   In truth I did not know him. Gone was the instigator of so
many fine adventures, the cheerful fornicator, the
heathen-hearted anarchist and scofflaw. Gone was the blithe and
feckless scapegrace leader of our rebellious tribe of four: Rufus,
Scipio, Julian, and myself. In his place stood a substantial,
solemn, shaven-pated priest. Here was a wonder: wanton,
worldly, profligate Julian-a priest of the church! Julian-quite
possibly the last person under God’s blue heaven I might have
imagined would take the tonsure.

  “Julian, I - ”

   He squeezed me in an enthusiastic embrace. Relief and
amazement flooded through me. Tears came to my eyes, slid
down my cheeks, and into my mustache. I clutched at him and
felt all certainty and self-assurance melt away.

  “Succat, my old friend,” he said, thrusting me back from him
again, “let me look at you. I would never have known you.”

   “Nor I you,” I confessed, my mind numbed by the strange
fortuity of our meeting. Recovering myself quickly, I asked, “My
family-what happened to my father and mother? Are they alive?”

   “Alas, no,” said Julian with a sharp shake of his head. ‘Your
father was killed in the fire that took your house.“ He paused,
allowing me to absorb this unfortunate news. ”Your mother lived
on but succumbed a few months later. She lost the will to live, I
think, and simply wasting away.“

   The thought of my toweringly capable mother wasting away
through grief knocked me back a pace. Although I had prepared
myself somewhat for the fact that, in all probability, my parents
were long dead, the very suggestion that she, who bent all wills
to her own, could merely surrender her life to the grave like some
faithful old hound pining for a departed master was impossible
to credit. I could but stand in blinking amazement that anyone
could propose such an incredible, preposterous idea.

    Mistaking my silence, Julian said, “I am sorry, Succat. There
was nothing to be done. So many families were devastated that
night… We thought you dead, too.” He looked to the somewhat
perplexed magistrate. “Did we not, Father? We all thought him
killed.”

  “We did,” said the magistrate, shaking his head slowly.
“Calpurnius’ son… who could believe it?”

  “This is your father?” I said. “You were magistrate of
Bannavem.”

   “Bannavem is no more,” he informed me. “Much has changed
- and not for the better.”

   This I had seen in my journey through the region, but his
blunt assessment cast a pall of sadness over me, confirming as it
did what I understood in my heart: The place I knew had
vanished and would never return.

  “Here, sit down,” said Julian, pushing me into one of the
chairs. “I will get you something to drink.”

  I sat for a moment-numb and slightly dazed while Julian
poured out a cup from a jar on a nearby table. “Drink this,” he
instructed, pressing the cup into my hand.

   The wine was thin and sour, but it brought me to myself once
more. I drained the cup and passed it back to Julian. “A priest
now. How did this come about?” Before he could answer, I said,
“What of Rufus and Scipio? What has become of them? Did they
survive?”

    “Indeed, they did!” He touched the cloth of my gray robe,
feeling the weight and heft of the fabric. “But what about you?
Tell me, how did you get here?” He shook his head as if to clear
it. “Come to that, where have you been these many years?”

   I did not know where to begin to answer him.

   Julian put up his hand. “Wait! There is wine at the priest
house. We will drink. Are you hungry? Of course you are-you
look half starved. We will eat together, and you will tell me all
that has happened to you since we last saw one another.” He
gathered me under his arm and led me from the yard. “How
many years has it been? Six? Eight?”

   “Six at least. I think. Seven maybe.”

  “It matters not a whit. The important thing is that you are
back-risen from the dead, as it were.” He shook his head in
merry bewilderment. “Who could have dreamed it?”

   A short while later, as we sat over our cups in the big house
next to the tiny Lycanum church, he was still shaking his head.
“Succat, back from the dead. It is a very miracle.” He paused,
then added, “But, believe me, I always knew that if anyone could
perform such a miracle, it would be you. I knew we would see
you again. I never gave up hope.”

    It was a lie, of course, a small one, spoken in the exuberance
of the moment-a nothing, a whim voiced without a thought. But
it rankled me nonetheless. In truth he thought no such thing. I
could tell. Until he saw me standing before him, he had not given
my plight a moment’s thought. Ever.

   “Well,” I replied, brushing aside the unfortunate comment,
“there were times I never thought I’d see any of you again
either.”

   “Here!” He raised his cup to me. “Let us drink to your return.”

  We drank then, and I asked him to tell me of Scipio and
Rufus, where they were, what they were doing-everything.

   “It is easily told,” he replied. “After the legions left, Scipio and
his family moved to Rome -can you believe it?”

   “No,” I replied, smiling amiably.

   “They have a villa outside the city. I hope to see it one day. He
used to write to me from time to time, but not for a few years
now. The letters do not get through anymore, you see.” He
shrugged. “So much has changed.”

   “And Rufus? What has happened to him?”

   “Dear old Rufus is now a soldier, a very good one by all
accounts -a centurion.”

   “Is he stationed nearby? Can we see him?”

   “There are no garrisons in Britain anymore. The troops were
called away and have not come back. The governor says now they
may never return.”

   He dropped this extraordinary fact so casually it took me a
moment to assess the grave enormity of what he was saying. “No
troops at all?” I said. “Anywhere?”

  “All were called to Gaul to man the northern borders.” Seeing
my astonished expression, he added, “I wouldn’t worry about it.
We are far from defenseless. We have the militia, of course,
and-”

   “What? A handful of fainthearted farmers with rakes and
spades?”

   Julian favored me with a smile such as one would give to a
slow-witted child. “Still the same old Succat-in a lather over
nothing.” He drank from his cup and filled them both again.
“Now, then, as I was saying, Rufus is in Gaul. As it happens, I
am due to leave for Gaul in a few days. My bishop is attending a
council in Turonum, and I am going with him.”

  “Then it is lucky I found you when I did.”

  “Not at all. It is God’s own providence.” He looked at me
hopefully. “I want you to come, too.”

  “Julian, I - ”

  “We’ll have to get you some new clothes, of course. Why are
you dressed in that ridiculous robe anyway? People will think
you’re a druid.”

    “But I am,” I told him. “I mean, I was.” A curious feeling of
pride surfaced inexplicably, and I suddenly found I could not
bring myself to renounce my training. “That is,” I added, “I was
a filidh under instruction.”

  Julian threw back his head and laughed out loud. “That is
possibly the worst jest I’ve ever heard.”

   My ears reddened and burned with embarrassment, but I
determined to stand my ground. “It is no jest.”

   “Do you expect me to believe this?” hooted Julian. “You
-Succat the Druid?”

   Rank resentment hardened in me. Although I imagined I
could put it on and take it off as easily as the robe I wore,
instead I found that I felt profoundly protective of my bardic
association, and I did not want anyone belittling it. “I am in
earnest.”

    Julian, now the disapproving priest, favored me with a
superior frown, his mouth turned down in distaste. “Come now,
it is a guise, certainly. Tell me the truth.”

   “What I am telling you is the truth,” I insisted, and began
relating what had happened since the night I had been captured
and taken as a slave to Ireland. Julian, to his credit, listened
without comment and let me speak as I would. I did not tell him
everything, of course, but enough for him to know how I had
fared in Eire. “When the chance came to serve in the druid
house, I took it,” I concluded. “I joined the bardic order and have
been studying to become a filidh ever since.”

   “Well,” he said, sitting back in his chair, “that is a tale and a
half. I never would have thought you would become a
tree-worshipping barbarian.”

   “But they are not barbarians, Julian -that is to say, not all of
them. They are different from us, true, but there are some
among them as wise and good as any Briton you care to name,
or any Roman either.”

  “Hoo!” he snorted. “Listen to that! Next you will be telling me
you took one of the sluts to wife.”

   Seeing how he had taken my first admission, I decided in that
instant to keep any mention of Sionan from him. I did not want
him demeaning her memory with his insolent and ignorant
mockery.

  But I was not quick enough. Julian saw my hesitation and
pounced on it. “You did! You married a barbarian bitch.”

   His accusation stung. I denied the charge. “No,” I said.

   “Yes you did. I can see it on your face.”

   “No,” I smiled, fighting to keep my voice even. “I never did.”
Although the words were true, my heart knew I spoke a lie.
Sionan was as much wife to me as any woman who ever loved a
man.

   “You can tell me, Succat, I am a priest. Your secret is safe
with me.”

   I smiled and shook my head. “There is nothing to tell.”

   He gazed at me with fierce intent. I returned his scrutiny with
calm defiance, and he blinked first. “Hmph!” he snorted. “Well,
it is of no importance. You have returned to your kin and
countrymen, and that is all that matters. Now, then, as I said, I
must leave very shortly. You, my friend, must come with me. I
insist. Indeed, I command it.”

    “Julian, please understand. I cannot. I have been traveling for
-for I don’t know how long. Months at least. The last thing I want
is another journey. I have just returned home, and I mean to
stay.”

   “And what will you do now you’re here? Hmm?”

  “Why, I’ll -I mean, I have to…” Here I faltered. I had not yet
worked out what I wanted to do.

   “You see?” Julian said. “There is nothing.” He smiled
pityingly. “You are home, but your home is no more. It grieves
me to say it, but there it is. You and I both know there is nothing
here for you now.” He leaned forward. “Come with me to Gaul.”

  I gazed at him. Sadly, he was right: There was nothing to hold
me here anymore. “I will think about it,” I replied reluctantly.

  Julian was no longer listening. “Now, then, first we must do
something about your clothes as I say. Fortunately, I know
someone who can help. Come, we will begin at once.”

   “Thank you, Julian, but I don’t-”

  He held up his hands. “No need to thank me. I am placing
myself at your service. It is the least I can do for a friend of my
youth.” He rose and started off at once, bidding me to follow.

   I remained seated. “There is no need,” I declared. “I am happy
as I am.”

   “Nonsense,” he scoffed. “We must get you looking like a
true-born British nobleman -which is what you are.” He pulled
me to my feet and hustled me out the door.

   “Julian,” I protested, “I appreciate your concern. I do. But
believe me when I tell you there is no need. My clothes are
agreeable to me. I am not ashamed -nor, I think, should you be
embarrassed for me.”

   “Oh, I do not blame you, Succat,” he said without slackening
his pace.

   “I can see they have turned your head -indeed, it would be
unnatural, I suppose, if they had not. But that will pass. Trust
me. It will go. A few days back among your people and you will
begin to forget all about the unpleasantness of the last few
years.”

   Before I could say anything, he dashed on. ‘You survived,
Succat. I knew you would. You are free once more, and you have
a chance few people ever get: You can begin again.“ He placed
his hand on my shoulder; it was a fatherly gesture, and I
resented it.

  “You do not understand, Julian.”

   “No, I suppose you are right. I do not understand. Probably
no one ever will. But that will matter less and less in the days to
come. You’ll see. In the meantime you must begin again, and you
will, Succat. You will. Never fear, I will see to that.”

   Thus I was carried along in the strong current of his
determination to make me, as he saw it, a suitable human being
once more. Although it does me no credit to say it, I confess that
I began to soften under his benevolent bullying. After so long a
time living by my own wits, so often alone, so often confused and
overwhelmed by forces beyond my control, I might be forgiven
for allowing someone else to take an interest in my affairs.

   The rest of the day was spent, as Julian put it, organizing my
restoration and return to civilization. He found me a place to
stay-a small room in the priest’s house - and purchased new
clothes for me. This last I was less pleased about, but inasmuch
as I insisted on keeping my druid robes also, it did not make
much difference.

  “We are leaving in two days, Succat,” Julian said. It was late;
we had shared dinner with his superior, Bishop Cornelius, and
had quit the dining room at last. “I expect you to come with us.”

   “I thank you for all you have done for me, Julian. Do not think
me ungrateful, but I have no wish to go to Gaul,” I told him-not
for the first time.

   “I know, I know,” he said impatiently. “But allow me to
propose something.”

  “Please, Julian, it is no use tr- ”

  He raised an imperious palm to stop me. “You do not know
what I am going to say.”

  “Very well.” I sighed. “What is it this time?”

  “Although it saddens me to say this, it must be said.”

  “Say it, then.”

   He regarded me with a sober, fatherly expression. “Your lands
are gone.”

  “How can that be? The villa may be ruined, yes, and the barns
and fields. But the land could be reclaimed.”

  “And it will,” he said, “by someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Certainly it matters!” I snarled angrily.

   “No,” he said, shaking his head firmly. “It does not matter in
the least, because, you see, all abandoned lands have been
claimed by the state and sold. It was by decree of the governor.
You have to remember, after the raid there were many
abandoned farms and estates. Something had to be done.”

   “But our lands are not abandoned. I have returned. I will
reclaim them.”
   “Yes, but you have come too late, my friend. It was decreed
that after five years any unclaimed properties would be sold.
Who knew you were ever coming back?”

   I stared at him, unable to speak.

  “What is done is done, Succat. Look instead to the future.
Come with us to Gaul. Begin again.”

   “I want to see the estate,” I muttered grimly.

  “Very well, I will take you tomorrow,” he agreed. “We can ride
out there in the morning, and you will see what I mean.”

                                 33

   As soon as it was light enough to see the road beneath us,
Julian and I lit out for Favere Mundi. I had long ago determined
what I would find, and now I steeled myself for it. Oh, but the
reality was far worse than anything I could have dreamed.

    From a distance it was almost possible to think that nothing
had changed. The fields were overgrown with weeds, yes, and the
trees were untended, but I could see the ruddy glint of the roof
tiles over the grand entrance and imagined for a moment that all
was well, that inside my mother shrilled at her lazy servants
while my father growled and grumbled over his ever-rising taxes.

   Closer, however, I could see that the entrance was all that was
left of the central portion of the villa. It towered above a ruin so
complete I could but wonder at the wreckage. It came to me as I
stood looking that it was not simple destruction that had
reduced the hall and wings to rubble; no, it was the plundering
of stone by our onetime neighbors. No doubt they had carted off
good building material by the wagonload.

   Leaving my mount with Julian, I hurried through the
entrance, scrambled over lumpy, weed-grown mounds of debris,
and walked into the empty space where the great hall had been.
All that was left was a low rim of broken stone that formed a
ragged perimeter. In what had once been my favorite room in all
the world, I knelt and scraped away the dried crust of dirt and
scum to reveal the remains of that beautiful mosaic-a shattered
expanse of tesserae scattered and loose like teeth in a broken
mouth. I picked up a few of the little marble cubes and held
them in my hand.

  Then, as I knelt in the debris, the grief I had so long held at
bay broke over me. I bent my head and wept for the loss of my
home, for my dead parents, the ruined estate, and the cruel
waste of it all. I let my tears fall freely in the dust.

   After a time I wiped my eyes, got to my feet, and picked my
way out through the uneven clumps of wreckage to what had
been the courtyard. The pear tree was still there, a few dry leaves
yet clinging to mostly bare branches. The fountain was smashed;
a large blackthorn bush grew up through a crack in the empty
basin. The pedestal where the statue had stood was overturned,
but the statue was still there; half buried in the long grass lay
Jupiter, serene in defeat, his face blackened by mildew. “Hail,
Poti-tus,” I murmured.

   Looking out through the razed wings of the villa into what
had once been tidy and productive fields, I saw a stack of hay
and remembered what I had hidden there on the night I was
taken. I went out and began pulling the ancient matter, rank
with decay, from the stack and was soon rewarded by the sight
of the wagon. My heart beat a little quicker as the wagon box
came into view. The silver, the precious objects - could it all still
be there?

   Alas, no. I threw off the last of the rotten hay and saw that the
wagon box was empty. No doubt some of the servants had
remembered the wagon and come back for the treasure. Or
perhaps the looters had found it and carried it off with the stone,
timber, and tiles. I turned and started back to the house.

   My father’s estate -land that had been owned by my family for
three or more generations -had been taken by the state and sold
to usurpers. What of that? Even if it was somehow possible to
obtain the return of the lands, I had nothing with which to work
them -no tools, no implements, no animals, no servants. The
families that had lived on the estate were gone; there was no one
to help me. With the little money I possessed, I might hire
someone, but I had no money to buy livestock or seed and no
funds to rebuild the villa, granaries, and storehouses.

   Nor could I work the land alone and survive for very long.
Even if the work did not kill me, a lone farmer was prey to every
hazard from mice to marauders. With nothing set by in store, a
single season of bad weather could destroy years of work, and
what did I know about planting and tilling anyway? No, trying to
reclaim the estate would be death through slow starvation,
backbreaking labor-or both.

    I gazed mournfully around at the ruined villa and neglected
fields and shuddered inwardly as the utter hopelessness of my
circumstances came clear. What Julian said was true: There was
nothing for me here. Moreover, if I were so stubborn as to
remain, I would find in Britain not a home but a grave. I was, I
concluded bitterly, better off in Ireland.

   The thought produced an unexpected lift of the heart.
Perhaps if I had not been standing knee deep in the rubble of my
former life, the thought would never have occurred to me. Then
again, perhaps desperation would have eventually driven me to
the same conclusion. In any event the idea carried the force of
undeniable recognition. I was better off in Ireland.

   At least, that is, if I could remain in the druid house. On this
point my fledgling euphoria plunged sharply. Buinne was there,
and so long as he was master of the house, my life would be at
hazard. And if Buinne didn’t kill me, Lord Miliucc surely would
the moment I entered the rath. In any event Ollamh Calbha, I
knew, would not suffer my return-why should he? I had broken
faith with the Learned Brotherhood; I had run away like the
disloyal and deceitful slave that I was. Worse yet, worst of all, I
had betrayed Sionan, the kindest, gentlest woman I’d ever
known, whose only fault lay in the fact that she loved me.

   Oh, the bitter irony was not lost on me: Fool that I was, I had
spent years and suffered savage beatings in the hope of
returning to Britain and reclaiming my future - only to discover
that any hope of a future lay in Ireland, where I could not hope
to return.
   I found Julian standing amid the destruction. “I thought we
might eat something before going back,” he said, holding out a
small bag. Inside were bread and cheese and a few apples. I
accepted my portion of food, and there, in the desolation of my
father’s house, I sat down and ate a meal in the once-grand hall,
where some of the most festive dinners in our little corner of
Britain had been served. I ate slowly and deliberately, as if
observing a cheerless sacrament, remembering my mother and
father and the happy times we had shared in that place.

   Truly, there was nothing for me here, I decided bleakly. It was
time to move on. But where?

   Once more the vapors of gloom closed around me. I finished
eating and returned to my horse, mounted to the saddle, and
gazed one last time upon the devastation of my childhood home.
I then turned my back on it forever.

   We were halfway back to Lycanum when the solution to my
difficulty struck me, and then it was so obvious and self-evident I
could not imagine why I had not thought of it at once: Cormac.
He was in Britain after all; find him and any worries I might
have about Buinne, or anything else, would wonderfully
disappear. With Cormac by my side, I could then return to
Ireland without fear. I could resume my life in the druid house. I
could return to Sionan; indeed, I could marry her.

   How strange life is sometimes, I reflected. The lie I told to
assist my escape was now my only hope of return. To gain
Sionan’s trust and ease her fears, I had told her I went to Britain
only to find Cormac and bring him back. Well, now that I had no
better choice, that is exactly what I would do. What is more, I
could redeem my promise to Sionan. In fact, I could redeem
myself before she even knew I had deceived her.

   The more I thought about this, the more the idea appealed to
me -especially since the alternative was poverty, privation, and
the tacit slavery of a bondsman or hired laborer. There was
nothing to hold me in Morgannwg anymore and no help for me
in Lycanum if I stayed. By the time I reached the town, the idea
had hardened to resolve: I would find Cormac, secure his aid,
and return to Ireland, the druid house, and Sionan.
   I wasted no time informing Julian of my plan. He listened
with a doubtful expression on his smooth face. “Do you know
where this Cormac person is to be found?”

   “I know he is in the north,” I replied, “near a place called
Cend Rig-monaid. He said it was on the eastern coast. It cannot
be too difficult to find.”

    “And you propose just to go charging off in search of this
fellow in the belief that he will help you?”

   “I know he will help me,” I replied. “All I need is a horse and a
few provisions. I was hoping I could borrow them from you.”

   Julian placed his palms together and peered at me over the
top of his fingertips. “And if you do not find your friend, what
then? What will you do? Where will you go?”

   I had not thought that far and was forced to confess
ignorance. “Well, I will be no worse off than I am now.”

   He paused to consider this and then declared, “You are
fortunate indeed, for I see the hand of God at work here. The
bishop has decided to postpone the trip to Turonum until the
spring.”

  “I thought you were leaving tomorrow.”

  “We are - ” he said, saw the objection forming on my tongue,
and quickly added, “and if you would be quiet long enough for
me to finish, all will be revealed.”

  “Go on.”

   “The bishop will go to Turonum in the spring. Until then he
plans to sojourn at Candida Casa. ‘What is that?’ I hear you
asking. Permit me to tell you.”

  “Yes, yes. Get on with it.”

   “It is a priest house in the north.” He nodded knowingly at my
reaction. “I thought that would interest you.”
  “Where in the north?”

  “The west coast somewhere, I believe.”

   “And I could go with you?” I said. “I mean, you would let me
travel with you?”

   “My son,” he said, his natural condescension breaking forth,
“you would have a horse and traveling companions, and a place
to stay while you looked for this Cormac person.” He nodded
again. “There, what do you say to that?”

  “Well, Julian, this is wonderful. I accept. I only wish I - ”

  He held up a hand. “There is, of course, one condition.”

  “And that would be?”

   “Simply this: that if you do not find friend Cormac, you would
look kindly on the prospect of accompanying us to Gaul when we
leave in the spring.”

  “Well, I cannot’s-‘

   “Do not dismiss this. Think about it, Succat. The bishop is
being very generous in making this offer. You would be a fool to
reject it outright.”

   “I mean no disrespect to the bishop,” I replied, “but why is he
so anxious for me to accompany him to Gaul? Before the other
night he had never even seen me.”

  “To tell you the truth,” Julian replied, “Bishop Cornelius does
not care if you go to Gaul, or Ireland or stay here and grow a
beard of moss. But I care. You are my friend, and I want to help
you if I can. In Gaul a young man can still make something of
himself. There is opportunity to be found; you can start anew.”

   The offer of a horse and a place to stay was not to be sneered
at; I would travel swiftly and safely, and that was of utmost
importance to me just then. So, with no better prospects of my
own, I agreed -if only to further my plan to find Cormac.
   We departed Lycanum the next day, eleven of us in all.
Besides Julian, myself, and the bishop, there were three novice
priests, four members of the local militia, and a cook. I will not
call the militiamen soldiers; they were little more than
brigands-men who only a few years before would have been
outlaws, hunted by the very legionaries they now impersonated.
Nevertheless they gave our company something of an imposing
presence which might have deterred bandits not unlike
themselves.

   The novices drove oxcarts heaped high with supplies and
provisions. The road north was good for the most part, wet or
dry-and as autumn drew on, there was much wet and wind; we
followed Silurum Street, which led through the rounded hills of
Morgannwg to Deva and beyond to Mamu-cium and, eventually,
Luguvallium. Once past the Wall we would head west along the
peninsular coast to our destination.

   Oh, but the going was damnably slow. Oxen are not the
swiftest creatures afoot, and we stopped early each day so that
the bishop might have a proper evening meal. If that were not
enough, we also stopped at every little town, settlement, and
holding along the way. Wherever a crowd, however reluctant,
could be herded together, the churchmen performed a
service-more for their own diversion, I suspected, than for any
good it might have done the poor souls dragged along to endure
the bishop’s tirade in scholarly Latin.

   Cornelius did not preach so much as berate and belittle.
However amiable and friendly he might have been in the saddle,
as soon as he mounted his pulpit-be it only a stump beside a pig
wallow-he became an orator of dour and frightful mien.
Compassion, encouragement, comfort, consolation-these virtues
became distant strangers to him the moment he opened his
mouth in formal address to a congregation. I could not help but
compare him with good Datho, whose tireless kindliness shone
through in every word.

   Clearly Bishop Cornelius enjoyed traveling in this manner; as
a senior churchman he luxuriated in his holy office. When I
came to know him better, I saw a man who styled himself an
enlightened potentate, magnanimous yet thoroughly mindful of
the impression he wished to make on those who saw him. In
short, he was a vainglorious, pretentious priest who wore his
love of pomp as he wore his fur-trimmed bishop’s robe. He never
supped, he dined; never prayed but rather communed with the
Almighty on high; never conversed but rather engaged in private
discourse with his fellows; never laughed but rather yielded to
jocularity. In fact, so far as I know, he never peed beside the road
but rather paused briefly for micturation. He was a round-faced,
nearsighted prig with bad breath, hanging dewlaps, and a sour
stomach from too much rich food.

   Yet for all his airs and affectations, he was intelligent and
decisive. He knew his mind and was not a man to be dissuaded
from a course, however difficult or unpleasant it might prove.
And once he said a thing, he owned it regardless of the
consequences. Thus he was a man whose word could be trusted.

   “Julian told me of your slavery in Ireland,” he said as we rode
along one cool, drizzly day. “And that you had been undertaking
instruction in Druidism.”

   “I was studying to become a filidh, yes,” I replied.

   “Your grandfather was a priest, I believe.”

   “Potitus, yes. Presbyter of Bannavem. Did you know him?”

   Cornelius shook his head. “I grew up in the north - near where
we are going, as it happens. I was appointed to establish a
bishopric at Lycanum only four years ago.”

   “And before that?”

    “Londinium-but I was not a bishop then.” He paused,
glancing back along our train for a moment, then turned to me
and said, “We must do what we can to wean you away from this
ill-considered Druidism.”

   “With all respect, Bishop,” I replied as mildly as I could, “I do
not regard it as a condition to be eradicated. It is not a disease,
after all.”
    “Oh, but that is where you are wrong. It is very much a
condition which must be extirpated and exterminated wherever
it rears its ugly head.”

   His blinkered appraisal was provocative, but I did not care to
be drawn into an argument with him, so I said, “Have you ever
known any druids?”

   “Thank God Almighty, no. I saw one once, as a boy. Nasty
creature-all gnarled and twisted like one of the monstrous oak
trees they worship.”

   I accepted his opinion equably. “If I told you that the filidh
did not worship trees, would that make any difference at all?”

   The bishop thought for a moment. “Perhaps,” he allowed,
“although I shudder to think what they worship instead.”

   “The deity they hold in highest reverence is called by many
names,” I explained. “One such is the High King of Heaven, but
there are others - Maith De or, as we would say, the Good God.
Also Tabharfaidh Bronntoir, which means Gifting Giver. But the
name most often preferred is An Run-diamhair, or simply An
Runda, the Mysterious.”

   “Typical pagan affinity for endowing their brutish gods with
wondrous attributes, I should imagine,” mused the bishop. “Still,
the more gods, the better, I suppose -if you are forever trying to
appease the fearful elements.” He tut-tutted disapprovingly.
“Poor benighted wretches.”

   “So anyone might think,” I agreed. “Yet on closer inspection
the god addressed by many names is one and the same.”

   “All the same god?” wondered Cornelius.

  “One and the same -and, what is more, he is the very same
god you worship one Sabbath to the next.”

  “Blasphemer!” exclaimed the bishop in mock alarm. “Tempt
me with no more with your lies.”
    “It is nothing less than the simple truth,” I replied evenly.
“They hold their god to be the creator of heaven and earth and of
all things seen and unseen. He rules the cosmos and everything
in it with benevolence for his creatures. In fact, they even know
about Jesu, his son, whom they also hold in highest honor. They
call him losa or, Esu.”

   “You mean to tell me that the entire Irish race expounds these
religious tenets?”

  “Not everyone, no. Not by any means. They have their pagans
much as we have ours,” I conceded. “But many of the filidh, the
druid-folk, believe and teach these things.”

   “Ho!” he cried suddenly. “There it is! These druids of yours
are beginning to sound suspiciously like the Culdee of ours.”

  “You know the Ceile De?”

   “Root and branch. The north is full of the vermin. The Culdee
are a very bane and a curse. If I had my way, they would all have
millstones hung around their roguish necks and be heaved
bodily into the nearest sea.”

   “Is this,” I inquired, “a conviction you have reached through
long and careful investigation? Or could it be simply a prejudice
formed in ignorance and bolstered by pride?”

   He huffed and puffed at my presumption. But, to his credit,
Bishop Cornelius contemplated the question seriously. “I must
confess to the latter,” he said at last. “Although nothing I have
ever seen leads me to doubt the veracity of my conviction in the
least.”

    “Then we must do what we can to wean you away from this
ill-considered intolerance, Bishop.”

   “Ho, ho!” he laughed. “Not likely, I think.” Chuckling to
himself, he slapped the reins across his mount’s shoulders and
rode on.

  We were to have several of these discussions over the course
of the journey. But it was not until a few days after we reached
our destination that I learned the reason for our visit and
discovered that the pompous bishop had been less than
forthright with me.

                                34

    It was an estate on the wet and windblown western coast of
Britain that received us. I use the word “estate,” for Candida
Casa -the White House, as it was known for the pale-colored
stone of its walls -was of far greater extent than anything so
simple as a house or church. It was more on the order of a grand
villa with residences, storehouses, a church and oratory, a
refectory, and various other workshops and outbuildings set
amid its own plowed and tended fields. Surrounded by forest
and yet near to the sea, it enjoyed a far milder winter than its
northern position warranted.

    It was, I happily concede, a fine place. For me, however, the
difficulty was not with the estate itself but with the
inhabitants-priests of a peculiarly proud and haughty stripe who
seemed to think their doctrines should be taken as holy writ by
all lesser mortals-that is, the mass of humanity which did not
reside within the high, protecting walls of their order. The
imperious monks of Candida Casa seemed to think it their duty
to harangue any hapless creature unlucky enough to wander
within spitting distance; the air grew brown and turgid with
their endless sermonizing. I could not endure it, so went on my
way as quickly as possible, taking as many provisions as I could
weasel from the kitchen monks. I also took my filidh robe and
my good sharp knife.

   Julian came to see me off. “You will return in a few days, I
presume?”

  “That depends on what I find,” I replied.

  “Go, then,” he said, embracing me, “and may God speed you.”

   “Farewell, Julian.” I climbed into the saddle, took up the
reins, and sat looking down at him.
  “Farewell,” he said. “I will have the monks pray every day for
your safe return.”

   I thanked him for all he had done on my behalf. I might have
thanked him for the horse, too, for once I found Cormac, I had
no intention of returning to Candida Casa, but instead head for
Ireland and my waiting Sionan. My guilt for this omission lasted
only until I was out of sight of the place.

   My brown horse was a fine and spirited young animal, and we
understood one another well. I made certain to find him
adequate grazing and water each day, which was not difficult in
the wild northern hills, and we made good speed in our search
for druid strongholds. Directed by local knowledge gathered
along the way, I arrived at Bras Rhaidd, a very monastery of a
druid house-a rival, in its own way, to Candida Casa. I came
dressed in my filidh robe, carrying a new hazel staff I had cut
three days before, and, to my great relief and delight, I was
greeted warmly by my bardic brothers: seven Britons and an
Irishman from Dal Riada, who recognized me and received me
as one of their own.

    I wasted not a moment, inquiring after Cormac as soon as the
first of many rituals of welcome had been observed. “My name is
Corthirthiac,” I told them in Irish, “and I have come in search of
a dear and close friend of mine-a filidh by the name of Cormac
Miach. He is in the company of a wise and powerful ollamh
named Meabh.”

   “Then you have done well to direct your search here,” replied
the chief bard, a short, dark-haired man named Sadwrn. “They
were here. Indeed, they sojourned with us for several months.”
He regarded me hopefully and added, “We were greatly blessed
by their presence.”

   Taking his hint, I said, “Is this a Ceile De house?”

  “It is that,” he said with a smile. “If you call yourself friend to
Cormac, then you are no less our friend.”

  I thanked him and said, “You said they have been here.
Where have they gone; can you tell me?”
  “Oh, yes,” replied Sadwrn. “They were on their way to Tuaim
Ban to see the chief bard, Cethrwm.”

   “Yes,” I said eagerly, “the very bard he mentioned.”

   “It must be three months at least since they left here.”

   “I see. Is it far, this Tuaim Ban?”

   “It is a fair distance, yes, for it lies some way northeast of here
on the coast near Muir n’Guidan.”

  Cormac had said it was on the coast. “Is it near a place called
Cend Rig-monaid?” I asked.

   “Oh, aye, it is that. But I would not advise you to make the
journey just now. Much of the way is through mountain and
forest, and the trails can be treacherous this time of year.”

  “I have a horse,” I pointed out. “I can travel quickly. Indeed, if
you would direct me to the place, I will set off at once.”

   Sadwrn would not hear of it. “You have traveled far already, I
think. Stay here and rest a little-a day or two will not matter.
Then, if you are still determined, you may go.”

   “There is nothing I would like better than sitting by your
warm fire,” I said. “Very well, I accept. But one day only. I must
find my friend.”

  “Of course.” Indicating the gathering gloom, Sadwrn said,
“Come inside. Let us discuss the way over supper.”

   This I did, and spent an enjoyable night in their company.
They sang for my benefit a song I had never heard: “Pwyll and
Rhiannon,” and we traded news of our respective gatherings.
Next day, after I had seen my horse fed and watered, Sadwrn
told me the best way to Tuaim Ban. It was all I could do to force
myself into the saddle once more. As I was taking my leave of the
bards, one of them, a fellow named Tarian presented me with a
chart he had made. “I know it will be of little use to you,” he said
apologetically, “but winter comes quickly to the north, and even
well-marked trails can become difficult to find.” He handed me
the little scrap of lambskin he had prepared. “If that should
happen, this might help.”

   “I thank you, brother,” I told him. “I hope we meet again one
day in Ireland, and I can return your kindness.” I bade them all
farewell and was genuinely sorry to leave them so soon. Their
“God speed you, brother!” was still resounding in my ears as I
snapped the reins and moved on.

   The land to the north grew more extreme in every way. If the
south had forests, in those of the north the trees were taller, the
wood denser, darker, and more forbidding; if the south had hills,
the north had mountains of jagged rock surrounding steep-sided
valleys almost always filled with cold, black, deep water lakes.
And if the south had wind and rain? Well, the north had raging
tempests which drove stinging sleet through the warmest cloak
and drenched a body to the bone.

   The few hardy souls who lived in the region clung precariously
to the sides of the hills, hunting in the forests and fishing in the
lakes for their food. Mostly, however, the high, wild, craggy hills
were empty, desolate, and forsaken by all save red deer and
eagles.

   Despite the dangers of the wood-wolves, bears, and the large
spotted wildcats-I much preferred the quiet of the forest
pathways to the barren hills; at least the sheltering trees kept the
worst of the wind and rain and snow off me. My horse proved
good company. A confident mount, he showed no fear of the
dark wood, and even when we heard the occasional howl of a
wolf, he did not shy but trotted on regardless. I named him
Boreas in memory of another stout-hearted beast, and took care
to dry his coat with grass or leaves whenever we stopped.

   But the days were short and growing shorter. Though we
made use of every last moment of light we were granted, we did
not advance so rapidly as I hoped; the rough trails and
increasingly bad weather conspired to keep us moving at a
crawl. Once, during a storm, Tarian’s chart proved invaluable as
snow wiped out the trail and I was forced to reckon by the
landmarks he had painstakingly indicated.
   In summer the journey might have taken eight or ten days.
Instead it took all of seventeen-the last two into the teeth of a
ferocious northern gale. It took all my strength of will just to
keep moving. I buoyed my resolve with the thought that I would
soon be with Cormac again and the world would right itself once
more. This thought alone kept me going.

   No one was ever so glad as I was when, gazing across a frozen
stream, I saw the dark, lumpy mass Sadwrn had described-a
great black rock of a hill rising across the valley-and hoped
against hope that we had arrived at last. “This has to be the
place,” I said, relief quickly mounting to elation. “It must be.”

   I let Boreas pick his way carefully across the stream and then
gave him a slap of the reins. “Hie! Hie, up!” I shouted, and we
galloped the rest of the way as fast as he could run, reaching the
base of the black hill breathless and exhilarated. I worked my
way around the lower slopes until I found the trail leading up to
the top. Twilight was upon me by the time I reached the large
timber house. I called a greeting and slid from the saddle,
hurrying at once to the door.

   In my elation at having found the place and arrived safely, I
failed to notice that no smoke issued from the smoke hole in the
roof. The house and yard were quiet. I called again, lifted the
latch, and pushed open the door.

   The druid house was empty. One glance at the dark, cold
interior showed that no one had been there for a long time. I
walked to the hearth and put my hand to the ashes, hoping, I
suppose, to find them still warm - even though I could see that
the embers were long since dead.

   As my fingers touched the lifeless ash, the heart went out of
me. I closed my eyes against the tears already welling there and
bent my head as a sob tore from my throat. I wanted to die.
Disappointed, frustrated, exhausted, hungry, and cold, I rolled
onto my side and lay there wishing I might just rest my head on
the stones of the hearth and never have to rise again.

   The gloom of the house was all but complete when at last I
forced myself to my feet and made a desultory search of the
place to see what I might discover. I found some dry goods in the
storeroom: a measure of fine-milled flour in a stoneware jar and
oats and barley in leather bags. There was also water in the
stoup, but it was stale. I discovered a wedge of cheese -hard as
rock-and a few dry white beans. There was no meat or bread,
but there was some lard and a lump of salt.

   I went back outside and tended to Boreas. I dried him with
some pine needles and put him in one of the two small
outbuildings behind the big house. There was a wooden tub,
which I filled with water, and I found some dry fodder hanging
in a bale from one of the roof beams. I pulled down a fair portion
of the hay and left him to rest for the night.

   Returning to the house in the fast-falling darkness, I brought
in wood from the stack beside the door and set about building a
fire in the hearth. As soon as I had a blaze going, I busied myself
making supper and, exhausted from the journey, went to sleep
before the fire. Sometime during the night a storm moved in,
and I woke the next morning to a fresh covering of snow.

    I decided to stay at Tuiam Ban for a few days to rest and
think what to do next. It was possible, I told myself, that the
filidh might return to the house and find me waiting. I did not
hold out much hope that this would happen, however; it seemed
to me that they had gone elsewhere for the winter.

   I occupied myself with small chores throughout the day:
fetched clean water from the well for the horse and myself, piled
rush mats and fleeces beside the hearth for a bed, set a handful
of beans to soak for supper, and made a batch of dry, crumbly
bread. I carved the lump of salt in half and took one half out into
the woods, cleared a space for it beside the trail, and left it there.
Returning to the house, I cut a piece of leather strap and bound
my knife to the end of a slender length of ash, then went back
out to sit behind a tree within sight of the salt.

  I waited long, but as the sun began to fade, my patience was
rewarded by the appearance of a large, fat hare. Readying my
makeshift spear while the animal tasted the salt lick, I took aim
and let fly. It was not the cleanest kill; the wounded animal
darted into the bush, but I quickly caught and dispatched it. I
took the plump little carcass back to the house to clean and
dress it, pleased to add roast hare to my meal of bean soup and
bread.

   There was no beer, of course, but I had filled the stoup with
fresh water, and while the hare was cooking, I went to fill a bowl,
taking up one from among those beside the basin. However,
upon my leaning forward to dip the wooden vessel into the
basin, a strange sensation came upon me -as if someone had
called my name. There was no sound. I heard nothing. Even so,
the sensation that I had been addressed by someone -or
something- was unmistakable.

  I paused, the bowl halfway to the water. “Yes?” I said aloud.
The sound of my voice resounded in the empty house.

   There came no answer, so I resumed my task and dipped the
bowl, filled it with water, and brought it to my lips. In that
instant I felt Cormac beside me: inexplicably but unequivocally
Cormac. Indeed, the impression was so strong I turned my head,
knowing there was no one there yet unable to stop myself from
doing it anyway.

   The uncanny sensation so surprised me that the bowl slipped
from my fingers and fell into the stoup with a splash. The sense
of his presence ceased immediately, and I was alone once more. I
waited for a moment to see if the ghostly presence would return,
but when it did not, I drew the bowl from the water and filled it
again. The sense of Cormac’s closeness returned as soon as I
touched the bowl.

   This, it came to me, was the imbas forosndi: the knowledge of
enlightening-a bardic skill which Ollamh Datho had spoken of
many times and had encouraged me to investigate. That it
should come to me now, in this way, surprised and disconcerted
me a little. Why now? I wondered.

   Straightaway I grasped the bowl and brought its edge to- my
forehead, closed my eyes, cleared my mind of thought, and tried
to see if I might learn anything more from the object. Alas, aside
from a very strong, almost corporeal sensation of my friend’s
presence, nothing else came through. Nevertheless I welcomed
the knowledge as confirmation that Cormac had indeed spent
time in the house.

   I carried the bowl back to my place at the hearth, where I ate
my solitary meal beside a fine warm fire and considered what to
do next. I might, with difficulty, spend the winter at Tuaim Ban
-but spring was still very far off, and the thought of staying in
the house all alone through the bleak season did not sit well with
me. I decided to chance the long ride back to Bras Rhaidd,
where I might spend a more comfortable winter with Sadwrn
and the others and resume my search for Cormac with their help
in the spring.

   Next day I made all the flour into bread and packed the
remaining supplies to take with me, then watered and fed
Boreas with more of the dry fodder. Thus prepared, I spent a last
warm night beside the fire and departed the druid house at
dawn. The sun rose bright in a clear blue sky, and though my
breath hung in clouds before my face, the sun was soon warm on
my back-a good sign, I thought, that I had chosen well.

   Ah, but signs can be deceiving. The world is impossibly
vicious and contrary, delighting always in the destruction of men
and their dreams. This I know.

                                 35

   At dusk, eleven days after leaving Tuaim Ban, disaster
overtook me. As the short-lived sun faded, clouds had come in on
a sharp northern wind and it began to snow. I came to a break
in the wood where a stream ran through the forest and decided
to halt for the night in a stand of tall pines just across the river;
their branches, wide and low, seemed to offer a dry spot to sleep.
The water, though fast, was not deep, so I urged Boreas into the
frigid flow.

   I was halfway across when the horse stumbled on an icy rock.
But it was nothing serious; horses stumble all the time. It was a
warning nonetheless-a warning which went unheeded. I should
have dismounted then and there and led the exhausted animal
the rest of the way across. But the water was freezing cold, and I
was tired; I did not care to spend the night in wet clothes. So I
kept my saddle and coaxed Boreas to finish the crossing and
climb the opposite bank. Unfortunately, the bank was steeper
than I realized. Snow and ice on the rocks made the footing
treacherous; the horse stumbled twice, and I was just sliding
from the saddle when the animal slipped again.

