Patricius

By Michael Lusk

Pirates. Kidnap. Enslavement. Redemption. Based on the true story of Saint Patrick of Ireland, this thrilling page-turner pulls back the veil from a man shrouded in myth - to reveal a life that forever changed the course of a nation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781678094492

Book preview

Patricius

by Michael Lusk

Copyright 2020 Michael Lusk. All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-6780-9449-2

Table of Contents

Anno Domini 433

I. Anno Domini 390

II. Anno Domini 402

III. Anno Domini 405

IV. Anno Domini 406

V. Anno Domini 412

VI. Anno Domini 418

VII. Anno Domini 420

VIII. Anno Domini 431

IX. Anno Domini 432

X. Anno Domini 433

XI. Anno Domini 434

XII. Anno Domini 460

XIII. Anno Domini 461

Epilogue

Dedication

To Patrick -

Saint. Apostle. Christian.

You changed the course of history.

You are truly one of the fabled giants

on whose shoulders we stand.

- M.J.L.

Anno Domini 433

Hill of Tara, Ireland

The druid high priest cut him off. Enough! Away with you and your foul deceptions. It’s just this manner of speech that betrays his dishonor for our gods. Kinsmen, he pleaded, do not so quickly turn away from the traditions of our fathers to this new and unproven path, as some here have done to their own peril. Provide your token offerings and victims for sacrifice with which we may entreat the great goddess Eostra. Only then will it go well with you and your children. Even the High King has done the same. He has provided sacrifices of the choicest kind, those of the sort which none of our gods will ever refuse. I speak not of the common flesh of bulls, sheep, or hogs, but of the young, pure, innocent flesh of virgins that will rise this night as a pleasing savor in the nostrils of Eostra and all the host of the gods!

The bishop exploded. Ansgar! Be it known to all here, to King Laoghaire, and to you and all your druid fiends, he shouted defiantly. "We do not worship your dead idols or the damnable demons you call gods!

I. Anno Domini 390

Bannavem Taberniae, Britannia

Snow flurried about in the dark night sky, visible by the warm light of the hearth fire gleaming through the open door. A young servant, caught in the awkward stage somewhere between fading boyhood and unrealized manhood, entered with his arms full of split oak logs on their way to the relentless hunger of the fire. The kitchen welcomed him into its warmth and glow, and no sooner had he dropped the logs onto the stone floor near the hearth than he turned quickly back toward the door, closing it with swift firmness as if to tell the wind-borne snow flakes scurrying around his chilled feet that their welcome had expired.

Is there more water boiled yet? a familiar voice demanded from behind him.

Almost, ma’am. He turned toward the fire to see a stocky woman peering into the cauldron placed over the flames, a look of intensity written on her face. Her bearing marked her trusted position within the household. She was both agile and energetic, with the type of figure that bespoke the many births she herself had endured in days long since past. Her head was crowned with wavy locks of hair so fine and white that they seemed more spirit than mortal. And though typically pinned or bound back so as to keep them from interfering with the precise execution of her duties, this cold winter night, the silvery strands found themselves less supervised and a few had managed to make their way onto the flushed cheeks of their bearer.

Her name was Delen. In the service of the family, she had filled many roles in years gone by: first, field hand, then gardener, housemaid, and finally lady’s maid. But tonight, she bore the title ‘midwife’.

Turning from the pot, Delen caught the young man’s eyes with unmistakable seriousness. Marrek, you’ll have to bring it to me. I can’t wait for it to boil. I’m going back upstairs. She paused. Lady Conchessa is in full labor. When you come, also bring a half-measure of salt and one of the towels from Lord Calpurnius’ bath.

Yes, ma’am, Marrek replied. Right away, ma’am.

She turned to leave and then halted suddenly to leave one final instruction. And Marrek, she said somberly, keep the signal fire lit. Lord Calpurnius must come at once. Delen whisked herself from the kitchen and vanished into the corridor leading to the servant’s stairwell. Something about the way she spoke left Marrek with a vague feeling of foreboding. Women have babies all the time, he said to himself, Why is she so tense? His experience with childbirth gathered over a decade and a half of boyhood was mercifully incomplete, affording him the luxury of tranquility that Delen was denied. In perfunctory obedience to Delen's instruction about the signal fire, Marrek stepped out again into the chilly blackness of the night to take a quick glance at the guard tower, currently unguarded (as it was most of the time). Atop the simple structure, he could easily see what he anticipated: the signal fire, in full flame, still ablaze with the logs he had laid in it just before evening fell. I wonder how much longer he’ll be. They must have quite a few deer by now, Marrek supposed.



