Patrick (32 page)

“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.”

A
S 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, Potitus,” 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 ráth. 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, priva
tion, 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 Rigmonaid. 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 Mamucium 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, preten
tious 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.”