   Unbalanced, I was thrown down onto the rocks, and Boreas,
unable to find his footing, stepped on me, his hoof striking me
on my left side. I heard a soft crunch and felt something give way
in my chest. I let out a scream of pain, and the horse, frightened
now, reared. I saw his forelegs pawing the air as his hind legs
struggled, hooves skittering on the ice-covered rocks. The poor
beast went over backward and landed on his side in the stream.

   Gulping air against the pain, I jumped up and plunged into
the water to grab the reins, lest the frightened animal take it
into his head to charge off into the wood without me. I snagged
the reins and tried to calm Boreas and get him on his feet again.

   The horse neighed and thrashed about, but try as he might,
he could not rise; he had broken his right hind leg in the fall.
There was blood in the water, and he brayed with pain every
time he tried to get up.

  There was nothing to be done. I could not leave him in the
middle of the freezing stream all night, and I could not move
him out myself-and even if I might have accomplished that
somehow, I could not have bound and healed the broken leg
overnight.

   Taking my makeshift spear, I unstrapped the knife from the
ash branch, and then, kneeling in the water, I got Boreas’ head
around and, speaking soothing words into his ear, calmed him,
telling him how he had been my bold, good champion, my
strong, brave steed, and how sorry I was that he had been
injured through my willful negligence. I asked him to forgive me
for what I was about to do and then, with a quick, biting stroke,
drew the knife blade across the soft skin of his throat beneath
the jaw.

  Distracted by the pain of his broken limb, I do not think he
felt the blade at all. I continued to hold his head and stroke him,
filling his ear with kindly words as his life flowed from him. In a
little while he slumped down; a quiver passed through his body,
and he lay still. “Farewell, Boreas, good friend,” I said and, my
heart aching with regret, I dragged myself from the ice-rimmed
stream.

   My own pain, held in abeyance until now, set in with a fierce,
fiery throb. I lay on the frozen bank panting like a winded dog,
until I realized the light was going. I had no choice but to return
to my dead mount to get the supplies he carried behind the
saddle. Wheezing like a broken bellows, my side throbbing with
every step, I slogged my way into the water and to poor dead
Boreas once more. Working quickly, I loosened the knots and
dragged the leather bag back onto the bank, then collapsed
beside it in the snow, tears streaming from my eyes.

    After a while I marshaled my strength and rolled myself under
the low pine branches. It was dry there, and the pine needles
were deep. I scooped out a hollow and, taking the flint and iron
from the bag, soon had a tiny flame fluttering in the dry needles.
I fed small twigs into the fire until it took hold, then lay down
beside it and heaped masses of pine needles over me.

   The snow continued through the night. I lay in agony, biting
the insides of my cheeks to keep from crying out, listening to the
thin wail of the wind sifting through the trees, and waiting for
daylight, when I crawled from my crude nest to survey the
damage. Slowly, carefully, I opened my robe, pulled up my tunic,
and looked down at my side. The sight which greeted me
brought the gorge to my throat. From hip to chest the entire left
half of my body was a virulent, deep-colored bruise. That was
bad enough, but the sight that alarmed me most was a
crescent-shaped bulge of dull, angry red just below my last rib.

   With trembling fingers I brushed the hoof-shaped bulge
lightly with my fingers and felt that it was hot to the touch.
Picking up a handful of wet snow, I pressed it gently to my side.
The intense cold made my flesh writhe, but it gradually leached
away some of the pain.

  Closing my robe, I got to my feet and edged my way down the
slippery bank to the stream; I cupped freezing water to my
mouth, swallowing as much as I could hold. Then, with a last
farewell to my dead horse, I hefted the leather bag and, taking
up the ash pole for a staff, resumed my journey on foot.

   By my closest reckoning I was at least seven days’ ride from
Bras Rhaidd -on foot, eleven or more. Allowing for the weather, I
would be fortunate to reach the druid house in twice the time.
Indeed, injured as I was, I would be lucky to reach Bras Rhaidd
at all.

   My best hope, I decided, was to find a nearer settlement.
True, I had passed very few on the journey north, and thus the
chance of finding one now seemed particularly remote. Even so,
Tarian’s rudimentary map identified a road to the south-one of
those serving the garrisons north of the Wall. If I could reach
that road, I might soon find a settlement along the way. In the
bag was food enough for another three or four days-after that I
would grow hungry. But I was used to hunger. And cold, too.
Neither of those hardships worried me. I had endured them
often enough on Sliabh Mis, and I could do so again.

   Thus, with confidence banked high in my heart, I set off in
the certainty that I would soon reach a settlement where I could
get help and wait out the worst of winter.

   For two days I walked south and east, following Tarian’s chart
as well as I could. The way was rough and wild and made more
difficult by snow and ice. I stumped along through the wind and
cold, half frozen, dragging the leather bag of rapidly dwindling
provisions behind me. At night I slept in the driest places I could
find -usually under low-lying pine boughs, huddled beside a
small sputtering fire. Often I heard wolves, sometimes close, and
once I even saw one; but as it was early winter and he was not so
hungry yet, he was content to leave me alone.

   At the end of the third day, I finished the last of the food.
Taking the empty bag, I split it down one side and along the
bottom to open it up. This I tied around my head and shoulders
to give me better protection from the wind, rain, and snow. I
could do nothing for my injured rib, however; the perpetual pain
deepened to a fiery ache that throbbed with every step. I
wheezed when I drew breath now, and there was an ugly
gurgling sound deep down in my left lung which I did my best to
ignore.

   For the next two days I stumbled on, head down, suffering
with every step. My hands and feet felt like lumps of ice on the
dead ends of my limbs, and my chest burned with a low, angry
fire. I could no longer walk upright but held myself crooked to
one side to appease the pain. My steps grew slower, my rests
more frequent. I drank from icy pools and ate snow to ease the
pangs of hunger, but as the unrelenting cold sank into my bones,
I could feel my strength dwindling.

   I dragged myself up the side of one hill and down the other so
many times I lost count, and then, toward the end of the fifth
day since losing the horse, as the last lights failed in the west, I
glimpsed a thin, dark line snaking through a nameless valley
below: the road.

   In a crevice between two rocks, I spent the night and at
sunrise climbed back onto unfeeling feet, took up my staff, and
moved on, keeping the undulating line of the road in my sight
for fear that if I looked away, I would lose it-and that would be
the end. Step by step I willed the road to come closer, and as the
sun made an all-too-brief appearance at midday, I finally
reached the flat, stone-paved track. I paused to rest while the
sun shone, and I read the last milestone, which indicated that
the nearest garrison was Banna, sixteen miles away. When the
sun disappeared once more behind the dark clouds, I stood and
shuffled on.

    The road rose up and over a ridge and descended into a
treeless moor, and though it was flat and easy underfoot, the
wind whipped sharply out of the north, slicing through my
perpetually damp cloak to freeze my already numb flesh to the
bone. The bite of the wind caused tears to well up in my eyes, yet
I struggled on, half blind, wheezing and gasping like an old man,
dragging one foot in front of the other, and vowing with every
step that if I reached help alive, I would never stir beyond sight
of the hearth again.

   Soon the day ended. As twilight gathered, I saw ahead the
edge of a wood where I might find shelter for the night. Dark
spots floated in my vision; my head felt as if it were stuffed with
wool. Though I gulped greedily, I could not seem to get enough
air. Still I hauled myself forward toward the wood as if it were
my salvation. Over and over the words screamed in my brain:
sixteen miles!

  I would never make it.

   Step by aching step, the edge of the wood drew closer. The
light was going, the day leaving me straggling far behind.
Holding the promise of rest and shelter before me, I stumbled on
toward the wood and had almost reached it when I saw,
emerging from the trees, a great, misshapen beast. The animal
had a low head and high humped back, and it heaved itself
slowly onto the road with six or more short, stout legs.

   I stopped and stared, unable to believe the thing that passed
before my eyes. The old pagans told of strange creatures
inhabiting the ancient forests, but I had always accounted it
rank superstition of the most ignorant kind. Yet here was one of
those tales come to lumbering life.

   As I stood looking on, the beast turned and proceeded down
the road away from me. It was then, in the last glimmer of
daylight, that I saw the wheels and realized that what I was
seeing was not a monster but a high-sided cart pulled by an ox
with a farmer walking beside it.

   I tried to call out to him, but it hurt me so to draw breath
that I could make no sound above a whisper. I started after him,
hurrying as fast as I could: not fast enough, however, for it was
soon clear that I was falling behind. My side hurt; my legs were
numb and unsteady. I could hardly breathe, let alone run, and
the farmer with his slow ox and cart were leaving me behind. I
stopped to think what to do.

   It came to me to try the briamon, the word of power.
Standing there in the middle of the road, I closed my eyes, raised
my staff, and stretched forth my left hand. I drew a breath deep
as I could and held in my mind the word I meant to speak.
   “Unite word and will together,” Datho had taught. “Let your
command gather volition and power before sending it out into
the world. Above all, believe that what you say has been ordained
from the foundation of the world and that all creation stands
ready to uphold your bidding.”

   Concentrating the entire force of my will into the word, I did
as Datho had taught me to do, drawing heart and mind together
into a single weapon - as if mind were the bow and heart the
string. I bent both to my will and held the word taut.

    Then, when I could contain it no longer, I released it and let it
fly.

   To my astonishment the shout resounded in the wood and
echoed from the surrounding hills. The farmer stopped. I saw
him turn. He saw me. I waved my staff at him and started forth
on unfeeling legs. I took but half a dozen paces, and the last of
my strength gave out. I stumbled on the uneven stone and fell
headlong onto the road. The fall awakened the fury in my side; I
squeezed my eyes shut, gritted my teeth, and held on to
consciousness until the farmer could reach me.

   Presently I heard the clomp of his wooden-soled shoes on the
paving stones and raised my head. A heavy man, wrapped in
rags and fur against the wind and cold, stood looking down at
me with mild brown eyes.

   “Help, me,” I gasped. “I am hurt.”

   He made a reply in speech I could not understand and then
bent to pick me up. I felt his hands under my arms, and he lifted
me up like so much grain in a bag. The movement brought a cry
from my lips, but the farmer seemed not to notice. He did,
however, observe my robe.

   “Denvyddi?” he said.

   “Yes,” I told him. “Filidh.”

  “Ahhh…” he said, as if this answered a long-suspected but
never-revealed secret. “Filidh.”
  “Cymorth,” I said, my tongue tripping over the British words.
“Help. I need help.”

   “Ah,” he said again, and gathered me under his arm. Without
another word he all but carried me back to where his wagon and
ox were waiting. The wagon, open at the back, was filled with
bits and scraps of dead wood he had collected that day. A
long-handled ax lay safely tucked against the side. He shoved
some of the wood to the front of the box to create a space and
then picked me up and set me in the back.

   He returned to his place at the head of his ox, and a moment
later the wagon juddered on, the heavy wooden wheels rumbling
over the stone road. Each lurch and bump brought agony to my
side, but I no longer cared. Whatever came would come. All
other concerns fell away, and I clung only to one last thought: At
least I will not die alone on the road.

                                36

   My rescuer was a member of a small farming clan that
scratched out a slender living in a nearby valley. Sheltering in
the wind shadow of a massive rocky crag, the holding occupied a
narrow strip of land between the lower stone-covered slopes of
the towering hill and a clear-water lake. In this settlement, home
to twenty or more hardy souls, the farmers grew rye and oats,
fished the lakes, and made hunting forays into the forest, where,
as it happened, they also scavenged wood for the hearth when
stocks ran low.

   Four high-peaked, half-sunken houses served the clan, which
was made up of two principal families. The houses were built of
sturdy timber with beaten-earth floors; wattle partitions offered
a modicum of privacy in the large single room -half of which the
oxen shared; sleeping places on raised platforms ran along either
side of the house. A large central hearth served for cooking and
warmth, and it was here they gathered during the long winter
nights.

   My arrival threw the clan into commotion. They saw from my
robe that I was a druid, and though they deemed my presence a
rare honor, they were more than a little frightened of my
supposed powers.

   Nevertheless they welcomed me with simple sincerity. With
slightly frantic ceremony I was lifted up and carried into the
largest house in the cluster of buildings which made up the
settlement.

   Two women were tending a large iron caldron when the
company of four strong men bore me in. They jumped up and,
shouting instructions to a gaggle of children, quickly prepared a
place for me by the hearth using rushes, pelts, and fleeces which
the children quickly fetched. Amid much gabbling discussion, I
was placed on this bed while one of the men ran to inform the
rest of the clan of my arrival.

   I guess this is what happened, for the house was soon filled
with people-all of them roughly similar in appearance: broad
and stocky with short, muscular limbs, thick waists, and heavy
shoulders. All the men had long dark hair and beards; the
women’s hair, likewise long and dark, was worn loose. Their
clothing was made of sheepskin and coarse-woven wool. None of
them wore any ornament or bauble that I could see, although
several had a dark blue mark on their cheeks and upper arms-a
curved line in the shape of a fish.

   While they assembled to look at me, I slumped beside the
hearth, too weak to move, my face to the shimmering flames as
the delicious, lifesav-ing warmth seeped into my frozen bones.
Truly, never was a man more grateful for fire than I was that
night.

   The children, stiff-legged with excitement, gawked at this
odd-looking stranger and whispered loudly to one another.
Presently an old man emerged from the hushed consultation just
inside the doorway. Nodding, smiling, he approached, the very
image of aged humility, as he settled himself beside me on the
bare dirt floor. “Welcome, Father,” I said, trying Latin first, and
I thanked him for taking me in. When that produced no result, I
tried Irish and British, too.

  He regarded me with a puzzled look and at last made a reply
in a tongue I did not recognize. Certainly it was no language I
had ever heard before.

  “I am sorry,” I said. “I do not understand you-and I can see
you do not understand me either.”

   Still smiling, he rose and called to one of the men. The two
held close conversation for a moment, and the younger man left
the house, returning a moment later with an old, white-haired
woman. Although she seemed the most venerable of all present,
they did not appear to hold her in any great regard but shoved
her roughly forward to inspect me.

  “Filidh? Filidh?” she asked, her toothless mouth slurring the
words.

  “Yes, filidh,” I confirmed.

    She nodded and began patting me here and there. She
brushed my side, which brought a wince from me, whereupon
she tugged on my clothes. I surmised she wanted to see my
injury. Moving carefully, I slowly, painfully, opened my robe and
lifted my tunic so she could see my side, which was now an
inflamed and puffy mass of discolored flesh.

   Frowning, she gazed a moment at the livid wound, the breath
whistling over her gums. She muttered to herself, then addressed
me; when I made no reply, she bent her white head over me,
sniffing the wound and fingering it gently with cool fingertips.

   After a moment she replaced my robe and stood. She said
something to the two women standing at the caldron, and both
hurried away, returning quickly-one with a small iron pot and
the other with a small leather drinking bag and a wooden bowl.
The old woman took the pot and set it in the embers beside the
fire; the bowl she filled from the leather bag and brought to me.
She put it to my lips, indicating that I should drink. I raised my
head and took some of the liquid into my mouth; it was sweet
and warming and slid down my throat easily. I tasted honey and
heather on my tongue, and other herbs-but it left a bitter
aftertaste in my mouth. Mead, I decided, but with something
added.
    The liquid was wonderfully reviving, however, and as I sipped,
I felt a delicious numbness spreading through my injured body. I
drank some more of the painkilling concoction and lay back,
offering her a smile for her efforts. She nodded and continued
with her ministrations. A bowl of hot broth followed, and then
dry bread that had been soaked in milk and meat drippings. The
old woman patiently spooned the food into my mouth, waiting
between each spoonful for me to swallow until the bowl was
empty.

   Meanwhile the contents of the iron pot had begun to steam,
infusing a sour scent into the air. When I finished, the old
woman set the bowl aside and turned to the pot. Taking a stick,
she fished a rag from the steaming liquid, felt it with her hand,
and then, drawing aside my robe, placed the rag directly upon
the wound on my side. The pungent stuff burned, but I, full of
the drugged liquid, no longer cared about the pain. The old
woman kept the hot rag on my side, returning it from time to
time to the pot before replacing it on the wound.

   The clan members gradually lost interest in the procedure
and went about their business. They sat down for their supper
and were served from the caldron, men first, then the women
and children together. They ate noisily, talking incessantly in
their thick speech; I listened but could make nothing of it.

   Warmed by the food and fire and exhausted by the ordeal of
the last many days, I closed my eyes and quickly sank into a deep
and dreamless slumber. I slept through most of the next day,
waking when the old woman roused me to drink a concoction
she had made of bitter herbs, milk, and the bark of certain trees.
I drank the stuff and felt better for it, as much as for my long
sleep.

   When I tried to rise, I found that I lacked the strength; the
pain in my side was greater now, although the swelling had gone
down somewhat-owing, no doubt, to the old woman’s steaming
poultice. My head ached, and the entire left side of my torso
throbbed and burned. She fed me some broth-soaked bread, but
even the effort to eat proved too much for me, and I could not
take more than a few mouthfuls.
   I lay drifting and dozing until the men returned from their
various chores and gathered for their evening meal. The clan
chief came and squatted down before me; he offered me a word
of greeting and then spoke to the old woman, who, frowning,
shook her head, indicating, I supposed, that I was no better.

   Nor was I better the next day. In fact, I could feel myself
slipping. Despite the rest and food, my strength was diminishing
and the pain in my side increasing in its pointed persistence and
spreading down into my groin and leg.

  When the old woman came to tend me, I looked her in the eye
and said, “Bras Rhaidd.”

  She frowned and shook her head, then turned to tend the iron
pot on the coals. I reached out and took her arm, gripping it
hard, so she would stop what she was doing and listen to me.
“Bras Rhaidd,” I repeated, speaking as distinctly as I could, so
she might catch the words and my meaning behind them. “Take
me to Bras Rhaidd.”

   She paused this time and regarded me shrewdly, but the
words meant nothing to her. Still, she caught something of the
importance of what I was trying to tell her. I repeated the words
twice more, whereupon she rose and left the house. I had just
closed my eyes again to sleep when she returned, this time with
the old man and another, younger man. The old woman nodded
to me, prompting me to say the words again.

  “Bras Rhaidd,” I said. “Take me to Bras Rhaidd.”

  The three of them looked at one another. The old man said
something to me, and I repeated the words again. They talked
among themselves then, but nothing came of it. In despair of
making them understand, I blurted the next name I knew.
“Candida Casa,” I said. “Do you know Candida Casa?”

   The old man shook his head. No, he did not know what I was
talking about. He said something to the old woman, who shook
her head. As they were talking, the younger fellow leaned
forward. “Casa?” he said hesitantly.
  “Yes, Casa,” I repeated. “Candida Casa -do you know it?”

    His eyes grew wide with excitement. “Candida Casa,” he said.
The old man turned to the youth, who stretched out his hand as
if pointing out a direction. “Gebort hurdanka, Candida Casa,”
he said insistently.

   Understanding dawned on the old man then; he nodded
enthusiastically, repeating the name to me. Lifting my hand, I
tapped my chest and said the name, then pointed in the
direction the young man had indicated, saying the name again.

    Their reaction was gratifying. The young man, unable to sit
still, jumped up. “Candida Casa, ya! Ya!” he cried over and over
again.

    The old man sat back on his heels and rubbed his forehead
thoughtfully. The old woman called a command to the younger
fellow, who fled the house on the run.

    It was decided just like that, and before midday had passed,
all was ready. The men came in, gathered me up, bed and all,
and carried me out to a waiting wagon which had been hastily
provisioned. The old woman followed with another drink of the
pain-numbing liquor, and I was taken up and laid on a mound of
straw to soften the jolting of the wagon; pelts were heaped upon
me to keep me warm, and, with a shout from the driver to the
ox, the wagon lurched off. The entire settlement came to watch
my departure. I raised my hand in farewell and determined that
if I should reach Candida Casa alive, I would see these people
well rewarded for their help.

   Two men attended me -the young man and the one who had
found me on the road. They set off at a stately pace and walked
without stopping until dusk; they made a camp on the trail and
moved on before dawn the next morning. I slept most of the
time, never stirring from the wagon save once, when we paused
at a stream to allow the ox to drink and I rose and, with the aid
of my young helper, stood long enough to relieve myself before
crawling back to my warm nest.

  I remember little enough of the next days. We journeyed west
in the cold and snow, coming at last to the windblown coast. The
farmers followed the coastline until reaching the monastery at
dusk on the fifth day. The stopping of the wagon wakened me,
and I raised my head to see three robed priests hurrying from
the nearest house. “Julian…” I said to the first who reached me.
He peered into my face and bit his lip. “Bring Julian.”

  “Get him inside,” someone called. “Thomas, run get Fychan!
Hurry!”

   The monks scattered, and others arriving just then pulled me
from the wagon and began carrying me across the yard to the
priest house. The farmers were forgotten in the uproar of my
arrival. I saw them standing beside the wagon as I was hauled
away. “Please,” I said, “bring them in, too.”

   One of the monks called for the farmers to be conducted to
the refectory, and I was borne away to a cell in the priest house
where I was placed on a clean bed of rushes. The monk called
Fychan soon appeared-a short, round man who fairly bounced
into the room on his stubby legs. He took one look at me and
cried, “Deus Meil” Whirling to an unseen brother behind him, he
shouted, “Bring hot water, Marcus! And dry cloths.”

   He came to my bed and knelt to examine me. “It is my side,” I
told him, my voice a low, dry croak in my throat.

   “There, now,” he said. “Rest easy. Let me have a look.” With
deft and gentle hands, he untied my belt, drew aside my robe
and tunic, and began probing the wound. “Horse?” he said after
a moment.

  “Stepped on me,” I whispered.

   “I thought so,” he replied. “You carry the mark of the hoof in
your flesh.” He put his hand on the swollen lump below my ribs.
“Broken ribs,” he said. “There has been bleeding inside. Did you
vomit any blood?” I shook my head in reply. “That is good at
least.”

  “Is it bad, then?”
   “Bad enough. You were right to have them bring you here.
Another few days and…” He left the thought unfinished,
concluding, “God is merciful, however; he has provided the best
physician in all of Albion. He is even now at your service, and he
will see you mended.”

   “With God’s helping hand to guide him,” amended the
brother just entering the room with a steaming bowl between
his hands.

  “Ah, Marcus, there you are. What kept you? Bring me the
bowl and then go fetch my instruments.”

  “Of course, brother,” replied Marcus, handing over the bowl.

   “I cannot tell,” offered Fychan when his helper had gone,
“whether he is an especially adept student or whether I am
merely the most brilliant of teachers.” He sighed. “Perhaps we
shall never know.”

   Together they worked on me, the brilliant physician and his
able student, and I relaxed into their care. The last thing I
remember, before succumbing to the tincture Fychan gave me to
dull the pain, was asking after the two farmers. “Where are
they?”

  “They are enjoying a hearty supper, I should think,” replied
Fychan.

  “Tell Julian to reward them well. They saved my life.
Whatever he gives them, I will gladly repay-anything.”

  “I will tell him,” said Marcus. “You are fortunate,” he
continued. “Most Picti would have killed you for your cloak.”

  “They are not Picti, surely,” said Fychan.

  “Well, they are not Romans,” answered Marcus. “And they are
not Scoti either.”

  “Pagans in any event,” concluded Fychan.
   Heavy-headed with the drug, I closed my eyes and slept,
waking two days later with a sore head and an even more painful
side. “That is to be expected,” Marcus informed me. “Fychan
incised the wound, bled it, and has bound the broken ribs. The
pain will remain for some little time to come.”

   “It does not matter,” I told him. “What of the farmers?”

   “I know nothing of any farmers.”

   “Then where are my clothes?” I said. “I want to get up.”

    “We burned your druid garb,” Marcus answered. “It was
filthy with blood and whatnot, and unbecoming any decent
Christian.”

   “I want to get up,” I insisted.

   “Julian is nearby,” said Marcus. “I will get him for you.”

   He stepped from the room, returning a few moments later
with Julian, who smiled when he saw me. “Come back to us at
last, I see,” said Julian cheerfully. “The prayers of these good
brothers have effected a wonderful cure.”

   Even as he spoke, I thought it more likely that the native
kindliness of the farmers and Fychan’s skill as a physician had
far more to do with my rescue than did the belated mumblings
of the monks, however sincere.

   “He is most anxious about these barbarians of his,” said
Marcus. “As you dealt with them, I thought you could best tell
the result.”

   Julian agreed and said, “They departed yesterday with a
wagon piled high with supplies: seed barley from the granary
mostly, and also oats, rye, eggs, and cured pork.” He smiled.
“You got off lightly-the cost of your salvation was trifling, so to
speak.”

   “No gold?” I asked. “Did you offer them gold?”
   ‘Your concern for them is laudable, Succat,“ he answered.
”But you need not worry. I offered gold, of course, but it is of no
use to them. Trust me, the seed is far more valuable to
barbarians.“

   “They saved my life,” I told him.

   “Fychan saved your life,” Julian corrected blithely. “Another
day or two with those pagani and the only service we could have
afforded you was a funeral.”

   He gave me a superior smile and parted my hand as it rested
on my chest. “Be not anxious,” he said. “You are in God’s hands
now. We will not suffer you to fall again.”

   He and Marcus exchanged a few words regarding my care,
whereupon he departed, saying, “I will inform Bishop Cornelius
of your splendid progress. He has been most solicitous of your
recovery.”

  “Thank him for me,” I said, sinking back. Although it had
been brief, I was already exhausted by Julian’s visit.

   My progress, as I saw it, was far from splendid. My side both
ached and burned at the same time; the tight-wound bandage
constricted my chest and made breathing an ordeal. I felt wan
and ragged and weak as a newborn infant. It was all I could do
to lie in one place and swallow the warm concoctions Marcus
spooned into my mouth from time to time.

   “I understand that you were captured by Irish raiders and
sold as a slave,” Marcus said one day.

   “That is true.”

  He nodded. “And was it the barbarians who made you a
druid?”

  “They made me a shepherd,” I answered. “Becoming a bard
was my own idea.”

   “I see,” he said, his mouth squirming in a way that gave me to
know he did not understand at all.

   “Among the Irish,” I explained, “the filidh are held in highest
esteem. They are the noblest of the noble. Even kings submit to
them. All of creation is their occupation and concern; their lives
are given to the study of whatsoever pleases them.”

  “The dark arts please them most, I presume.”

   “Then your presumption is wrong,” I replied-with far less
vehemence than I felt; I lacked the strength for a heated
argument. “The object of their scrutiny is to learn the truth of all
things. Among the filidh truth is said to lead to justice, and
justice to harmony, and harmony to love.”

  “Well said,” granted Marcus.

   “So that learning and truth may increase,” I continued, “they
are free to travel where they will-to Britain, Gaul, and beyond.”

   “Ah,” said Marcus, breaking in, “you became a druid in order
to escape. I understand now.”

   His presumption, accurate though it was, irked me. I resented
these smug priests and their arrogant ways, holding all beneath
them. “I became a druid,” I replied, “so that I might be a better
man.”

   It was, alas, far from the truth. I said it merely to rub the
self-righteous smirk off his face. Instead it had very much the
opposite effect. “That is what the Ceile De always say,” he
sniffed, regarding me with a haughty expression. “They may call
themselves Christians-but they are heretics of the most insidious
kind.”

  His reply might have stung me far more than it did, I
suppose, had I known what the word “heretic” meant.

   Lacking the strength for more strenuous debate, I swallowed
my ignorance along with his insult. “You might think
differently,” I told him, “if you had ever known one as I have.”
                                 37

   Over the next many days, as I began to heal and regain my
strength, I shuffled around the grounds of the monastery and
observed all that was taking place. I noticed the presence of
three or four bishops, which I thought to be a considerable
number-even for such a place as the White House.

    When I asked Julian about this, he said, “Of course they don’t
reside here. They are attending the council. Naturally you would
not know about this since you were gone when they arrived.
Nynia and Cornelius, prudent churchmen that they are, thought
it best to convene a council to draw up letters of condemnation
to take to the conference in Turonum.”

   Julian, Marcus, and I were walking in the walled courtyard of
the monastic villa. “I see,” I said. “And what are they
condemning?”

  “The Pelagian heresy,” Julian answered. “And not only that,
but Pelagius and all his followers as well.”

   “What have they done?” I asked. “Put a pig in priest’s robes?”

   “Deus veniam habeat!” exclaimed Julian, rousing himself to
regard me in indolent amazement. “You have no idea who
Pelagius is, do you?”

   “I freely confess that I do not.” I returned his gaze coolly. “Nor
do I care. But it all seems like tedious nonsense to me.”

  “You stand in danger of heresy yourself, brother,” Marcus
warned.

   “Do not mind Succat,” Julian said, adopting the air of a
long-suffering schoolmaster separating two rowdy pupils. “The
Irish have befuddled him.”

   “Through their persistent and enthusiastic propagation of
error, these Pelagians weaken the body of Christ,” Marcus
insisted. “They are a canker that must be cut out if the body is to
retain health and vigor.”
   Now, I had never heard of these Pelagians he mentioned, nor
their leader. But the toplofty certainty with which these
condescending clerics held their obtuse doctrines rankled and
irritated me.

  I am contrary that way.

   Yet that I, who had thrown over the last weak dregs of
Christian belief long ago, should care what a passel of
pretentious, self-important priests thought or how they occupied
their idle days seemed a peculiar absurdity, even to me.

   Perhaps my natural tolerance for pomposity was wearing
thin. Or perhaps Ollamh Datho’s high regard for truth and
justice and his insistence that the forthright exercise of these
virtues -like the tireless search for knowledge -must be
conducted in simple humility had taken root in my soul.
However it was, I found myself sharply disapproving of the
bishops’ council before I knew even the smallest part of what it
was about or what these heretics believed that was so damning
to them.

  Beside, if they were anything like the Ceile De, whom Marcus
had likewise condemned out of hand, and who I knew to be
unjustly accused, then these Pelagians had my entire sympathy.

   The council of bishops commenced. As they were called away
on other duties, I saw little of Marcus and less of Julian. I had
whole days to myself with nothing to do. When the weather was
fair, I walked down to the coast and prowled the shore, gazing
out across the Irish Sea, hoping to catch a glimpse of the green
Eireann hills, which, I was told, could be seen as a pale blue blur
on the horizon when the days were bright and clear.

  I never saw them.

   Eventually this kindled in my mind the notion that I never
would see Ireland again. Even as I stood on the strand with the
waves lapping at my feet, searching the cloud-bound horizon,
yearning for a glimpse of Eire, the notion was hardening into
certainty. The world was turning and turning again. The tide of
my affairs had already begun to change.
   One night, as I lay on the pallet in my cell, I listened to the
brother walk the grounds ringing his bell to call his brother
monks to prayer. My heart squirmed within me, and I heard a
voice saying, “Rise and go. You should not be here.”

   But where should I go? And how?

   As these thoughts turned in my mind, the voice came again:
“Rise and go! Do not remain in this nest of vipers‘.”

   And I did rise. I walked to the door of my cell and peered out
into the darkened yard. “Where should I go?” I demanded,
speaking aloud. “Where, in God’s holy name, should I go?”

   There came no answer. The silence resounded through my
heart and my soul. In that silence the hateful truth resounded: I
belonged nowhere and had nowhere to go.

   I spent a sleepless night and emerged the next morning with a
sour taste in my mouth. I moved through the day and the days to
follow like a sullen and dejected phantom, lost in pity and
reeking of despair. Having done all I could to secure a future for
myself, I had failed.

   Wretched and ashamed, I took to my bed and did not rise
from one day to the next. I lay in misery, berating myself for all
my shortcomings, which had so richly contributed to my failure.
From the beginning I had lied to friend and foe alike. I had
stolen and cheated, seizing any advantage I could grasp,
thinking of myself alone. I had deceived and betrayed almost
everyone I met, but most of all Sionan, possibly the only person
alive under heaven who loved me. Did she love me still? I
wondered. No. She would have guessed the truth long since and
would despise me now and evermore.

   Rancorous, malicious, judgmental, and intolerant, I was
swiftly becoming an object of loathing and disgust in my own
eyes. My many failings weighed so heavily on me that I could no
longer rise above them. Unable to alter the past or see any hope
for the future, I sank lower and lower into an oppressive,
desperate melancholy, mordant as grief and desolate as
mourning.
   When help did come at last, it was selfish and disloyal-but a
drowning man will hung to any wreckage if it will delay the final
dissolution. I grasped what was offered, and I hung on tight. It
was all I could do.

  Julian appeared in my cell one day. “Marcus tells me you have
not been eating.”

  When I made no reply, he moved to my bedside.

  “What is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

    He sighed. “It is no use denying it, Succat. Plainly something
is festering in you. Now, I ask you again: What is wrong with you
that you hole up here like a wounded badger in his den, moaning
and moping day and night?”

   “You would not understand if I told you,” I answered, and
that was true. How could anyone have understood?

  “Succat,” he said, coming to stand over me, “the time has
come to break clean with the past. It is no good yearning for
something that can never be. You tried to find your friend
Cormac -”

  “Tried and failed,” I said bitterly.

  “Then why not simply accept that it was not to be?”

  “Easy to say,” I replied. “You have never known a fall, Julian.
You cannot know how it hurts.”

   “You may have failed, as you say, but must you wallow in
failure forever? Get up, gird your loins, seek the salve of
absolution for your sins. Tomorrow we leave for Turonum. Let
that be your genesis.”

  “You may be leaving for Turonum,” I replied, “but I am not.”

  “No? I urge you to reconsider.”
   “Why? It won’t change anything. You see before you a man
who has lost everything: lands, home, family. The one person
who might have helped me, I failed to find. In fact, everything I
ever put my hand to has failed.”

  “Listen to me now,” said Julian quietly. He sat down beside
me. “You have had a great disappointment - ”

  “Great disaster, you mean.”

    “No one blames you for feeling the way you do,” he said
sympathetically. “It is only natural. But dwelling on the past and
its hurts and harms will avail you nothing. The past is over and
done. Let it go. Tomorrow you will begin again.”

  “Easy to say.”

   “In Gaul you will find yourself, Succat. I know it. There is
opportunity for young men willing to work. You will have a fresh
start. Think of it: You can begin again in a place where no one
knows you and the past no longer matters. Your future is ahead
of you, Succat, not behind. You must look to Gaul.”

   He left me then, but his words achieved their desired effect. A
short while later, I got up from my bed and walked for a last
time down to the shore. The day was far gone, the sun low on the
water. I looked out and saw what I thought was a smudge of pale
blue cloud close to the horizon. It was, I imagined, the distant
hills of Ireland.

   I stood for a long time, trying to make myself feel something
for Eire and its people-for Cormac and Sionan at least. I felt
nothing. The affection I had allowed myself to imagine was dead.
No doubt it had died in the ice and cold of the Celyddon Wood
or out on the old Roman road. Perhaps the agony and fever of
injury and disappointment had burned it out of me. Perhaps it
had never really existed.

   Now, as I stood gazing out across the water, I felt nothing.
Not remorse, not grief, nor even relief. Nothing. Nothing at all.
So far as I could tell, I was dead inside. My heart had become a
cold, hard cinder-a once-bright ember taken from the hearth
and laid on the dull flagstone to cool and cool until the last spark
died.

   I stood and watched the sun plunge in fiery haze into the dark
blue sea, and then I turned my face away and walked from the
water’s edge without looking back. When Bishop Cornelius and
his entourage departed Candida Casa the next morning, I rode
with them to begin my new life in Gaul.

                              Part III
                             Magonus
                                38

   Gaul, on first sight, seemed very like Britain in most
ways-save that the cities were more numerous and the garrisons
were manned. Prosperity sat on the countryside like a matron
grown plump with age. It was a broad land, with many
woodlands, good streams, and few mountains. It seemed that
perhaps Julian was right; this could well be a place where a man
could thrive if he was willing to work hard.

   Yes, and the more I saw of it, the more certain I became that
hard work would be needed -and also luck. “Times being what
they are,” Bishop Cornelius said, “there are bandits, brigands,
and barbarians aplenty. They rove at will through the
settlements and towns.”

   Apparently this was only too true -especially in the north.
This was why, he said, the garrisons had been removed from
Britain. “The emperor has decided that the security of the
northern frontier is the salvation of the empire,” continued
Cornelius. “Everything now depends on its protection.”

   So many legions had been amassed in the north that it left the
great soft belly of Gaul open to the bandits and brigands, and
these thought nothing of making swooping raids on the villas,
farms, and settlements the soldiers could no longer defend.

   From the moment we made landfall at Namnetes, we began
hearing about all the atrocities perpetrated by the barbarians in
their intolerable raids.
   As Cornelius and Julian set about procuring provisions and
hiring wagons, I strolled the lumpy streets of Namnetes, a
fair-size market city on the banks of a wide river estuary to the
south of the Armorican peninsula. I looked and listened and
talked to the merchants in marketplace Latin. These bandits,
they said, were rapacious, vicious, a scourge and a plague. No
one was safe. The garrisons were inadequate; more soldiers were
needed. The generals worried too much about the barbarians
outside the borders and allowed murderous thieves free reign
inside.

   Such was the fear of the local population that I, too, began to
grow concerned and was mightily relieved when Bishop
Cornelius engaged five mercenaries to accompany us to
Turonum, eight days’ journey upriver. Although it was early
spring, the weather was already fine, with high, blue,
sun-warmed skies filled with towering clouds; even the rain,
when it came, was soft and gentle. Everywhere men and oxen
were hard at work in the fields of the villas and settlements we
passed along the way.

   The clerics -no fewer than five in our party-occupied
themselves morning to night with discussions of theology which
wearied me to the bone. I often overheard their disputatious
questions: Which were more pernicious-the professions of
Manichaeanism, or those of the Gnostics? Was Pelagianism a
new form of Gnosticism, or was it merely Arianism in disguise?
Was the Son of the same substance as the Father, or was there a
material difference between them? Were individual souls
created by God as need required, or were they made up from
raw material supplied by the parents at the time of conception?
Was the Logos preexistent with the Father, or did it come into
being as a result of Divine Will and was therefore contingent
upon it to be the agent of creation?

   Of course I had even less interest in these questions than in
the material difference between the farts of a bishop and those
of a pope. The long and painstakingly detailed discussions
seemed to me nothing more than the incessant nattering of
toads in a water-filled ditch-and of no greater consequence.
   I found the company of the soldiers more convivial, and I
spent most of my time walking with them. They were rough
men, illiterate, crude in thought and deed, and scornful of
anyone or anything they judged weaker than themselves. They
cared for nothing except fighting and drinking; the former they
considered a chore to be dispensed with as simply and efficiently
as possible so that more time could be lavished on the latter.

   They prided themselves on two things: their skill at arms,
which did not amount to much so far as I could tell, and their
undying loyalty-not to the state, the landowners, or traveling
dignitaries like us: these were merely their employers. No, their
loyalty was to one another. Brothers in arms, they called
themselves, and their disdain for any who stood outside the tight
circle of their comradeship knew no bounds.

   Yet I found their earthy practicality refreshing. They
demanded nothing of the world but that it provide them with
the means to earn their daily pay. With the legions in disarray,
the opportunities for plying their needful trade abounded in
luxurious profusion.

   The leader of the five with us was a veteran named Quintus-a
blunt, square-headed man with short curly hair, clear gray eyes,
and a nose that crumpled at the bridge where the bone had been
smashed by a Dacian club. “A grievous blow, that,” he told me as
we stumped along one day. “The battle was near over for us-just
a few sulky brutes unwilling to lie down and die were left. Most
of the boys were already stripping armor, and the general
ordered a cohort to go and finish off the dregs, you know.

   “Well, a bunch of us hopped up and hurried over there. The
Daci are a fearsome tribe, true enough - screech like demons and
fight like the furies. But, as with most barbarians I’ve ever seen,
you get their chieftain down and they lose heart. Once your
brute’s lost heart, he grows meek as a lamb, and you can put him
down without much fuss.”

  “Is that so?” I wondered. “I never knew that.”

   “It is a fact, son,” answered Quintus. “Ask anyone who’s been
on the field and they’ll tell you the same. Anyway, I put my sword
into the first one I come to. He falls, and I look down and see this
great gold ring on his arm, you know. I’ll have this, I think, and I
bend down to pull it off him.

   “So there I am, tugging away on this gold ring, and the next
thing I know I’m sitting on my butt end with my nose in my
hands and blood gushing down my tunic. Up jumps the brute,
swinging his club and yelling to crack the sky. He takes a swipe
at my head, and I dip down, you know, but it’s close - so close I
can feel the splinters graze my bristles, and my hair was shorter
then.

   “He gives me another swipe or two before I can get my sword
up and put it in his neck. He falls, and I give him a chop on the
head just to make sure this time. My friend Flavius sees me
bloody and comes over to see. ‘Here now,’ he says, ‘you’re
wounded. Lie down.’ And I look at him and say, ‘If you think I’m
going to lie down and let you steal this ring, then you’re a bigger
fool than I am, Flavius.’ ” The veteran chuckled to himself at the
memory.

  “Did you get the ring?” I asked.

    “I did,” replied Quintus. “We hacked off the brute’s arm to get
it, you know, and I sold it in the market at first chance. Got a
fair price, too. That ring kept me in beef and beer the better part
of a year entire. And that’s the very truth.”

   I told him that all in all a smashed nose did not seem like
such a bad trade for a year’s worth of meat and drink. He
laughed and said, “No, I suppose not. But it never would have
happened in the old days. Then we did not get to keep the booty
we took. It belonged to Mother Rome, you know.”

  “But now?”

   “Now Mother can’t pay her soldiers, so nine times out of ten
the booty you take on the field is the only pay you’ll see. Get no
plunder, you get no pay.” He paused, sucking his teeth
philosophically. “Still, on a good day you can take more in a
bauble or two than you could get in whole campaign in the old
days. Save it up, make it last, boy, and you don’t have to sweat
too much, you know.”

   The more I talked to Quintus, the more I saw a way opening
before me. On the day we came in sight of the walls of Turonum,
I asked him, “What will you do now?”

  “Well,” he said, “after we wet our wicks in the town, we’ll head
north. The garrisons up on the border always need soldiers. The
booty is good, too. We’ll stay the summer up there and go down
south for the winter. You don’t want to be up on the northern
border when the snow flies, and Massilia is as good a place as
any to lay by and soak up the wine.”

   “Would they take me, too, do you think?”

   He cast a seasoned eye over me. “You’re tall enough and
strong enough; you’re certainly young enough. Can you fight?”

   “I can fight,” I told him. At least, I reflected, I knew one end of
a sword from the other and was not afraid to swing it.