Line Line

In reality, Lord Calpurnius should never have left on the hunting expedition; if he could have seen with hindsight, he never would have. But the pressure of his peers in the area had left him, in his mind, with little choice in the matter, even when weighed against the concerned entreaties of his young wife, understandably anxious over the looming approach of their firstborn. For an upper-class Roman gentleman and churchman like Calpurnius, to reject the winter hunt was unthinkable; that he had agreed to host the men of the city on his own estate would make his absence from the hunt tantamount to social suicide.

Deep in the woods, the huntsmen had been wielding their weapons in pursuit of blood - that of the prized stags, and thankfully, not that of invading hordes or restless local revolutionaries. These were peaceful times in Bannavem Taberniae and the western coast, with hardly a whisper there of the trouble afoot on the eastern shore of Britannia.



Line Line

Delen moved about the bedroom, now functioning as the delivery theater, with briskness in her steps. She was no doctor, and had no formal training, but she had overseen enough deliveries to feel at home in these settings. Her security was borne upon years of experience. That sense of confidence, however, was conspicuously lacking at the moment. Something was awry in the delivery, and she knew it, though she did not have the heart to tell Conchessa.

The mother-to-be was a young woman not yet twenty years old, though she had a stateliness and regality in her bearing that made her seem much older. Her height was slightly above average for a woman, crowned by a generous portion of long, wavy, dark-brown hair. She was slender in build, but with no hint of frailty or weakness. Her manner with others, regardless of their station, was gentle and magnanimous, without a trace of the occasional imperiousness of her husband, Calpurnius. She was sincere, simple, and truly devout. Today, she was in the worst pain of her life. Is it normal? I mean, to hurt this much?, she panted between pained gasps.

Yes, it’s normal to hurt. Delen could not bear to add, But your pains are probably a lot worse than normal. The midwife finished her most recent examination, which confirmed what she already feared: the baby was breach. She turned away from Conchessa to hide the concerned, telling look that she was certain was painted all over her face; the reflection looking back at her from the polished silver mirror on the wall confirmed her expectation. She took a few deep breathes in an effort to regain some composure and resolve. She knew all too well the battle that lay ahead. With a nauseating lump in her gut, she turned to face her patient. Ma’am, there’s something you need to know.

Conchessa picked up the anxious tone in Delen’s voice. Just tell me. I can handle it. Her gaze moved toward the ceiling as her eyes slowly closed. She braced for more.

The baby is breach.

What does that mean?

It’s supposed to come out head first, but I just checked, and the baby’s rear is there.

So what can be done?

Delen spoke as comfortingly and calmly as she knew how. Her experience had taught her that emotional strength, not just physical, was required in these situations. The good news is that you’re fully dilated; your body is ready to deliver. She looked with pity into Conchessa’s eyes. But I’ll need to try to turn the baby around.

Will that hurt? she asked, dreading the answer she already knew.

Yes, ma’am. Yes, it will. But it’s the best… She paused and corrected. It may be the only way to save the baby.

Do what you must. Just… just do whatever it takes to save the baby. Don’t worry about me. I can take it.

I’ll be as gentle as I can, but it won’t be comfortable.

I’m ready. Delen began her initial attempt. The pain, which had already been intense, now came in blinding surges. Conchessa writhed in agony.

Try not to move your bottom away from me, Delen said, adding in commiseration, I know it’s hard. Delen’s stomach knotted. She could only imagine the pain she was inflicting with every manipulation. Conchessa spread her hands out across the bed, as if groping in the dark for the relief that eluded her. She gathered heaping handfuls of bedding in her clutched fists, and when her pained cries ran out of air, all that remained was for her to sob in breathless silence as the tears streamed over her jaws and down her neck.

In an objective moment, Delen never thought herself a spiritual woman. Still, suddenly, and from somewhere deep inside her, she felt like praying. Maybe it can bring some relief, she thought - whether to Conchessa or herself or both, she was not sure. Within her mind, she fumbled clumsily to find something to say; something, anything, to address this hellish moment they were sharing. Words escaped her until at last, with unconscious and effortless fluidity, they found their way to her stammering lips and out her mouth. Pater noster qui es in coelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum… Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy Name. 

Line Line

While the water was coming to a boil, Marrek had taken advantage of the time and gathered the salt and towels Delen required. Upon returning to the kitchen, the water was rolling at a full boil in the cauldron. He carefully ladled some of it into a copper kettle and made his way upstairs at a pace leisurely enough to have elicited a hastening rebuke from Delen, had she been there to see it. Marrek exited the stairwell on the upper level of the house, entering the long hallway. Passing the many bedroom doors on either side of the corridor, he advanced steadily toward the large double door at the end of it, making sure not to splash scalding-hot water on himself inadvertently. As he approached, the sound of Conchessa’s cries and rapid breaths caught him by surprise. He was a young man - just a boy, really - with no clue what was happening on the other side of that door, but it sounded bad. And his stomach knotted with anxiety. He stopped dead in his tracks, next to the banister that opened to the foyer staircase and main entrance below.

