Stephen Lawhead - Patrick, Son of Ireland

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2024-12-20 0 0 1.07MB 560 页 5.9玖币
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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.
摘要：

PATRICKSonofIrelandbyStephenLawheadSevenyearsyourportion,underastone,inaquagmire,withoutfood,withouttaste,butthefireofthirstyouevertorturing;thelawofjudgesyourlesson,prayeryourlanguage;AndifyouliketoreturnYouwillbe,foratime,aDruid,perhaps.-AncientirishpoemInabookbelongingtoUltan,BishopofConnor,Ihave...

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