  “Then they’ll take you -so long as they don’t have to pay you
nothing.”

   We agreed then and there that if I found no better prospect
by the time they were ready to leave the town, I would join them.

   At Turonum the clerics took lodging at a monastery, where
they joined other priests from Gaul. More arrived the next day
and some the day after. Clearly this council was to be a sizable
gathering, but since it concerned me not at all, I made myself
familiar with the town instead.

   A venerable Roman market town, Turonum housed a garrison
which was manned-albeit to only a third of its capacity. I
remembered what Julian had said about Rufus’ serving as a
soldier in Gaul, and I saw no harm in trying to establish his
whereabouts. On my first circuit of the market square, I found
myself standing at the garrison gate asking to speak to the
commander. Thinking he might be addressing a new recruit, the
commander agreed to see me straightaway.
  “I am General Honorius Grabus,” he said. “You wished to see
me.”

   The man before me was a bluff, unsmiling soldier with quick,
attentive eyes. I greeted him politely, thanked him for meeting
me, and said, “I am searching for a friend of mine. He is a
soldier in Gaul.”

   “There are many soldiers in Gaul,” the commander informed
me, his disappointment palpable. “It is doubtful I know your
friend.” He moved as if to dismiss me.

  “I was hoping to enlist,” I added quickly-just to keep the
conversation alive. “I am told he is a centurion, and if I knew
where he was stationed, I could perhaps join-”

  ‘Your friend has a name?“

  “Rufus,” I said. “Licinius Severus Rufus - have you heard of
him?”

  General Grabus nodded. “Your gods are with you, friend. I do
know this man. He served under my command at Trajectum and
Agrippina.”

   “Excellent!” I replied. “Do you happen to know where I can
find him?”

   “He is serving at Augusta Treverorum. I know because I
promoted him through the ranks. A good soldier, your friend.”

  “I am glad to hear it. Do you think I might obtain a posting
under him?”

  “It could be done,” allowed the general. “I will write to the
commander and request a sympathetic hearing.”

  “Thank you, General Grabus. I am in your debt.”

  His keen eyes searched me head to toe. “Are you a patrician?”

  “My father was a nobleman.”
  “Do you have a horse?”

  “I was riding before I could walk,” I answered; this, at least,
was little short of the truth. “Why do you ask?”

   “The ala is our most useful weapon on the northern border. If
you had a horse, your posting would be assured.” He shrugged.
“They will take you anyway, no doubt. We turn away no one
these days. Wait here while I write that letter.”

   He strode from the room, and shortly a servant appeared with
a scrap of rolled parchment in his hand. “I am to give you this,”
he said, handing over the scroll, “with the general’s
compliments.”

  “My thanks to the general. Tell him I hope we meet again.”

   Clutching my parchment, I returned to the monastery. Julian
and the others were occupied with the arrangements for the
council, so next day I made an inspection of the quarter behind
the garrison where Turonum’s less reputable inns shared a
narrow street. I found Quintus and his comrades in a low tavern
called The Cock. The only patrons, they were well in their cups
and inordinately happy to see me.

   “Hail and welcome!” cried Quintus when he saw me. “Here is
Succat, swift to pry us from the clutches of Bacchus. Come,
friend,” he said, sweeping empty bowls and platters onto the
floor to make room for me, “drink with us!”

  “I will drink with you,” I said, joining them at the
wine-sodden table, “if you will allow me to accompany you on
your journey north.”

   “Said and done!” replied Quintus, pouring a cup for me. He
hurled away the jar and called for more wine, which appeared
with ingratiating haste. “Let us drink to Mother Rome,” he said,
raising his cup.

  “And the emperor’s fat ass!” added one of his companions,
who quickly dissolved in a fit of laughter.
   We drank to seal our bargain and arranged to meet again in
two days’ time. Pleading an uneasy stomach, I made my excuses
and left them to their sour wine. I found a moneychanger in the
marketplace and exchanged two of my gold sticks for coins. Next
I visited the town barber and had my hair cut as short as a fresh
recruit’s. He was an agreeable fellow, so I had him shave me, too,
and I learned a great deal to my benefit of how matters stood in
the northern territories of Gaul.

   Upon returning to the monastery later that day, I heard that
the council had begun and was already well on its way to
drawing up articles of condemnation against Pelagius, his
followers, and his teachings, which would then be sent to the
pope in Rome. When they broke from this heady work to observe
vespers and eat their supper, I sought out Julian to bid him
farewell.

  “What happened to your hair?” he wondered as I slid onto the
bench across from him.

  “I have found Rufus,” I replied.

  “Here? In Turonum?”

  “No, he is at Augusta Treverorum, a garrison in the north. I
am going to see him.”

  “Are you indeed? And how do you propose to do that?”

  “The soldiers who accompanied us here, remember?”

  “Certainly I remember.”

  “They are traveling north, and I am going with them.”

   “I see.” He appeared to weigh the implications in his mind.
“Well, if you are determined, then all that remains is for me to
wish you a safe and uneventful journey. Give Rufus my warmest
greetings when you see him.”

  I caught an undercurrent of relief in his tone and wondered
why this should be. “We leave tomorrow,” I said.
  “How long do you plan to be gone?”

  “I cannot say. All summer at least. Perhaps longer.”

   “Then do not fail to bid Bishop Cornelius farewell. We are
returning to Britain before autumn. We may not see you again
before we leave.”

  And that was that.

   I do not know what I expected, but I left feeling vaguely
disappointed that he had not made more of an effort to talk me
out of my decision. He would not have succeeded, mind, but I
would like to have seen him try all the same -if only to reveal
some hint of the real reason for having talked me into coming to
Gaul in the first place. He had said it was for my own good, and
perhaps it was. Still, I could not help thinking that some deeper
purpose lay behind his insistence. But nothing more was said,
and we concluded our farewells shortly after that. Although I
spoke briefly to Bishop Cornelius, I did not see Julian again, and
the next morning I joined the soldiers to begin the long walk
north.

                                39

   On a golden, sun-washed morning, eight mercenaries left
Turonum-the original five, myself, and two others returning to
the borders after wintering in the south. At Senonum five more
joined us. By the time we reached Augusta Treverorum, our
ranks had swelled to over thirty-nearly all veterans and survivors
of numerous conflicts, most of whom had served in one Gaulish
garrison or another, some in Britain as well. Several were fresh
recruits, young men like myself, burning to fight barbarians and
eager to begin amassing wealth through spoils on the battlefield.

   I did not care about the wealth. Well, not so much. My own
reasons for going were less straightforward-or perhaps merely
more desperate. If anyone had asked me why I wanted to
become a soldier, I would have answered with a simple
question: What else?
   I had no skills, no trade, nothing with which to make my way
in the world. I still had a little gold in my bag, but, frugal as I
was, it would not last beyond the summer. My prospects were
decidedly bleak. In truth all I was fit for was to hire myself out as
a day laborer-or worse still a shepherd!-and that, I knew only too
well, would be to exchange one form of slavery for another.

   Thus I had no other choice but to seek refuge in the only place
likely to welcome me at all: the Roman army. I fixed my hope on
the Legio XX Valeria Victrix-my last best hope for a future.

   After a lengthy march through pine-covered hills, we
descended to a broad valley divided by a wide, slow river. There,
on a high mound above the riverbank stood a garrison unlike
any I had ever seen. By that I mean it was fully manned and
bristling with military might.

   A plain carved out from the surrounding forest formed a
boundary many hectares wide around the perimeter of thick
outer walls. Although the expanse had been cleared of every last
tree and plowed for cornfields, gardens, and pastureland, there
were no estates, no villas, no farming settlements. Nor was there
a town, save for a mean assortment of dwellings, granaries, and
cattle enclosures huddled in the shadow of the walls.

   The walls themselves were timber raised up on a foundation
of uncut stone ten courses high, and they enclosed a space large
enough to contain a parade field. The compound consisted of
twenty castra, or barracks, for two hundred cohorts; an armory,
forge, and tannery; six or eight granaries and a dozen kitchens,
each with ten or more ovens; a balneum, or bathhouse; four
bakeries and a mill; stables for three hundred horses; nine
barns, a pottery, a lime kiln, and a score of workshops and
storehouses. There was a grand domus for the legionary legate
and a slightly smaller one for the garrison commander.

   We approached on the southern road, marching in a long,
straggling, knotted line through freshly tilled fields. “Most of the
dwellings you see belong to soldiers and their families,” Quintus
told me as we neared the large double gate. To call them
dwellings was, it seemed to me, extremely generous on his part;
they had more in common with cow byres than with houses.
“There is also a tavern.”

   “The Gladius,” offered Pallio, a tall, fair-haired soldier who
had joined us a few days earlier. “Watery beer, bad wine, and
food you wouldn’t give a pig.” He grinned cheerfully. “I have
heard there is also a brothel.”

   “You have heard this?” His companion, a swarthy Roman
named Varro, laughed. I had yet to see either one outside the
other’s company. “Pallio, my friend, without your custom the
owner would have starved and his rumored brothel become a
kennel long ago.”

   The garrison was, as I say, manned to full fighting strength.
Soldiers drawn from all over Gaul and Britain had been posted
to the hostile borderland in anticipation of the summer raiding
campaigns of the barbarians. Swelling the ranks of legionaries
were many hundreds of mercenaries, mostly veterans, willing to
sell their services for a chance at battlefield wealth. Nor was our
group of veterans the only mercenary band to choose
Treverorum; there were already a number of such groups
encamped on the flats of the riverbank below the garrison.

   Quintus took us directly to the commander’s office to enlist us
in one of the many auxiliary numera, or small divisions of
irregular soldiers. We passed through the wide double gate
beneath the watchful eyes of the guards in the towers and
crossed the parade yard that was teeming full of soldiers, like
ourselves, waiting to enlist. We joined the end of a long line
stretching around the block-square building and passed the time
talking to the others.

   There is good pay for anyone joining the ala this year, they
said. Fifty denarü a day in camp, eighty in the field… Two raids
already across the river this spring… We are certain to see action
before the month is out… A shipment of new weapons arrived
three days ago -good steel from Hispania… If you get twenty
men, they’ll let you have a numerus of your own… General
Septimus is hard but fair… General Septimus needs a great
victory to grease his way into the senate… General Septimus
cares only for his ambitions and nothing for his men… And so on
and on. Rumor, speculation, and gossip were the staff of
legionary life, I quickly learned.

   I listened to all that was said and tried to sift the few good
grains from the mountains of chaff. The day moved on, and then
it was our turn to stand in the commander’s office and swear the
oath of allegiance to the emperor, administered by a harried
camp prefect to a roomful of men at a time. We dutifully
repeated the set phrases, promising to defend the honor, dignity,
and person of the emperor and the citizens of the empire
wheresoever the need arose, to the last breath of our bodies. We
were then summoned one by one to sign the notitia, the legion
roster. When my turn came, I took the reed pen, dipped it in the
inkpot, and added my name to a list that already stretched to
more than four hundred soldiers. I was then given a small
wooden tile to take to the armory and exchange for my weapons.

   Again we waited in a long line of men, until at last we gained
the wide bar where the armorer, a sturdy old veteran with short
white hair and a belly lopping over his wide belt, took the
wooden tile from my hand and asked, “Pedes aut ala?”

   “Ala,” I replied.

  The armorer regarded me with a dubious expression. Behind
me Quin-tus said, “Pedes, tell him. We are infantrymen.”

   “But I can ride.”

   He shook his head. “Until you get yourself a horse, you are a
foot soldier.”

  “Which is it?” demanded the armorer impatiently. “Speak
up!”

   “Pedes,” I said. The answer was relayed to the back of the long
building with a shout that brought two young boys running. One
boy carried a spatha-a long sword-and a round, slightly curved
iron-banded leather shield, called a parma. The other boy
brought a bundle of cloth upon which rested a new pair of boots.

  We were then dismissed to the yard, where no fewer than ten
barbers were busily shearing the new flock of recruits. Once
more we were made to endure another lengthy wait before
submitting to the razor. My own hair was not long, but no
exceptions were made, and, newly shorn, we gathered our armor
and bundle of clothes and followed Quintus to the bathhouse
outside the walls. “There are baths within the garrison, to be
sure,” he explained, “but this one is better.”

   We traipsed dutifully through the bare-earth streets to a
large, rough-hewn building of timber and stone, where we piled
our belongings on the ground. Quintus gave a serving boy half a
denarius to watch over them while we were inside. Then we went
in, stripped off our filthy clothes, and proceeded directly to the
tepidarium, where we plunged ourselves into the cool, clean,
running water and washed away the dirt of the trail. Because the
pool flowed with fresh water diverted from the river, we were
allowed to use soap to clean ourselves. I scoured myself with the
rough, grainy stuff until I fairly gleamed, then continued to the
caldarium to immerse in the hot-water pool.

   Oh, it was splendid. I lolled in steaming water to my chin and
tried to remember the last time I had sat in a genuine balneum.
The place was crowded, of course, but it was paradise
nonetheless, and I made full use of the various hot and cold
rooms until my skin glowed pink as a new rose.

   I strode from the bathhouse a better man, for now I was
soldier in the Roman army-albeit a lowly mercenary foot soldier.
Nevertheless I belonged.

   My clothing bundle consisted of a paenula-a rough, red-dyed
woolen cloak with a hood large enough to cover a helmet; a linen
loincloth; a wide leather belt with a hanger strap for a sword;
and thick-soled, high-laced, hobnail boots. I wound the loincloth
around me and pulled on my tunic; since no one else wore
trousers, I did not bother with them, but I buckled the belt
around my waist, laced up my shoes, and followed Quintus and
the others to the barracks.

  “No room,” said the tabularius, the man in charge of the
barracks, a fat Iberian with one hand. “Camp in the field.”

  “Do you know who we are?” demanded Varro.
   “No,” replied the barracker. “But I know a barbarian when I
see one.”

   “Barbarian!” cried Varro. “We have served this army for seven
years, you blind dog!”

  “The barracks are for legionaries,” the Iberian countered. “If
you want a bed, join the legion.”

   Varro was just drawing himself up to challenge the
tabularium’s courage and parentage when Pallio pulled him
away. “Come, Varro, my friend, it is mercy itself this fellow is
dispensing. Only a lunatic would sleep in his flea-infested beds
anyway.”

   Quintus agreed. “This way, men. I know a place beside the
river we can make camp.”

  Thus began my life as a soldier.

    The first few weeks were spent in weapons practice. Each day
I joined the raw recruits in their training; I worked until my
bones ached, mastering the moves I was taught. When I had
learned all I could from the instructors, I extracted more from
Quintus and other veterans who knew how to stay alive.

   “I miss the old sword, I do,” Quintus told me one day. “But
the spatha is better in many ways. See here, Succat” - he slashed
the weapon through the air-“the blade is longer, narrower-better
for striking at a distance.”

   “With the gladius,” offered Varro, “you have to be right up
face-to-face with the brute to thrust in sharp. You have his foul
breath in your face and his greasy blood on your hands. Give me
a spatha any day.”

  “Now what we have to do is keep our eyes open for a good
mail shirt and helmet,” said Quintus.

  “Without them you’ll be dead before the summer is run,”
added Varro.
   “Too true,” said Quintus. “A mail shirt will save your life;
likewise a sturdy helmet.”

   “Where do we get those?” I asked.

   “From the barbari!” hooted Pallio. “Where else?”

   At my disbelieving frown, Quintus explained, “Brutes they
may be, but they make good mail shirts, and their helmets are
almost as good as the legion’s, which the numera can’t get
anyway.”

  “You take it from them on the field,” I said, guessing his
meaning. “You strip the dead.”

   “How else?” said Quintus.

   “The live ones won’t let you have ‘em,” Varro said.

   “You’ve done this before,” I said.

   “Many times,” replied Pallio.

  “Then where are your mail shirts and helmets now?” I
wondered.

   “We sold them in Massilia,” replied Varro.

   “They kept us in wine and women all winter long,” added
Pallio.

   “The wine of south Gaul is like no other,” affirmed Quintus
sagely. “A good mail shirt and helmet can fetch a handsome
price in the right place.”

   I accepted that they were right and redoubled my efforts to
find Rufus. I had tried from the first, of course, but none of the
other soldiers seemed to know him. As the weeks passed,
however, I found opportunity to ask most of the officers in the
garrison as well. Again no one seemed to have heard of him. In
the end I was forced to assume that my information was wrong.
Probably he was stationed at some other garrison by now.
   As soon as training finished, patrols commenced. Every other
day or so, another company of men would leave the garrison to
go out to walk the frontier boundary. The auxiliaries joined the
regulars in this as our lot was drawn. Most often we completed
our circuit and returned to the garrison having encountered
nothing more ferocious than a wild pig or a deer. Twice,
however, we surprised barbarian tribesmen skulking through
the forest on our side of the river. Both times we engaged them
at once and drove them back without undue difficulty. I fought
in both skirmishes and acquitted myself well enough to begin
thinking that my future as a soldier was assured.

   Then, one fine warm day in the middle of summer, the army
assembled on the parade ground to be addressed by the
commanding officer: General Sentius Papinius Septimus, a
twenty-year veteran and hero of countless conflicts. He had led
the Valerians into battle successfully for more than ten years, the
last three of which had been spent patrolling the northern
borders of Gaul and Germania, quelling barbarian incursions in
brief, fierce encounters.

   He was a short, stocky man with a thoughtful, almost
melancholy aspect-until he mounted a horse or stepped before
his troops. Then the true stature of the man became apparent.
His troops revered him as a god.

   At the long, piercing blast of the bucina, we all hastened to
the parade ground and formed ourselves into rough ranks
according to our cohorts - the legionaries first and the auxiliares
after. We waited, standing easy, as a small delegation emerged
from the commander’s house. Before them went the vexillium,
the revered golden-boar standard of the Valeria Victrix.

   Foremost of this group, and shorter than the others, was
General Septimus. He took his time, reviewing his soldiers,
stopping here and there to speak to someone he recognized. One
of those he knew was Quintus; I was standing close enough to
hear.

   “Well, what have we here?” said the general, pausing before
the old veteran. “Are you back again, Quintus? I thought we’d
seen the last of you.”
   “Hail, Commander Septimus, it is good to see you, too,”
replied Quintus affably.

  “You told me you were going to retire, did you not?”

  “Yes, well, let us say Massilia was not entirely to my liking.”

  General Septimus laughed. He placed a hand on the soldier’s
neck. “We will see some fighting this year, my friend. I will do
what I can to keep your hide undamaged.”

  “I ask for no special favors, Commander.”

  “No,” said the general, “of course not.” Turning to regard the
men clustered around Quintus, he said, “Is this your numerus?”

  Quintus grinned. “They seem to have followed me, General.”

   Commander Septimus nodded to himself and then, looking
along the ranks at us, said, “When the battle grows hot, you men
stay close to Quintus. He will see you through the worst of it.”

   The old veteran smiled. I could tell he was moved by the
general’s oblique praise. “Thank you, General, I will do what I
can.”

   Septimus moved off then and, when he finished his informal
inspection, strode to his place before the standard, engaged our
gaze, and spoke to us in a low, clear voice, his words both simple
and direct. Listening to him, I imagined, was like listening to the
ancient spirit of the empire itself.

  “Soldiers of Rome!” he began abruptly, “I summon you today
not to demand your allegiance but to demand your lives.”

    He scanned the ragged ranks before him with a stern,
unapologetic gaze, an expression hardened by conflict into a
flintlike determination.

  “Even now our enemies are gathering in the forests to the
north. Our scouts have encountered raiding parties larger than
any seen in twenty years. When they believe themselves strong
enough to overwhelm us, they will attack.”

   He walked a few paces along the front rank and then stopped
to face his soldiers again. “They will attack, and they will
succeed. Yes, this time they will succeed…” He paused once
more, letting us chew on that for a moment. “They will win, my
friends -my brave limitanes-unless you give me your lives.

  “What does this mean?” He stared with grim determination
upon the wondering ranks. “It means: Deliver your fate into my
hands. It means: Trust not to your gods, but place your trust in
me. It means: Do not think about what you will do
tomorrow-give all your tomorrows to me.

   “Give everything to me: your hearts, your minds, your bodies.
For unless you give me everything, the barbarians will take it
from you, and you will lose it all.”

   His voice resounded in the silence of the yard. “Every time a
man marches out onto the battleground, he has a choice to
make: whether to hold fast to his life or let it go for the good of
the legion. I do not ask you to give your lives to the legion, or to
your comrades, or to the glory of the empire, but to me.” He
struck himself on the chest with his fist.

   “Why do I ask this?” he said, gazing out over the assembled
ranks. “Because, my friends, if you give me your lives, when this
season of war is over, I will give them back. This is my pledge to
you.”

   He raised his hands high and repeated his pledge, and it was
greeted with a great outpouring of acclaim. Men roared their
approval, shouting the general’s name over and over again. I had
never seen anything like it before, and I could not help being
stirred.

   When the shouts and cheers subsided, General Septimus
continued, “I do not intend to allow the enemy time to build his
strength. Therefore, tomorrow we take the offensive in the first
of a series of raids on barbarian camps that our scouts have
marked. Tomorrow, my friends, the battle begins.”
   More cheering greeted this declaration, but in fact it was ten
days before any barbarians were sighted. Having marched north
for nine days into the dark, tangled heart of Germania, we
camped on the banks of the broad, gray waterway called Rhenus.
Along the way I learned how a proper military force was
organized, how troops in the field were provisioned, how to
march all day under a heavy pack and then make camp, dig a
barrier ditch, fetch water, cook food for a cohort, and clean up
afterward without becoming too fatigued to move on come the
following dawn.

   Thus, after a nine-day march, I stood on the banks of the
Rhenus and gazed across the mildly swirling water into the
deep-shadowed denseness of the pine forest on the other side.
The rolling expanse of water marked the farthest limit of the
empire. Beyond the bank on which I stood lay a land untouched
by the civilizing hand of Rome. Some of the younger men quailed
to see it, but I looked on unafraid. I had lived in a barbarian land
before. It held no terror for me.

   We established camp in a meadow a short distance from the
river. The first task was to dig a deep ditch around the entire
perimeter of the camp, heaping the dirt along the inner rim to
form an earthwork bank through which there was but one
entrance. The sides and top of this rampart were lined with
sharpened greenwood stakes cut from the surrounding forest.

   This done, the soldiers carried water from the river to fill the
large cisterns which had been dug and lined with great leather
integuments brought especially for the purpose.

   Each cohort and numerus hollowed out a place at the base of
the earthen rampart near their lodgings to use for a hearth to
cook their meals. For lodgings the legionaries had tents, but the
auxiliaries either slept under the sky or erected makeshift
shelters using their cloaks and javelins, or pikes. This is what
those of us in Quintus’ numerus did, and it was not so bad once I
got used to it.

   While we were making the field camp, the scouts were
ranging north across the river to ascertain the enemy positions.
They returned the second day with a report that a large number
of Goth and Hun warriors were moving south toward a fording
place on the Rhenus a day’s march to the west of us.

  Early the next morning, under a low, gray sky, we took up our
weapons and marched out to meet the enemy at the ford.

                                 40

   They came at us out of the forest without warning. One
moment we were sitting in the shade of the trees at the edge of
the ford, waiting for our scouts to return with word of the
enemy’s advance… the next moment we were fighting for our
lives. The barbarians rushed in eager swarms, splashing across
the shallow water and racing headlong toward our camp. The
trumpeter had time to sound but a single warning blast before
the first wave closed on us. The legionaries scrambled to form
the battle line-triple ranks of cohorts-to take the brunt of the
attack while the auxiliaries flew into the forest on either side of
the meadow to guard the flanks and prevent the enemy from
getting behind the line or, in the final stages of the conflict, to
prevent their escape into the wood.

  At the trumpet call we took up our arms and ran to our
positions. “Stay by me,” shouted Quintus. I struggled to force my
hand through the straps of the shield and hurried after him. “Do
what I tell you.”

  General Septimus had placed us in sparse cover along the
western side of the battlefield. We filled the gaps between trees
and waited for the signal to close in.

   “Remember what I told you,” Quintus said. “Let your shield
do the work and strike up under it. Aim for the belly. Short
thrusts. Make it quick. Trade blows with them and you’re dead.”

   Just then the first Goth raiders came into view, rushing up
over the river-bank. They were big men, with long fair hair, huge
muscled chests, and arms they had smeared with red and black
designs. Some of the leaders wore the mailed shirt and war
helm, while others wore leather tunics covered with iron disks or
rings. Most, however, wore neither shirt nor head covering of
any kind and, I noticed, ran into battle barefoot. For weapons
many wielded swords and a few had axes, but the rest had
spears of various kinds, mostly short and easily thrown or used
in close fighting.

   Upon sighting the cohorts ranged for battle, the barbarians
sent up a tremendous cry: a sound to rattle the bowels and raise
fear in the boldest heart. My hand trembled on the sword hilt.

   “Steady,” muttered Quintus. “Let it wash over you.”

   I did not know what he meant: the fear, the sound, the
tremendous surge of energy? I let it all wash over me, drew a
deep breath, and tried to stop my hand from shaking as I
watched Goth warriors stream over the earthen rampart and
across the meadow, closing with breathtaking speed.

   The legionaries waited motionless, a rock headland about to
take the battering of a wild and angry sea. Facing such a terrible
assault, how could they stand so still?

   Three heartbeats later the collision came with an ear-splitting
crash. Shield met shield, and blade met blade. The swift advance
shuddered, halted, and staggered backward upon itself. The
solid Roman wall took the full onslaught and did not buckle or
break, but stood firm. A shout of acclamation rose from the
watching auxiliaries. I cheered, too, much emboldened by such a
handsome display of disciplined courage.

   The barbarians, stunned by the obvious and utter failure of
their principal tactic, fell back a pace or two. Those still rushing
up from behind were thrown into stumbling confusion as they
collided with their own men.

   Seizing the momentary disorder, General Septimus
commanded the cohorts to advance; the ranks moved forward a
few paces, shortening the distance the barbarians had to
maneuver. Pinned between the unbending Roman line and the
crush of their own numbers from behind, the Gothi in the first
ranks gave out a roar of anguished frustration and began
hacking at the shield wall before them.
   The clatter of blade on rim and boss reached us as the sound
of hail on a tile roof. The legionaries, safe behind interlocked
shields, forced the enemy back step by unforgiving step. The
Gothi fell beneath the slow, controlled onslaught like so much
stubble sliding under the threshing sledge.

   Unable to break the advancing line and desperate to get out
of the way, the barbarians turned and made for the woods on
either side of the battlefield.

  “Now,” said Quintus, his voice a growl, “here is where we earn
our pay.”

   Tightening my grip on the sword, I hunkered down behind
my curved shield, peering around the edge at the onrushing
enemy. They ran blind, heedless of the danger awaiting them in
the wood.

  “Get ready…”

   The barbarians raced swiftly toward us, howling like wolves,
their screams loud in our ears. They spread out as they came,
making for the gaps in the trees. Only as they came in range of
our spears did they realize that their escape was blocked. Some
checked when they saw us, searching for another way out.
Others drove in regardless, screaming with rage.

  Three huge brutes broke from the main body of the enemy
and made for the place where Quintus and I waited. I had time
but to brace myself for the collision.

   “Stand!” shouted Quintus, and my shield was struck by a blow
that almost knocked me off my feet. My arm was thrown against
my body and I fell back a pace. “Stand!”

    I thrust my shield before me and resumed my place. The next
blow nearly shattered my arm. I felt the impact as a jolt through
every bone in my body, sending a sharp pang through the
still-tender wound in my side. I gasped for breath but somehow
remained unmoved.

  “Strike!” cried Quintus.
   A third blow rattled my shield, knocking it sideways. I saw the
face of my attacker-a dark, bearded, bare-chested giant with a
sword. Seeing his chance, he lunged at me again, swinging hard
to knock the shield away. I let my arm fall. The brute’s blade
missed the top of the shield and carried on, opening him out
wide.

   I thrust out blindly in the same instant-striking low and
straight, as Quintus instructed. The blade met but slight
resistance, sliding in and up.

   The barbarian gave out a scream, clutched his belly, and
collapsed.

  “Again!” shouted Quintus. “Again!”

  But I could not move. I stood and stared at my fallen
adversary as he rolled in agony on the ground.

   Quintus stepped forward and delivered a quick jab in the
center of the chest under the ribs. The brute ceased thrashing
and lay still. The sight of my first dead barbarian produced a
strange and unsettling sensation. In appearance he was very like
the Irish warrior Forgall, Lord Miliucc’s chief of battle. And
while I no longer considered Forgall and his band rank
barbarians, there was no clear difference between Miliucc’s crew
and those swarming around me now. Could I have so blithely
and unthinkingly engaged Forgall and seen him slain?

   I had no time to dwell on this question, however, as new
foemen swarmed fresh to the fight.

  “Eyes up,” commanded Quintus. “Be ready!”

   I raised my eyes from the dead barbarian as two more drove
in toward us with spears at the level. The shafts of their spears
were short, and they carried them low. I dropped my shield to
better protect my legs and drew back my sword arm to await the
assault.

   Wild in their fury, the enemy fell on us. The blades of their
spears struck the curved surface of the shield and slid away.
Ignoring the growing pain in my side, I pushed forward,
throwing the shield before me and into the nearest barbarian’s
face, knocking him back. As before, I gave a short, sharp thrust,
catching him in the side. Blood gushed from the wound.

   Unlike the first Goth, however, he did not fall. Heedless of the
slash in his side, he came at me again. I saw the cold defiance in
his dark eyes as, lips curled back over his teeth in a snarl of rage,
he stabbed with the spear-once and again. Each time I
countered his jab with my shield, and the spear point clattered
away harmlessly.

    His third assault surprised me. He jabbed with his spear as
before, but when I knocked it aside, he swung his shield into
mine, hooking the edge and pulling it away. For one brief instant
I stood unprotected.

   I saw the long spear blade start toward my chest, and I swung
the sword with all my might. My blade caught the spear just
below the shank, neatly shearing the spearhead from the shaft in
a stroke.

    The barbarian threw the useless shaft at me and reached for
the knife at his belt. He loosed a furious cry and charged behind
his shield, trying to knock me off my feet. I saw the knife in his
fist as he drove into me and, without thinking, slashed at his
wrist.

   I watched in amazement as the both hand and knife spun to
the ground in a crimson flash of blood. He screamed and raised
the streaming stump as he fell to his knees.

  Again Quintus was there to give the killing stroke. The
barbarian slumped to his side with a grunt.

   “Do not trade blows with them!” he shouted, pulling me back
into position beside him.

   He looked down the line and called to Pallio, Varro, and the
others. “Shields up!”

   I straightened my shield and renewed my grip on the sword
hilt. But the attack was over. The Gothi were already running
away, fleeing back across the river the way they had come.

    Out on the battlefield the legionaries still advanced, but
slowly. They were not giving chase, merely killing the wounded
left behind.

  “We have them on the run!” I cried.

  “Stand easy,” advised Quintus.

  I stared in disbelief at the fleeing enemy. Pursue them and we
could finish it here and now. “But we could wipe them out.”

  “It is over. The commander will not be drawn into a foolhardy
chase through the trees.”

  “You mean that is all?”

  “No, they’ll be back.” The veteran turned to the dead
barbarians before us. “Here, let’s see what we can get.”

   We all searched the bodies of those we had killed, but there
was little enough booty to be had. I took the knife and shield
from my second attacker and the sword from the first. Varro got
a spear and sword, and Quintus got a war helm -a conical cap
with disks of bone fastened to a hardened leather surface. “It will
do,” he said, “until I find something better.”

  Pallio did not get anything, so I let him have the shield.

   After we had divided up the plunder, Quintus took me aside
and said, “You were lucky just now, but you might not be so
lucky next time.”

   I thanked him for helping me and said I would try to do
better.

   “You have the heart of a fighter, Succat,” he told me, and then
he smiled. “I pissed myself the first time, and it was only some
miserable, weedy Daciani. Nothing at all compared with Gothi.”

  I accepted his praise. “You said they would come back.”
   “Yes, but not today. I suspect it was only a feint to test our
strength. The real battle is yet to come.” He gave my shoulder a
fatherly pat. “Still, you did well. Two kills, and you won your first
spoils.”

  In all, more than fifty enemy were killed outright or
wounded-the injured were executed, too, as a matter of routine.
General Septimus suffered the loss of only three-one dead and
two wounded, although one of the wounded later died.

   That night I lay awake thinking about the barbarians I had
engaged. Were they, I wondered, so very different from the Irish
I had come to know? Once I would have said that all barbarians
were the same under the skin. Now, however, I was not so sure.
Or maybe they were after all, and it was myself who had begun
making fine distinctions. Certainly there was once a time when I
saw the Irish in exactly the same way that I now saw the raging
Gothi. And while I had no real difficulty defending myself
against howling savages intent on slaughtering me, I could see
how, having been mistaken about the Irish, I might now be just
as mistaken about these northern tribes.

   These thoughts occupied me far into the night. Sleep came
long before I reached a satisfactory conclusion. In the end I
simply decided to do my duty-which, as I saw it, was to stay alive
by any means possible. Beyond that, all other considerations
dwindled to insignificance.

   As Quintus had suggested, the raid was a trial skirmish, a test
of strength and will, nothing more. Our scouts returned at dusk
with word that the main barbarian force remained encamped in
the forest. It was estimated to be in excess of thirty thousand
Goth and Hun, and also Angle, Saecsen, and Jute warriors in ten
or twelve separate camps.

   I heard this, and my heart sank. I could not see how we could
stand up to, let alone defeat, such a force. The numbers alone
would overwhelm us.

  Nor was I alone in such thinking. As night drew in upon the
meadow, talk around the cooking fires grew hushed and broken.
Men sank into themselves, contemplating the brevity of life and
the certain horrors the morning would bring.

   It was then that Commander Septimus showed his wisdom.
He summoned his troops and had all of us form a tight circle
around him. “Some of you may be thinking the enemy has us
overpowered and outwitted,” he began. “This is what the
barbarians think, too. But they do not know what I am about to
tell you: Tomorrow, when they return in force, we will be joined
by the legions and auxiliaries of Noviomagus, Moguntiacum,
and Banna.

   “Tomorrow, when the enemy returns, they will face a force
four times that which drove them back today. But tomorrow
they will not be allowed to retreat. For as soon as the battle is
joined, the cunes and alae of Legio XIV Gemina from
Noviomagus will cross the river and close in behind them. Legio
XXII Pia Fidelis from Moguntiacum and Banna will close in
from the west and east, sealing off any possible retreat.” He
paused, nodding to himself, as if satisfied with these
arrangements. “There will be no escape, and the season’s
campaign will be finished in one day.

   “Victory is certain, my friends,” the general declared,
standing by the fireside, the flames casting a golden glow upon
his spotless tunic and his breastplate of bronze. “That is why we
have been blessed by the arrival of the imperial vicarius, Aulus
Columella, who has come to witness our glorious victory.”

   He turned to the group of men clustered behind him, and a
tall man with a boyish face stepped forward. Dressed in a simple
tunic and belt, with high boots of red leather, he smiled affably
as he gazed around at the ranks of soldiers ringing him. His hair,
long and swept back over a domed forehead, was almost the
same shade as his boots. Aside from the expensive footwear, the
only sign of his towering rank was the silver-edged pattern on
the hem of his tunic and the slim silver circlet at his throat.

   “Hail, valiant warriors!” he called in a voice made sonorous
through, I supposed, many years in the senate. “I come bearing
the emperor’s greetings and his good wishes for a speedy and
successful end to this campaign. He sends me with instructions
to bring word back to him of your accomplishment.
   “The campaign, I am informed, is well begun. I can tell you
that nothing will please me more than to behold the rout of the
enemy which has so long troubled this border.” He struck the
pose of a beneficent god dispensing favors: right arm extended,
hand open, palm upward. “I can also tell you that I am charged
by the emperor himself with the power to confer on each and
every soldier who distinguishes himself on the battlefield
tomorrow an advance in rank.”

   This brought an immediate clamor. “What about pay?”
demanded a voice from the ranks. The question was instantly
taken up by others, and soon everyone wanted to know: “What
about our pay?”

   Vicarius Columella raised his hands, smiling as if he were a
merchant whose price has just been battered down by hard
bargaining. “Your pay,” he announced, “will be increased
according to rank-” Jeers and catcalls interrupted him here; he
waited patiently a few moments before he could make himself
heard. “With appropriate bonuses, of course, and the increase
will commence from this campaign.”

   This impromptu and judicious amendment was greeted with
cheers all around, and Imperial Vicarius Columella smiled as
graciously as if he had intended offering the increase from the
first. The vicarius and the general retired to the commander’s
tent then, and we all went back to our camps to prepare for
tomorrow’s assault.

   My side, though tender, ceased throbbing after a while, and I
determined to fight more skillfully and protect myself better the
next day. Beyond that I did not dare to contemplate.

   Like the others in our numerus, I slept with my weapons
ready at hand. Our camps were along the outer perimeter, and
we would have little warning if the enemy tried to surprise us in
the night. All remained quiet, however, and nothing disturbed
our dreams of the money and advancement we would surely gain
by battle’s end. Not a man among us allowed his rest to be
troubled by thoughts of death. Why should we? With four entire
legions and a massive auxiliary force, what was there to fear?
                                41

    I was awake and ready long before the trumpet sounded. The
veterans always eat a little bread and watered wine before battle
to settle the stomach and steady the spirit. As we sat and passed
the cup, we were visited by one of the centurions moving from
camp to camp to give the auxiliaries their marching orders. I
listened carefully as the stern, scar-faced officer detailed our
part in the days activities. It came to this: The main body of the
legionary force was to cross the Rhenus and move into the forest
toward the barbarian encampment as if perpetrating a surprise
raid. Meanwhile the numera were to follow in two divisions, one
on either flank, maintaining our silence and keeping out of sight
as much as possible.

   The Gothi, defending their camp, would be expected to
mount an immediate counterattack. The legion would then fall
back to the river as if overpowered. Upon seeing the legion
forced to the riverbank with deep-flowing water at its back, the
barbarians would press their advantage and commit themselves
to an all-out destruction of the army. Once they were fully
engaged, the trap would snap shut.

   For what the enemy did not know was that during the night
the legions of Moguntiacum, Banna, and Noviomagus had been
painstakingly working their way through the forest beyond the
enemy encampment. As soon as the battle commenced in
earnest, they would fall upon the barbarians from behind.

    Those of us in General Septimus’ command had merely to
draw the enemy into a fight and hold them until the other
legions swept in to obliterate them. We would be overpowered
and outnumbered for a short time, true, but this risk was more
than balanced by the fact that those first in the fight also had
first chance at the plunder. If all went well, we would be sitting
on a mound of wealth by the day’s end.

   Aglow with this hope, we ate a hasty meal, armed ourselves,
and marched across the river at the ford. As predicted, the
enemy was not expecting an attack. They were still in camp as
we took up a position no more than a few spear casts away. We
even had time to assemble three catapultae-spear-hurling
machines of great might, if not accuracy.

   Then the commander gave the order, and all three catapultae
spat flaming spears into the dim, dawn-shy forest. Within
moments a second strike followed. From our hiding place to the
side and slightly behind the main body of our troops, I traced
the fiery trajectory as the spears flew up through the trees. Their
fall was answered by shouts and cries of rage.

   Covered with branches and leaves, we hunkered down and
waited, listening to the clamor of the enemy as they hastily
armed themselves and rose to meet the supposed attack. The
catapultae continued flinging spears, lighting the gloom with
their passing. Soon the scent of smoke came sifting back on the
breeze and, following right behind, the first hapless ranks of
barbarians.

   They ran in clumps and knots, scattered here and there
among the tall trees, flying down the gentle slope leading to the
ford only to plunge headlong into the waiting legion already
formed for battle. The first Goth warriors into the fray paused in
their onrushing attack to send up a warning cry to those
following, then raced on.

   The clash sounded as a sporadic stuttering clatter along the
line, first one cohort and then another meeting the charge. The
soldiers easily held their ground and even advanced a few
hundred paces to make better use of the slope. More and more
barbarians were joining the fight now. I could see groups of
them coursing through the trees, screaming as they ran. Oh,
they were eager to spill the blood of the hated Romans.

   General Septimus maintained his position with rocklike
tenacity. Even when it became apparent that the legionaries
were outnumbered, Septimus did not move, giving our legionary
comrades as much time as possible to get into striking position.
Thinking that the signal to attack must come at any moment, we
of the auxiliary numera prepared ourselves to join the combat.

  We waited. The enemy numbers continued to grow.

  Still the signal did not come.
  “Behind!” shouted a voice from the flank.

   We turned to see a host of Goth warriors descending upon us.
With loud whoops and terrible screams they came, slashing
through the underbrush in their frenzy. Quintus called us to
form the line, but we had time only to turn and get our shields
up before they were on us. Soldiers on either side of me squared
off to meet the foe, and suddenly we were all immersed in
private skirmishes.

   I saw a spear go spinning past my head and heard the sharp
chunk as it struck the trunk of a tree. A bare-chested barbarian
rushed in behind the thrown missile. Raising my shield, I put
one foot back and bent my legs to take the blow, which, when it
came an instant later, rattled my teeth.

   Jolted and dazed, I fell to my knees. My arm, suddenly heavy,
drooped down slightly. I saw a livid, fleshy, hate-filled face
scowling at me, and I strained to raise my shield, which seemed
to have become caught on something.

   I gave a hard jerk, up and back. To my surprise the attacking
Goth came with it. His fingers closed on the upper rim of my
shield, and he pulled with all his might to wrest it from my
grasp. I flicked the blade of my sword along the edge, catching
his fingers. He gave out a yelp, released his grip, and jumped
back-only to lunge at me again.

   All at once my shield began wobbling from side to side. I
could not stop it; I could feel my hand beginning to slip on the
strap. Desperate, I hurled myself into the attacking barbarian,
knocking him backward. My charge carried me over him. Arms
flailing, fingers clawing, he tried to grab my legs. I gave a
downward slash with the sword, striking him a glancing blow on
the arm. He made to roll away. I saw his side exposed and thrust
in the sword as deep as it would go. He gave out a cry and
succumbed.

   It was then I saw that my shield was split, just below the boss
protecting my hand. Protruding from the crack was the vicious
blade of a Saescsen war ax, stuck fast in the wood. With his first
blow my enemy had disarmed himself and sealed his fate. I tried
to pull out the ax, but could not dislodge it.

    Before I could find a way to loosen the ax, another barbarian
was on me. This one, bigger than the last, leapt over the body of
his comrade, swinging a great wooden hammer around his head.
I stood firm as he rushed in, the hammer a dark blur above him.
As he aimed his first blow, I pulled back half a step. The hammer
glanced off the top of my shield and flew wide. I saw his arm
swing out and away. In that instant I threw my shield before me
and thrust blindly straight ahead with the sword. The blade met
a yielding resistance.

   The barbarian screamed and crashed to his knees. I peered
warily around the edge of the shield to see him writhing on the
ground with a wide gash in his naked thigh. He clutched at the
wound with one hand while trying to fend me off with the other.
My next thrust found the base of his neck. The blade went in,
and he stiffened, hissing like a broken bellows as his breath
rushed out through the gash in his throat.

   “Succat! Here!”

   Quintus darted past, calling me on as he ran. I turned and
followed. The legion was moving back toward the river,
beginning the feint that would spring the trap. Soldiers were
retreating through the trees, pursued by enemy warriors roaring
in triumph. How soon would those same voices be raised in
shrieks of fury at the cunning of the Roman commanders?

   We reached the banks of the river. The sight of water sent the
barbarians into a murderous frenzy. They threw themselves at
the solid line of cohorts, trying to batter down the stout shield
wall with spears and hand axes. General Septimus drew the
legions tight, shoulder to shoulder, and dug in. The auxiliaries
on the flanks drew in close, too, lest we become separated from
the main force.

   I saw a shaft of sunlight striking through the leaf canopy
above to illuminate the golden boar on its high pole. There is
where General Septimus would be, biding his time until the
surprise counterattack commenced.
  But where were the other legions?

   “They should have come by now,” I suggested to Quintus,
wiping my hands on my tunic. The enemy attack had moved
away from us for a moment as the barbarians concentrated their
efforts on the legion.

   “They will be here,” he said. With a swift upward motion, he
slammed the hilt of his sword against the handle of the ax stuck
in my shield boss- once, then again. The ax came loose on the
third try, and he pulled it free. “There,” he said, handing the
weapon to me, “a keepsake of the battle. Now, get your sword up
and look sharp.”

   It was a fearsome yet strangely fine-looking thing-curved and
deadly, sharp as a razor, the sides chased with an intricate
knotwork pattern. I tucked the ax into my belt, and we settled
down to wait, watching wave after wave of enemy warriors beat
against the Roman shield wall, break apart, lapse, re-form, and
surge again. For the first time I began to appreciate the ebb and
flow of battle. What before seemed to me irrational, incoherent
chaos became the rhythmic surge and swirl of opposing
energies, both dynamic, both defined and constrained by their
own natures.

   It occurred to me that anyone who realized this and could
read the emerging patterns might move through the commotion
at will, perhaps even master it. No doubt General Septimus
possessed this ability, as any good commander would-probably
Quintus as well and, for all I knew, most seasoned soldiers of the
line. Perhaps it was only myself who, until now, had been
ignorant of this commonplace revelation.

   But as I watched the valiant legion meet wave after wave of
attacking barbarians, I marveled at the obvious predictability of
the apparently random action. It seemed to me that I could read
the current as a sailor might read the drift of the sea tide.

  “They should have been here by now,” I said again.

  Quintus agreed this time. “You may be right.” He scanned the
dark forest to the north, behind the attacking enemy, for a sign
of the tardy legions. There was nothing. “Not good,” he
concluded ominously. “Not good at all.”

  A short time later a runner came from the commander.
“Quintus!” he called. “Is there someone called Quintus among
you?”

  “Here!” answered the veteran. “Over here!”

   “A message from General Septimus,” said the soldier as he
joined us. “Which one of you is called Quintus?”

  “I am Quintus. What does the general want?”

  “A scouting party is required to go alert the Gemina.”

  “We’ll go,” volunteered Quintus. “What is the message?”

   “The general says to tell Commander Paulus that the trap is
baited and ready, and if he does not strike quickly, the vermin
may escape.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  The messenger darted off again, and Quintus called his
numerus together. “General Septimus has chosen us for scouting
duty. Who’s coming with me?”

   Since no one cared to be left behind, we all volunteered to
accompany him.

   “If that’s your pleasure,” said Quintus with evident
satisfaction, “follow me-and stay low.”

   Off we went, twenty men in two long files, darting through the
trees, working our way north in the direction of the barbarian
encampment. I expected to be challenged at any moment, but
our progress was both swift and unhindered. We reached the
enemy camp and circled around it, giving it a wide berth and
continuing north, deeper into the forest, whereupon Quintus
stopped.

  “See something?” asked Varro, stumbling up behind him.
  “Listen!” Quintus hissed, breathing hard from his run.

  We trained our ears to the trail ahead and heard the clatter of
weapons. “It is just the battle,” said Varro.

   Quintus shook his head. “Not the battle,” corrected the
veteran. “Another battle.” He turned his face toward the sound.
“Our comrades are under attack. This way.”

   The sound of the clash grew with our every step until we
reached the rising bank of a dry stream; in the deep-shadowed
woods beyond, we could see the glint of weapons and the
confused rush of motion. The air shivered with the shouts of
men fighting for their lives. “That’ll be the Gemina,” muttered
Quintus.

  “Your message may have to wait,” observed Pallio.

  “What now?” wondered one of the men with us.

  “We go back and tell Septimus.”

  “What of Legio Fidelis?” I asked. “Could we reach them, do
you think?”

   Quintus shook his head and turned to begin hurrying back
the way we had come.

  “Staying here alone?” wondered Varro as he passed.

   I quickly fell in behind him, and we swiftly returned to the
riverbank, where the battle still raged. “Stay here and guard our
backs,” said Quintus. “Varro, Pallio, and you two” -he pointed to
the men-“come with me.”

   We resumed our positions and watched Quintus and his little
band snake around behind the fighting and come up to where
General Septimus was dug in, waiting to be rescued. Whatever
passed between them was brief, for no sooner had they reached
the legion than Quintus and the others were hurrying back.

  “What did he say?” asked one of the men.
  “The general says we are to cut through this sea of shrieking
Saecseni and join up with the no-luck Gemina,” said Quintus.
“We move out at the trumpet. And then its keep up or be left
behind. Any questions?”

   “They’ll come in on our tail,” warned one of the men, “and cut
off our retreat.”

   “True,” Quintus agreed. “But if we stay here, we’ll all be
pissing in the Styx before sundown.” He spat on the ground. “All
the same, Janus, you do what you want. Me-I’m going with the
general.”

   We had time but to tighten our shoelaces when the trumpet
sounded. The legion advanced, and we ran to join them, falling
in close behind the last ranks so that we would not become
separated in the fray.

   The legion gained ground with slow, methodical efficiency - a
line of reapers cutting a swath through a ripe and ready field.
The barbarians closed in behind us, as we knew they would, and
harried the rearmost ranks.

   It is difficult to fight and walk backward at the same time, as
I discovered. Fortunately, I did not have to perform this feat too
often, nor for too long, before we reached the enemy camp.
There were women and children residing in the camp, and this
caused General Septimus to halt the advance.

   “Why are we stopping?” someone asked. “Let us push
through.”

   “Patience,” replied Quintus. “Let the mothers and their brats
get free.”

   “It’d be short work,” insisted another. “Give the filthy
shriekers something to think about besides.”

   “It’s beneath us,” sneered Quintus, “and serves no useful
purpose-except to make the bastards more angry than they are
already. And that’s angry enough for me.”
   “I thought the idea was to kill as many as possible,” muttered
a glowering man with a bloody sweat-soaked rag about his neck.

   “Then you best leave the thinking to someone better
accustomed to the chore,” Quintus told him.

   The women and children fled the encampment in a flurry of
screams, and the legion resumed its slow forward march,
torching the camp with brands pulled from the cooking fires as
we went. The men complained about the sad lack of plunder to
be found in the wreckage, and we moved on.

   We soon came to the banks of the dry stream beyond which
Legio Gem-ina was encircled by a barbarian force equal to the
one that was now mostly behind us. It took a few moments for
the Gemina to realize they had been joined by the Valeria
Victrix, but when they did, a tremendous shout of relief and
welcome went up.

   Septimus wasted not a moment; he plunged into the thick of
the battle, forcing a way through the Goth ranks to unite the two
legions. The Gemina, though much battered and weakened by
the ferocity of the assault, still possessed our best chance of
turning the barbarian attack. The joining of the two legions
renewed all our hopes for a swift and successful conclusion to the
fighting.

  “Stay where I can find you,” Quintus told us, hastening away.

  “Where you going?” one of the men called after him.

  “To give the general the benefit of my superior wisdom,”
came the reply as the veteran disappeared into the tight-packed
mass of soldiers.

   It could be argued that our position had not vastly improved.
Quite possibly it was now far worse. At least with the river at our
backs, the barbarians could not surround us completely; now
they did. Also, any gain in troop strength we might have made
by uniting the two legions was more than offset by the increase
in barbarian numbers as the two attacking enemy forces united
as well.
   So it seemed to me, but I was inexperienced and did not
reckon on General Septimus’ flinty determination to cut through
any adversary he happened to meet, no matter the size of the
force arrayed against him.

   We stood behind our shields, waiting to be thrown into the
fight, watching the battle swell and flow around us. Presently
Quintus returned. “Neither Banna nor Moguntiacum’s shown so
much as a pimple,” he reported grimly. “Gemina was ambushed
here and failed to get the message to Fidelis.”

  “They’ll know by now anyway,” suggested Varro. “They’ll be
mounting a rescue.”

  “Unless they’ve been ambushed as well.” Quintus shook his
head grimly. “We’re on our own.”

  “And I say they’ll come,” someone insisted. “You’ll see.”

   “If they were coming,” shouted Quintus, suddenly angry,
“they’d have been here by now!”

   “Not coming?” wondered a soldier from the rear of the group
that was pressed close about the veteran. “Is that what you say?”

   “I say nothing,” Quintus growled. “Now, get your swords up,
girls, and look smart.”

   Thus the day passed; the barbarians continued to hurl
themselves against the Roman shield wall, availing little and
wasting much. The combined legions took every opportunity to
move west in the direction of the missing Pia Fidelis and in this
way maintained a steady pressure on the attacking Gothi. Each
time the assault waned, General Septimus ordered the cohorts to
move out, and the enemy-desperate to keep the legions
surrounded and immobile-leapt once more to a futile attack.

   We fought in turn, rotating from the center to the front ranks
and then withdrawing once more to the protected center; this
allowed us to rest and maintain our strength through the long
day. As dusk drew in upon the forest, the battleground was
heaped with barbarian dead, whereas the legions had lost only a
few dozen.

   As light began to fade, so, too, did the enemy appetite for a
swift victory. The waves of assault slowed, and as twilight began
stealing through the trees, the onslaught gradually ceased.

   This is what the commander had been anticipating. As soon
as the last wave withdrew, word began circulating through the
troops. “We move as soon as it is dark,” they said. “Wait for the
signal.”

    Water, oat rusks, and dried meat were shared out of the
legionaries’ pack provisions and canteens. Then we rested
behind our shields and waited for darkness. The forest grew
quiet-save for the distant commotion raised by the barbarians
as they set about rebuilding their camp. As twilight gathered in
the forest, filling the spaces between the trees and spilling
shadows across the open ground, we watched and waited. When
at last the gloom became impenetrable, we moved out-as quickly
and as stealthily as possible for upwards of six thousand heavily
armed men.

   We met no resistance. With darkness the barbarian resolve
seemed to have dissipated. No doubt, seeing that all efforts to
force a breach in the Roman shield wall had come to naught,
they had decided to withdraw and regroup for the next day.
Content to consign us to the forest and the night, they went back
to their camps to rest and renew their strength for tomorrow’s
assault.

   Once free of enemy resistance, we moved quickly, falling
easily into long files of soldiers, marching in silent lockstep along
the night-dark trails. We marched through the night, expecting
at any moment to come upon the missing legion.

   This we did, but not until dawn had begun to lighten the sky
in the east. And by then we required no explanation why Legio
Pia Fidelis had never arrived.

                                 42
   I stood flat-footed in the pale light of a threatening sky and
stared at the shattered remains of Legio Pia Fidelis. Dead men
strew the ground -wherever I looked, whichever way I turned…
corpses and more corpses, bodies like so many broken statues,
toppled and smashed. They had been ambushed on the trail and
slaughtered as they ran.

   Many had been stripped naked, their bodies mutilated:
weapons and armor taken, heads and hands removed. I
wondered at this, but as we moved on, we passed a tall pine tree
along the trail, and I discovered the reason: Nailed to the trunk
was the severed head of a Roman soldier.

   Further along the trail more heads appeared -at first just here
and there among the trees. And then, as we came closer to the
center of the battle, every trunk of every tree was adorned with
the bloody head of a legionary spiked through the skull.

   Sometimes the hands were there, too, bloodstained and
pierced through the palms or simply stuffed in the mouth; more
often it was just the head-eyes wide, mouth agape. They were
everywhere. Scores… hundreds… an entire legion, massacred,
decapitated, and nailed up for display.

   We came to a clearing in the wood where, it appeared, the
legion had been surprised. Here the fighting had been most
fierce, and the dead were most numerous. Yet if there had been
any barbarians killed, we did not see any evidence of them. Their
bodies had been removed, so all that remained were Roman
dead.

   Horses of the ala had been killed in the fighting, too, but far
fewer than I would have imagined; I counted only twenty-three.
The rest, no doubt, had been taken for use by the enemy.

   Any equipment deemed of little use had been piled in heaps
and put to the torch. Corpses had been thrown onto these pyres
as well, left to burn as they would. The heaps still smoldered,
sending pale tendrils of smoke drifting through the surrounding
forest and filling the dark air with a rancid taste.

  We passed through the clearing, pressing on. Thunder
grumbled in the distance. Quintus, a few paces behind me,
cursed. A few more paces and he growled, “They should be
properly buried.”

   “Stop if you want to,” suggested someone farther back. “You’ll
join them if you do,” added another.

   “There was a time…” snarled Quintus with barely controlled
rage.

   The words were still in his mouth when I heard a sizzling in
the air. It seemed to pass over and behind me, followed by a
curious sucking sound. I half turned to look behind me and saw
Quintus standing in the trail, his jaws still working, a
black-feathered arrow through his throat.

  “Ambush!” cried a nearby centurion.

   I hurried back to catch Quintus as he fell. Blood gushed from
the wound as I lowered him to the ground. All around me men
scrambled for cover as the air whizzed and whistled with arrows.
I put my shield over both of us and squatted beside him on the
trail.

   He looked at me, his eyes imploring me to do something for
him. I took hold of the arrow, broke off the end and, with an
effort, pulled it through. This made the blood run more freely.
Quintus mouthed a word I read as “Thanks.”

  “Leave him!” shouted Pallio, running past.

   Arrows fizzed through the air, striking the ground around me.
I hunkered down beneath the shield and hoped for the best.
Quintus gurgled and gasped, struggling for air.

  “Succat! Get up!”

  I was plucked from the path and bundled into the brush
beside the trail as more arrows streaked down through the trees
and thudded to earth.

  I looked to my savior. It was Varro. “Filthy vermin,” he
snarled. “Hiding in the trees.”

   “Quintus is hurt,” I said, pointing back to where he lay on the
trail.

   “Quintus is dead,” Varro answered, scanning the treetops. “Or
soon will be.”

  “He’s our friend.”

   “Let him go. He would do the same.” Varro peered cautiously
around the edge of his shield. “Where are they?”

   As if in answer to his question, the surrounding forest
erupted to sudden life. Barbarians, mounted on Roman horses,
appeared out of the morning mist and swooped to the attack.

   Soldiers dived for cover as they rode over us, killing as they
went. Anyone unlucky enough to be caught on the trail was
either hacked down or trampled under the horses’ hooves. Varro,
two others, and myself hid in the brush, watching as the enemy
wheeled and wheeled again, slicing the legion to bloody pieces.

   In the midst of this carnage, the trumpet sounded. “There!”
cried Varro, leaping to his feet.

   I looked where he was pointing and saw the golden-boar
standard planted in the center of the clearing where the previous
day’s massacre had taken place. General Septimus had
succeeded in rallying a few cohorts to the vexillium, and was
quickly forming a testudo. Everywhere men were running to the
protection of this close-locked covering of shields.

  “Now!” Varro shouted. “This way!”

   I leapt after him, running for my life. Arrows whined through
the air, glancing off trees and rocks, but I reached the testudo
unscathed. Two others of our numerus were not so fortunate.
One of them took an arrow in the leg and the other in the back.
Both made it to the shield wall, but neither was able to fight.

  The mounted barbarians continued to harass the stragglers;
many of those caught beyond easy reach of the shield wall were
killed outright as they fled into the wood. We heard their
screams as the riders caught them and cut them down. This
went on for some time, and at last the attack ceased and the
wood grew quiet.

   General Septimus moved at once to form the legion into
cohorts. The auxiliaries were included along with the regular
soldiers, and men rushed everywhere as centurions called their
divisions to order. This was swiftly accomplished, and the
command was given to march. The trumpet sounded, and we all
moved out, heading toward the river. I glanced once more to the
place where Quintus lay and bade him a silent farewell, then
turned my eyes to the path ahead.

   We marched into the forest and were soon hacking our way
through thick brush. This reduced our progress to a crawl, and
we had gone less than a mile when the column stopped. Three
big trees blocked the trail.

   Scouts were sent to search out the way ahead, and we were
ordered to remain vigilant. We stood shoulder to shoulder,
shields up, weapons ready, looking this way and that into the
shadowed forest. A long time passed, and the scouts returned.
The legion was commanded off the trail and into the wood.

   We moved a few hundred paces into the forest, and the trees
began to creak and moan. Branches began to twist and shake,
trunks tilted, limbs plunged earthward. Hidden ropes snapped
taut, and all around us the great trees began to topple, spinning
slowly as they fell, crashing into smaller trees and bringing them
down, too, heaving dense clouds of dust into the air. Order
collapsed as men scattered to avoid being crushed by the falling
timbers. Many were caught, and the screams of the dying echoed
back from the wood.

   As the last trunk plummeted to the ground, the enemy
charged -horsemen first, breaking through the brush, followed
by more and still more warriors on foot, many, I saw now,
wielding Roman swords. They swarmed in from every direction;
there was no retreat.
   The trumpet shrilled two short blasts. In the fuggy gloom I
caught the faint glimmer of the golden boar, and I started for
the place. “Varro!” I shouted. “Pallio! Over here!” They saw
where I was running, and followed.

   Upon reaching the vexillium, we took our places in the
quickly forming triangle of locked shields. Enraged by the
swiftness of the Roman response, the barbarians hurled
themselves at us, beating on the shield wall with axes, spears,
and war hammers. Every now and then one of them would strike
a lucky blow, and a legionary would fall. Mostly, however, it was
the barbarians who paid for their rashness with heavy
casualties.

   When at last they saw that they could not crack the hard shell
of the testudo, they backed off and assailed us with arrows once
more. We drew in further, overlapping our shields so that no
arrow could probe even the smallest chink or crack.

   The day ended in deadlock. The enemy could not breach the
legion’s stubborn defenses, and we, surrounded and
outnumbered, could not break through the barbarian mass to
escape.

   As daylight faded, the dark skies opened and the rain began.
Down it poured, cascading straight through the windless air like
a waterfall, drenching everything in moments. The barbarians
withdrew to the perimeter of the forest to watch through the
night and wait.

  “They will not attack again until daylight,” Varro suggested.

   “You know so much about barbarians,” Pallio replied, “maybe
you should be the commander, and then you can lead us out of
this grave we have dug for ourselves.”

    “General Septimus is welcome to consult me anytime he
pleases,” answered Varro. “My advice is offered freely to one and
all.”

  “Too freely, if you ask me,” grumbled a nearby soldier.
   “Shut your mouths!” hissed another irritably.

   Nevertheless it was as Varro suggested. The enemy did not
attack again.

   All through the night we waited, watching their surrounding
campfires for any sign that they might try to come at us by
stealth; but, other than a few arrows loosed to keep us awake
and on our guard, the barbarians maintained their distance.

   The rain did not slacken. By morning the battlefield was a
quagmire; the chewed-up earth dissolved into mud, and every
depression became a puddle. Grim daylight found us shivering,
hungry, and exhausted. The moment the rain did let up, the
enemy came boiling out of the forest once more, resuming the
attack with renewed ferocity.

   Wave after wave broke itself upon the shield wall, and when
that proved no more effective than before, the horses charged
again. General Septimus was ready for this, however. During the
night he had men secretly stripping the fallen trees of long, stout
branches, the ends of which were sharpened and hidden behind
the front ranks.

   When the horses reached the shield wall, the soldiers stepped
back, the sharpened poles appeared, and the horses were
skewered. All along the line, animals and men rolled and
thrashed in the mire, tripping up other attackers hurtling in
behind them. Instantly the assault degenerated into confusion,
as horses stumbled and fell, pitching their riders to the ground.

   Seeing the first break in days, General Septimus ordered the
attack. The trumpet sent a long, shrill blast, and the legion
charged into the gap, leaping over the bodies of the floundering,
dying horses and men.

   For a time it looked as if the legion would yet fight clear of the
ambushing enemy. But when the phalanx broke, more
barbarians appeared. Perhaps the Goth host, eluded during the
long march the night before, had caught up with us at last.
Perhaps word of the legion’s predicament had reached the
nearby tribes, who now swooped down to be in for the kill. Or
perhaps the scouts, so certain of victory, had underestimated the
barbarian numbers from the first.

   However it was, no sooner did we break formation than the
enemy war horns sounded and barbarians without number
flowed like floodwater into a trough. The legion was swiftly
engulfed. With no chance to regroup and re-form the testudo, we
were left to fight for our lives hand to hand.

   The soldiers fought handsomely. One after another screaming
barbarian went down before the disciplined Roman sword; but
for every enemy warrior cut down, three more took his place.
Gradually the legionaries succumbed. All around me men raised
their voices to Apollo, to Mithras and Mars, to save them in their
extremity; they vowed eternal allegiance, honor, and sacrifice if
salvation could be delivered and life preserved. I knew well the
worth of such vows. Needless to say, our numbers shrank before
the onslaught, and still the Gothi kept coming.

   I strove to keep up with the more seasoned soldiers, but
despite my best efforts I fell steadily behind. I was neither quick
enough with the blade, nor evasive enough to make any
significant headway. Eventually I was separated from the
remaining members of my numerus. I lost sight of Varro and
Pallio… and then I was alone.

   This, I decided, was how I would die: hacked to death by a
barbarian war ax, my limbs severed, my skull nailed to a tree,
the carrion crows pecking out my sightless eyes. That I, a noble
Briton, last of my family line, should die this way angered me far
more than it grieved me. Very well, so be it. I determined that I
would set the highest possible price on my life and take as many
with me as I could. Accordingly I stopped trying to find a way
out of my dilemma and began trying to kill enemy warriors
instead.

   My sword had grown blunt and ragged with use, so I threw it
away and drew the Goth war ax from my belt. I swung it a few
times around my head to get the heft of it and then charged
straight for the first foeman I saw: a huge, fair-haired barbarian
with short hanks of wheat-colored braids jutting from beneath
his iron war cap. He met my assault with a practiced feint and
rounded on me with his spear.

   I clipped the spear shaft with the edge of the ax, sending
splinters flying. He swung his heavy wooden shield at me, trying
to knock me off balance and open me up for a jab in the chest or
side. At first I met the pressure, resisting with all my strength.
Then, as he bore down harder and harder still, I yielded and
jumped back. He fell forward, and I swung the ax, nicking him
behind the knee as he passed.

   Unbalanced, the brute growled and swung his spear at me -a
clumsy blow, which I countered easily and caught him a
glancing blow on the arm. He roared with pain, spun, and swung
at me again. I ducked under the blow, came around his shield,
and chopped into his side. The ax blade struck one of the many
iron rings sewn onto his leather tunic, driving them into the
wound.

   He shouted and sprang back. Before he could raise the spear,
I charged again, throwing both shield and ax into his face. His
arm flew up, and the ax blade caught him just below the wrist,
severing the cords of his muscles. He cried out in fury as the
spear shaft spun from his grasp.

   I raised the ax again, but my wounded adversary stumbled
backward, fleeing the assault. So, replacing the ax in my belt, I
picked up his spear instead and, well warmed to the fight, fell
upon my next opponent.

   Oh, I fought with sublime abandon. The next foemen to
encounter me received a surprise when, out from behind the
cover of my shield, jutted a long-bladed barbarian spear. I sliced
one in the groin, and the other I pierced through the gut;
another risked his life on a foolhardy throw of his ax, which
bounced off my shield boss. I laid open his leg below the knee
and, as he turned to run, thrust the blade deep into his back.

   So it was I soon found myself looking at a space of open
ground. Across from where I stood, nestled in a protecting
bulwark formed by the massive trunks of two fallen trees, battled
the last remnant of Legio Valeria Victrix, staunch beneath the
much-battered golden boar. I put my head down and ran to join
them.

   Halfway across the gap a rider swooped into my path. His
sword glimmered through the air, slicing toward my head. I
tried to dodge. My feet slipped in the churned-up muck and flew
out from under me.

   The horse wheeled and reared. I squirmed in the mud,
struggling to rise. My shield and spear, heavy and unwieldy in
the mire, suddenly became awkward impediments to be cast off.
Releasing my hold on the shield, I rolled away just as the horse’s
hooves came down.

   I scrambled to pick up my spear but slipped again. The rider
loosed a cry of triumph and raised the long blade above his head
to dispense the killing stroke. Looking up into his eyes, a word
came to my lips. “Dachnaruhna!” I shouted, using the briamon
as Datho had taught me.

    Now, I do not know if it worked or if, in my alarm, I even said
it properly. But the word struck my attacker with the force of a
command. A bewildered expression came into his eyes. The
blade faltered slightly in his hand. I lunged for his mount’s
bridle. My fingers snagged the leather strap, and I pulled with all
my might.

   The horse’s head came down. Its forelegs slipped on the soggy
ground, and it stumbled, pitching the rider headlong over its
neck. He landed in the mud on top of his shield. I heard the bone
in his arm crunch as he fell. He groaned and tried to rise, the
weight of the shield hanging from his broken arm.

   I took a quick step and kicked him in the side of the head.
The barbarian rolled onto his back. Springing forward, I
snatched the sword from his hand, spun back to his mount,
seized the reins, and slid into the saddle as the horse climbed
back onto its legs.

   Once in the saddle I rode straight for the legion huddled in its
fortress of fallen timber. I cut down three attackers from behind,
then a fourth who shouted something to me as he turned to meet
the blade that caught him at the base of the neck. I realized then
that mounted-filthy with mud as I was and without a Roman
shield to distinguish me-the Gothi took me for another
barbarian.

   I forced my way through the crush, killing at will. Most of
those I struck down did not even look back to see who it was that
attacked them, and the few who did could not understand why
one of their own should turn against them. With careless ease I
carved through the mass of warriors, opening a path behind me.

  Upon reaching the shield wall, I shouted, “This way! Follow
me!”

   Wheeling the horse, I started back into the crush that was
rapidly filling in behind me. I urged the horse forward, slashing
this way and that with my sword, not caring where I struck.
Weapons, helmets, shield rims, the shafts of spears -all met my
blade, but I hacked away, striking again and again.

   Seeing an opening before them, the legion was not slow to
follow. With a mighty shout they surged into the gap, forcing it
wider, pressing in behind me, and rushing on.

   I reached the outer edge of the encircling ranks and saw the
forest trail leading to the river. I urged my mount forward,
galloped across the gap, and paused at the trailhead to mark the
place while the legion followed as swiftly as they could on foot.

   General Septimus and Vicarius Columella, surrounded by a
bodyguard of soldiers, were among the last to come. “This way to
the river, General,” I said as they hurried past.

  “The vicarius is wounded,” the commander told me. “Take
him with you.”

  Columella made to protest. “I can still fight.”

   “Then fight for us in Rome,” replied Septimus. Turning to me,
he said, “Cross the river and ride for Banna. Have them send
messengers to Agrippina and Novaesium to muster the legions
there. We will push on to the river and cross if we can. They are
to meet us there.”
   He motioned to the legionaries with him, and they lifted the
protesting vicarius and heaved him onto the back of my horse.
“Go with all speed, and do not stop until you have reached
Banna safely.” He looked at me hard. “Do you understand,
soldier?”

  “I understand, General,” I said; clenching my fist, I struck my
chest in salute.

  “Hie!” shouted General Septimus, slapping the flanks of my
horse.

   The animal bounded away. “We will send help!” called the
vicarius, tightening his grip on my waist. I gave my mount his
head and let him run.

                               43

   There were now a great many legionaries fleeing down the
trail, with clots of pursuing Gothi and Huns. Rather than
plowing through the turmoil, I reined off the track and headed
into the forest. I pushed a fair pace through the wood, listening
to the sounds of the battle receding behind us. When I reckoned
we had outrun any pursuit, I slowed somewhat and worked back
to the trail, where I halted.

  “What-why are you stopping?” demanded the vicarius. “Are
we safe now?”

  “Silence!” I hissed.

   The wood was quiet. The tumult reached us as a muffled din,
far off and indistinct. Satisfied that there were no barbarians
lurking anywhere nearby, I urged the horse onto the trail and
dismounted. Regarding the vicarius, I said, “We are safe now,
but we must keep moving. The horse is growing tired, so I will
walk.”

  “Then I will walk, too.”

   I glanced over my charge. He was covered in mud and blood,
as I was, but seemed no worse for his ordeal. “What about your
wound?”

   “It is nothing-a lump on the head. Nothing.” He slid off the
back of the horse and joined me on the trail. He took but two
steps, however, when his eyes rolled up into his head, and he
went down on one knee. I caught him and bore him up.

   “Perhaps we should rest a little,” I suggested. The color had
drained from his face, and he appeared about to swoon.

   Closing his eyes, he shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice
tight in his throat, “the men are waiting. We will go on.”

  “As you say. But I think you should ride.”

  “I think you are right.”

   I helped him back onto the horse. “The river is this way,” I
said, sliding the sword beneath the saddle. Then, handing the
vicarius the reins, I started off at a quick pace.

   We continued for a time in silence, myself on foot, the
vicarius riding slowly beside me. After a while he seemed to
improve. Looking down from the saddle, he said, “What is your
name, Centurion?”

  “I am not a centurion,” I told him.

  “No?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well,” he said, “you are now. Your name?”

  “I am called Succat,” I replied simply.

  “Stand still,” he ordered. I stopped and turned to look up at
him.

   He raised his hand over me. “I, Aulus Columella, by
appointment of Emperor Honorius, Consul and Vicarius of Gaul
and Germania, do herewith promote you, Succat, to the rank of
centurion in the Imperial Army of Rome.”
   I thanked him and resumed walking. He rode up beside me,
asked what my former rank had been and how long I had been in
the army.

  “I had no rank.”

  “But you can ride,” he objected. “You have a horse.”

   “I took the mount from a Goth I unhorsed in battle. Before
that I was on foot like everyone else. I had no rank.”

  “None at all?”

  “I was in one of the numera,” I told him. “I have been in
Germania only a few weeks.”

   “You have done well to save me, Succat. I can do good things
for you.” He smiled expansively. “I am not one to forget a
favor-as you shall see.”

   He made it sound as if saving his life were little more eventful
than rescuing a pup fallen in a well. To me, certainly, it was
nothing more than that. Even so, I thanked him again and
continued walking, content to let the matter rest. But, feeling
better, and heady with his experience of battle, the vicarius
wanted to talk. “Your family will be very proud to hear of your
promotion. No doubt they will hold a banquet in your honor.”

   “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 Trevero-mm. 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 gone 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.

                                44

   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 Trevero-rum 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.”

   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
commander 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 offish. 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.

                               45

   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.

  “Look at them,” I muttered, “the imbeciles.”

  Rums 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, Sue-cat? 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.

   The only light came from an ill-vented fire on the stone hearth
beside the door. At the other end of the low-beamed room was a
board, behind which stood a tall, thin man with a sour face, who
frowned when he saw us. Julian took one look and refused to
stay. “I will not be seen in here,” he said. “I am a priest of the
church, for God’s sake.”

   “Too good for you?” inquired Rufus mildly.

   Julian rolled his eyes and grunted, and I said, “It is a fine
evening. We can sit outside.”

   As Rufus hurried off to bespeak the necessaries, Julian and I
went out to drag together some of the stumps in the yard. We
settled in a corner beside a low stone wall separating the inn
from the lane by which the farmers drove their livestock to
market.

   “I heard about the battle,” Julian said. “They are saying you
are a hero for saving the vicarius. Is that true?”

   “If that is what they are saying,” I replied, “it must be true.”

   “You know me better than that, I hope,” he said with a sniff.
“So tell me, what really happened?”

  “That is what happened,” I allowed, “but I am no hero. I had a
horse when a horse was needed, that’s all.”

   Julian accepted this. “I suppose heroism is little more than
that anyway.”

   “You would know, Julian.”

   “And what do you mean by that?”

  “Pay no attention to Succat,” said Rufus, arriving just then.
He carried a basket of black bread and salt and three leather
cups. Behind him came two rangy hounds and the innkeeper’s
woman bearing two dripping jars in her hands. “He has had a
bee in his boot for the last few days.”

  “I see.” Julian shrugged. “You might have warned me.”

   The woman poured the cups and left us to ourselves. We
drank a little, and the hounds, hoping for morsels, settled close
by to wait for us to notice them. Save for the stench of the
urine-soaked yard, it was a pleasant enough evening-until more
soldiers arrived and wanted to hear from the “sole survivor”
himself about what had happened and how I had escaped alive.

   “I was not the only one to survive,” I told them bluntly.
“Vicarius Col-umella survived, too.”

   “But only because you rode into the battle to rescue him,”
they insisted.

   “The battle was over. We were fleeing for our lives. I had a
horse and gave the vicarius a ride. If that makes me a hero, then
every soldier is a hero who has a horse.”

   They stood and gazed at me, uncertain what to make of what
I had told them. Rufus saw the disappointment forming in a
cloud above their heads. “Forgive my friend,” he said. “He came
fresh from the fight, and we have been on the move ever since.”

   This they understood, and they were happy to ascribe my sour
reticence to the rigors of the road. Generously they hailed me,
poured beer into my cup, and drank my health. They slowly
moved off to another part of the yard then, but others came, and
the discussion began all over again. It went much like the first,
and when the soldiers had gone, Julian said, “Is it going to be
like this all night?”

   “I cannot see why tonight should be different from any other,”
I replied.

   “It is like this wherever he goes,” agreed Rufus. “You cannot
prevent soldiers from talking.”
   “Well, I have better things to do,” Julian said. He drained his
cup and laid it on the ground. One of the hounds began licking
out the little that remained. “I must go. The bishop will be
looking for me.”

  “We might as well go, too,” said Rufus. “We’ll get no peace
here tonight.”

   Leaving the inn, we moved off into the darkened lane toward
the garrison, which lay near the center of the city. “How long will
you stay in Tur-onum?” asked Julian as we arrived at the
bishop’s lodgings.

   “Another day or two at least,” answered Rufus. “Maybe more.
It depends on how long it takes the vicarius to conclude his
affairs.”

   “Ah, yes,” said Julian, “his family is here, I believe. And
then-where will you go?”

   “To Rome,” said Rufus. “The vicarius is making a report of
the massacre to the senate. He hopes to be in the city before
September.”

  “I see.” Julian paused thoughtfully. “Well, let me see you
again before you go.”

   We left him there and returned to the garrison. Next day it
was Julian who came looking for us. “I told the bishop about
your departure for Rome. It is most providential, truly. He
respectfully requests that we be allowed to travel with you.”

   Rufus ran a hand over his close-cropped scalp. “I don’t see
any difficulty myself,” he replied. “But it is not for me to say. It’s
Vicarius Columella’s decision. You will have to ask him.”

   “It shall be done,” said Julian.

   “Why do you want to go to Rome?” I asked.

  “I do not wish to go at all,” Julian informed me, “but Bishop
Cornelius has requested the honor of taking the documents
which have been prepared both here and in Britain to the
patriarch of Rome.” He delivered himself of small sigh.
“Unfortunately, it seems this honor has been granted.” Bidding
us farewell, he turned and strode away, his robes dragging in the
dust behind him.

   We did not see him again until we were preparing to depart
two days later. The horses and wagons were assembled, and we
were waiting in the garrison yard for Vicarius Columella to
appear with his family when Julian, the bishop, and two other
priests arrived, leading their mounts and mules. Rufus
welcomed them and told them where they should ride in the
train.

   Next, a servant of the vicarius appeared to say that Columella
and his family would meet us on the way. “The road passes by
the estate where the family lives,” the servant explained. “They
will be ready by the time you arrive.”

   The day was fine, the sky high and bright and fair. We rode
out in a long double rank, followed by our wagons and pack
animals. Two soldiers rode behind to guard the rear and keep
the mules together. The road from Tur-onum was in good repair,
and we soon left the town behind, moving through fields green
with beans and corn.

   Two miles from the city, we came to another road leading off
to a nearby estate. Here the vicarius waited with his family and
various retainers -a group of nine people altogether, including
his wife, son and daughter, their tutor, a secretary, and three
menial servants. The family and tutor were conveyed in a
covered carriage driven by one of the servants; another drove the
provision wagon, and the third rode one of the pack mules,
leading three others. The secretary was mounted and followed
the carriage.

   Columella hailed us and cantered out to join us on the road.
“Splendid!” he said. “The weather augurs fair for the next
month. We will make good time. I will introduce you to my
family later.” He wheeled his horse to return to his retinue.
“Lead on, my friends. We will fall in behind the soldiers.”
   As the day was good and the vicarius anxious to make as
much of it as he could, it was not until we had stopped for the
night that we met the rest of our fellow travelers.

   The vicarius’ wife was a tall, handsome woman named Helena
Con-stantia. She was part of Rome’s ancient and venerable
aristocracy-a fact that could be seen in her countenance and
bearing. She looked like a larger rendering of the votive statues
dedicated to justice or victory. She was grave without seeming
dour, and she was delighted to see that we had been joined by a
churchman of some distinction.

   Columella’s son was a boy of eight or nine, who suffered from
an acute fascination with the soldiers’ weapons and equipment.
He adopted Rufus as his personal bodyguard and pestered the
long-suffering centurion to allow him to wear his sword, his
dagger, or one of the helmets or some other piece of armor. His
name was Gaius and, whenever set free by his tutor, he made for
Rufus like a whippet on scent. In camp Rufus could not move
without tripping over his diminutive shadow.

   Once Rufus tried to foist him off on me. “You know,” he told
the boy as we sat by the campfire one night, “Succat here was
the one who saved your father, not me. I did not even fight in the
battle. Succat is a real hero.”

  “I know,” replied little Gaius indifferently.

  “You should give Succat some of your attention.”

  “My father said I was not to bother Centurion Magonus
Succat.”

  “So you bother me instead?”

  “I like you,” Gaius confided happily.

  “Cheer up, Rufus,” I said. “He likes you.”

   The boy’s tutor was a prissy old Greek called Pylades. He
dressed in a long gray tunic which he wore unbelted and sported
a long wispy beard that constantly wafted around his chin. He
was given to complaints, which he couched as reminiscences of
travels with his former employer, the Consul of Epirus, such as
“We always had hot water to wash. Know you, the consul would
never allow one day to follow another without a bath.” Or
“Consul Grabbus absolutely refused to eat anything boiled.
Anyone who boiled meat, he often said, committed a crime
comparable to treason.”

    Sometimes these observations, aired for his audience’s
edification, roused the listening soldiers to ire, and they
undertook to educate him in rude Latin; mostly he was roundly
ignored. This treatment did not dissuade him in the least; he
still muttered and spluttered away, but over time we ceased
hearing him at all.

   Besides the servants and secretary-functionaries with few
distinguishing characteristics -the only other member of the
vicarius’ company worthy of mention was his daughter. I did not
see her that first night; complaining of a headache, she
remained in the carriage.

   The next morning, however, a voice disturbed my rest; I
awoke to see a young woman with long brown hair standing over
me. “Are you the one they call Magonus?” she asked, her voice
shrill in my sleep-filled ears. “You don’t look very famous.”

  “Do I look asleep?”

   “Papa says you saved his life, so I suppose I should be nice to
you.” She seemed to consider the various implications of this
course, rejecting them one by one. “But you look like a tiresome
pleb to me.”

  “My name is Succat,” I said.

   “I am Oriana,” she replied, turning away abruptly. “You may
call me Lady Columella.”

  ‘Your mother is Lady Columella,“ I pointed out.

  “Well,” she sniffed, “so am I.”
   This was my first glimpse of Oriana. Like her mother, she was
tall and thin -too thin, it could be said-with a prominent jaw and
a high, smooth forehead. Her eyes were dark and fringed with
thick, dark lashes. At first glance she appeared severe, proud,
and willful-and older than her twenty years; her mouth, however,
was wide and generous like her father’s. If allowed to form
anything but the petulant pout with which she habitually
greeted the world and everything in it, then her features shone
with a light to rival the radiance of the sun. It was,
unfortunately, a secret she guarded close and kept well hidden.

   She made of the carriage her dwelling, emerging only
infrequently. Nevertheless over the next few days I learned a fair
number of her manifold dislikes-most of which clustered around
her keen aversion to travel and its attendant discomforts: The
road was too lumpy, the carriage too cramped and stifling, the
weather too hot or too cold, the sun too bright, the clouds too
dark, the food fit only for making swill for swine. The soldiers
were dull, coarse, and contentious minions. Gaius was a very
plague and Pylades a tiresome bore. Soldiering was the most
tedious and uninteresting occupation ever imagined. The dust
would certainly kill her if the monotony failed to do so… and on
and on.

   “Do you think Gaius is especially intelligent?” she asked me
one evening. The sun had gone down, and the heat of the day
was beginning to abate; this had drawn her from her stuffy
carriage. She strolled around like a queen reviewing her troops
as they made camp. She stopped to watch me preparing the
picket for the horses.

  “Gaius?” I wondered. “You brother seems clever enough to
me.”

  “He is not my brother. He is my cousin.”

  “Indeed?” I turned to observe her; trying to read her
expression so that I might guess what lay behind her question.
“Then your mother must-”

  “Helena is not my mother,” she corrected airily. “My mother
was Lucina; she died when I was six. Helena is my aunt; I call
her ‘mother’ because it pleases me.”

  “Your father married your mother’s sister?”

  “It is a common enough practice among Roman aristocracy,”
Oriana informed me, “which, if you knew anything at all, you
would recognize.”

  “As you say.”

  She frowned with impatience. “Well?”

  “Forgive my lack of prescience, Lady Columella, but what has
any of this to do with young Gaius’ intelligence?”

   She rolled her eyes. “I should have thought that was obvious,”
she replied, strolling off.

   I turned to see Julian watching me. He had the reins of his
mount and another, and he was waiting for me to take them
from him. “She’s a conceited one.” He grinned, holding out the
reins. “High tempered.”

  “Yes?”

  “I brought the bishop’s horse, too.”

    “So I see.” I finished securing the picket line and proceeded to
tie my own mount to it.

  When I made no move to help him, he said, “I thought you
would take care of it for him.”

   “Oh.” I stroked Boreas’ head. “Is that because I took care of it
last night, and the night before that, and the night before that?”

  Perplexity squirmed across Julian’s fleshy features. “Are you
implying something?”

  “Not at all.” I gave Boreas a pat on the neck and walked away.

   Taking the hint, Julian quickly tied the bishop’s mount to the
picket line and hurried after me. “Have I done something to
offend you?”

  “Why would you think that?”

   “You have hardly spoken to me since we left Turonum,” he
said.

   “What is there to say, Julian? You are a busy priest, and I am
a soldier. We each have our duties.”

   He halted and watched me as I walked on. That night, as the
priests and the Columella family sat at one campfire and the
soldiers sat at another, I thought I saw Julian staring at me from
the shadows. I know he felt my displeasure, and I know I should
have been more grateful for all he had done for me.

    In truth I no longer felt anything at all. I rose each day and
went about my chores, I ate and slept and awoke to another day
exactly like the one that went before-all without thinking much
or feeling anything. I was an empty, hollow vessel; my life had
been poured out in the forest. Since the massacre I had been
little more than a ghost, even to myself.

   What of that? It was not as if I had held any great prospects
or ambitions before that day. I was lucky, to be alive. Beyond
that? Nothing. I saw only emptiness stretching before me,
endless and complete.

   The days passed. We moved into southern Gaul, and the
mountains in the distance grew imperceptibly larger day by day.
We passed through scores of nameless hamlets, holdings,
settlements, and market towns; sometimes we were joined by
other travelers-merchants and itinerant traders mostly-who
wished to take advantage of the soldiers to journey with
protection. But the only hardships were heat, dust, and the
occasional thunderstorm that filled the half-dry streams through
the dry uplands of southern Gaul.

   As the road rose to meet the mountains, our journey slowed
and stops became more frequent. I had ample time to observe
my fellow travelers and overhear their conversations. Thus I
eventually learned why Bishop Cornelius was so anxious to reach
Rome before winter: the British heretic, Pelagius, had been
found and was living on an island off the coast of Tus-cia.
Cornelius and his fellow bishops were eager that the
documents-so painstakingly prepared-should be delivered to the
pope while the priest remained within easy reach of the
ecclesiastical authorities.

                                46

   Despite Oriana’s abhorrence of soldiers, on those rare
occasions she ventured from the carriage it was to the soldiers
she was drawn. She watched them at their chores or engaged
them in discussions of questions she had thought up during the
day. All treated her respectfully, of course, since to do otherwise
with the vicarius’ daughter would have brought swift,
long-lasting, and painful retribution.

   “You are not at all like the others,” she informed me one
evening. We had stopped for the night in the middle of a high
mountain pass, and I was filling the horse trough with buckets of
water from a nearby spring while she strolled the hillside above.
The air was clean and crisp, the shadows deepening to blue even
as the sky glowed like burnished copper.

  “They are real soldiers, but I think you are more…” Oriana
paused, biting her lip as her brow wrinkled in thought.

  “More what?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it is less.”

   “That would be me,” I replied. “People often say I am more or
less one thing or another.”

  “Less soldierly,” she decided firmly.

  “You know a lot of soldiers, I suppose.”

  “Enough to know that you are not like any of them.”

   “Perhaps not,” I conceded. “I try, of course, but conformity
often eludes me.”
  “Real soldiers do not speak the way you do. You speak like…”
Again she paused, frowning, and then brightened. “Like.a
magistrate.”

   ‘Your estimation overwhelms me.“

   “You see!” she cried. “You just proved it.”

   “Maybe magistrates talk like soldiers,” I suggested.

   “Oh, no,” she countered knowingly. “They do not. Soldiers are
coarse and vulgar. All the fighting makes them callous and
indifferent. They think of nothing but drinking and gambling.”

   “That’s true.”

   “They are but a short throw from the very barbarians they
fight,” she declared. “It is not their fault.”

   “No?”

   “They have no time for pleasantries,” she continued, pacing
back and forth on the hillside, hands clasped behind her. “And
they possess none of the finer things, for the life of a soldier is
cruel and harsh.”

  “We may not have Greek tutors and carriages,” I allowed,
“but we have a bathhouse.”

   “That is why it is the duty of every noble citizen to offer aid
and comfort to the soldiers who protect us from the brutal
savagery of the wild barbarians.”

   “And the soldiers respect you for it, too. I know I do.”

   “There. You see? A real soldier would not have had the least
idea what I was talking about.”

   “Well, I am not at all certain I understand either.”

   “Oh yes you do,” she proclaimed triumphantly. “You’re more
like a magistrate.” The delight she took in having correctly
defined me was a pleasure to behold. Her long slender body
seemed to tremble from head to toe, and her countenance lit
with a sudden and winsome splendor. “You understand me
perfectly.”

  “That I truly doubt.”

   “You do!” Oriana insisted. She flitted down the hillside and
perched on the edge of the stone trough. “Now, let me see…”
Chin on fist, she narrowed her dark eyes as she studied me.
“Your father was a legate or a procurator or something, and he
was killed in battle leading the militia against the invaders who
attacked your city. You were just a small child but grew up
swearing vengeance against those who killed him. When you
grew old enough to enlist, you joined the legion, and you’ve been
fighting barbarians on the frontier ever since. One day,” she
confided in a low voice, “you will return to your estate to take
control of your lands and raise a family of sons who will also
become great soldiers.”

   I regarded her closely. She had struck nearer the truth than
she could possibly have guessed.

  “Well?” she demanded.

   “You are right, of course,” I answered. “But then you knew
that already.”

  She regarded me skeptically. “Truly?”

  “You are indeed a wonderful soothsayer.”

   “You don’t really think so,” she said, growing petulant. “You
think I’m just a foolish girl.”

  “Well, since you know what I think, is there any reason to
deny it?”

   Instantly angry, she jumped up from the edge of the trough.
“Hmph!” she snorted as she flounced away. “You’re just like all
the others!”

  I watched her go, vastly enjoying the sight and wondering:
How did she know about me? Her speculation was extremely
close to the mark. I pondered this as I resumed filling the trough
- until I remembered that the family often took meals with the
priests. She had probably got most of what she had guessed
about me from Julian.

   This was the first of a lengthy series of sparring matches
between Oriana and myself. Why she picked on me, I cannot say.
Perhaps, as she had suggested, she found me different from the
other soldiers and determined to make of me a pet she might
groom and primp. I found her curiously amusing: charming and
flattering one moment, outraged the next-there was no
possibility of predicting what she might say or do. Pampered
from infancy and indulged by a blindly doting father who
obliged every whim, her life a daily round of privilege, comfort,
and ease-she knew nothing of want, adversity, or distress.
Oriana was a flower raised in a walled garden, protected from
every errant wind, grown to grace the palace of some rich and
powerful Roman aristocrat.

   As the long journey proceeded, the stringent barriers between
the soldier escort and the rest of the traveling party gradually
broke down. I often rode with the vicarius, the bishop, or one of
the priests. With nothing else to do, we talked - often about
nothing in particular. Occasionally, however, something of larger
import surfaced.

   One day I found myself riding behind Bishop Cornelius and
Lady Helena, who had exchanged her place in the carriage for
Julian’s saddle; they were deep into a discussion which I
overheard in snips and snatches-nothing that interested me, but
apparently it exercised them greatly. All at once the bishop
turned in the saddle, saw me, and said, “Look, here is Succat. Let
us see what he thinks.”

  “Very well,” replied Helena, glancing over her shoulder, “ask
him.”

   “Succat,” called the bishop, “come up and join us. I want to
talk to you.”

  I obeyed, reining in beside him. “I am at your service,
Bishop.”

  “The question is this: Do you think it advisable for priests to
marry?”

  “Why ask me?”

  “Your grandfather was a priest.”

  “He was, yes.”

  “So you must have an opinion on the matter.”

  “It is my opinion that if priests were not allowed to marry, I
would not be here. Therefore I am inclined to regard priestly
marriage in a favorable light.”

   “Well said,” replied Helena with a nod. “I have been telling
this puffed-up priest much the same thing myself. It is not for
priests to play God when they know so little about being men.”

   “Puffed-up?‘ ” wondered Cornelius. “I hope you don’t mean
that. I simply put forward the observation that unmarried
priests may devote the greater portion of their earthly allotted
time to the pursuit of higher things.”

   “Come now, dear Cornelius,” protested Helena lightly. “Priests
are mortal men, are they not? Without the abiding presence of a
good woman to help and guide, men quickly descend to the
unfettered indulgence of their baser ambitions.” Her lips curved
in a sweet smile as she delivered her killing stroke. “The only
things I see pursued by priests are wealth and power. I strongly
suspect that the reason for the church’s present aversion to
marriage is so that you priests are free to do as you please
without having to explain yourselves to anyone.”

   Turning to me, she said, “Tell me, Magonus, what sort of
priest was your grandfather?”

   “I honestly have no idea,” I told her. “I remember him as a
stern man much given to clouting people with his stick when
they transgressed.”
  “Good!” She laughed. “I would have liked to have seen that. It
makes a change from the usual sanctimony and simpering.”

  Cornelius grimaced but held his tongue.

   “My grandfather thought his flock weak-willed and largely
unworthy of the honor God had paid them in dying for their
sins. He always said that men loved sinning more than they
loved virtue; otherwise we would have seen the Heavenly
Kingdom established long since.”

  “He sounds like a man who knew a thing or two.”

   “He sounds, my dear friends,” huffed the bishop, “like a true
Pelagian.”

   “Oh, Pelagius again!” scoffed Helena. “You think everyone
who disagrees with you is a Pelagian. Tell me, if you can, what
you find so repugnant about this poor man that you should
persecute him so.”

   “No,” replied Cornelius crisply. “No, I will not be drawn into
that discussion with you. These are weighty matters and not to
be bandied about for the sake of idle amusement.”

   Helena refused to be put off. “You don’t like Pelagius,” she
declared, “because he dares to question the practices of a
priesthood grown too fat and lazy for its own good.”

   The bishop frowned. “Lady Columella,” he said, “one would
almost think you a follower of the noxious monk yourself.”

  “And what if I were?”

   “I would pray for you, of course -that you would soon realize
the error of your ways and renounce his infernal teaching.”

   “It is true I have heard him speak,” confessed Helena. “His
greatest concern was that the high and mighty who came to him
should daily practice the faith they professed in their assemblies,
lest the name of Christ become an emblem of shame and
derision. I found him refreshing-inspiring. A more intelligent
and humble priest I am certain I have never met.”

  “The devil himself has the power to beguile, Lady Columella.”

  “You condemn him, Bishop. Yet you have not elucidated what
you find so offensive in his teaching.”

   “I do condemn him. For a start he advocates preaching the
Gospel of Christ to barbarians-an enterprise fraught with danger
to all concerned. As we know-and as our Holy Father the pope
has decreed-to enlighten barbarians to salvation merely makes
them ripe for damnation.”

  “Indeed, Bishop?” I countered. “How so?”

   “My son, it is obvious, is it not? The barbarian mind is not
sufficiently developed to appreciate, much less understand, the
loftier concepts that faith naturally entails. Lacking the
humanizing influences of civilization, barbarians are
foredoomed to remain savages. Introducing them to a faith they
can neither comprehend nor honor is cruelty itself, for once the
Gospel has been heard, men come under its judgment. The
judgment for all who fall short is eternal damnation.”

  “Suppose they heard and understood,” I said, “repented and
went away rejoicing. What then?”

   “No better,” sniffed the bishop. “They have no cities, no
government, and thus no way of ensuring a dependable
propagation of correct doctrine.” He shook his head gravely.
“Even if it were somehow possible that they might be persuaded
of the truth of the faith, they would soon be floundering in error
of every kind and wholly unable to extricate themselves.”

   “Better they should die in ignorance,” I replied, taking up the
thread of his argument, “than grasp at a salvation they can never
possess.”

   “Precisely!” said the churchman. “Some vessels, as we know,
are made for destruction.”

  “I beg your pardon, Bishop,” I said, “but you know precisely
nothing about the barbarian mind. You have no idea what they
may be capable of comprehending.”

   “I can see where you might hold such beliefs,” he said, taking
on an air of superiority. To Helena he said, “Our friend Succat
spent some time among barbarians. Such close familiarity has
addled his perceptions.”

   “If you mean I know how they think and what they might be
able to understand, I do freely confess it. You will find among
them men as intelligent and discerning as any to be found in the
more civilized nations.”

  “You hold a most passionate view,” remarked Lady Columella.
“How long did you live among the barbarians?”

  “Seven years,” I told her. “I was taken captive in a raid and
made a slave to an Irish king.”

  “Seven years is a long time, Bishop. It would seem our friend
had ample opportunity to observe them in all their ways. Have
you ever lived among barbarians, Bishop Cornelius?”

   “Indeed no. I did, however, serve for many years in the north
of Britain, where barbarians were not unknown.”

  “I see,” replied Helena. “So it would seem that Centurion
Succat’s convictions have a sound basis in experience, while
yours are mere conjecture.”

  “I protest,” the bishop spluttered. “I do think your assessment
harsh and simplistic.”

  “Be that as it may,” continued Lady Columella, blithely
impervious to his objection, “it seems to me that you would do
well to listen to this man and heed him.”

  “I am happy to consider your views, of course, but you must
admit-” began the bishop.

  “Further, from what I have seen, the Christian priests of
Rome are interested in nothing so much as protecting their lofty
and influential position and fomenting nonsensical feuds with
anyone bold enough to oppose them. I think they would be far
better employed preaching the good news to the barbarians.
They might even learn a useful thing or two.”

   “You are entitled to your opinion,” declared the bishop stiffly,
adding, “an opinion shaped by the rebellious Pelagius himself,
no doubt.”

   “You see?” crowed Helena. “I offer a contrary opinion and you
instantly condemn the same as heretical simply because it
differs from your own. That is hardly fair, I must say.” She
turned to smile at me before directing a last blow to the bishop.
“Perhaps you might cultivate some of the tolerance shown by our
dear friend Succat. Of any of us, he alone would have ample
justification and knowledge to judge the barbarians, yet he does
not. I think that indicates an admirable fortitude of character.”

   Her lavish praise embarrassed me. Regardless, I knew I had
made a powerful new ally and friend. From that moment, I
entered an exalted position within that family, one I could never
have foreseen. In the Columellas’ eyes I could do no wrong.

   Thereafter I noticed a distinct improvement in my rank
within the traveling party. The Columellas invited me to join
them at meals, and the vic-arius sought my views on diverse
matters pertaining to the provinces, especially Britain. In short,
my star rose in the heavens of their good opinion.

  By the time we reached Rome, I was almost a member of the
family. Two months later I was.

                                47

   There it is, Succat,“ said Vicarius Columella, indicating the
gleaming bowl of the valley with a wide sweep of his arm. ”The
greatest city in the world.“

   Leaning forward in the saddle, as if to bring the sight that
much closer, I gazed upon the dazzling, sun-drenched sprawl -
the deep, ruddy glow of tile and brick; the sparkling glint of
whitewashed walls; the dull gleam of the Tiber snaking
through… All my life I had heard the word “Roma” -it had
passed my lips a thousand times-but never once had I imagined
that such a simple word could signify anything so staggeringly,
prodigiously, gloriously vast.

  “It is dazzling,” I said. “Truly dazzling.”

  “Mother of Nations,” intoned Bishop Cornelius tartly. “Whore
Queen, Bitch Goddess.”

  “Come now, Bishop,” chided Columella. “Its glory may be
somewhat tarnished, but it is never so terrible as all that.”

    The vicarius pointed to the foremost prominence. “That is
Capitoline Hill, and rising behind it is Palatine Hill; next to that
is the Aventine Hill, with the Caelian just behind.” He shifted his
hand slightly to indicate a broad plateau to the east with three
projections like stubby fingers. “There is the Quirinal, the
Viminal, and the Esquiline. You see? The famed Seven Hills of
Rome.”

   “It is wonderful,” I said, staring intently at the staggering
immensity of the city spreading before me. A silvery haze of
smoke and dust hung over the entire valley, causing the city to
shimmer softly in the hard midday sunlight.

  “Succat,” said Columella, “you are going to enjoy Rome, and I
am going to enjoy showing it to you.”

   He lifted his hand to signal those behind, and we started
down the long, sloping road into the shallow Tiber valley and the
sprawling city itself-so various, so grand, so impossibly opulent
as to make every other place I had ever seen seem like a mud
wallow.

   The city had long ago grown beyond its protecting walls, and
soon we were passing through a district of low houses and
hovels: the dwellings of craftsmen, servants, and day laborers.
Men, women, and children came running when they saw our
company, offering us bundles of ripe figs, olives, and jars of
wine. Vicarius Columella, out of the generosity of his rank,
purchased figs, dried beans, and olives as we rode along,
dispersing coins to the merchants and their ragged children.

   Ignoring the cries of the street vendors, we pushed on through
the clamor to the high, gated walls, joining the steady stream of
carts, barrows, donkeys, mules, and foot traffic pouring through
the Flaminia Gate and into the city. The noise was tremendous
and the sights overwhelming. Everywhere I looked, some new
wonder met my astonished gaze: theaters, palaces, villas, and
houses without number.

   “It is not what it was, of course,” said Lord Columella sadly.
“The Van-dali destroyed whatever they could not carry away.
Much has been restored, but there is a very great deal of
rebuilding to be done even now. One day, however, Rome will
regain her former grandeur.”

  The bishop overheard this and delivered himself of a hearty
snort of derision.

   “Oh, it is easy enough to scoff,” the vicarius continued. “But I
believe that Rome has yet to reach her pinnacle.”

   We rode for what seemed half a day before finally reaching
the wide, rising street which climbed the slope of Palatine Hill,
where the vicarius maintained his city residence: a grand
domus, or town house, not far from the Curia Julia, where the
senate met. The street was lined with princely houses of the
principal families of Rome -all white stone and red tile, with
ironwork at the windows, carved columns, and statuary in the
pediments.

   Domus Columella presented a plain, almost drab, buff-colored
exterior to the street; inside, it was a palace with mosaics in the
vestibule and corridors of dark brown marble, walls painted red
or blue or yellow or decorated with frescoes of country scenes:
grapes ripening on the vine with Mount Aetna looming in the
background, workers harvesting a golden field of grain, oxen
pulling a cart down through an olive grove.

  A rider had gone ahead to warn the household servants, so we
were met at the door with welcome cups of cool, sweet wine and
small parcels of ground meat wrapped in honey-glazed pastry.
After eating a few of these, I was led by a servant to my room in
a remote part of the house. Apart from the size, which was more
than bountiful, the room was remarkably like the one I had
known in my father’s house. The walls were dark blue below and
pale yellow above, and the floor was covered with red-brown tiles
over which were placed rugs of woven wool. The wall across from
the bed was occupied by a single large window that was closed
by sturdy, ironbound shutters. When I opened them, I found
myself looking down into a tidy square courtyard containing a
single tall pine tree in the center, numerous flowering plants in
long stone troughs, and in one corner a large marble box into
which water splashed from the mouth of a white alabaster swan
spreading its wings from a blue-flowered niche above.

  The day was hot, but my room was cool, and I instantly felt
myself at home. I was bom to this, I thought. I belong here.

   Bishop Cornelius and his retinue did not remain with us;
after refreshing themselves, they were conducted to the Church
of St. John Lateran, where they were given lodgings in the
extensive clutch of dwellings surrounding the great basilica. The
soldiers were afforded quarters in the Praetorian garrison. I
would have been happy enough to go with them - I was still a
soldier under command, after all-but the vicarius wished me to
remain with him. “I need you, Succat,” he told me, “and I will
not have you out of my sight.”

   “You are too kind, Vicarius,” I replied. “But it is my duty to
report to the commander of the garrison.”

  “Of course,” he agreed. “Yet since I, as Vicarius of Gaul and
Germania, am your commanding officer, you may consider
yourself under my authority during your stay in Rome.”

   My commander’s rule was light, however, and I was given free
rein to wander about the city as I would-an opportunity I eagerly
grasped. In those first heady days, I walked the streets of Rome
in a continual state of wonder, gazing upon one extravagance of
human endeavor after another: the Forum Romanum and the
Forum Augustum-with their basilicas, markets, shops, stalls,
and magisterial buildings -either of which could have served as
capital city for any nation the world over; temples without
number and monuments to gods whose names I had never heard
before: Temple of Vesta, Temple of Concord, Temple of Saturn,
Temple of Venus Genetrix, Temple of Mars Ultor, Temple of
Caesar, Temple of Claudius, and many another I could not name.

   Everywhere I went, I was met by a continual throng of people
- most of them selling something: roast fowl on skewers, boiled
eggs, cakes freshly baked on a griddle; live ducks, piglets, goats,
puppies; shoes, belts, hats made of straw; bowls, cups, and
plates made of olive wood, pottery, brass, copper; bracelets of
leather, ivory, or silver; tiny bronze votive figures and candles in
the shapes of arms, legs, eyes, heads, or entire human figures.
These last were meant to be offered in the temples for the
healing of particular ailments -a degenerate practice, according
to Grandfather Potitus.

    One day the vicarius took me to see the Colosseum and, near
it, the Baths of Trajan. “There are no games just now,” he
explained as we strolled in the cool shadow of the enormous
curving wall, “and the last gladiator display was over twenty
years ago-although, if you are lucky, we might be able to see a
wild animal combat while you are here. We could go to one if
you like.”

  I thanked him but declined, saying I had seen enough of
combat to last me the rest of my life.

  He accepted this genially and asked, “Do you feel the same
way about baths?”

  “Indeed I do not. My father considered a good bath the very
apex of civilization, and I agree.”

   “Splendid! Then follow me, and I will show you the best bath
in the entire world.”

   For a nominal fee -a few small coins-we were treated to a
most luxuriant and refreshing afternoon in the extraordinary
baths constructed in honor of Emperor Trajan. The intricately
connected domes, halls, and basilicas were covered floor to
ceiling with so many murals that I could not take them in. There
were shops and exercise halls, spectator galleries where men
could relax and discuss business or the events of the day, and
rooms where bathers could receive the ministrations of Greek
slaves trained in the art of massage. In addition to the usual cold
and hot pools, there were plunge pools, swimming pools, and
numerous fountains with dolphin-riding nymphs sculpted in
gold.

   Mosaics adorned every floor and quavered beneath the
surface of the enormous swimming pool, too. There was even a
library where patrons could select books to read while they
rested or refreshed themselves in one of the dining rooms.

   “The senate will meet in three weeks’ time,” Columella told
me as we basked in the warm water of the caldarium. “We must
prepare what we will say to them.”

   “My Lord Vicarius - ”

   “Aulus-always, please -for the man who saved my life.”

  “I will be more than happy to tell the senate
anything-whatever you desire, tell me, and I will say it.”

   ‘Your reply is most gratifying,“ he answered, then paused for
a long moment to ponder. ”First, I think I would have you speak
of your life in Britain before the raid in which you lost your
parents, then the raid itself, of course, and your time as a slave
in Hibernia.“

   “Very well,” I agreed, “if you believe that it will help.”

   “Oh, it will. It will,” he assured me. “Once you have pricked
the senators’ interest, then I would like you to tell of the battle.”
He fell silent, considering how to proceed. “Yes,” he said at last.
“I would have you tell them what it was like to fight as a soldier
on that dire day-what it is like to stand on the line with sword in
hand as shrieking barbarians thunder down upon you, to fight
and kill, to see friends and comrades slaughtered by your side,
and to escape with your life. I would have them hear from the
lips of a soldier what unnecessary distress their perpetual
vacillation and miserly ways have brought to our fighting men.”
  “Then that is what they will hear,” I told him.

   Lady Columella decided that I should take meals at the family
table; my initial reluctance melted before her insistence. She
also saw to it that my clothes were appropriate for the higher
society in which I found myself. Indeed she seemed determined
that my sojourn in Rome should be as a member of the ruling
aristocracy. She took me under her wing to polish my
long-corroded speech and manners so that I might blend more
easily among the refined Roman populace. “It is very
important,” she told me, “not to be thought a rustic from the
provinces.”

  “I am a rustic from the provinces,” I pointed out.

   “Of course, but you need not publish the fact in word and
deed to everyone you meet. Let them find out after they have
had a chance to meet you and assess your character and
abilities.”

   To please her I undertook my tutelage in all seriousness-with
the result that very soon I not only looked like a genuine Roman,
but I could act like one, too. I moved more easily among the
city’s elite, and my confidence soared accordingly. This in turn
produced a curious change in Oriana. She grew less flighty and
capricious and, so it seemed, more charitable in her opinion of
me.

   She often sought me out either just before or immediately
after the evening meal. We would talk, and she would ask my
opinions of inconsequential things: whether I preferred a town
house or a villa, what was the best time of the year, the way my
father governed our estate, how my mother-used to make bread,
whether I considered soldiering a noble profession… and many
other such topics. Trivial they might have been, but Oriana took
them seriously and listened carefully to all I said-though of
course she argued with most of it on principle.

  “What possible difference can it make to you how my mother
made bread?”

  Oriana shrugged. “None at all. I only want to know.”
   “Why? Are you going to make bread for me?”

   “Would that be so terrible?”

  I paused, sensing a change in her voice. “Well, I can think of
worse things, perhaps.”

   “You think me a poor cook?” she challenged.

   “Lady, I have no opinion whatever on the matter,” I declared.

   “No?” She regarded me from under arched brows.

   “How could I? You know I have never eaten anything you
prepared. Anyway, why is it so important what I think?”

   She made no reply.

   “Well?”

  “I know,” she said brightly. “I shall prepare a meal for you,
and then you can judge.”

  “If you like,” I allowed cautiously. “But I still do not see why it
matters even the smallest scrap what I think about y- ”

   “Tomorrow evening,” she decided. “I will make Numidian
chicken.”

   “If it pleases you to make it,” I acquiesced, “I will eat it.”

   The next day I did not see Oriana before I left the house on
yet one more excursion into the city. I walked the meandering
streets of the older section below the Palatine Hill, an area of
small dwellings for people of more humble means. Around
midday I found a shady spot under a tree in the extremely
modest Forum of Nerva. There was a small fountain, which no
longer worked, but I whiled away the day watching children
frolic in the dry basin and listening to a boy play a lyre. On my
way back to the house, I strolled through a cuppedinis, or
dainties market, where all sorts of trifles and sweetmeats were
sold. On a whimsy I bought Oriana a length of blue silk ribbon
from an old woman who wove the stuff herself.
   Upon returning to the house, I discovered the place deserted
save for one elderly servant and, in the kitchen, Oriana herself.
She forbade me entrance, pushing me from the room before I
entered, saying, “You’re too early. Go wash yourself and change
your clothes.”

  “And then?”

   “Find someplace to wait. Just go!” she cried, rushing back to
the raised hearth, where a pot was splattering its contents into
the fire, creating a black smoke pall which gathered on the
ceiling.

   I went to my room, poured water into the basin, undressed,
and washed away the dust of the city. Then I put on a fresh
tunic, covering it with a clean white linen pallium. My shoes
were dusty, so I went out into the courtyard to rinse them in the
water splashing from the swan’s head. As I finished tying up the
laces, I heard a light step on the stones and raised my head to
see Oriana coming toward me with a fully laden tray in her
hands.

    Her face was flushed with the heat of the kitchen; there was a
fine mist of sweat on her brow, and her tunic was stained with
oil spatters and splotches of dark sauce, but she smiled
triumphantly as she laid the tray on a low table beneath the pine
tree. “Here,” she said, summoning me, “I thought you might be
thirsty from your day in the city.”

  “Lady, I could drink the Tiber in a gulp.”

   She poured pale yellow liquid into one of the bowls. “This will
quench your thirst,” she said, passing me the bowl, “and taste
better, too.”

  I drank and tasted anise and honey on my tongue. “It is very
good,” I said. “Did you make it?”

   She merely smiled and reached for another of the bowls
instead. “Here are roasted pinenuts,” she said, offering me the
bowl. “And there are olives stuffed with almonds, and rolled
anchovies as well. That should keep you busy for a while.”
  Replacing the bowl, she turned on her heel.

  “Where are you going?” I asked. “Stay. Eat with me.”

  “Dinner is nearly ready,” she called, hurrying away. “I must
change.”

   I settled beside the table and dutifully tasted morsels from
each of the bowls. The anchovies were soft and salty, the olives
firm and dry, and the pinenuts crunchy. Without meaning to, I
had nearly emptied the bowls by the time Oriana returned. Her
hair was brushed and clasped in tiny golden combs, and her
light green linen mantle was spotless. Her long arms and
shoulders were bare, and she wore golden bracelets on her upper
arms and wrists. Her slender waist was bound in a beaded girdle
that glistened like water as she walked.

   “You look beautiful,” I said, offering her a bowl of the anise
drink.

   “Thank you,” she said knowingly. She accepted the bowl and
we drank. For the first time I saw her not as the spoiled, fickle
daughter of the vicar-ius but as Oriana, herself, as she wished to
be.

  “Where is your family?” I asked. “Will they join us?”

    “No,” she said casually. “They have gone to the villa. Tonight
it is just us.”

  The villa, I had learned, was the Columella ancestral home; it
was a farming estate located on the island of Aenaria in the
Tyrrhenian Sea off the coast.

  “I see.”

  An awkward silence descended as I began to grasp the
implications of the situation. It was more than a meal she had in
mind, then. How much more?

  “I hope you are hungry,” Oriana said at last.
  “I am always hungry, as you well know.”

  “The evening will be warm. We could eat here in the
courtyard if you like.” Before I could reply, she jumped up. “I will
have Opidus lay the table out here.”

   This was done, and soon we were reclining on couches before
a low table beneath leafy laurel branches. We began with small
sardines fried in olive oil and salted; these we ate whole. Next
came a clear fish soup with chunks of white fish, tiny whole
clams, shredded carrots, fennel, and other herbs.

   After that it was time for the Numidian chicken. “This was
the favorite of one of the emperors,” she informed me as Opidus
placed the platter on the table. “I cannot remember which
emperor. But everyone likes it.”

   The piquant aroma rising from the heavily sauced fowl
brought the water to my mouth. “I am certain I will like it, too.”

   Taking up a knife, she carved a juicy slice from the roast
chicken and put it on a plate, adding a healthy dollop of mashed
chestnuts along with some white beans boiled with coriander
and buttered. She passed the plate to me, her expression grave
and solemn; I took the plate and set it on the table before me. “It
smells superb,” I told her. Taking a bit of it between thumb and
forefinger, I pulled off a morsel and put it in my mouth, rolling
the succulent flesh on my tongue. “Oh, yes, it is a dish fit for the
emperor himself,” I told her. “But tonight he must weep with
envy into his thin gruel.”

  She laughed, her voice soft and low. “If he were here, you
would not speak with such impudence.”

   “Let him get his own chicken -and his own Numidian to
prepare it.”

   Oriana laughed again, and the sound so delighted me that I
tried to think of something else I might say just to hear it once
more. I poured more wine into the bowls, and we drank.

  The roast chicken was sumptuous in every way, and the other
dishes as fine as any I had ever tasted - overlooking the black
flecks of charred herbs floating in the pungent sauce, which
Oriana had left on the boil too long. Still, in all it was a triumph;
Oriana had every right to be justly proud. I ate everything that
was given me, and more besides.

   After the chicken, Opidus brought new plates containing
bowls of fresh greens smothered in oil and vinegar, into which
the green tops of onions had been chopped very fine. The sharp
vinegar cut the taste of the roast and restored vigor to the
appetite wonderfully well.

   Next came ripe figs boiled in sweet almond milk and doused
in spiced wine. The luscious figs had a creamy texture, and the
wine filled the mouth with the delectable sweetness of a kiss.
Oriana, eager for my approval, watched me, eyes wide and
luminous with anticipation, her breath caught and held between
curved lips. In the soft, rose-colored light of the courtyard, she
took on a warm glow of expectation. I filled my gaze with her
radiant features and wondered what it would be like to dine with
her this way always.

   As daylight dwindled, Opidus brought out several candelabra,
each containing a dozen or more tiny lamps, which he lit,
casting the table and surrounding courtyard in a gently
shimmering glow. With the deepening of the twilight shadows,
the sounds of the busy city faded away and crickets began to
chirp in unseen corners of the courtyard. I poured more wine,
and we ate and drank.and talked, and the warm night gathered
close around.

   “Tell me about Hibernia,” she said.

   “Why do you want to know about Hibernia?”

   “I want to know all about the places you’ve been. So tell me.”

   “What can I tell you that you do not already know? Hibernia
-or Eire, as it is known -is a cold, rocky lump of land surrounded
by a freezing sea on the edge of the world. It rains without
ceasing, and you never see the sun from one day to the next. It is
a dark land full of barbarians so fierce even the wolves fear them.
The women plait their hair with firebrands, and the men paint
themselves blue; they drink rough beer until they are drunk, and
then they throw off their clothes and everyone dances naked
beneath the light of the moon.”

   Oriana arched a smooth eyebrow. “Now you are making fun
of me. I know it is not like that at all -in fact, it is not so different
from the place where you were born. Pylades told me.”

   “Then he lied,” I said bluntly. “Hibernia is nothing like
Britain.”

   She held her head to one side. “Now you are angry.”

   “I’m not angry.”

   “You sound angry.”

  “I am not angry.” I shoved my plate from me. “I find this
constant raking up the past tedious beyond words, that’s all.”

  “Then we will talk of something else.” Her smile was hopeful,
and her eyes pleaded with me not to ruin the splendid evening
we had enjoyed to now.

   I felt chastened, so I relented. “Yes. Let us talk of something
else. Tell me about the villa.”

   Glad for a chance to restore the mood, she told me about the
estate and the island it occupied. “The villa has been in our
family for a very long time,” she confided. “It was built by a
wealthy nobleman in the time of Nero-a dangerous time to be
found with money, I’m told. He was accused of treason, and the
property was confiscated.”

   “Was he executed?”

   “No, he was lucky. Nero died, and the nobleman was released
from prison. He was destitute, so he sold the villa to my
grandfather’s great-great-great-grandfather.” She shrugged.
“We have had it ever since.” She looked at me. “I know you lost
your estate in the barbarian raid. Julian told me.”
   “Julian talks entirely too much.”

   “There is no shame in it,” she said, lowering her head. “Such
things happen. It cannot be helped. I don’t see wh - ”

    Reaching out, I lifted her chin, put my hand to her cheek, and
turned her head toward me. I leaned forward and kissed her.
Oriana’s response was quick and ardent. She seized my head
between her hands and grasped me tight, as if she feared I might
flee.

   Emboldened, I put my arm around her shoulders and drew
her close. She came willingly to my embrace, and we shared a
long, searching kiss. Instantly the image of Sionan arose in my
mind; it was she who had first kissed me like that, and I could
not help but think of her now. I pushed the thought firmly away.
It was Oriana, not Sionan, before me, and it had been a long
time since I had been with anyone so loving and beautiful. All
my pent-up yearning flowed into that moment. Oriana took it all
and returned it with undiminished force.

  When we broke off to catch our breath, I rose from the couch
and stood. “Oriana, forgive me,” I said, my heart in my throat.

  She looked up at me with wide, dark eyes and shook her head
gently. “No,” she whispered, patting the place beside her.

   As much as I wanted her just then, all I could think of was
what Vicarius Columella would say. “I am sorry.” I made a
clumsy excuse, thanked her for the meal, and retreated to my
room.

   It was there she found me a short time later. “Lady-” I began
as she slipped in, closing the door softly behind her. “I cannot. I
am a guest in your father’s house.”

   “It is my house, too,” she said. Although her gaze was direct, I
thought I could sense a slight hesitation in her manner-as if,
having come this far, she did not trust herself to go any further.
Or perhaps now that she was here, she was just a little
frightened of what was to come.
   I think if I had sent her away, she would have gone. No doubt
that is what I should have done. Oh, but sending her away was
the last thing either of us wanted just then.

  So I rose and, taking her hand, drew her close. We stood for a
moment, gazing at one another, savoring the delicious thrill of
anticipation. Then, placing my hands on her hips, I pulled her
body to me. I felt the heat of her flesh through the thin stuff of
her dress. I kissed her again.

   The large window was open, allowing a little light from the
night sky to spill into the room. She unclasped the brooch at her
shoulder, then reached around behind her back and untied the
laces of her girdle, unwinding it carefully, before tossing it lightly
aside. Her mantle slid down over her waist and hips to the floor.
The sight of her long, elegant legs stepping from the ring of
crumpled cloth at her feet took my breath away.

  She moved to embrace me, but I put out a hand. “Wait,” I
whispered. “Let me look at you.”

   I let my gaze fall slowly down the long, supple length of her
body, from the column of her graceful throat over her ripe,
luscious breasts and down along the shallow, sloping curves of
her waist and hips, taking in the gently rounded mound of her
stomach and the tapering fullness of her thighs.

  Slender she was, true, with little enough flesh to cover her
bones. Oh, but that flesh possessed a potent charm nonetheless,
and I felt myself quicken at the sight.

   In the dim light she seemed a creature carved of the same fine
white alabaster as the swan in the garden -until she shivered.
“I’m cold,” she said, her voice trembling. Her eyes glistened; her
lips quivered. “I’m not sure I know what to do.”

   “Then come to bed,” I said. “I’ll show you.”

  I gathered her into my arms and drew her down into the
sweet, warm darkness.

                                 48
   Oriana and I made love that night and every night from then
on, and often in the day, too. Any reluctance I might have felt in
ravishing the vicarius’ virginal daughter melted away in the
white heat of our combined passion. There was no stopping us.
At first awkward and uncertain, she quickly became an
accomplished and enthusiastic lover, and her ardor awakened in
me a genuine desire so long dormant I thought it had deserted
me forever. There was much I loved about Oriana, but I did not
love her-at least not the same way I had loved Sionan. Still, I did
like her, and I would have crossed a lake of fire to avoid hurting
her. I imagined that, in time, I could grow to love her with
something of the same intensity I had once held for Sionan.

   “My family returns the day after tomorrow,” she sighed one
afternoon. We were sitting together in the courtyard, drinking
cool lemon water from the same cup. Despite the warmth of the
day, Oriana had curled herself onto the couch and wrapped me
around her. “What shall we do then?”

  “Well,” I said absently, “I suppose we shall just have to get
married.”

  She turned around so fast that I spilled most of the drink
down the front of her mantle. “Do you mean it?”

  I thought for a moment. “Yes,” I decided at last. “Why not?”

  “Do not tease me, Succat. Did you mean what you said just
now?”

  “Every word.”

   In truth it was not so much that I was eager to marry her but
rather that I had no other prospects whatsoever. I suppose I had
grown accustomed to the Columellas and thought to keep myself
within the circle of their influence by whatever means possible.
Marriage seemed as good a tool as any.

  “My love!” She kissed me full and hard.

   “Anyway,” I suggested, “if I did not, your father would likely
gut me and parade my worthless skin through the streets of
Rome.”

   “You would marry me just to save your skin?”

   “Of course,” I confessed. To be sure, I did not relish the idea
of returning to the murderous forests of Germania. “I have
grown fond of this hide of mine. Almost,” I added, “as fond as I
am of yours.”

    “Well, it is a handsome skin after all,” she conceded, drawing
her fingertips lightly over my chest. “It would be a shame to see
it bruised. I suppose I could marry you.”

   “Thank you,” I said.

   We kissed again, and she sighed, “Oh, Succat, just think. We
shall have the grandest, most dazzling wedding you have ever
seen.”

  “That would not be difficult,” I said, “as I have never been to a
Roman wedding-or any other wedding, come to that.”

   Even as I spoke these words, a strange sensation of dread
flooded my soul. The face of Sionan floated into my mind, she
whom I had used and forsaken - much as I was using Oriana to
get what I wanted now. I thrust the image angrily aside. That
was my old life, I told myself, a different life. That life was over. I
was not the same man.

  “What is wrong, my love?” asked Oriana, sensing the sudden
change in my mood. “You look so disgusted.”

   “Do I?” I forced a smile. “If I do, it is only because I did not
think to ask you properly.”

   “Then ask me now.”

  I took her hand. “Oriana, dearest heart of my heart, will you
marry me?”

   “Am I really your dearest heart?”

   “There is no one else.” Again, even as I spoke, my thoughts
turned to Sionan, changing the words in my mouth to a lie.

   “Then, yes, my love, I will marry you.”

  Oriana spent the rest of the day planning how she would tell
her parents. I left her humming to herself with delight as she
concocted her scheme, and I went to the garrison to search out
Rufus.

   Although lacking any formal duties, he had not been entirely
idle during his stay. To my surprise-and mild embarrassment-he
had found Scipio. I had intended to search out our old friend
first thing on my arrival in the city. But that, like so much else, I
had let slip away.

   “Good,” Rufus said when he saw me. I was sitting in the
guardroom, where I had been told to wait while one of the
Praetorian servants went to bring him. “I found Scipio -did
Julian tell you?”

   “I have not seen Julian since we passed the gates on our way
into Rome.”

   He shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I am meeting Scipio
tonight at a tavern in the city. You’re to come, too. We are all
going to be there.”

   “The four of us together again,” I remarked, wondering how
that would be. “It will seem like old times.”

   That evening I met Rufus outside the garrison gate, and we
went along to the tavern, a place much frequented by Praetorian
officers and ambitious young functionaries -men, as Rufus said,
to whom a nodding acquaintance with the upper ranks of the
imperial guard could be useful. The place was small and
low-roofed like a cow bier, yet clean and well maintained. The
owner served good wine for a tidy price, Rufus told me, and
cooked chops of pork, lamb, and whole spitted fowls over iron
braziers in the stone-paved courtyard.

  Julian and Scipio were already there waiting for us. Julian
had taken a table in a dim corner of one of the smaller rooms,
where we could talk more easily. I saw Julian at once and then
looked for Scipio, recognizing him at last as the balding, stooped
fellow sitting opposite in a toga.

  “Rufus! Succat!” cried Julian, waving us over as we came in.
“Come. Sit. The wine is on its way.”

  “Scipio, is it you?” I said, standing over him.

   “By God’s holy name,” said Scipio, jumping to his feet. “Is
that Succat? I never would have known you.”

   We embraced somewhat awkwardly, patting one another on
the back. He was shorter than I remembered and thick around
the middle where the beginning of a paunch was starting to
spread beneath his fresh, white garment. “God’s teeth, man, it is
good to see you! Look at you now! Rufus says you are a
centurion. I always knew you’d make a good soldier. Didn’t I
often say it?”

   Of course he had never said anything of the kind. “It is one of
the few genuine talents I possess,” he continued, tapping his
nose knowingly. “I can tell a man’s character simply by looking
at him.” He winked. “Why, I would - not be at all surprised to see
you a tribune one day-and you as well, Rufus, yes, you as well. I
am certain of it.”

   Every inch the smooth Roman official, a small, well-greased
cog in the machinery of imperial government, Scipio smiled with
oily false sincerity and talked nonsense to flatter his listeners.

  “A very prophet,” I told him.

  “It is, as you can imagine, a great asset in the senate.”

   The tavern keeper arrived just then and placed two jars and a
stack of cups on the table. He paused to exchange a few words
with Scipio, who, I gathered, was a regular patron of the
establishment.

   “Come, pour the wine,” cried Julian impatiently, “before we
die of thirst!”
    “Good old Succat,” Scipio chuckled, shaking his head in
merry disbelief. “Yours is a face I never thought to see again.” He
took my arm and pulled me to the bench. “Well, now that we’re
all here, we can begin properly.” He splashed wine into the cups
and handed them around.

   Rufus stood and lofted his drink, saying, “I raise a cup to
friendship. May we never grow too old to remember the green
years of our youth.”

   Julian made a wry face. “Rufus the poet. Sit down, you
sentimental sop.”

   “To friends!” Scipio and I replied, and we drank a long
draught.

   “What do you think of Rome?” asked Scipio when we had
drained the first cup.

  “It is magnificent,” I replied.

  “If you like gaudy spectacle and the continual reek of garlic,”
muttered Julian, tilting the contents of his cup down his throat.

    “Yes, I suppose it does give an impression of magnificence at
first,” allowed Scipio indifferently. He turned to Rufus. ‘You have
seen something of the world, my friend. What do you think?“

   Rufus had never been to Rome either, but he shrugged,
affected to be unimpressed with anything he saw, and declared
himself bored with its vaunted attractions. “You find them
tedious?” I challenged. “How is that possible? Have you seen
Trajan’s Column? It is over a hundred feet tall! How can you call
that tedious?”

  “Rufus is right,” observed Julian. “One column is very like
another.”

  “And we have no end of columns here,” put in Scipio. ‘You
cannot move without bumping into one triumphal something or
another.“
   ‘You all feign indifference,“ I said, ”but you are just as
delighted by this marvel of a city as I am.“

   “Marvel of a city?” hooted Julian. “You can have it, then, and
with my blessing. It is crowded, noisy, stinking, and hot. More
sewer than city, if you ask me.”

    “An expensive sewer,” added Scipio. “Since the last invasion
the city has become a pit for the empire’s refuse. I am moving to
Constantinople as soon as I find a buyer for my house. Trouble
is, all the best Romans are selling up, too; it drives the property
prices down. If I’m not careful, I’ll realize only a fraction of what
the place is worth.”

    I could not believe the way they talked; their world-weariness
made me feel stupid for enjoying the splendors of the
still-splendid city. I drank from my cup and said no more. A
prickly silence settled over us.

   “This reminds me of the last time we were together,” observed
Scipio. “It was at the Old Black Wolf, asl recall. I wonder
whatever became of the place.”

   “A blacksmith owns it. He keeps a forge there now,” I said.

   “Does he indeed?” wondered Scipio, shaking his head as if
such a thing were unimaginable. “Well, much has changed.”

   His bland observation angered me. “It was also the night of
the Great Raid,” I replied sharply. “We were at the Old Wolf, and
the soldiers told us to go home. By the time we got back,
Bannavem was in flames. Over a thousand of our kinsmen
disappeared on that night, and hundreds more were killed.
Estates were burned and whole towns destroyed.” I paused,
gazing at him with disgust. “Yes, you could say much has
changed since that night.”

  Rufus sat looking into his cup, his expression vacant; he said
nothing.

  “Are you going to drag up all that again?” said Julian. “That
was a long time ago. It is over. Finished. For your own good, let
it go.”

   “Finished? Ha!” I slammed down my cup. “I wore a slave
collar for seven years, and I carry the weight of it always.”

   Julian regarded me icily as he set his cup on the table. “You
hold us somehow to blame for your misfortune?” A smirk slid
across his fat face as he appealed to the others. “No doubt
Succat’s captivity has confused his memory somewhat. We
cannot be held to blame for what happened that night.”

   Rufus and Scipio looked on, mute, uneasy.

   “I do hold you to blame,” I answered tersely. “Now that you
say it, I do blame you.”

   “How, in the name of Christ, do you imagine we are to
blame?” wondered Scipio, adopting an air of shocked innocence.
“It was an unlucky accident. It could have happened to anyone.”

  “We were friends,” I said, the heat of anger rising to my face.
“We were friends - all of us together-and you abandoned me.”

   “We did not abandon you,” Julian asserted blandly. “You rode
off all in a lather on a fool’s errand.” He regarded me with barely
concealed scorn. “Did you really expect anyone to follow you?”

   Scipio, uneasy with the acrimony swirling around him, raised
his hands in a gesture of appeasement and uttered a thin laugh.
“We would have followed you, of course -if we had known.”

  “No,” Rufus said, breaking his stony silence, “we would not
have joined him. We were boys. We were frightened. We had our
own lives to think about.” Hunched over the cup between his
hands, he regarded me from under his brows. “I am sorry,
Succat, but that is how it is. Nothing we can say will change it
now.”

   His blunt confession did little to salve the raw, aching wound
of their betrayal.

   “How could we know what would happen?” asked Scipio.
“Anyway, it was all a long time ago. Forgive and forget, I say.”

   “Forgive? Gladly, if you ask it. Forget? Never!” I spat, tasting
bitter bile on my tongue as a long-denied rage surged through
me. “Seven years I spent as a slave in Ireland. Seven years!”

   “Life goes on,” offered Scipio blithely.

  “Not for me. I remember it as if it were yesterday, and I will
bear the scars forever.”

   “We all have our hardships,” Julian snarled, his voice an ugly
sneer. “It is over and done and best forgotten. You haven’t done
so badly for yourself.”

   “Easy for you to say, Julian,” countered Rufus, tossing back
the dregs. “Your father made a fair bit out of Succat’s estate. I
don’t suppose you offered him anything from the sale, did you?”

   I stared in shocked amazement. “What did you say?”

  “Didn’t you know?” said Rufus, pouring more wine into his
cup. “Julian didn’t tell you?”

   “He told me nothing.” I said, staring at Julian, who sat with
averted eyes, gazing off into the room.

   “After Calpurnius died, Julian’s father had your estate
confiscated for nonpayment of taxes. He packed your mother off
to a small house in Lycanum and sold off everything. Since he
was magistrate, the greater part of the proceeds went into his
own pocket.”

   I turned to Julian. “You thieving bastard! I could kill you for
that!”

   Julian put out a hand to me. “It wasn’t like that, Succat,
believe me. Your mother was sick. She couldn’t manage the
estate anymore. She needed help…”

   “You lying filth,” I snarled.

   “ ‘Forget the past, Succat, look to the future. A man can find
himself in Gaul, Succat.’ Little wonder you were so anxious for
me to leave Britain.”

   “The circumstances at the time - ” blustered Julian, trying to
defend himself. “You have to remember how it was-”

  I had heard enough. I stood and turned from the table. “The
devil take you, my friends. The devil take you all!”

  Striding from the room, I heard Scipio call after me, but I did
not turn. I never wanted to see any of them again.

   It was dark, and the streets were all but deserted, so I walked
awhile, thinking about what had happened. Try as I might, I
could not make myself feel sorry for anything I had said. In fact,
I kept thinking of things I might have added to make them truly
feel the lash of my rage.

   After a time I found myself in a street where prostitutes
prowled for drunken carousers - a wretched, dark, unsavory
place that more than matched my mood. However, as I listened
to their moans and sighs and deceitful pledges of love, I decided
I had a better place to go and something better to do. I returned
to Domus Columella, where Oriana was waiting.

   The anger and frustration, so long suppressed, surfaced in our
lovemak-ing that night. Oriana took it all, absorbed it,
transmuted it, and returned it as tenderness, solace, and
warmth. Her willingness to spend herself in this way both awed
and shamed me. If I did not love her before, that single, selfless
act turned my heart. Our true marriage began in that moment.

   Afterward she lay in my arms and I stroked her hair. “I hope,”
she said, her voice quivering from the violence of our exertion,
“whatever demons you brought to bed with you have been
banished.”

   “They are gone, my love,” I told her, thinking of my false
friends. “We will never see them again.”

                                49
   Lady columella could not abide the thought of her daughter
marrying a soldier. Her refusal sent a tearful Oriana running to
her father, who came storming into my room. “My daughter says
she wishes to marry you. Is this true?”

  “It is.”

  “You’re a soldier!”

  “I am that.”

   He turned his back to me and stalked to the other end of the
room, turned, and came back. “How dare you!” He thrust an
accusing finger into my face. “I take you in, feed you, clothe you,
treat you like my own son…” He faltered, lost for words. “And
this is how you repay my kindness! You seduce my only
daughter!”

  Of all the things I might have said just then, none seemed
particularly apt, so I kept my mouth shut.

  “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 Beams.”

   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 perpetrators-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,
esteemed 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.”

   “Vicarius Columella, you put words in my mouth. I think our
esteemed peers will agree that I suggest no such thing.”

   “You do, Senator. You most certainly do suggest it when you
imply that the cause of this disaster can be found in some source
other than our own culpability.” He turned to address those
looking on. “Noble Senators, I do agree with our esteemed friend
in this: There is a simple solution to our present difficulty-to
vote an immediate increase in the military allowance to be used
for the recruitment and training of the northern legions.
Needless to say, those garrisons are all that stand between the
barbarians and Rome.” ‘

  “Hear him!” shouted a senator from the back bench. “Hear
him!” Others quickly took up the chant.

  Senator Graccus rose to his feet. Holding up his hands, he
waited until order reclaimed the curia. “I want to thank Vicarius
Columella for bringing this matter to our attention. Woeful
though it undoubtedly is, our duty is clear. As guardians of the
public safety, we must move to vote that the treasury release the
necessary funds to restore the northern garrisons to full fighting
strength.”

    This view was instantly ratified by shouts of acclaim, as one
senator after another leaped to his feet to add his voice to the
call for a vote. Vicarius Columella moved to where I was
standing and whispered, “We have carried the day. Your reward
is secure.”

  “I did not do it for a reward,” I replied.

   “I know.” He gripped my shoulder. “That makes the
settlement all the more satisfying.”

   The discussion over the funding for the legions lasted three
days. I did not attend the other sessions, and I was content. To
have to listen to the senators wrangling over the price of soldiers’
lives-for that is what it amounted to-was not to my liking. I
would have done it for the sake of Quintus and my friends if it
would have helped, but the vicarius did not think it necessary.
He came home on the evening of the third day singing to
himself. “We have done it!” he crowed loudly. “We have won a
mighty victory. The senate has approved the disbursement and
has drawn up a petition to present to the emperor. All that
remains is for the emperor to give his assent, and the money will
begin flowing.”

  “That is good to hear.”

  “And you, my friend, have secured your place in the senate.”

  “I’m to be a senator?”

   “Eventually,” he said. “All in good time. There is much to be
done first, of course. The proper groundwork must be laid. I will
introduce you to those who can advance your career. We will
start there.”
  “After the wedding,” put in Oriana, entering the room with
her mother just then.

  “There is plenty of time for all that later,” intoned Lady
Columella, “as your father well knows.”

  “What did I say? Of course after the wedding, my dear,” he
added quickly. “I was just saying that we have entered the race
and the prize is within sight.”

  “Senator Succat,” said Oriana airily. “I like the sound of that.”

   She stepped close to kiss me, but her father pulled her from
my grasp, saying, “Now, there is plenty of time for that later as
well. Come,” he said, taking each woman by the arm and leading
them away, “we are all invited to dine with Senator Graccus
tonight at his villa. We will celebrate the glorious victory we have
won today and discuss Succat’s future.”

                              Part IV
                             Patrcius
                                50

   Oriana and I were married according to the traditions of
Roman aristocracy. On the day of the wedding, I rose in the
house where we would live; I washed, ate a small meal of bread
and wine, and dressed in new clothes-a white tunic, belt of fine
red cloth, and a pallium of light gray. I was aided in these
preparations by Columella’s son, Gaius, who helpfully neglected
to do anything I asked of him and refused to wash or comb his
hair until I threatened heaving him bodily over the wall into the
kennel of the house down the street.

   We then made our way to the bride’s family residence, where
the wedding ceremonies would take place. Ordinarily I would
have been accompanied by crowds of friends and well-wishers,
but of these I had none, so I made do with moody little Gaius
and two musicians-a piper and a lute player-hired for the
occasion.

  Upon our arrival I was seized by the hands and conducted
through the house to the courtyard by four of Oriana’s female
friends, who then stood around me to prevent my escape. The
courtyard was decorated with garlands of pink and yellow
flowers; a long table bearing wine and sweetmeats stood in one
corner, and around this was gathered a small crowd of wedding
guests, none of whom I recognized. “Am I allowed to have some
wine?” I asked one of my winsome guards.

  “Shh,” came the reply. “Later.”

  “What are we doing?” I asked.

  “Waiting for the bride.”

    We waited for a considerable time, as it happened. And then,
all at once, there came a trill of trumpets from somewhere inside
the house, and Ori-ana appeared between the columns on the
courtyard steps. She was dazzling. Dressed in a long tunic of
white, with a jeweled girdle around her slender waist, she
glittered in the sunlight. On her shoulder was folded the
saffron-colored palla, and affixed to a jeweled crown she wore
the flam-meum, or traditional orange veil, which covered her
face.

   She seemed a very goddess, descended into our midst from on
high. The courtyard fell silent as she stood and gazed upon the
gathering she favored with her presence. The trumpets sounded
again, and Vicarius and Lady Columella appeared, followed by
more guests and relatives, and everyone swept down the steps
and into the courtyard.

   While the guests took their places around us, two of Oriana’s
maids ran to greet her and brought her to stand beside me. One
of them took Oriana’s hand and placed it in mine, whereupon
the venerable, elderly Archbishop of Rome shuffled out from the
crowd; attended by two younger priests- one to carry a cross on
a pole, the other to carry his crosier-he smiled and nodded and
offered up a small speech in formal Latin. He called upon all
present, and God above, to witness the marriage and then
blessed the union with a lengthy prayer which ended with the
solemn reminder that marriage was meant chiefly for the
procreation of children.
   And that was that. Senator Graccus approached bearing a
parchment scroll which both Oriana and I signed; it was a legal
contract stating our intent to form a lasting union. This
concluded the formal rites, and then the celebration began:
music, dancing, and a prodigious feast. The vicarius had
arranged for roving teams of musicians to play and three lambs
and a whole pig to be roasted in the hall. Oriana and I spent the
rest of the day wandering among the guests receiving their good
wishes and small gifts of food and coins with which to begin our
household.

   The celebration lasted long into the night, but as soon as the
sun went down, we departed the bride’s home and led a
procession down the street to our own modest, unassuming
house at the foot of Palatine Hill, within hailing distance of her
parents’ palatial residence. A young boy held Oriana’s left hand,
another her right, and, going before her, Gaius carried a torch
that had been lit from her mother’s hearth. At the door of our
dwelling, the procession stopped. Gaius turned and lofted the
torch into the crowd; it was caught by a friend of Oriana’s, who
thus obtained the promise of a long life.

    Meanwhile Oriana took tufts of combed wool and placed
them over the door; she then smeared a little olive oil and lamb
fat on each doorpost. This ritual completed, all that remained
was for me to carry her across the threshold and into the house,
where she placed her hand on the hearth and on the water basin.
I set her on her feet then, and the procession swarmed into the
house and carried her into the bedchamber. I waited outside
while Oriana was prepared for bed by her female friends. When
all was ready, the door opened, and I was pushed inside.

   “Now what?” I asked as the last of her departing friends
closed the door.

  “What do you think?” said Oriana, wrapping her arms around
me.

  I thought for a moment. “With everyone out there?”

  She kissed me on the mouth. “Does it matter?” Oriana
whispered, her breath hot on my neck.
  “Well…”

   She kissed me again. “If you’re too timid…” she said, taking a
small vial of blood she had got from the kitchen before leaving
the feast. She emptied the vial on a corner of the clean, new
bedcovering, rubbed it in a little, gave the covering to me, and
pushed me toward the door, saying, “Here, wave it outside.”

   This I did, to a tremendous shout of raucous acclaim mixed
with hooting, whistles, and catcalls. The musicians began
playing again, and everyone sang as the procession returned to
the feast, leaving the exhausted wedding couple alone at last.

  Thus began our life together.

    The first two years I worked hard at earning my senatorial
seat. It was, I knew, my best-no doubt my only-chance to make a
life for myself and now, of course, Oriana. Armed with Vicarius
Columella’s generous recommendation, I entered the swarming
ranks of ambitious young noblemen anxious for a prestigious
appointment. Thanks to Senator Graccus -a word here and
there, dropped into the appropriate ear-I sped to the top of the
heap; within a year I gained my quaestorship and proceeded on
my way to becoming a praetor, the first rungs on the long
ladder.

   The wily senator wangled me a position on the directorate
which was overseeing the restoration of those parts of Rome that
had suffered the worst of the Vandal destruction. Even after five
years there were still ruins to be demolished and rubble to be
removed; architects to cajole, flatter, and threaten; building
plans to be approved; and continual site inspections to be made.
Builders were notorious for using inferior substitutes in place of
the more expensive materials specified. They also hired fewer
laborers than appeared on their salary rolls.

   The directorate was employed to keep the building work
running smoothly, with as few setbacks, delays, and bribes as
possible. Under the tutelage of a seasoned official, a curator,
charged with the task of making certain that all the various costs
were kept to a minimum and that the money designated arrived
at its proper destination, I roamed the precinct inspecting the
various sites and keeping a tight rein on the builders. I enjoyed
the work, and my duties were far from demanding; I had plenty
of time to cultivate a deeper acquaintance with the great city
and its life. I also had time to spend at home developing a more
intimate appreciation of the complex delights of Oriana. She
was a perplexing array of contradictions - bewildering,
mystifying, baffling, paradoxical, and astonishing by turns.

   Ardent and passionate one moment, Oriana could be coolly
indifferent the next; expressing both zeal and lethargy in the
space of a single sentence; content and happy as we sat down to
eat, then seething with frustration and disappointment by
meal’s end. I rarely knew where or when the next outburst of
either joy, sorrow, rage, or exuberance would erupt, or what
would set it off. Life with Oriana was exhilarating and never less
than surprising. The gods are fickle and inconstant, the poets
say, but Oriana could have taught even flighty Venus herself a
lesson or two in caprice and whimsy. “You shivered, my love,” I’d
say. “Are you cold? Shall I get you a palla?”

  “Cold? Why should I be cold? It is a very oven in this house.”

   “Then let us go out into the courtyard and cool off,” I would
suggest in all pleasance.

  Out we’d go and no more than sit down on the stone bench
when up Oriana would leap. “Now, look,” she would complain,
rubbing her bare arms, “I’ve caught a chill. Let’s go in, and you
make a nice fire in the hearth.”

   One day, a few months after we had settled into our home, I
discovered the reason for Oriana’s chimerical behavior. I was at
Domus Columella, talking to her mother, who had asked me how
we were getting on with the task of finding a suitable cook and
housekeeper. “Not well at all,” I confessed. “The servants we
attract are either too old and decrepit, or too haughty, or they do
not speak enough Latin to make themselves understood.”

  Lady Columella smiled knowingly. “They are always like that.
But keep looking-you will find someone.”

  “It would be easier, I suppose, if we could ever agree.”
   “On what you wanted in a servant? That should be obvious.”

   “On anything at all,” I told her. “If I say the sky is blue,
Oriana says pink. If I say the soup is hot, she says far too cold.
Black is white, and day is night. And if I so much as mention her
contrary attitude, she dissolves in a heap of tears and vows never
to speak to me again so long as she lives.”

   Helena pursed her lips and regarded me curiously. “Is she
better in the morning? No stomach trouble?”

   “A little,” I allowed. “But it is only because she has developed
a taste for green figs soaked in vinegar. I told her she would
make herself sick on such a dish, but she eats them anyway and
pays the price next day.”

   “I see,” she said, nodding to herself. “Well, I will go and see
her today.”

   “She would be cross to learn I confided in you,” I said quickly.

  “A mother has a right to visit her daughter, no?” She smiled
and patted me on the arm. “I will be discreet.”

   I went about my business for the day and arrived home in the
evening to find Oriana up to her elbows in flour, humming to
herself as she kneaded a heap of dough on the board. Seeing that
she was in a receptive mood, I went to her and embraced her
from behind. “Oh,” she said brightly, “it’s you.” She let her
weight sag against me, and I stood for a moment holding her
with my arms around her waist, feeling her splendid warmth
seep into me.

   “Expecting someone else?” I kissed her neck.

   “There have been people in and out all day.”

   “People?”

   “Two servants-both formidable crones and neither one
suitable in the least-then my mother and her midwife, and the
man selling lemons and pomegranates - ”
   “What was that?”

   “A little man selling pomegranates. You know, the one who - ”

  “Not him, the one before that. Your mother… and her
midwife?”

   “Yes. They came to see me.”

   “Why would your mother and her midwife wish to see you?”

   Oriana turned in my arms. Taking my face between her
sticky, flour-covered hands, she said, “Because when someone is
going to have a baby, it is best to engage the services of a good
midwife as soon as possible. And my mother’s midwife is the
best in Rome.”

  “Your mother’s midwife,” I repeated as the truth broke on my
dull head. “You mean your midwife.”

   “Yes, I suppose so.”

   “Oriana, you are going to have a baby!”

   “I am,” she said. “I mean, I think so. Probably.”

  I threw my arms around her and pulled her close. “My dear,
sweet, beautiful girl. I love you.” I kissed her and then held her at
arm’s length. “This is tremendous!” I cried. “Does your father
know?”

   “Not unless mother has told him. She promised not to.”

  “We must tell him.” I took her hands and pulled her with me.
“Come! We will go at once and give him the news.”

  Oriana held back. “Could it be our secret for a little while?
Just for a few days-until I’m certain.”

  “Well,” I replied, feeling the excitement leak away, “if that is
what you want. But why not tell everyone?”

   “We will,” she said. “Soon. But not now.”
   The moment the vicarius found out, he became a fountain of
largesse. He brought presents for Oriana and the child and gave
gifts of money-little stacks of coins he left lying around without
telling anyone-and took it upon himself to engage a servant for
us. Within a few days a tidy, competent, quiet, unassuming
Greek woman of tiny stature and limited speech appeared in our
doorway. Her name was Agatha, and she instantly folded herself
into the rough fabric of our lives and smoothed it effortlessly.
She knew that Oriana was with child without being told, and she
determined to make the months before the birth as easy for
Oriana as possible.

   There followed the happiest time I could recall since leaving
Ireland. Thanks to Vicarius Columella, my life had taken a turn I
could never have imagined. I found myself looking forward to the
birth of our first child with almost feverish anticipation. “I am
going to have a son,” I told everyone who would listen. “He will
be called Potitus, after my grandfather.”

  “No, my sweet,” Oriana would correct, “he will be called
Quintillus, after my grandfather.”

  “Have you forgotten, light of my life, you promised I could
name him? And I think Potitus a fine name.”

    “I made no such promise, my dear confused man. If you were
not so selfish and forgetful, you would know this. Quintillus it
is.”

   “I might sooner have forgotten my own name, my pumpkin.
He shall be Potitus Quintillus then, and that is that. I have
spoken.”

   In the end we need not have argued. The babe was born in
due course: as plump and healthy a baby girl as ever drew
breath to wail. And wail she did: every waking moment, it
seemed to me. To all appearances she had inherited her mother’s
quick, uncompromising temper, but I loved her for it. The first
time I held her, a pang of longing pierced my heart, and I wished
my mother were alive to see her wonderful, beautiful
granddaughter. “Concessa,” I murmured.
  “What did you say, my love?” asked Oriana.

  “It was my mother’s name -Concessa Lavinia,” I replied.

  “A fine name,” she agreed sleepily. “Let her be Concessa
Helena.”

   “Concessa Helena Oriana,” I amended, placing the infant on
her mother’s breast. “Grow into those names, little one, and let
the world beware.”

   During the first month or so, Agatha and Helena contrived to
keep the house, allowing Oriana and myself to get what rest we
could and spend any spare moments with the child. We grew
close, and I reveled in creating for my daughter the kind of home
my parents had created for me. I wondered what they would
have thought of their Succat now-so far away from stormy
Britain, living in Rome with a wife and child, a house on
Palatine Hill, and, one day, a seat in the senate? I wished they
could have seen me.

   Duty called the vicarius away to Gaul once more, and this
time he left his family behind. Helena remained in Rome to help
her daughter with the baby and oversee young Gaius’ education,
which apparently had reached a critical stage. On the day Aulus
departed, I went to see him off.

   As he prepared to step onto the mounting block, I embraced
him as I would my own father. “Thank you, my lord,” I said.
“You have given me a new life, and I owe you more than I can
repay.”

   “Not at all.” He shook his head, smiling. “If not for you, my
son, I would have perished in the German forest. I do but repay
in part the debt I owe.” He took my arms in a soldier’s grip.
“Take care of your family, Succat,” he said softly. “Whatever
happens, look first to their welfare and safety.”

  “On my life, lord.”

   He turned, stepped up onto the block, and swung into the
saddle. “I hope to return in the spring,” he said, taking the reins
from the hand of the groom. “If all goes well with the recruiting,
we will soon have a real army on the frontier again. And then we
can sleep peacefully in Rome.”

   We made our farewells, and he rode from the courtyard to
take his place at the head of the cohort waiting for him in the
street. I followed and saw him raise his hand before he passed
out of sight down the hill.

  I returned to my directorate duties with renewed zeal.
Senator Graccus noticed my resolve and began talking about
advancing me another rung to a praetorship. “How old are you?”

  I thought for a moment. “Twenty-six,” I calculated.

   “A little young, to be sure,” he told me, “but it is not unknown
-especially these days. You have shown yourself diligent and
conscientious. I would be surprised if anyone in the senate
objected.”

  “What if they did object?”

   “I would hoot them down, my boy. I would send them running
for cover with their ears on fire.” He chuckled. “Oh, I would like
that. It has been a long time since we had a good brawl in the
senate. Leave it with me; I will let you know when the time is
right.”

   I thanked him and, as I turned to go, asked, “Forgive me for
asking, Senator Graccus, but why are you doing all this for me?”

   He cocked his head to one side as if he could not understand
the question. “For you?” he said, looking away. “My boy, I am
doing it for me.”

  “I do not believe you, Senator.”

   He turned to face me, his jowls arranged in a solemn frown.
“Then let us say I am doing it for a soldier who marched off to
Germania and never returned. I had hoped one day to help him
as I now help you.”
  “This soldier was someone close to you.”

  “Yes,” Senator Graccus agreed, his voice falling quiet. “He
was my son.”

  “Then I hope I can live up to his memory.”

  A pensive smile passed his lips as he said, “You already have.”

   Upon leaving the senator, I proceeded to one of the nearby
building sites to meet the curatores publicorum, one of the
many officials who was to make an inspection of the work to
date. I was meant to be familiarizing myself with the site plan
and schedule, but all I could think about was how, in such a
short space of time, so many people had come to depend on me.
I resolved to acquit myself in a way that was worthy of their
trust. No matter what it cost, I vowed, I would repay their
confidence a thousand times over.

   The curatores was less than impressed with his tour of the
site, but he found nothing seriously amiss and promised to
attach his seal to the pertinent documents. Later that evening,
as I walked home through the still-busy streets, I encountered
two funeral processions before reaching my front door. The
candlelit cortege of the second, attended by pipers playing a
dirge and mourners wailing as the black-veiled widow shuffled
woodenly behind the shrouded body cast me into a melancholy
mood. It took all of little Concessa’s bright antics to draw me
from my gloomy thoughts.

   The next day I saw three more funeral processions and
wondered if it was more than mere coincidence. I determined
next day to seek the cause. By then it was already too late. The
invader had breached the walls.

                                51

   Early the next morning a knock came on my door. I answered
to find a boy with a stick on which was bound a small
parchment scroll. “Quaestor Magonus?” he asked, extending the
stick. “For you.”
  “What is it?” called Oriana from inside.

  “I am summoned to the senate at once,” I answered, glancing
quickly at the parchment.

  “Oh,” she said. “Why?”

  “I cannot say.” I turned to ask the boy, but he was already
gone, taking the scroll with him.

   Snatching a bit of seed cake, I hurried off, arriving at the
forum with a great number of city officials-various magisters
and curatores who had likewise been summoned. Within
moments of our entering, the reason was made dreadfully clear.
“Citizens of Rome,” began an elderly senator, “plague is upon
us.”

   This blunt announcement caused a furor that took a few
moments to die down so the senator could be understood. My
own heart fell to my feet like a leaden weight. “We have called
you here,” continued the senator, “at the emperor’s request to
discuss how best to combat the pestilence and keep it from
spreading further.”

   To this there were cries of “Vacate the city!” and “Get
everyone out!”

   The elderly senator held up his hands. “Please! Calm
yourselves,” he said. “Panic is also a potent enemy here.” He said
that he had seen plague before and knew how it bred and moved
through a city population. “In the last outbreak,” he warned,
“more citizens died from the fires used to contain the pestilence
than were killed by the disease itself.”

   In the simple, decisive speech of authority, he described how
the disaster had begun with a rumor to the effect that burning
the clothes and bedding of those known to have the plague would
keep it from spreading. Frightened and desperate, people had
begun setting fire to the belongings of victims, torching the
contaminated goods in the streets. Sparks set the roofs of nearby
houses on fire, and the wind did the rest. “The fires spread
through the city more quickly than did the disease,” the old
senator explained. “The flames raced out of control. Whole
sections of the city burned, killing hundreds who might
otherwise have been spared. This must not happen again.”

   That much was easily agreed; far more difficult, however, was
to know what should be done to fight not only the plague but the
panic even now mounting throughout the city. The issue was
debated well into the day; in the end the assembly adjourned
without reaching a final agreement. The simple truth was that
no one knew what to do.

   “The Vandals were deadly,” muttered a disgruntled curatore
as we left the Curia, “and them we knew how to fight.”

   The next day riots broke out in three markets when a.
frightened baker, watching his stocks disappear at an alarming
rate, suddenly doubled the price of bread. This caused other
merchants to raise their prices, too, and their customers, fearing
a shortage, began buying up all they could carry. When the
bread ran out, they bought grain, and when the day’s supplies
were exhausted, the mob stormed the granaries. There was
fighting in the streets by this time, and bystanders were
trampled. The Praetorian Guard was called in to quell the riot,
and when the dust had cleared, fourteen people were dead and
more than thirty injured.

   Plague moved through the city like a stealthy and determined
marauder. Within days the fever had spread through the lower
city and the reeking slums across the Tiber where the poor
sheltered in their hovels of sticks and mud. A few days after that,
there was not a house in Rome that was safe from the reach of
plague.

   I spent the next days working with the curatore-a bald,
energetic man named Marius-trying to prevent worried citizens
from burning the houses of the afflicted -more easily said than
done, for the moment we turned our backs, the flames were
kindled. We obtained bread from the imperial bakery and took it
to the various quarters, exchanging loaves for promises not to
set anything on fire. We secured the services of four cohorts of
soldiers to patrol the narrow streets, keeping the way clear and
transport moving. We labored from early morning to well past
dark to bring a measure of calm to the areas along the river
hardest hit by the disease.

    The third night, as I walked home, I heard an eerie sound
rising from the lowlands along the riverside. At first I thought
someone was playing music, soft and sad. I paused a moment to
listen and realized that it was not musicians I heard playing-it
was an ululation: the voices of the grief-stricken lifted in lament.
There must have been hundreds of them wailing, crying, pouring
out their sorrow into the night. The sound snaked along the
streets, echoing in the empty colonnades and doorways, drifting
like a funereal haze over the city.

    Sometime during the night someone torched an abandoned
wagon bearing a load of corpses covered in straw. The flames
spread unchecked, and by morning the smoke was so thick in
the streets it looked as though an un-seasonal fog had claimed
the city. I bade Oriana and Agatha not to go out, not to answer
the door, and not to let anyone into the house. Then I went to see
if anything could be done.

   The streets were full of people rushing here and there, most
with rags tied over nose and mouth to keep the bitter smoke and
foul air from their lungs. Everywhere could be heard the sound
of rushing feet, like the patter of a steady rain on the cobbled
streets. Occasionally a scream or shout would overtake the
curious rustling sound, but for the most part it remained quiet.

   Peering through the haze up ahead, I saw two men bending
over the body of a third. He had fallen, I thought, and they were
trying to help him to his feet. “Is your friend sick?” I asked as I
came up. The two had not heard my approach. They leapt aside.
I caught a glimpse of teeth and eyes as they fled. “Here, friend,” I
said to the man on the ground, “are you sick?”

   When he made no reply, I nudged him with the toe of my
shoe. His limbs were stiff and unmoving. I had disturbed a
couple of thieves in the act of robbing a corpse. I straightened
quickly, looked around, and, not knowing what else to do, moved
on.

  I saw five more bodies in the street before reaching the Via
Sacra, the principal street running through the heart of the city.
The road was jammed with people, many of whom pushed
handcarts heaped with belongings; others carried bundles on
their backs or on their heads. The same could be seen in every
quarter: people hurrying along the lanes and pathways, making
for the wider streets and roads leading to the outer gates -men
bustling their families along, women carrying children, the old
leading the young. Those who could were leaving the city while
they still had strength and life to do so.

   I reached the square where the curatore maintained a small
office and waited for Marius to arrive. From the doorstep I
watched the streams of people build to a river, then a flood.
After a time the curatore arrived, harried and disheveled. We
had exchanged but two words, however, when a runner
appeared to summon us to the Curia; the senate was meeting
again in special session to decide what to advise the people of
Rome.

   As we joined the session, it was being explained how the
senate, despairing of the situation and fearing the worst, sought
guidance from the emperor. A message had been sent to
Honorius in Ravenna; unfortunately, the reply had not yet come
back. So, after announcing various possible strategies, the
senators lapsed into protracted disagreement: Some called for
immediate evacuation of the city, others wanted teams of men
organized into a militia of firefighters, and still others thought
that special sacrifices might be offered to the gods, who might
yet turn the plague away. Needless to say, after half a day’s
argument the council was no nearer to a unified resolution. The
curatore saw which way the wind was blowing and decided to
save himself-and me -an aching head by leaving the meeting
early.

  We pushed through the crowd of onlookers at the door and
out across the teeming forum. “What do you think we should do
now?”

  He stopped and turned to me. “Pray to whatever gods will
hear you. There is nothing else.”

  “There must be something we can do.”
   “If you have anywhere to go,” Marius said, “then go. Flee the
city as fast as you can.” He hurried on, then flung this last over
his shoulder: “Do not look for me tomorrow. I am leaving
tonight.”

   I returned home to find Oriana sitting alone with her head in
her hands.

  “Oriana?” I said, kneeling down beside her. “Are you well?”

  “It is nothing. Just a headache.”

  “Where is Agatha?”

   “With the baby.” She turned her face to me; her eyes were red
from crying. “Mother is sick.”

  “Have you called the physician?”

   She nodded. “He has seen her.” She looked at me, and her
features dissolved once more in tears. “He was here a little while
ago. He said there is no hope.”

   “But she was fine yesterday. He must be mistaken,” I said
firmly. “I will go see her.” She caught my hand as I turned away.

   “No,” Oriana said, “she has forbidden anyone to come near
her.”

  “You stay here. I won’t be gone long.”

   “Succat, no! For the sake of the baby,” she pleaded. “Mother
said we are not to come up to the house.”

   I hesitated, then decided. “We cannot let her lie in that house
alone. She needs help.”

   “The servants will take care of her. They will do what they
can.”

  “Very well, I will go and speak to the servants at least.”

  “And you’ll come right back?”
  “As soon as I’ve seen that everything’s in order.”

   I hurried up the hill and arrived at Domus Columella to find
the courtyard dark and the gate standing open. I entered and
called for the porter. When he did not appear, I approached the
house. I called for the housekeeper, and when no one answered, I
moved to the door. It was closed but not locked; I lifted the latch
and went in. The house was dark and quiet.

    “Helena?” I called, and then I announced myself. There was
no answer, so I called again more loudly as I moved through the
silent house.

  A weak voice came from her bedroom. “Succat, is that you?”

  “It is.”

   “Go away,” she said angrily. “I do not want anyone here-least
of all you or Oriana.”

   I went into the room. A single candle burned in a holder on
the table. I took up the candle and went to the bed where Lady
Columella was lying, soaked in sweat and shivering. “Go away,
Succat. Leave me.”

  “Where are the servants?”

  “I sent them away.”

  “And Gaius?”

  “With Pylades. They have gone to the country.”

   “But-” I stared at her, as at a stranger. Her eyes were hard,
bright cinders sunk deep into their sockets, and her flesh was
pale yellow and waxy. She had drenched the bedclothes where
she lay. “You must have someone to care for you. I will go and -”

   “Succat!” she said, struggling up in bed. “Leave me. Think of
your wife and child.” Exhausted by this feeble outburst, she
slumped back. “There is nothing anyone can do. Go away and let
me die in peace.”
   “I will bring you some water to ease your thirst,” I said, going
to fetch a jar and cup. When I returned, I thought her already
dead; she lay without movement, her breath scarcely lifting her
chest.

  “Helena?” I said, setting the cup on the table beside the bed.
Her eyes flickered open. “Drink a little, and then I will go.”

   She shook her head, the slightest of movements. “Leave the
city,” she whispered. “Take my daughter and grandchild and go
to the villa. You will be safe there.”

  “Rest now. I will find the physician and bring him to tend
you.”

   “Go!” she screamed, starting up suddenly. “Promise me you
will go to the villa.”

  “I will go… I promise.”

  She fell back once more. “God bless you, my son. Take care of
Oriana and the little one.”

  “On my life.”

   “Good… good.” She offered me a weary, pain-twisted smile.
“Farewell, Succat.”

   I left the house, closing the door behind me. I had no key to
secure the gate, so I ran to the garrison to commandeer the
services of two soldiers to stand guard on the house lest thieves
take it into their heads to plunder the vicarius’ palace in the
absence of any servants. The physician was not at his home, so I
left word for him to look in on Helena as soon as he returned. I
then hurried home, where Agatha, having put an extremely
distraught Oriana to bed, was preparing my supper.

   “That can wait,” I told her. “I want you to pack some things
for Concessa and Oriana. We are leaving the city tonight.”

   Then I went in to Oriana. She lay in the dark, sobbing softly
to herself. “Is she… ?”
   “Not yet,” I said, “but soon. She made me promise to take you
to the villa. I told Agatha to pack some things for you and the
baby. We will leave when I come back.”

   She nodded.

  “The curatore is leaving the city tonight. He told me to do the
same. We will be safe on the island.” I stood and stepped to the
door. “I must go out again.”

  Oriana, worried, rose and followed me out. “No, stay with
me.”

   “I am going to your father’s stables to prepare a carriage. Bolt
the door after me and don’t let anyone in.”

   Pausing to light a lamp from the kitchen fire, I went out
again. The smoke was thicker now, driven on a low, gusting
wind. Hot ash and sparks rained out of the air, singeing my hair
and clothing as I ran along. Away to the north and east, the sky
held an angry orange glow. I passed a group of looters
ransacking a house; they were throwing furniture and utensils
out into the street from an upper window. The guard was
nowhere to be seen, and I did not care to risk my life over a few
pots and chairs and a stick of silver or two, so I ran on.

   The soldiers I had left at the gate of the vicarius’ palace were
at their posts. I told them why I had come and asked, “Do you
have families here?”

   “Yes, Quaestor,” replied the older of the two. “A wife and
child.”

   “Then go home to them,” I told him. “Gather a few things and
flee the city. By tomorrow only the thieves and dying will remain
behind. Go now.”

   As he ran off, I turned to the other one. “What is your name,
soldier?”

   “Titus, my lord.”
   “Where is your family, Titus?”

   “They live in Lucania,” he said.

   “Guard the gate while I am inside, and when I am finished,
you will come with me. As soon as we are away from the city, you
can go home to Lucania.”

   He looked at me. “What will I tell the centurion?”

  “He placed you under my command,” I replied. “And I
command you to go home and stay there until this plague has
run its course. The army will need you then.”

   He gave me a salute and resumed his place by the door.
Holding the lamp, I made my way across the courtyard to the
low stable where the vic-arius kept several of the horses he used
while in the city. He had taken two with him but, as I thought,
had left two behind-and they were glad to see me. They were
hungry and thirsty, so I watered and fed them and left them to
their food while I readied the carnage. It was only a small city
carriage - large enough for two but with a small board behind
the rear axle which might be used to carry a few things. I filled
two jars with water and tied them to the backboard, then led
one of the horses to the traces, strapped him in, and tied the
other to the rear of the carriage, which I then led into the
courtyard.

   I paused to look once more at the house. It was dark and
silent as I had left it earlier. I did not know whether Helena lived
yet or had succumbed, but I knew I would never see her again.

   Together Titus and I led the carriage down the hill. I told him
to guard the horses while I went inside to get the others. Agatha
was ready with a bundle of provisions for us and for the child.
“Get some cloth to cover your faces,” I told her.

   Oriana was sitting in our bedroom holding little Concessa,
who was sleeping peacefully in her arms. “I’ve brought a
carriage,” I said. “Come, we’re leaving.”

   She nodded, rose, and followed me from the room. Agatha
was waiting by the door with a handful of cloth strips. I took
these from her, put them in a basin, and poured water over
them. “Tie them over your nose and mouth,” I instructed, “then
Oriana and the child likewise.”

   Taking one piece of cloth for myself and one for the soldier, I
led the women out into the yard. The smoke filled the air like a
sour fog; the sky glowed with a filthy, lurid glow. I helped Oriana
into the carriage and then turned for Agatha -only to find that
she had gone back inside. I ran to fetch her back, saying, “Come,
we are all going together.”

  “I stay here,” she said.

  “No,” I told her firmly. “You must come with us.”

  Agatha shook her head furiously. “I stay here,” she insisted.
“Chase robbers away.”

   “I need you,” I told her. “Oriana needs you to help her with
the baby.” I held out my hand. “Come. It is time to go.” She
hesitated, but I took her hand in mine, led her out to the
carriage, and lifted her bodily into it.

   I hurried to where Titus was waiting. “Draw your sword and
give me your spear. You lead the carriage, and I will guard the
rear.”

  “Which gate?”

  I paused. “Via Appia,” I decided. “Make for the Porta
Capena.”

   Putting his hand to the bridle, Titus started off. The street
was empty, and the sound of the iron-rimmed wheels on the
stone-paved streets echoed back from the houses and courtyards
we passed. We soon entered a district of humbler dwellings;
there was more activity here: people flitting furtively from house
to house, some carrying torches, others darting from one
doorway to the next. Some of these were thieves, I was certain,
but they could have whatever they could find to steal -much it
would profit them when the fever laid them low.
   We made good speed through the city and came in sight of
the Circus Maximus. The street made a sharp bend and, upon
turning the corner, Titus halted. Just ahead of him stood a gang
of ruffians with clubs and torches. I hung back in the shadows
and heard Titus call out. “We want no trouble here,” he shouted
firmly. “Stand aside and let us pass.”

                                52

   “You can pass,” growled the leader of the gang. “But you have
to pay the toll.” Holding a torch above his head, he advanced
slowly. “Those horses will do for a start. And then you can show
us what you’ve got in the carriage.”

  “Stay back,” said Titus. “This is your last warning.”

   Moving in quickly behind the horse, I stepped to the rear of
the carriage, keeping the vehicle between myself and the thugs.
“Oriana!” I whispered. “Remain in the carriage and stay down.
Whatever happens, stay down.”

  The chief thug laughed. “Keep your warning. We’ll take the
horses.”

   I crouched low, knelt, and untied the horse. Then, taking up
the reins, I sprang onto his back and rode out from behind the
carriage. “This soldier is under my command,” I said, taking my
place beside Titus. “Stand aside” -I lowered the spear-“or die.”

   The chief thug glared at me. “So you say,” he growled, hefting
his club. “I say you are dead men.” Turning to his band of
rogues, he called, “There are only two of them. Spread out, all of
you. Get in behind and give them the sharp end of your blades!”

   As the gang moved warily, fanning out around us, I said to
Titus, “When the leader goes down, the rest will scatter. I will
take him now. Protect my back.”

   He nodded to show he understood, whereupon I cried, “Hie!
Up!” and slashed the reins across my mount’s flanks. The horse
leapt forward. I drove right for the bandit chieftain, leveling my
spear as I came. A few running strides carried me to him; he
flung the torch at me and dived to the side.

   It was a clumsy move, easily anticipated, and I swerved the
horse into him even as he raised the club to strike. I saw his
mouth open in a curse as he tumbled backward. Before he could
gain his feet, I wheeled my mount and came at him again. He
scrambled to avoid the horse’s hooves. I dipped the spear and
gave him a sharp poke in the meaty part of his shoulder. I could
have killed him without any trouble at all but thought that a
painful flesh wound would suffice.

    The blade slashed through his tunic and into his skin; the
force sent him sprawling facedown in the street. I stopped the
horse and stood over him, placing the spear point in the small of
his back as he lay bawling and writhing on the ground. Half the
gang, seeing how easily I had defeated their strongman, turned
and legged it down the street. “Give up,” I told him, “and I might
let you live.”

   He went limp. “Now, then, tell your fellow thieves to back off.”
He made no move to follow my instruction, so I gave him a sharp
nip between the shoulder blades. “Now! While you still have
breath to do so.”

   He raised his head. “Get back! All of you get back!” he
screamed. “He’ll kill me.” The thieves, glad to remove themselves
from any confrontation with my spear, edged away.

   Turning to Titus, I said, “Walk on. I will meet you at the
gate.”

   When the carriage had gone, the bandit chief, somehow
imagining he had gained the upper hand, craned his neck
around and sneered, “You won’t walk away from here. Your
soldier friend is gone. We have you surrounded. As soon as your
back is turned, I’ll have you.”

   “I thought you might come to that,” I told him. “That is why
you are going to accompany me to the gate.” I prodded him with
the spear. “Get up and turn around.” He rose slowly and put his
back to me. I kept the spear point between shoulder blades.
“Now, pick up the torch and start moving,” I ordered, “and if I
see so much as the glimmer of a knife blade behind us, I will run
you through without a second thought.”

  He lurched forward, shouting, “Stay back! All of you stay
back!”

    “Hurry!” I said, jabbing him again. “I’ve wasted enough time
on you already.” We moved off together-he at a lumbering trot, I
on horseback right behind. We rejoined the carriage just before
it reached the gate, which was open to allow the unimpeded flow
of citizens from the city.

   I sent Titus and the carriage through the portal and then said
to my hostage, “Get out of my sight!” He stood there blinking,
unable to believe that I would not kill him the moment his back
was turned. “Go on. Move!” I shouted.

   He shuffled backward a couple steps, then, judging he was out
of my reach, turned and fled into the darkened street. I watched
him go, then rode to where the others were waiting for me on
the road. Oriana gave a cry of relief as I rode up. I comforted her
and saw that little Concessa slept on, blissfully unaware of the
commotion swirling around her.

  “You let him go,” said Titus. “I would have gutted him.”

   “He is not worth blunting the edge of your blade,” I replied.
“Anyway, I did him no favor. If the plague does not catch him,
the Praetorians will. Either way he is as good as dead.”

  With that we joined the desperate flight from the city.

    The road was wide and good, but the procession was far from
orderly; it juddered along slowly, like a wounded snake, with
many halts and shivering starts. As dawn gathered in the east,
shedding a thin gray light on the trail, the awful extent of the
flight became apparent. Tangled lines of people stretched to the
far hilltop horizon-a turgid black river seeping along pale white
banks. As far as the eye could see, people toiled ahead in knots
and clumps, many carrying their belongings on their backs or
piled high in handcarts-and not people only: horses, mules,
donkeys, and even cows, goats, and dogs were hitched to carts.
   Daylight strengthened, and I saw, in the ditches and fields
‘round about, hundreds of impromptu camps. Too tired to go on,
people had simply wandered off the road and slept where they
dropped. With daylight came the low, murmuring sound of soft
moaning. By this I knew that many of those who had fallen
beside the road would not be getting up again.

   All through the morning we rolled on. The day grew hot
beneath a wide-open sky. When I became tired of riding, I gave
my mount to Titus and took his place leading the horse that
pulled the wagon. As the sun crept toward midday, the line
halted; from someplace up ahead I heard shouting, and, leaving
Titus to guard the carnage, I went to determine the cause of the
commotion.

   A cart was lying on its side in the middle of the road. Under a
high and heavy burden, its slender axle had snapped, spilling the
contents into the road. The donkey pulling the cart had fallen,
and from the way the poor beast was thrashing around, trying to
regain its feet, I suspected that it had broken a leg. A desperate
man was pushing people away from the wreck in a vain effort to
keep them from plundering his belongings.

   “Step aside! Step aside!” I said, shoving in to where he stood
panting and dripping with sweat. “Here, let me help you.” A
quick look at his cart and donkey confirmed my suspicions. “The
cart is ruined,” I told him, “and the animal is injured. If you like,
I will help you get them off the road.”

   “My things,” he said, indicating the heap of furniture and
utensils. “I cannot leave my property behind.”

   “I’m sorry,” I said. “But you cannot stay here. You are
blocking the way.”

   “Please,” he said, snatching at me, “it’s all I own! I cannot
leave it behind.”

   “Maybe the cart can be mended,” I offered. “Here,” I said,
turning to the onlookers, “you, you, and you” -I pulled them in
-“help me move this out of the way.”
  “And who are you?” demanded one of the men, “the
emperor?”

   I turned to meet him face-to-face. “I am a quaestor of the city
and a centurion of the Roman army, and I am conscripting you
to help me. Now, do as I say.”

   Grumbling, the men stepped forward, and together we
unhitched the donkey and dragged the suffering creature away.
Next we began shifting the bulk of the man’s belongings to the
side of the road. One of the men bent to pick up a long, bulky
bundle. I heard him curse; he dropped the parcel and jumped
back. “There’s someone in there!” he said.

  “My wife! My wife!” said the owner, rushing forward. He fell
upon the bundle as if to protect it from us.

   Stooping down beside him, I glimpsed through a fold of the
cloth the waxy, bloated flesh of a woman’s face: slack-jawed,
staring up with dry, clouded eyes, an angry, bulging, blue-black
carbuncle distorting the tender flesh below her jaw. The stench
emanating from the wrappings banished any lingering doubt
that the woman might yet live.

   “My wife - ” said the man, pushing at me as he tried to
rearrange the covering.

  “She must be buried at once.” I gestured to the men to help
me remove her from the road, but they drew away.

   “Plague!” someone shouted, and all at once the crowd surged
back. “Plague! Plague!” they shouted, stumbling over themselves
in their haste to flee.

    Instantly angry, some of them picked up stones from the road
and began pelting the man. He cried out and fell upon the corpse
of his wife. I was struck several times as I tried to get him to help
me drag the body from the road. The man refused; he clung to
the corpse, shouting and crying. “She is sleeping!” he cried. “She
is only sleeping!”

   One of the bystanders grabbed a piece of wood from the
broken wagon. A whiffling sound filled the air, and I was
knocked to my knees. “Stop!” I shouted. “Wait!” I took another
blow in the small of my back and rolled onto my side. The
improvised club rose high and hung suspended over me.

   I covered my head with my arms and braced myself for the
blow. Instead, however, my assailant gave out a shout and spun
sideways to the ground. Titus appeared above me, took my arm,
and pulled me to my feet; he then turned, sword drawn, and
shouted, “Stand aside, all of you!”

   I strode to the man who had assaulted me. “You there! On
your feet. You can help me move the wagon.” I chose three more
from the crowd, and together we dragged the wagon to the ditch
while Titus got the crowd moving again. We carried the corpse
of the man’s wife to a hollow beside the road, and I made my
grumbling volunteers dig a grave for her. The bereft and frantic
widower insisted all the while that his wife would wake soon and
they would go on, but when the first clods of dirt struck the
shroud, he slumped to the ground and wept. He would not be
consoled, so we left him there, prostrate on his wife’s grave.

   By the time I returned to the carriage where Oriana and the
others waited, the long, slow migration was moving again. We
ate a little bread and drank some water and then resumed the
journey, not stopping again until sundown. We camped in a field
beside the road, and while Titus grazed the horses, Agatha
prepared a simple meal which we ate as the last light of day
dimmed in the west.

   We were on the road again before dawn, and this time we did
not stop. The towns along the way were shut to any fleeing the
plague; no one would sell food or anything else to any travelers
passing through. I saw people collapse in the road, but we did
not stop. I saw an old man, bent double by the weight of the
bundle on his back, stagger and fall to his knees; I removed the
pack from his back, threw it aside, and gave him water-but I did
not stop. The relentless sun beat down on our uncovered heads,
Concessa cried through the day, and hungry people begged for
food and water as we passed, but I did not stop.

  The next day there were fewer on the road, and the next day
fewer still. We moved on at better speed and reached the port at
Neapolis. It took the remains of that day and most of the next to
find a boat and captain who would agree to take us across the
narrow stretch of water to Aenaria.

   I dismissed Titus, thanking him for his good service, and gave
him a handful of coins-as much as I could spare from the little I
had with me. I gave him the horses, too, and sent him on his way
to his home in the south. Then, taking Concessa in my arms, I
led Oriana and Agatha down to the boatyard to wait for the boat
to arrive. We sat through the day, watching and waiting.

  “Where is he?” I said, growing impatient at last. “He said he
would be here. What can be keeping him?”

   “Sit down, Succat,” Oriana said. “You can rest now. We are
almost there.” With that she laid her head on her arm and closed
her eyes. “I am so thirsty.”

   I walked back to the carriage and fetched the last of the bread
and wine. I drank the wine and refilled the jar with water from a
well in the square above the harbor. Upon my return I woke
Oriana so she could drink. She rose with difficulty, rubbing her
upper arm. I gave her the jar, and she drank, wincing slightly as
she swallowed.

  “Are you feeling well?” I asked.

   “I am just tired,” she said, and I noticed a rawness in her
voice I had not heard before. “The journey has exhausted me.”
Unwilling to accept this vague assurance, I pulled aside her
mantle, examined the skin of her throat, and felt the sides of her
neck but found nothing unusual. “It is just the heat,” she
insisted.

   Concessa woke and began crying then, and while Oriana saw
to feeding her, the boat’s master appeared. I jumped up and ran
to meet him. Slump-shouldered with exhaustion, he removed his
wide-brimmed hat and said, “We’re losing light. If you want to
go, it must be now.”

  We gathered our few things and followed him down to the
wharf, where three of his men were busy keeping a crowd of
would-be passengers at bay with the blade ends of their oars.
“Everyone wants to leave,” said the captain. “I’ve made four trips
to the island today a’ready. This here’ll be my last.”

   “I am in your debt,” I told him.

   Aenaria lay no great distance off the coast, the last and
largest of a string of small islands rimming the great bowl of the
bay. Nevertheless the winds were contrary, and the sailors had to
row through a rough chop; passage was slow. It was almost dark
by the time we reached the tiny harbor of Ischia. After paying
the boatman and sending him on his weary way, I turned to
Oriana. “How far is the villa?”

  She looked at me curiously and opened her mouth to speak.
“Ah, it… it is-” Her eyelids fluttered, her eyes rolled up into her
head, and she collapsed. I caught her and the baby as she fell
and eased both of them to the ground.

  “Oriana!” I cried. “Agatha, quick! Help me! She has fainted.”
The older woman was beside me in an instant. Handing her the
baby, I said, “Bring some water. Hurry!”

  Oriana awoke almost at once and made to get up. “Lie back.
Rest a little,” I said. “Agatha has gone to fetch some water.”

  “Let me up,” she said, pushing at my hands. “I can stand. I
am all right.”

  “You fainted,” I said. “Just lie here a little and wait until
Agatha comes back.”

   “I don’t want to lie here,” she snapped. “Everyone can see me.
Let me up.”

   I reluctantly helped her to her feet. “Where is the baby?”

   “Agatha has her.” I saw a low wall nearby. “Here,” I said,
leading her aside, “sit down here for a moment and regain your
strength.”
   “Nothing is wrong with me,” Oriana insisted. “I am weak
from the sun-nothing more.”

   Even as she spoke, I felt a dread coldness creeping into my
belly. I sat beside my wife and waited with her until Agatha
returned with a bowl of water. “Drink this,” I said, placing the
bowl in her hands. She sipped a little and then tried to put it
aside. “No,” I insisted, “all of it.”

   She made a sour face but did as I commanded. “There,” she
said, swallowing the last of it. “Happy?”

  “Yes. Now, then, how far is the villa?”

  “A few miles,” she said. “Too far to walk in the dark.”

  “Wait here,” I told her, “I will go and find a carriage.”

   But the little island port was already closed for the night.
There was only one small tavern serving the boatmen of the
harbor, but the boatmen were gone and the owner of the tavern
did not know anyone with a carriage to hire. “How about a
horse?” I asked.

  “Old Claudius has a donkey,” he volunteered.

  “Where can I find old Claudius?”

  “Oh, he lives on the other side of the island - near the
Columella estate. Do you know it?”

   “That is where I am trying to go,” I replied, then explained
that I had two women and an infant with me and that we were
in need of lodging for the night. “Do you have rooms?”

   “I am sorry, my lord. I have but two-and they are both taken.
There are no other rooms in all Ischia.” He spread his hands
helplessly. “It is a very insignificant village, and a great many
people have come here.”

  “Do you have a stable?”

  “Indeed, sir.”
   “Then I will have that.”

  “Never!” he cried in horror. “I could not allow a nobleman
and his family to lodge in my stable. What would people say?”

   “And what will they say when they learn you let the daughter
of Vicarius Columella sleep in the street outside your door?”

   Seeing no way out of this dilemma, the tavern owner relented.
“It is only a very small stable,” he warned. “Ischia is an insig-”

  “Yes, yes, it is all very insignificant,” I agreed quickly. “Come,
show me this insignificant stable of yours.”

    He led me around behind the tavern to a building that was
little more than three wattle walls and a slanted roof. “An
excellent stable,” I declared. “Satisfactory in every way. Tie those
goats to the fence, and I will bring my family.”

   “Lodging in a stable,” said Oriana when she saw it. The
rancid straw stank of goat and sour manure “What will my
mother say when she hears about this?”

   The words were out of her mouth before she knew what she
had said. The realization struck her with the force of her pent-up
grief, and she crumpled into my arms and wept. I held her and
felt the sobs convulse her slender body. Agatha made a place for
her in the corner of the stable, where she fell asleep with her face
covered in her cloak, soaked in tears.

                                 53

   “At last.” Oriana sighed wearily as the carriage turned and
started down through the long double rank of tall cypress trees.
Their deep green foliage wore a thick coat of powdery white dust
from the trail leading to the house.

   The carriage rolled to a stop at the rear entrance to the villa,
and as I passed the last of my coins to the driver, two aged
servants came tumbling out the door, shouting, “Lady Oriana!
Lady Oriana! Oh, bless God, here you are!”
    They hugged her and stroked her face and hands as if she had
been a prodigal daughter whose return had been long awaited.
Then they saw the baby. “Oh! Oh! May all the angels bear
witness! What is this? A child-such a sweet, darling, tiny thing.
It cannot be yours. Is it yours? It is! It must be! Oh!”

    The elderly couple took turns holding Concessa, and it was
some time before Oriana could break into their prattling and
cooing to introduce me to them. “Dea,” she said, presenting the
little old woman, “and Dec-imus”-she nudged the old man
forward-“this is my husband, Succat.”

  The two turned their eyes to me, nodding and muttering to
one another. “I am glad to meet you,” I told them.

  “And you, master,” said Dea, returning her gaze to the baby.
“And you.” Then, handing Consessa back to her mother, she
bundled us into the house.

    Dark-skinned from lives lived in the sun, Dea and Decimus
were small, spry, rustic folk of the kind who had inhabited the
island for generations beyond reckoning. Like pagani
everywhere, they were wary of strangers and fiercely protective
of anyone they considered kin. They had served on the estate
since before Lord Columella was born. The two of them rushed
around preparing drinks and food for us, stealing glances at
little Concessa all the while.

   After refreshing herself, Oriana went to lie down. Leaving
Agatha, the baby, and the two caretakers all to become better
acquainted, I went out to examine the grounds of the estate.

   Called Dulcis Patria, it was a most pleasant home: a low,
spacious villa of the old style, with deep eaves to shade a
courtyard lined with sturdy columns supporting a roof of thick
red tiles. The stone was old and pale and pitted where yellow
lichen had begun eating into the soft rock. Surrounded by olive
groves, fields of vegetables, and a pond, the house perched on a
low rise overlooking the sea, which shone like molten glass in the
hot midday sun.

  Quiet, drowsy with the heat, I walked through a small pear
orchard and stood at the end of the green expanse which ran
from the open, horseshoe-shaped courtyard all the way down to
the sea. Fishing boats rocked in the gentle swell, and the sound
of waves lapping the pebbled shore made me sleepy. I closed my
eyes and felt the sun on my face. The wind blew hot off the
water, raising a stink of fish and rotting seaweed.

   As I stood there, I felt the tight coil of tension I had carried
inside me since Rome unwind and relax. A dry, enervating
fatigue stole upon me. Eyes closed, face to the sun, I swayed on
my feet. My head hurt, and a mild burning sensation tingled in
my throat. I told myself that it was the sun and heat and
exhaustion of the journey-our passage had been a long, tedious
slog after all.

   Suddenly tired beyond words, I turned and started back to
the house. As I approached the steps at the bottom of the
courtyard, I heard a scream from deep inside the house.

  “Oriana!” I flew up the steps and raced through the courtyard
and into the house. In the bedroom Dea and Agatha were
bending over a frantic Oriana, who was thrashing on the bed.

   “No!” screamed Oriana, thrusting a hand at me. “Stay back!
Stay away!”

   Ignoring her protests, I moved to the bedside. Agatha turned
and put her hands on me to push me away. “Go!” she said.
“Leave us!”

   I brushed her aside. “Oriana, calm yourself. I am -”

   “Get him away from me!” she cried.

   “Please,” I said, sick dread spreading through me, “let me
help you.” I reached out to her, but she rolled away screaming.

   “No! No! No!” As she raised her hands to prevent me, the
loose sleeve of her mantle slid high up her arm.

   I saw the red bulge beneath her armpit, and my stomach
turned. My hands fell away. I stared at the wicked thing-the
undeniable sign of plague. I gazed upon my poor, doomed wife
and my strength evaporated like water poured onto a hot stone.

   Oriana curled herself into a ball on the bed and lay there
wailing and sobbing. Dea hunkered down beside her, speaking
softly and low. Agatha took my unresisting arm and led me from
the room. I reached the door and looked back. “Oriana…”

   Shaking off my torpor, I pulled away and went back to the
bed. Agatha followed, begging me to leave. “Bring some water,” I
told her. “And bring a basin and some rags.”

   I sat down on the bed and gathered Oriana to me. “I am
afraid, Succat,” she sobbed. “So afraid.”

   “It is all right,” I told her, stroking her hair. “We will take care
of you.”

   I raised the palm of my hand to her forehead; the skin was
damp but cool to the touch. There was no fever, which I took to
be a good sign. When Agatha returned, I took the cup and made
Oriana drink it down. She grew quiet then, and I sat for a long
time holding her, reassuring her with soothing words and
promises of health restored. At last she drifted off to sleep, and
only then did I leave her side.

   “We must do all we can for her,” I told the women.

   “The fever,” choked Agatha. “God is punishing us.”

   “God has nothing to do with this!” I snapped angrily.

   “I know a potion,” offered Dea. “It could help.”

  “Go and make it up,” I said. “I will stay here with her. Agatha,
you take care of Concessa. And keep the baby away from here.
No matter what Oriana says, I do not want the baby anywhere
near this room, understand?”

   The woman nodded grimly.

   I sat with Oriana through the night, sleeping in fits and
snatches. By morning she was no better but no worse. I
examined the red bulge in her armpit, and though the egg-size
lump was hot to the touch, the swelling was not so bad, I
thought. When she rose, I made her drink some of Dea’s remedy,
then bathed her head and neck with cool water from the basin
and tried to get her to eat some porridge Dea had made.

   “Enough,” Oriana said, pushing away the spoon. “I must get
up.”

  “Here.” I set aside the bowl. “Let me help you.”

   I lifted her to her feet and supported her as she walked to the
corridor. Concessa was crying in another room. “Must she wail
like that all the time?” Oriana said, pressing a hand to her head.
“Go see to her.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I can walk,” she said. “Go on.”

   Leaving her in the corridor, I went to see to the baby. Agatha
had swaddled Concessa in a cloth and was walking her back and
forth across the floor. At my appearance the woman turned
toward me, and I saw that her cheeks were wet with tears.

   Without a word she turned the child in her arms and,
cradling the infant against her bosom, unwrapped the cloth to
bare little Concessa’s tiny chest. I looked where she was pointing
and saw a faint rosy blotch on the pale white skin. On closer
inspection I saw that the blotch was a slightly raised, ringlike
rash.

    I touched the rash gently with a finger, and Concessa wailed
all the more.

  “It is the mark of death,” Agatha whispered darkly.

   Angry at her for speaking so, I glared but held my temper.
“Say nothing to Oriana about this,” I warned her sternly. “I do
not want to worry her.”
   All at once there came a shout from the corridor. “Stay here,”
I ordered Agatha, and I dashed from the room to find Oriana on
her knees, leaning against the wall. Dea stood over her, clutching
her by the shoulders. A dark stain of muddy red splashed down
the front of Oriana’s mantle. Even as I hurried to her, she
doubled over and vomited again. The vile stuff spewed onto the
floor-blood and bile mixed together.

   I ran to Orian’s side. Dea and I lifted her to her feet and
between us brought her back to the bed. Her chin and lips were
stained with black, foul-smelling, clotted blood, and I washed it
off with a rag and gave her a drink to rinse the vomitus from her
mouth.

   “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice trembling with the tremors
that shook her. “I thought I was better.”

   “And so you are,” I replied. “Dea’s remedy has upset your
stomach, that’s all. I should not have given you so much.”

  She closed her eyes and lay back. “I’m cold, Succat.”

   In a chest beside the door, I found a linen palla and covered
her with it. She lay in bed shivering for a time, and I sat with
her. She did not wake again, but slept through the day. As
evening approached, I left her side and went to the kitchen to get
something to eat. Decimus jumped up from the small table
beside the hearth as I came in and offered me his chair. He
poured me some wine and gave it to me, then stood by with the
jar as I drank, filling the cup again when it was empty.

   Dea brought me some soup she had made, and I sat for a time
holding it in my hands, staring into the steaming liquid as at my
own beclouded future, and I felt myself sinking beneath a weight
I could no longer carry.

   Why, oh why, I thought, did I stay in Rome so long? I knew
the answer: pride, arrogance, ambition-as always. We should
have fled the city the moment I heard the word “plague.” But I
had thought more of my position than of my family, and now
they would pay the price for my overweening ambition. I cursed
myself for the insufferable fool I was.
   At Dea’s insistence I drank some of the soup, and then
returned to Ori-ana’s side. She was still shivering, but her skin
was hot and she had sweated through her bedclothes. She roused
herself when I dipped a clean rag in water and placed it on her
feverish forehead. “Succat…” she moaned, her voice raw as a
wound. “I’m… so cold.”

   “I will warm you,” I said, and, stretching myself beside her, I
gathered my dear dying wife in my arms and held her close.
With this action I knew I most likely joined her in her fate, but I
no longer cared. Wretch that I was, I deserved to die with those I
had failed to protect.

   We remained like this through all the next day and night. The
crisis came a little before sunrise of the third day.

   Oriana began trembling and coughing and shaking, her jaw
so tightly clenched I feared her teeth would shatter. Her eyelids
fluttered, but her eyes were vacant, and she seized one ragged,
wheezing breath after another, her long body rigid in the bed. I
tightened my arms around her as if by strength alone I might
keep her from slipping beneath that dark and silent gate.

    She gave a last rattling moan, which ended in a gasping sigh.
Her fingers straightened as if reaching for the fleeting touch of
life, and the fight went out of her. She trembled one final time
and lay still. I waited for a moment, and when it became clear
that the battle was over, I kissed her lips and forehead and
folded her hands upon her breast.

    I lay holding her still-warm body until it was light, and then I
went to rouse Agatha and Dea to tell them that Oriana was dead.
I stumbled through the quiet house, my head pounding with a
fierce and fiery ache. At Agatha’s door I paused, drew a deep
breath, and went in. She was asleep in a chair beside Concessa’s
bed but woke the moment I stepped into the room.

   Her dark eyes met mine, and tears started down her cheeks.
“Just a short while ago,” I told her. Looking at the sleeping baby,
I said, “How is the she?”

  Without a word Agatha leaned forward and pulled back the
light covering over the small body. I saw the ugly red-black bulge
beneath the infant’s jaw, and my throat tightened so that I could
not speak. I lowered a shaking hand onto the tiny head and
stroked the downy-soft hair as the tears fell from my eyes.

   Little Concessa died later that same day. Her struggle was
mercifully short; the sickness took her in her sleep, and she never
woke again. Oriana and her daughter were buried together in
the grave I dug with my own hands.

   I might have dug another beside that first one, for later that
night the sickness came upon me, too. Down and down into the
burning fevered depths I sank, until I neither knew nor cared
whether I lived or died.

                                54

    How long I lay teetering between life and death, I do not
know. Someone came to sit with me from time to time -Dea was
there, I know, and also a physician. Once I awoke and, thinking I
was in the German forest, tried to get up and run away to escape
the barbarians I imagined chasing me. I did not get far before
my legs gave out and I fell sprawling on the floor. Sometime later
I found myself back in bed.

   Then one evening, just as the sun was sinking, I awoke to
footsteps in the corridor beyond the room. “Agatha?” I called out
in a voice dry and hollow as the tomb.

   Decimus’ face appeared in the doorway. He took one look at
me and disappeared. I heard him calling for his wife outside,
and the good woman arrived a short while later, bearing a jar of
wine and some bread soaked in milk, which she fed to me a
morsel at a time until I begged her to stop. I sipped some wine
then and found I could speak. “Where is Agatha?”

   The old woman looked at me with sad, sorrowful eyes and
said, “She has died, Master Succat.”

  “No.”

  Dea nodded sadly. “The fever took her two days ago. She was
not strong.”

  Kindly Decimus added, “I put her beside Lady Oriana.”

  It was several days before I had strength enough to get up -
and then it was only to shuffle from the bed to relieve myself in a
pot before falling back into bed panting with exhaustion.

    Little by little, however, the disease abated - it happens this
way some-times - and the day came when I could stand and walk
without collapsing. I asked Decimus to take me out to see the
graves. Summer was beginning to fade; I could feel it in the air
and see it in the lowering slant of the sun. Still, the sky was
bright and the breeze warm on my skin. With his hand under my
arm, the old man led me down the path through the small stand
of olive trees to the low bluff above the sea where I had dug that
first grave.

   We stood for a while in silence, and I could feel Decimus
growing uncomfortable, so I said, “You can go.” He started to
protest, but I reassured him. “I’ll be all right. Come back for me
later.”

   The old man nodded and hurried away, and I returned to my
contemplation of the graves. The dirt was still fresh on the
second, smaller of the two, but on Oriana’s grave the mounded
earth had already begun to settle. Soon the grass would cover the
place, and there would be nothing left to tell that it was there.

   I stood staring at the bare mound and thought, Is this all
there is?

   A heap of dirt that would not outlast next year’s harvest-was
that what life was all about? Was there nothing else? For if all
the laughter, hope, passion, and dreams, all the love and life
ended in a dank hole in the ground, what was the use? It all
came to nothing. In the end the grave loomed over
everything-and even that did not last.

   The grave swallowed everything. Greedy and insatiable, the
grave devoured young and old alike. No one escaped. Death was
the answer, the last argument, brutal in its irrefutable finality.
Death conquered all, and it would take me as it took everyone
else. There was no escape, and nothing I did would ever make
the slightest difference.

   Even as I stood contemplating this desolate prospect, I heard
someone coming down the path. Thinking it was Decimus come
to fetch me before time, I turned to wave him off and saw that it
was not Decimus but a stranger. Dressed in a simple gray robe,
like that of a provincial priest, he came ducking the olive
branches and humming a curious tune.

   A tall and very plump, round-shouldered man, white-haired
but sprightly still, he walked lightly on the balls of his feet. His
substantial girth was gathered in a plain leather belt, and
though his clothing might have been that of a cleric, the sandals
on his feet were those of a Roman soldier.

    The happy stranger glanced up as he drew near, smiled
cheerfully, and raised his hand in greeting. “So!” he exclaimed in
a deep, resonant voice. “Back in the land of the living. Good.” He
nodded with evident satisfaction. “Not that I had any doubt at
all.”

   He came to stand beside me and looked down at the graves.
“Ah, well,” he said softly. He folded his hands before him and
stood for a moment, bobbing his head. “Ah, yes, well.” He sighed
and turned to regard me with eyes the same color as the sea.
“How are you feeling?”

   “You are the physician,” I said. “The one who attended me.”

   “I suppose I am. Although, just between you and me and God,
I have been accused of worse.” Nodding to himself, he said, “But
I am no true physician. I know a little, and I am happy to do
what I can. Sometimes it helps.”

   “If you are not a physician,” I said, “who are you?”

   “I am called Pelagius,” he said. “And, yes, I did look in on you
a few times. I am leaving Aenaria in a few days, and I wanted to
see you up and around before I left.”
  “Pelagius,” I said. “I have heard about you.”

   “Ah, yes, well.” He sighed again. “I suppose most everyone has
by now. Still, I make no secret of it.” He peered at me amiably.
“Do you have views?”

   “None whatsoever,” I replied. “I have heard your name, that’s
all-from a former friend of mine, a priest. He had views.”

  The kindly man rolled his eyes. “Priests! They all have views.”

  “Are you not a priest?”

   “A monk of a sort, but not a priest. Never a priest.” He shook
his head and looked at me. “Decimus told me you are British
born.”

  “Indeed.”

   “I am a Briton, too,” he confided. He looked out across the
sea. “We are both a long way from home, I think. But I at least
will not see Britain again.”

  “Why not?”

   “I am bound for Jerusalem,” he said. “I have long wanted to
go, and now the opportunity has come. I do not imagine I will
make any more journeys after that.”

  As he spoke, a fleeting melancholy tinged his voice. He
paused, then said, “I only wanted to see if you were better.” He
smiled again, recovering something of his former gladness. “And
now that I have seen, I will bid you good day.”

   “Why do they hate you so much?” I asked. The words were out
of my mouth before I thought to curb my tongue.

   He stared at me, his blue eyes narrowing with the quick
intensity of his stare.

   “I do beg your pardon,” I said quickly. “Please, I meant no
disrespect, but as you are leaving soon and I may not see you
again, I merely wanted to know. You see, I’ve heard the way they
talk about you, but you are so unlike the person I imagined,
and…”

  “You wanted to know if what they said about me was true?”

  I nodded.

   “Ah, yes, well, it is not an easy thing to say,” he replied,
scratching his white-bristled chin. “Am I a fomenter of spurious
teaching? A snake in the garden of paradise? A heretic?”

  “Are you?”

   “Never anything so grand as all that,” he confided. “Still, I
have made some powerful enemies, and your question is apt.
Why do they hate me so very much?” He spread his hands. “That
I cannot say. Truly, I find it incomprehensible.

   “As to the charge of heresy, I have stood before the pope
himself in Rome to receive his judgment. I defended my
teaching, and I was acquitted.” Pelagius was no longer the jolly
monk, his voice taking on the fire of conviction. “Their charges,
their court, their council-and I alone, by myself without a friend
in the room. The pope heard me out. The pope ruled: ‘I find no
fault in this man!’ ”

  Pelagius shook his head. “That should have been the end of it.
But, alas, it was only the beginning.”

  “That is the way of the world,” I said.

  “The way of the world, yes,” he agreed, “but not God’s way.
Truth against the world-ah, now, that is God’s way.”

   At his use of the term, I heard the echo of a time so far
removed from me it seemed as if it had happened to someone
else. “Truth against the world,” I replied, unable to keep the
sneer out of my voice. “You speak like the Ceile De.”

   His white eyebrows rose in merry amazement. “You know the
Ceile De?”
   “I do-in fact, I once considered myself one of their number. At
least I wanted to be.”

   “Once? What happened?”

   “I grew up,” I replied bitterly. “I got true wisdom. I learned
how little it matters what a man believes. Whether a man prays
to Zeus or Mithra, Christ or Apollo - no god is ever going to
come to his aid; there is no help in trouble, and in the end
nothing is going to save him.”

   Pointing to the graves at our feet, I said, “God’s way? I can tell
you that from here it looks like God’s way is death and
corruption in a never-ending parade of brutal and senseless
destruction.”

   “You are bereft,” Pelagius told me gently. “It is natural to feel
this way in times of grief.”

   “Grief only sharpens a man’s vision,” I snapped. “But, no, I
have felt this way for a very long time.” Indicating the graves
once more, I said, “And this-this is merely the final confirmation
of a long-held belief. Nothing I have ever seen argues otherwise.”

   Pelagius was silent for a moment, contemplating the graves at
his feet. He nodded to himself, then said, “It is true that we live
in a world that does not love us. Our great mother has a
voracious appetite for her own offspring, and she will kill us if
she can. And, yes, I suppose she will kill us anyway in the end.
Our bodies may be dust, but” -he raised a finger to point
skyward -“our spirits were made for heaven.”

  I complimented him on this well-spoken sentiment and said,
“Yet if that is the end, why not just lie down and die and save
ourselves all the heartache and trouble?”

  “Ah!” He brightened. “It is the trouble that makes it all
worthwhile.”

   “Spoken like a true son of the church,” I scoffed.

   “Do you doubt it?”
  “I do.”

  He regarded me with kindly indulgence and said, “Give me
your hands.”

  I stared back, uncertain that I had heard him correctly.

  “Your hands,” he said, reaching out, “let me see them.”

   Thinking only to humor him and so cut short this increasingly
irritating interview, I did as he asked. He held my hands and
gazed at them for a moment, as if judging the worth of a pair of
gloves. He turned them over and examined the backs, then
peered into the palms.

   I stood there, awkward in this posture, and wondered how
long I must endure his peculiar inquisition.

   “They are good hands, strong hands,” Pelagius declared at
last. “I can see that from a young age you have had to seize
whatever has been given you in order to survive. You have done
well; you have succeeded where others would have failed, and
you have done it by the strength of your hands alone.”

  My throat tightened with the knowledge that, inexplicably, he
spoke the truth.

    “Ah, yes, but now” - he continued gazing at my hands as if at
a map or chart of an unknown island - “you have reached the
limit of what human strength can achieve. You look upon the
work of your hands and see how worthless it is. For unless it is
allied to something greater than itself, your achievement will not
outlast the hands that framed it.”

   He raised his eyes to mine and saw the confirmation there. “I
see that this is so.”

  Unable to dispute his conclusion, I merely nodded.

  “Ah, but see! Your labors have not been in vain,” he assured
me. “It is a great and wonderful gift you have been granted: Now
you know a truth that it takes some men a lifetime to
understand - and many never learn at all.”

   He released my hands, and the spell was broken. “A dubious
gift, it seems to me,” I muttered, finding my voice again.

   “Never say it,” he retorted gently. “Truth against the world,
remember. In truth is freedom itself. Dwell in truth and the
things of this world can no longer enslave you.” He smiled
suddenly, “And you know something of being a slave, I think,
yes?”

  Again I merely nodded.

   “Wealth, power, fame-all those prizes for which other men
strive so ardently- none of them can ever hold dominion over you
again. You are free to pursue the things that last.”

  “What things are those?”

  “The things of God.”

   He genuinely meant it, but I stiffened at this prosaic
pronouncement. How little he knew if he imagined I would find
any comfort in that quarter.

  Before I could protest, he touched my hand again and said,
“You have learned what a man can do in his own strength, yes?
Perhaps now it is time to learn what God can do with a man who
knows the limits of his strength.”

   He smiled and held his head to one side, as if considering a
view he found mildly amusing. “Do you mind if I pray for you in
the days to come?”

   “Not at all. But why not use your breath for whistling? It will
do as much good.”

   He looked around at the olive grove and the flat, motionless
sea glittering beneath the sun. Finally he said, “Ah, yes, well, I
have inflicted myself upon you long enough. I must go. I will say
farewell, Patricius.”
   It is an ordinary word, patricius; it means nobleman. And I
thought nothing of it at the time. I wished him well on his
journey and bade him go in peace. He lifted a hand in parting
and walked back up the path, humming as he went. In a little
while I was alone again, and more bereft than ever.

   I visited the graves every day from then on. Each day the
despair in me grew. Morose, heartsick, I sank down and down
into a black, airless abyss: trapped. There was no consolation, no
way out. Dea fussed and worried over me, and Decimus tried to
interest me in running the estate. It was a gesture of kindness
only; he needed no help from me.

   Instead I sat in the olive grove and watched the days pass,
sinking deeper and deeper still into a grim and solitary
hopelessness.

   Then one evening I returned to the house to find a courier
waiting for me-a young soldier wearing the blue belt of the
scholae, or imperial bodyguard.

   “Greetings, my lord,” he said courteously. “I bring a message
from Rome.”

   He opened the dispatch box at his belt and drew out a small
scroll. Thanking him, I accepted it and set it aside. “You must be
tired from your journey. Stay here tonight if you like; I will have
the housekeeper prepare a meal for you.”

  I dismissed him then, but he did not move.

  “Was there something else?”

   “Sir, if you please, I am to watch you read the message and
return at once with your answer.”

   “Of course,” I said. “Then we had both better sit down. Dea,
bring us some wine and give this hungry soldier some of your
good cakes.”

   Taking up the scroll again, I looked at the seal. It was a
senatorial insignia, but I did not recognize the emblem. I broke
the seal and unwrapped the tightly rolled parchment. “This is
from Senator Graccus,” I said. “Did you know that?”

   ‘Yes, my lord. The senator himself gave it to me.“

   While the housekeeper scurried around preparing supper, I
read the message from my friend and guide. His salutation was
warm but subdued, and the reason became quickly evident:
Word had come from Gaul that Vicarius Columella had been
slain in an attack on Augusta Treverorum; the garrison itself
had been lost. The senator apologized for having to break the
news this way, but inasmuch as he had been reliably informed
that Lady Columella and her son, Gaius, had died in the plague
it was his duty to inform me that Oriana had inherited the
family property. He was certain we would want to make
arrangements to return to the city in due course to register our
legal claim. Further, owing to the severity of the plague and the
concomitant loss of seats in the Curia, he had been empowered
to offer me a praetorship-the next office higher than a
quaestor-effective immediately.

   So there it was. Heir to a fortune and an eventual senatorship
as good as secured. A glorious future beckoned, and all it had
cost me was everything.

   I read the words again, and they turned to ashes in my
mouth. The futility! The insane futility of it all struck me as
ludicrous and obscene. What was the use of striving, of trying to
make a life, when death rendered every circumstance
meaningless? Whether success or failure, happiness or
sorrow-all was swallowed in the grave. In light of that, nothing
mattered. Death claimed everything, the world moved on, and in
time, whether good or ill, all was forgotten.

   I sat staring at the scroll and felt the soldier’s eyes on me. I
glanced up at him. “My lord?” he said. “What answer will you
give?”

    “Tell the good senator that Lady Oriana and her infant child
have succumbed to the plague. Inform him that I also was taken
ill but am now much recovered. Tell him that I am grateful for
all he has done on my behalf, but that I am better occupied here,
and therefore I regret to say that I will not be returning to Rome
to take up the praetorship so kindly and thoughtfully offered.”

   He rose at once. “I will tell him, my lord.”

   “Sit down, friend. You will eat something before you go. The
fate of Rome can wait until you’ve finished your supper.”

   The soldier thanked me and resumed his place. Dea brought
out bowls of fish stew and placed them before us. There was
bread and goat cheese, along with some green onions fresh from
her garden. I let the young man eat a moment, then asked,
“Where is your home?”

   “My family is from Lusitania, my lord.”

   “How long have you been in Rome?”

   “Two years.”

   “Before that?”

   “I was at Aeminium, not far from where I grew up.”

   “Have you served long?”

   “Four years,” he replied, adding quickly, “It will be five in
three months.”

   I shook my head. Less than five years and already a member
of the scholae. But what of that? I myself had become both
centurion and a quaestor in less than half the time he had
served. The empire rested on such young and inexperienced
shoulders. I wondered how long it could last.

   We talked a little more, and when he finished, he rose and
took his leave. “Stay here tonight,” I offered. “It is no trouble.
The house is nearly empty. You can be on your way first thing in
the morning. Senator Graccus will not mind, I assure you.”

  “I thank you, sir, but I must return to the port. There is a boat
waiting.”
   “I commend you, soldier,” I said. “May your sense of duty
serve you well.”

   He departed then. I walked with him a short way down the
path to see him off, then stood for a time looking at the evening
sky and listening to the crickets in the tall grass. Rust-tinted
clouds sailed low across the dusky horizon. The dark branches of
the cypress trees above me were alive with the twitter of tiny
birds fidgeting and fussing as they settled for the night. The
peace of the place was a balm to me, and I needed it. Let the
world go its way, I wanted nothing more to do with it. Let it
go-the rank, the wealth, the much-vaunted glory, and all the vain
striving that went with it… let it all go. I wanted none of it.

   Until I read Graccus’ message, I had not known what I would
do. His question forced a decision, and as I read those efficient
and well-ordered words, I knew that there was nothing for me in
Rome that I desired. I did not want to be a senator. I did not
want property and position. I did not want wealth, or power, or
anything else that death would steal in a few years’ time.

  What, then, did I want?

                                55

   Autumn came early to the island. I watched as the harvest
proceeded. Grain was reaped, threshed, and stored; fish and
vegetables were dried and livestock fattened for butchering. The
days drew in slowly, and more often than not, cold winds
brought rain off the sea. Most days I sat in a chair beside the
brazier in my room feeding twigs to the fire -much to the
consternation of Dea, who brought meals only to take them away
again cold and uneaten.

   Graccus did not let his offer end with a single refusal. He sent
two more couriers, each with slightly more urgent messages
imploring me to return to Rome and take up my praetorship at
once. Plague had devastated much of the city, the senator wrote,
and there was a great deal to be done. A good man could
advance himself with unprecedented swiftness. Come to Rome,
he said, and on my return we would talk about my future, in
which, apparently, the rank of vicarius was a juicy plum ripe for
the plucking.

   This last message was delivered in person. Senator Graccus,
on his way to the emperor’s winter palace on the island of Capri,
stopped by to persuade me to heed the voice of reason.

   “I do not wish to be a vicarius,” I told him. “I do not wish to
be anything-save, perhaps, left alone.”

   “But you cannot remain here forever.”

   “Why not?” I countered. “I have all I need-and more besides.”

   “A very great deal more besides,” he declared. “Aulus left
everything to you. What about the house in Rome?”

   “What about it? Sell it. Give it away. I don’t care.”

   “It is worth a fortune.”

   “Then it will make some undeserving dog very rich.”

  “And Columella’s fortune-you’d give that away, too, I
suppose?”

   I shrugged. “Why not? I have more than I can spend now.”

   “But you don’t spend anything at all that I can see,” argued
the senator. “You live here like a ghost, haunting the groves and
shore. It is not healthy. You need to get back to work. Great
things are happening in the city; opportunities abound. Now is
the time to make something of yourself, and unless you seize the
day, it will pass you by.”

   “Good.”

   “Come back to Rome,” he said, his voice and manner
softening. “If you don’t want to live in Domus Columella, I
understand. You can stay with me until you find a place you like
better.”

   “I like living here, Graccus,” I told him.
  “But you are not living here,” he said, “you are wasting away.
You are dying.”

  “Then why can’t you just let me die in peace?”

    “You cannot mean that. You are distraught.” He frowned,
puffing out his cheeks in exasperation. “Well, who can blame
you? It has been a dreadful ordeal, after all. Perhaps you need a
little time to get over it.” He seemed to be talking to himself; he
sighed, regrouped, and started again. “I am sorry. You are right.
Winter here, gather your strength, and we’ll talk again in the
spring. There is no hurry. No hurry at all.” He rose and prepared
to leave. “No hurry for you, but quite the opposite for me. I must
go.”

  “So soon?”

  “The emperor is expecting me. We are to sail to Crete for
some reason. I will call on you again in the spring.”

   I saw no one else that winter and received no further
communications from Graccus. The rain lashed the old tile roof,
and the wind drove the pigeons to hide up under the eaves, but
in all it was a mild and fairly short season, and it was not long
before the days began to lengthen once more. When it grew
warm enough, I went to the graves to sit and watch the grass
grow on the bare mounds. Dea gave me some wildflower seeds to
plant, which I did -not because I cared one way or the other
about dressing the graves but because it was the kind of thing
Oriana would have done, and I wanted to please her.

  For the rest, Graccus was right. I haunted the villa like a
wraith: aimless, wandering, drifting here and there without
purpose, without volition, stalking the grounds in a gloom of my
own making and slowly succumbing to a sick and debilitating
melancholy.

   I saw this myself but did nothing about it. I spent whole days
strolling along the seaside, listening to the waves, watching the
tides sweep endlessly back and forth across the strand. What, I
asked myself, was the use? Life was without meaning, and a
meaningless life was mere existence -no better than that enjoyed
by the snails and mussels in the tide pools, creatures that lived
and died by the whims of wind and wave.

    All was meaningless. Rank futility wrapped me in its bleak
embrace and fed my ever-increasing pessimism on hopelessness.
Despair, dark and potent, found in me a fertile field and spread
its noxious spores. They festered and grew. As spring drew on,
there ripened a black, cankerous fruit in my heart.

   Soul-sick and inconsolable, I roamed the grounds, indifferent
to all that happened around me. Whether I rose in the morning
or failed to rise, bathed or did not bathe, dressed or went about
in filthy rags -it was all one to me. I ceased shaving, and my
beard and hair became long, tangled, and unkempt-which made
Dea cluck and fret like a mother hen over a worrisome chick. She
strove with me to eat and drink, but to no avail. Food had lost its
savor, and the smell of it turned my stomach. I consumed
enough to keep myself alive, but little more, and I watched the
bones sharpen beneath my pallid skin.

   Sometimes I lay in my room for whole days without stirring,
only to emerge at sundown to wander the grove and shoreline
the entire evening and far into the night-sometimes failing to
come in at all and sleeping under the olive trees or in the grass
above the strand.

   On one such night I lay awake watching the stars spin slowly,
slowly in the heavens until the rising sun leached the starlight
from the sky. I stared into that fiery golden disk and felt the
warmth on my face as it began to pour heat and light onto the
waking world. The brilliant light scorched my eyes, yet still I
gazed into the burning whiteness, and into my mind floated the
memory of a vow I had made in my former life.

    “Three kinds of light obtain,” declared Datho on the night I
stood before him: “that of the sun and, hence, fire; that of the
knowledge obtained from the instruction of wise teachers; and
that which is possessed in the understanding of God, which
illuminates the heart, and is the true light of the soul.

   “Therefore, my son, seek the True Light in all your ways;
search diligently and with tireless perseverance. Take the Light
as your law, your love, and your guide, now and henceforth,
forever. If you would do this, answer now upon your life.”

   I had stood before him and answered, “Upon my life I make
this vow.”

   It was a lie then, and I felt its wicked sting now. I had gone
my own way, and that way had led me to this barren place:
alone, miserable, heartsick, and grief-stricken, death hovering at
my shoulder. It occurred to me as I lay with the sun searing into
my eyes that the lie had triumphed and it was killing me.

   “If there is a God in heaven,” I muttered, my voice raw with
thirst and exhaustion, “hear me now: I am finished. If you want
this life, you can have it. Otherwise today I die.”

   I waited awhile to see if anything would happen. There came
no answer-but then, I did not expect one. So it was death for me,
too.

   Still I endured the fiery light a little longer. At the moment
when I knew I must look away or be forever blind, I turned my
eyes toward the sea and, in my sun-dazzled sight, saw a tall man
walking along the strand: a shadow shape only, a quavering
dullness in the radiance.

   I blinked and looked away. When I looked back, he was still
there, and nearer. As he came closer, his form took on solidity
and substance. He was dressed in a green-and-blue-striped
cloak, with a red mantle and trousers of black and yellow.
Around his neck he wore a tore of red gold as thick as a ship’s
chain; silver bracelets gleamed on his arms, and rings adorned
every finger.

   Under his arm he carried a leather bag, and as he strode
swiftly nearer, I saw that the bag was full of parchment scrolls
-innumerable letters, tightly wound and sealed. He came to
where I lay and stood over me, looking down, his face lost in the
radiance of the sun. I shielded my eyes from his blazing
countenance.

  “Who are you, lord?” I asked.
   “I am Victoricus,” he answered, and, withdrawing one of the
letters, he placed it in my hand. Receiving the scroll from him, I
unrolled it and read out the heading of the letter. The words
shimmered as if made of fire. They said: THE VOICE OF THE
IRISH.

    Even as I read out those words, I heard a cry falling from the
clear, empty sky-a voice I recognized, but who? Before I could
discern who it might be, the voice was suddenly joined by others,
all of them calling out as one, saying, “Noble boy, noble boy!
Come walk among us again!”

  It was the folk of Sliabh Mis and Focluit Wood -it was
Miliucc’s people-calling out to me, begging me to come to them
once more. That they should beseech me so pierced me to the
quick.

   In that instant something broke inside me. It was as if
somewhere deep within, a wall that had stood strong and tall
and straight for so long suddenly cracked, and great chunks
began falling from it, allowing the pent-up waters of a raging
flood to surge through and into the void that was my soul.

   Overcome by this flood tide of strong emotion swirling
through me, I struggled to my feet. I swayed for a moment but,
unable to stand, sank to my knees once more, gasping and
gulping as my stony heart rent in two. Great tears welled up in
my eyes; I lowered my face to my hands and wept-how long, I
cannot say, but when I finally raised my head to look around, the
man was gone, nor could I find any sign of the scroll -but the
sound of the voices still echoed in my ears.

   “Noble boy, come walk among us again!”

    The tears flowed down my cheeks and neck, and I raised my
face to the sun and let them flow. I wept for my poor dead
Oriana and little Concessa, and for the sad ruined waste of my
life. In my shame and contrition, I wept for all those I had
deceived and betrayed-all the empty promises and the vows so
blithely ignored. I wept for the easy deceits I used and the love I
had thrown away and for the stubborn, willful blindness that
forever kept me from seeing the truth.
   “Truth against the world,” Pelagius had said -the axiom of the
Ceile De -and I, who had never sought the truth in any way,
sought it now with a broken and contrite heart. “Lord and God,”
I cried, “be my Vision and my True Word. Let me walk in the
Land of the Living again.”

    As if in answer to my plea, the voices echoed once more in my
heart: “Come noble boy, walk among us again.” And, oh! The
sound of those Irish voices, at once so plaintive and appealing, so
full of yearning, resonated deep within me. That selfsame
longing struck down into my hollow, empty heart, took hold and
filled it. I lay on the strand and felt it grow in me until it
inhabited all my being and there was room for nothing else.

   Inert, unmoving, I felt the sun soaking into my flesh, into my
very soul, restoring me with its warmth and light. I lay on the
beach clinging to the slender hope that perhaps I might actually
do as the voices suggested. As the sun mounted higher, this hope
grew into a fragile desire. Still I held to it, refusing to let it go,
and desire broadened and deepened into a swiftly solidifying
determination: I would return to Ireland.

   This is what the voices were calling me to do, and this I would
do.

   Up I rose, turned my back on the sea, and walked toward the
house, volition returning, gaining strength with every step. By
the time I reached the house, I was all purpose and conviction.

   Hungry, thirsty, and full of sorrow at how I had allowed
myself to sink so far, I washed myself and then bade Decimus to
cut my hair and shave me; he happily obliged, while Dea flitted
around the kitchen preparing a meal which she laid before me
with manifest pleasure. While I ate, I thought about my decision
and wondered if the Irish would truly receive me.

   But, I thought, even if they did welcome me, what would I do
there?

   The question had only to be asked, when like a resounding
echo the answer came winging back: become a filidh again.
    Mystified by the obvious simplicity of the solution, I could not
quite take it in. I walked around the rest of the day turning the
thought over in my mind-tenderly, gingerly, like a beggar
holding a rare and extremely delicate treasure he has
found-unwilling to entrust much hope or confidence in it, lest I
deceive myself. Even so, I could not resist fingering it, touching
it, examining it from every direction. Could I? Could I really
return to the life I had begun there?

   Was there anything to prevent me? Nothing that I could
discover. Money? I was heir to the Columella fortune. Distance?
Danger? With my fortune I could travel the world in comfort and
security, if not absolute safety.

   Over the next few days, the determination hardened in me to
return to Ireland. I would go back and take up my long-vacant
place as filidh and complete my training to become a bard.

                                 56

   Hail and welcome!“ cried Graccus, bounding into the
reception room of his fine, palatial house. ”This is a pleasant and
long-awaited surprise.“ Taking my arm in his, he walked me
through the house and into the palm-shaded courtyard. Water
splashed from a marble fountain shaped like a dolphin leaping
from a pool. Nearby a small table and chairs were set up beneath
a striped canopy.

   “I am glad you have finally returned to your senses.” The
elderly senator was so happy to see me that I could feel my
resolve melting away. To disappoint him was the last thing I
wanted but the very thing I had come to do.

   “I have returned, yes,” I replied, bracing myself for his
disapproval. “But I cannot stay.”

   “And why not? We have much to discuss, you and I. A very
great deal has happened in Rome since you left, and I have not
been idle.”

   “I’m on my way to Hibernia. There is a ship waiting for me at
Neapolis even now. I’ve only come back to Rome to settle my
affairs, and then I am away.”

   “I see.” Senator Graccus gazed at me, the smile slowly fading
from his face. “Which affairs,” he said stiffly, “do you mean?”

  “The property left to me by Vicarius Columella.”

  “Yes, what about it?”

  “I want to sell it.”

   His good-natured features arranged themself into an
expression of petulant disapproval. “Do you have any idea what
that entails?”

   “Only that a buyer must be found and a price agreed. Beyond
that, I had hoped you would guide me. I will trust your judgment
entirely.”

   “Come along, then. We will talk.” Graccus led the way to the
canopied table; he took one chair and waved me to the other.
Seeing a glimmer of a chance to influence my decision, the
astute senator swooped at once. “You have been traveling. You
are tired. Here, now, sit with me. Let us have a drink and discuss
this.”

   I sat down, and he took his place across the table, gazing at
me with fatherly concern. “It will not be easy,” he said after a
moment. He picked up a jug of wine and poured the dark red
liquid into two glass cups. “With the plague, most of the best
people have fled to the country.” He handed me a cup. “Buyers
for a property of that quality are scarce. It could take” -he puffed
out his cheeks-“oh, months at least, perhaps years before you
could find a suitable party.”

  “Would it take that long?”

  “You will stay here, of course,” Graccus said, moving on
swiftly. “What about the island villa?”

  “That is settled already. I have given it to Dea and Decimus.”
  “You just gave it to them?”

  “I did that.”

  “Have you any idea what this gift cost you?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

   “Well…” He shook his head in mild incredulity. “I commend
your generosity, if not your sagacity. That estate was worth”-he
tapped his teeth in thought-“let us say you could have named
your price. I can think of any number of noblemen who would
sell their firstborn for a chance to own it.”

  “Maybe some of them would feel the same about the town
house.”

   “I would not count on it,” he warned. “No, that will be a far
different matter. There are properties aplenty in the city now.”

   The mere thought of waiting chafed me raw. I could see my
newfound determination ground down and down to a fine
powder to be blown away by the first contrary wind. Reckless in
the grip of my decision, I pressed ahead. “Graccus,” I said, “tell
me the truth. What do you think the house is worth?”

   He swirled the wine in his cup. “In excess of seven hundred
thousand so-lidi,” he answered at last, “more or less.”

   “I will sell the house to you for half that amount. What do you
say?”

   He laughed. “I say you are being very foolish. Even if I had
that much money ready at hand, friendship would prevent me
from taking advantage of you.”

  “Two hundred thousand, then,” I said.

  “Succat, please.” He held up his hands. “I cannot.”

   “One hundred thousand,” I said firmly. At this the senator’s
eyes grew round.
  “I begin to believe you are serious.”

  “One hundred thousand gold solidi -and Domus Columella is
yours.”

  He hesitated, licking his lips. I could see him weakening.

    “Come, Graccus, I know you want it as much as I want to give
it to you. Take it and let us part as friends.”

   “You are insane,” he declared, shaking his head firmly. “No. I
will not do it.”

  “Please, Graccus. I cannot stay here any longer. The ship will
not wait forever. When it sails, I mean to be aboard.”

  He gazed at me, a paternal sadness stealing into his eyes.
“Why must you go away?” he asked. “And why, of all places, to
Hibernia?”

  “There is nothing for me here,” I began.

  “Not true,” protested the old statesman quickly. “The way is
open for you to become a senator and then surely a vicarius.
Beyond that who knows? One day you might even become a
consul. A man of your integrity and intelligence-why, anything is
possible.”

  I smiled in gentle reproof at his shameless flattery. “Please,
Graccus, we both know better.”

  “It could happen,” he insisted.

  “Then let it happen to someone else.”

  “But why, of all places on the civilized earth, choose
Hibernia?”

  “I want-” I began, my-voice tightening as emotions seized the
words. “I left something of myself there, and now I must find it.”

  He frowned. “You were a slave in that barbaric land, were you
not?”
  “I was a slave, yes. But I was alive there, too -in a way I have
not been alive since.”

   “Nonsense!” he snorted, dismissing the idea.

    “No, it is true,” I insisted. “I tried to live as a Roman. I loved
Oriana, and for her sake more than for my own I tried to make a
life here in Rome. But this was never my home.”

   “And Hibernia, I presume,” he said, “is where you now
belong?”

   “I cannot say,” I replied. “But I know that my time here is at
an end.” I could see he did not believe me. “Listen, Graccus,” I
said, and then I began to tell him of my life in Ireland. I told him
of Sliabh Mis and King Miliucc’s holding, the people there and
their simple, forthright ways. I spoke of Sionan -the first time I
had mentioned her name aloud to anyone since the day I
left-and Cormac and Datho. I described the wooded hills and
green valleys, the mountains and plains, and the all-encircling
sea; I told him of the druid house, the study there and the daily
chores; I described the Comoradh as Filidh, the Gathering of
Bards, and the initiation I had undergone to join the ranks of the
druids.

   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 Eire -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 crudest 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.

                                 57

  The voyage to Eire 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 arid 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 Eire.
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 rath 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 Milicc’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 rath, 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 rath.” 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 rath, 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 rath. 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 rath. 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 tore gleamed at his throat. Queen Crania, 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.

   “Lord Miliucc, I know well the punishment for a slave who
escapes. Even so, I do return to face your judgment.”

   A genuine expression of awe came into the king’s face. He
looked to Cor-mac, who stood off to one side, his eyes lowered,
frowning at the ground.

   “You know it is death to return here,” said Miliucc slowly, “yet
you deliver yourself into my hands.” I could see even as he spoke
that his displeasure was at odds with his fear and amazement.
“Why is that?”

   “I return in the hope that I may be forgiven, O King,” I
answered. “Nor do I come empty-handed.” Reaching for the
leather bag at my belt, I drew it out and held it before me. “I ask
you to accept this gold in payment for the slave you lost and, in
accepting, grant your slave his freedom.”

   The king regarded the leather bag, and his eyes swung back to
mine, but he made no move to accept the offered payment. Did
he imagine some trick or treachery?

   Untying the bag, I shook out a handful of gold solidi and
offered these to the king. “This,” I said, holding out the small
heap of coins, “is for the purchase of my freedom.”

   He eyed the gold but still made no move to take it.

   Holding the coins before him, I poured the rest of the
bag-more than fifty coins in all - into my hand until they spilled
onto the ground. “And this,” I declared aloud, “is the honor
price.”
   The gathered crowd murmured approval behind me.

   “My Lord Miliucc, I ask that you accept this in payment for
the debt I owe you.”

   The king raised his eyes from the gleaming coins at his feet; I
suspected he was on the point of refusing my offer when Cormac
clapped his hands and declared, “Here is a wonder! Has anyone
ever heard of such a thing? An escaped slave returning to buy his
freedom! Tell me, Lord Miliucc, in all of Eire has such a thing
ever been known?”

   Miliucc frowned. “The lords of Eire will laugh at me when
they learn I am mocked by a slave,” he complained. “They will
hold me a king of low account, whose slaves command their
master.”

   “The lords of Eire will grind their teeth in envy,” I countered,
“that they do not own slaves willing to buy their freedom with
good gold.”

  Still the king hesitated. “I could kill you now and take the gold
anyway,” he said.

   This brought a swift response from the queen. “Stay your
hand, my lord,” she whispered. “Is not your honor worth more
than the price of a slave?”

   “Heed your queen,” Cormac advised. “There is glory to be won
here, but you must act wisely. If you accept his money and free
him, it will show you a man of honor and fairness second to
none. Your name will be lauded throughout this island as one
who earned such great respect that even runaway slaves cannot
rest until they have redeemed themselves.”

   For the first time Miliucc allowed himself to bend a little. I
could see he liked the sound of Cormac’s suggestion; it gave him
a reason to be generous and allowed him to keep his dignity. He
turned to Forgall, his battle chief. “Do you think I should accept
this gold?”

   “At once, my King,” replied the warrior, “and without
hesitation.”

  Looking at the glittering coins in my hand and on the ground,
Miliucc said, “How much gold is there?”

   “An amount double the price you paid for me,” I answered,
“and as much again.”

  “Why?” Lord Miliucc could not believe what he heard. “Is it to
shame me with your wealth?”

  “By no means,” I said quickly. “The first amount is to redeem
myself from slavery, and the second is to repay you for the loss of
my services while I have been away.”

   “Hear, now!” cried Cormac. “Lord King, this is a just and
honorable offer. Show yourself its equal and accept it in the
spirit in which it has been made.”

  The warriors, led by Forgall, acclaimed this plan, and Miliucc,
unwilling to show himself mean and grudging in the eyes of his
people, raised his hand and said aloud, “Because this man, who
was my slave, has honored me by acting justly, I forsake the
death I vowed for him.” To me he said, “I accept this gold in
payment for your services.”

  “And free him, my lord,” added Cormac.

   Miliucc hesitated -still distrusting his good fortune, I
think-then allowed himself a final grimace before acceding. “And
I give this slave his freedom.”

   Cormac stepped forward and, raising his hands in
declamation, cried, “May all bear witness! This day Succat has
redeemed himself from slavery. Henceforth he is a free man. Let
no one seek to hinder or constrain him.”

   He turned and embraced me, and the people, who had waited
to see how the thing would go, suddenly surged forward, and
with much jostling and good-natured buffeting, I was welcomed
back into the tuath. I thanked the king and was escorted into his
hall, where I was received with all courtesy. The king brought me
to sit at his table with his warriors and poured me a cup of beer
with his own hand. “Sit and be welcome,” he said, then fell
silent, uncertain what to say.

   Cormac made up for the awkwardness. He settled beside me
on the bench. “I knew you would come,” he said, clapping me on
the back again. “Although I didn’t know it would be today.”

   “I went to find you,” I said. “Oh, Cormac, I wish I had found
you.” I gazed at him, the memories of the last years instantly
arising and washing over me in a flood. A lump formed in my
throat. It took a moment to pass; when I could speak again, I
said, “I meant to come back. I truly did. But when I failed to find
you, everything changed.” I told him of my experience
wandering injured, freezing, and dying, and my rescue by the
Saecsen farmers. “After that, something hardened in me. I lost
my way.”

  “And have you found it again?” he asked, watching me for my
answer.

  “I believe I have,” I replied.

   Cormac put his arm on my shoulder. “Welcome home,
brother. I have missed you.”

  “And I you,” I replied. I looked quickly around the room.
Cormac saw my glance and read it. “You have not asked me
about Sionan.”

  I nodded. My mouth went dry. “Is she well?”

  “She is that.”

   He waited for me to say more, but I could not. My heart was
in my throat, and my tongue would not move.

  “She is not here,” he said. My expression must have given
away my sudden and acute disappointment, for he quickly
added, “She no longer serves in the queen’s house.”

  “No?”
  “Not for three years.”

  “I see.”

   “I know she would like to see you,” Cormac said. ‘You should
go to her.“

  “Oh, I will,” I replied. “I want to.”

   The ship’s master and crew arrived just then, entering the
hall in a timorous clump. They glanced around the hall, visibly
unsettled by the strangeness of their surroundings as much as by
the size of the warriors. I rose and went to reassure them. “All is
well,” I told the master. “We are welcome here. Come, I will
present you to Lord Miliucc. He will want to hear what you have
brought to trade.”

   “I will take care of them,” said Cormac, intervening. Turning
me, he gently pushed me toward the door. “Go and see her,” he
said.

   “And you will see to the sailors?” I said, edging hesitantly
toward the door.

  “Go, Succat. She will know you are here by now.”

   The next thing I knew, I was running through the narrow lane
to the house where I had last seen Sionan. I forced myself to slow
down and walk the last few paces. When I had calmed myself, I
stood before the door and knocked.

   In a moment there came the soft tread of a step, the door
opened, and there stood Sionan: slender and erect, her head
high, a strange and uncertain light in her eyes.

   I took half a step toward her and found that my voice had
abandoned me. All the things I had imagined saying-all I meant
to tell her at this long-anticipated moment-flew from my mind.
“Sionan…” I began, forcing lips and tongue to move at last.

   She stiffened at the utterance of her name and closed the door
in my face.
   I stood for a time, feeling foolish for having presumed she
would receive me after all. “I have come to speak to you,” I called
through the rough wood.

  There came no reply.

  “Sionan?”

  Again there was no reply.

   “Sionan, if we cannot talk now, I will come back later. Maybe
that would be better. Is that what you want?”

    At this the door opened slowly once more. She stood there as
if frozen, gazing at me without expression.

   “Sionan, I have come back,” I told her. “I’ve come back to
stay. I know I have no right to ask this of you, but I would like to
explain.” She made no move or sign that she had heard me at all.

   “Will you not hear me at least?” I blundered on. “I’ve come a
very long way.”

   I looked at her face in the gloomy half-light of the doorway.
She had changed but little that I could see; her hair was slightly
shorter, and her form, still slender, had gained a pleasant
fullness, but that was all.

  “Please?”

   Still she stared, mute and unmoving. Then, with a slow shake
of her head, she said, “Why?” Her voice was soft and low, and
the sound of it sent a pang of remorse through my heart. How
could I have deceived this woman? How could I have abandoned
her and caused her such pain?

  Now, seeing her face-to-face, all the reasons, all the
explanations and excuses, turned to dust in my mouth. I sank to
my knees on the threshold and bowed my head before her.
“Lady, I do not blame you for being angry,” I said, pouring out
my heart, “and if you should send me away, I will go. Even so, I
want you to know that I am sorry for deserting you, and I do
most heartily and contritely beg your forgiveness.”

   “What are you doing?” she said. “Get up.”

   “I cannot,” I said, “until I know what is in your mind.”

   Again a great and awful silence stretched between us. When
she did not speak, I glanced up to see tears glistening in her eyes.

    “Please,” I said, “for the sake of the memory of our former life
-if for nothing else - I beg you to forgive me.”

   She stood unmoving over me, and then, reaching down, she
placed her hand on my head. “But I have forgiven you a
thousand times already, if you only knew it.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered. My throat closed over the words,
and I was unable to say more.

   Taking her hands in mine, I kissed them. She grasped my
hands and raised me to my feet. Hardly daring to meet her gaze,
I rose and stood before her. “Will you come in?” she said,
stepping back into the hut.

   Without waiting for an answer, Sionan took my hands and
drew me inside. We stood in the dim light of the single room.
Newly kindled flames smoldered on the hearth, sending thin
tendrils of smoke coiling into the air and lending the room a
pungent smell. The pallet bed lay on the bare earth floor in one
corner, and the small table and two low chairs sat in the other.
In all, it was as far away from the splendor of Domus Columella
in Rome as the earth is from the moon, yet my heart soared: It
was exactly as it had been the day I left.

   “Welcome home,” said Sionan. “I knew this day would come,
and yet now that it is here, I am not ready.” Her voice trembled
as she spoke, and the tears she had held back until now began to
fall. “I have missed you so much.”

   Overwhelmed by the grace of Sionan’s loving forgiveness, I
lowered my head and wept. “I am sorry, Sionan,” I said, “I am so
very, very sorry.”
   “Oh, mo croi,” she whispered, gathering me in her arms, “my
heart, my heart. Nothing matters, save that you are here and we
are all together now and always.”

   It took a moment for her meaning to come clear. “Together-”
I said. “All?”

  Her eyes played over my face, her expression at once proud
and a little uncertain. “Succat,” she said, “would you like to meet
your son?”

                                58

   I stood for a long time just gazing upon the small, dark-haired
boy as he played with sticks from the woodpile stacked behind
the hut. Engrossed in his game -pulling twigs from the pile to
form a neat little heap of his own -he remained oblivious to our
presence. Then Sionan took my hand and drew me toward him,
saying, “Here, now, it is time he met his father.”

  We moved closer. “Ultan,” she called gently, “your father has
come to see you.”

   At the sound of his mother’s voice, the boy looked up and, oh!
-the light of love that shone in that child’s face shamed the sun
with its brilliance. “Mam!” he shouted.

   Scrambling to his feet, he ran to her arms. She swooped him
up and held him close. He clung to her, his head pressed against
her cheek, regarding me with shy, almost apprehensive interest.
Slender and long-limbed like his mother, he also had her large
brown eyes. Then he turned his gaze to me, and I realized that
the face observing me with such serious curiosity was my own.

  I reached a hand to him. “Ultan, I am glad to meet you.”

  The sound of my voice inspired him to bury his face in the
hollow of his mother’s neck. “It is your father,” she told him. “He
has greeted you nicely. What do you say?”

  After a little coaxing the youngster was finally persuaded to
part with a murmured greeting. Then, in a gesture that warmed
me to the soul, he reached out a hand. “Papa!” he said,
squirming toward me.

   I took him into my arms and clasped him to my breast,
exulting in the bundled warmth of his small body as he put his
arms around my neck and snuggled close. I carried him back
into the house, where, after a simple meal, little Ultan was put to
bed, and then Sionan and I sat down by the fire, and I began to
tell her all that had happened since the day I left.

   Dawn found us that way, drowsy before the glowing coals of a
spent fire, having talked through the night. Pale pink light stole
through the chinks in the door as I told of the plague and all
those close to me who had been swept away. I described Oriana’s
death and my debilitating despair. I told of meeting Pelagius
and, shortly thereafter, receiving the vision that set my feet on
the homeward path.

  “But tell me,” I said, “were you never angry with me?”

   “Angry?” she replied. “I was furious! When the months passed
and you didn’t return, I raged at you. I cursed you and swore
bloody vengeance. When Cormac returned to say he had no word
of you, I began to fear the worst. I thought you shipwrecked and
drowned or made captive again and carried off somewhere else,
and I hated you all the more for leaving and taking such a risk.
But by then the baby had begun to grow in me, and Cormac said
I must forgive you-that whatever had happened, it would not be
helped by hating the father of my child.”

  She paused, glancing down at her hands. “That was a hard,
hard time, to be sure. But it passed. And when the child was
born, I did not hate you anymore. Who could look upon Ultan
and harbor hatred in her heart for the man who gave him to
her? Maybe some can, but I could not.” She raised her head and
smiled at me sadly. “Oh, but I so often wished you could have
been here to see him grow. Oh, how I wished it.

   “And often is the time I thought about what I would say if you
ever came home. I would be noble and kind. I practiced in my
mind until I had it all just right. But tonight, when I saw you
standing there, all my fine words deserted me. The old rage
came back instead, and I thought to punish you.” She shook her
head slowly. “Oh, my heart, I could not. Seeing you on your knees
in the mud, your eyes so full of hope and love… I knew it was you
I wanted, not the spite.” She smiled pensively. “I chose you. I
have always chosen you.”

   Sionan sat in silence for a moment. “I am sorry about the
woman’s suffering,” she said at last. “But, God help me, I cannot
feel sorry that she died, since it was her death that released you
to come back to me.”

   “Oh, Sionan.” I sighed. Clearly there were mysteries here too
deep for me to comprehend. “I do wonder-might there have been
another way? Then Oriana would not have had to die for me to
return.”

  “Perhaps,” Sionan suggested, “it took something as strong as
death to save you.”

                           EPILOGUE

   Thus began the long pilgrimage to this time, this place, and
the bonfire that flares high and bright on this Beltaine night.
Curious how fire has always marked the more significant events
of my life. As I look back over the years, I see that the path has
been illumined by the shimmering glow of fire.

   Like the apostles of old, I have been kissed by the flame, and
my soul burns within me. I am alight with God’s holy power; his
ineluctable strength flows from my hands. I live and move at his
command. My master is the Lord of Light, and I am his slave.

   Tonight we have ignited a beacon that will awaken a land too
long aslum-ber. Tonight we defied a king and kindled a blaze in
Ireland that will never be quenched.

   “Why antagonize him?” said Cormac when I told him what I
had in mind. “Let him have his fire; it means nothing to us. We
will go to him tomorrow and hold council with him. If we tell
him our grievances, he will listen. He is not unreasonable.”

  “Loegair must be made to understand that a new power is at
work in the land-a power he cannot stifle with his puny decrees
and self-important displays of arrogance.” I saw the way clearly
before me and was surprised Cormac did not see it, too. My
teacher and anam cara, my soul’s true friend-it was Cormac who
smoothed my return to the druid house and Cormac who stood
by me when the storm broke over my joining the Ceile De
priesthood-he most often grasped the nature of things far more
quickly than I ever did.

   “Hear me, Cormac,” I declared, “we have worked long and
hard with the people of this region and have accomplished much
- no thanks to Loegair and his piddling interference.”

   “In truth,” agreed Cormac. “Which is why it makes no sense
to risk throwing it all away.”

    “He is doing this only to intimidate us, brother,” I insisted. “It
is time our king learned the limits of what human strength can
achieve. He thinks himself a king of kings? Well, I propose to
give him a taste of true sovereignty.”

  A deep frown creased Cormac’s broad face. “It is dangerous.
Buinne will be there. He is sure to make trouble, and someone
could get hurt.”

   “Do you think I will fail?” I regarded him closely. “For if that
is what you think, tell me now. Do you think I will fail?”

  He hesitated, then puffed out his cheeks and shook his head.
“No, I do not see that.”

   “Then be of good cheer,” I told him.

   “Do you want me to go with you?”

   “Let the brothers attend me,” I suggested. “You stay here with
the others and uphold us in prayer.”

   So now I stand waiting for the confrontation to begin. The
king arrives as I knew he would, with his chariots and warriors,
bristling with weapons and stewing for a fight. It took him long
enough. Well, he will have his fight, but the streams of regret
flowing from this contest will not be mine.

   King Loegair lurks there, hovering just beyond the circle of
light thrown out by my bonfire. The king’s druids know better
than to allow him to come within the radiance of my presence.
They think to make me come to them and thus demonstrate
their king’s superiority over me and mine. I will go. It makes no
difference- homage is a hollow gesture unless both heart and will
are broken, and poor Loegair will take some breaking before he
bends his stiff neck.

   Listen! They summon me. I rise and take up my staff.

   “Do not go out there,” cautions Forgall. Firstborn of my little
flock, the former battlechief steps into my path to prevent me.
“They mean to attack and kill you.”

   “Fear for nothing, brother,” I tell him, placing my hand on his
shoulder to move him aside. “Remember your Psalms: Some
take pride in chariots, and some in horses, but we shall walk in
the Light of the Living One.”

   “We will go with you,” says Bron, stalwart friend.

   “No, it will be better if I go alone.”

   “Then we will pray for you.”

   “Pray rather for Loegair and his warband,” I tell him, turning
to meet my visitors. “A proud and haughty king is about to be
humbled. Let the world beware!

   So saying, I step to the edge of the light, where the king and
his retinue can see me. Thus we meet, face-to-face across the
battle line: Loegair with his warhost, his company of druids, his
splendid weapons, his many gated fortresses-and I with my
small, trusted band of believers. I feel sorry for Loegair, I do. The
sides are so uneven.

  “Greetings, Lord Loegair,” I call. “May the peace of Esu be
yours tonight.”
   The haughty king draws himself up. In his chariot he looks
nine feet tall. “Did you think to defy me and escape my
judgment?”

  “The only judgment I fear is not yours to perform, O King.”

  “You revere another king over me?” he roars. “I am king here,
and my kingdom extends as far as a man can walk in seven
days.”

  “The king I serve holds all powers and dominions in his grasp,
and his kingdom extends forever.”

   Loegair’s features twist in a snarl of rage. “See now!” he cries
to his wise advisors. “Out of his own mouth he has confessed his
crime. My decree stands! Death to him who defies the sovereign
lord on this night.”

   The high king takes up his spear and levels it at me. He
shouts a command to his waiting warriors. “Seize him!” They
dismount from their horses and move to lay hold of me.

  “Peace, Loegair,” I counsel, raising my staff. “You tread on
holy ground. Show some respect, or the consequences will be on
your head.”

  The warriors hesitate. They waver between their king’s
command and my own.

  “Take him!” shouts the king.

   They come at me in a rush. Lofting the staff, I turn my eyes to
the night sky. “High King of Heaven, we enthrone you this night.
Shield your servants from the harm of evil, and reveal, O Power
of my power, the glory of your everlasting kingdom!”

    As my prayer resounds in the hall of heaven, a cloud of dark
mist falls between me and the attackers. Taken unawares, they
cry out in confusion. Their weapons clash to no purpose. I hear
them shouting; the horses rear and bolt; the chariots crash into
one another, and men are thrown to the ground. An instant is all
it takes for the fearsome attack to dissolve into chaos.
   I know I should stop it before it comes to blows, but it cheers
my soul to hear the king whining like a strap-beaten whelp. Well,
I warned him. He should have listened.

    As the chaos thickens around me, I turn to regard the
brothers praying behind me. They are anxious. They stand in a
hesitant huddle, wishing they were somewhere else. Away in the
east the light of a new day is playing on the far horizon. Perhaps
it is time to end this confusion before Cor-mac’s prediction of
harm comes to pass.

   “We have done what we came to do, brothers,” I tell them.
“We will go home now. Follow me. I will lead you down. Look
neither left nor right and do not linger. No harm shall befall us.”

   Raising my staff, I move a little closer to the veil of darkness
separating the king and his warband from the blazing light of
the fire. I draw the figure in the air and speak the words of the
cairn, the protecting charm surrounding us. Slowly the darkness
thins, and the light of the bonfire blazes in the eyes of our
attackers once more.

  “There!” shouts the king. “I see them! There they are!”

   Turning to the brothers, I say, “Ready? We go.” With the fire
at our backs, I lead my faithful band down the hill the way we
came, as behind us the king strives to gather the shreds of his
dignity, which has been torn and trampled in the chaos.“

   “Keep walking,” I call to the others behind me. “Do not stop
or look around.”

  “After them!” cries Loegair, growing desperate. “Ride them
down!”

   A horse neighs, and the dogs begin barking and whimpering.
At once the pursuit falters. The warriors, still confounded by the
darkness, pull up short.

  “Hie! After them!” cries Loegair.

  “Where?” comes the answer. “We cannot see them!”
   “There! There!” screams the king. He is frantic now, shouting
like a man bereft of reason. He cannot understand why his
warriors will not see what is before their eyes.

   We pass from view behind the broad shoulder of the hill, and
I hear the king berating the stupidity of his men. He rages at
their incompetence and breaks dire oaths upon their unthinking
heads. “Lord, we do see them,” his battlechief protests, “but it is
only a herd of deer.”

   “A stag, six deer, and a fawn,” adds Dubthach helpfully. He is
the king’s bard, but I think his days in the king’s service are
drawing to an end. He will join the Ceile De yet.

   “Deer!” shouts the king. He rages at his battlehost; he calls
them fools and idiots. He implores his wise counselors to do
something, anything, to prevent us from getting away. But it is
already too late. We fade from sight in the early-morning mist,
leaving only the impression of deer in the minds of our would-be
pursuers.

   We move down into the deep-shadowed valley. Our hearts
sing with the triumph we have won. I lead the brothers in a song
that is at once a lorica of protection and a psalm of praise to the
All-Encompassing.

  With my face to the rising sun, I sing, “I arise today through a
mighty strength! Christ my shield and my defender!”

    The brothers take up the well-known verses. Timidly, yes, but
it is good to hear them all the same. They are learning. “Sing,
everyone!” I cry, and they sing:

  I arise today

  In Heaven’s great might,

  In Sun’s fair brightness,

  In Moon’s splendid radiance,

  In fire’s dancing glory,
  In Lightning’s excellent swiftness,

  In wind’s matchless dominion,

  In Sea’s majestic depth,

  In Earth’s steadfast stability,

  In Sky’s dazzling splendor…

   They sing, and my mind flies ahead to the battle to come. One
day soon I will stalk Loegair in his chamber. He will rage, and he
will roar. He will call upon his druids to test me and try me, as
he must. I welcome the test. Buinne will do all he can to destroy
me, but he will fail, and in the end he will fall. That is as it
should be. Buinne has evaded justice for his crimes long enough,
and the king must see him bested and bettered-and not only the
king: The people, too, must behold the power of a bard of the
Ceile De. Only then will they truly believe.

   Later, when Loegair has regained his temper, I will go to him,
and we will sit down together and speak to one another like
grown men. I will ask him for that piece of land I need for the
church we will build. And he will give it.

    In his eagerness to align himself with the new authority in the
land, he will give me whatever I ask. He will seek to possess the
power, and, failing that, he will try to possess the one who wields
it. But I will not be swayed. In time Loegair will learn, as all
must, where true power and wisdom can be found. And then he
will be called upon to make a choice.

  I will pray he chooses the way of truth and love.

   Truth and love-the twin pillars of our faith. But for me they
will forever be embodied in the flesh and bone, heart and soul, of
my dear wife. It is to Sionan that I owe my salvation; it is Sionan
who befriended me, and loved me, and has remained these many
years steadfast and faithful beside me.

  Sionan spoke the truth in love. It took a power stronger than
death to save me. It is Sionan now I think about as I lead my
little band home. Night still lingers in the west; in the east
darkness flies before the light of a new and glorious day-a day to
be cherished and forever remembered as the day Ireland
received her True King.