The entry door burst open. Marrek gasped, startled so badly he nearly dropped the kettle. He whipped his head around in time to see Sergius, the steward, enter hastily and then snap quickly into position in true military style to hold the door open as Lord Calpurnius strode through. The father-to-be nearly ran up the stairs before Sergius had even shut and bolted the door. Is Lady Conchessa giving birth? The signal fire is lit.

Yes, lord, she is.

My God! I was such a fool to leave, Calpurnius confided in his young servant in an unguarded moment of candor. He ran his hand with pressure over his forehead and through his thick, dark brown hair, the tense fingers tugging and pulling as they plowed their way through, while he pitched his head toward the floor, attempting to regain his composure. Marrek never remembered seeing him more worried. How long ago did she start?

Several hours. I’m not sure really; it was sometime before sunset because I lit the signal fire while it was still daylight.

Well done, Marrek. One of the elder farmers saw the signal fire from his cottage and waited for me along his path, knowing I’d pass by there on my way to the hunting lodge. I came straightaway. Suddenly, from Conchessa’s chamber, a guttural groan seized their attention. Give me all this, Calpurnius blurted, snatching the items from Marrek’s hands and striding toward the door. As he watched Calpurnius approach the door and overheard the trial Conchessa was enduring, Marrek stood alone in the hall, empty-handed, wanting to do something, yet feeling utterly helpless. Is there anything more I can do, sir?

I’ll call if so. For now, go back to your duties. And he closed the door. Marrek took a deep breath and headed toward the service floor. Back in the kitchen, he found Sergius warming himself by the fire. In one hand, he held a clay bowl full of the lentil soup Delen had prepared before their lady had gone into labor, and in the other, a heavily-laden wooden spoon that was making rapid roundtrips from the bowl to his mouth. Are you hungry, Sergius? Marrek chuckled.

More than I have been for a long time. The rest of the hunters were no doubt stuffing their guts with venison back at the lodge, while Lord Calpurnius and I faced the cold and the dark. And, boy, in a panic he was, I tell you; it was all I could do to settle him.

It’s quite strange. Lord Calpurnius is normally so calm. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so frazzled as what he was in the corridor just now. A man like him, who’s been to war - getting upset about a little baby. Sergius laughed heartily, his ample stomach popping out as he threw his head back. If every gray hair has a story, then Sergius’ salt-and-pepper locks could have kept Marrek’s head reeling with experiential wisdom for days. But Sergius knew the boy would never truly understand until he had lived it himself. So shaking his head and grinning slyly, he cast Marrek a knowing look from the corners of his eyes, informed by the experiences lived in his paternity of five children, and left it with, You’ll know soon enough. Marrek swore he had caught a telling glint in Sergius’ eyes that bespoke things left unsaid. He wondered what they were.



Line Line

The baby is head down, ma’am. It’s time to start pushing. Delen was still serious and intense, but no longer as anxious as she had been when the baby was breach. Calpurnius had no idea what to expect, and felt indecisive and out of his element. Hand me that towel, Delen said curtly, with a command in her voice that would have normally elicited a rebuke from her master. But in this scenario, it seemed strangely appropriate that she speak to him in that way. He had seen her present bearing before, among commanders on the battlefield. And though lord of the house, there was no doubt in his mind who was in charge during this delivery, and he humbly handed her the towel. What can I do? he asked.

Just sit there in the chair and try to comfort her, Delen instructed. Calpurnius carefully settled into the chair and reached for Conchessa’s hand. She glanced at him with loving eyes set in a blotched and sweaty face. Through the pain, she managed to muster a faint smile. Are you alright? she queried.

Me? I’m fine! What about you?

I’ve been better, but if you’d been here a little earlier, you’d have seen I could be much worse. He decided now was not the time to ask her what she meant.

Alright, ma’am. Go ahead and push, Delen guided. Calpurnius winced, surprised by the unexpected power of his wife’s grip. His stomach turned; it was almost unbearable for him to watch her endure this, but he never let on. Push! urged Delen. Calpurnius found himself holding his breath and bearing down, too, though he was not sure why. Delen noticed and her eyes smiled.



Line Line

The baby quivered and shrieked in Delen’s arms. She rubbed him with salt and gently poured warm water over his tiny body. Wrapping him in a towel she had warmed near the fire, she carried him to the bedside. As she handed him into his mother’s welcoming embrace, she smiled at all three and said, Congratulations. You have a son.

Calpurnius felt like his heart would leap out of his chest. Though never one who would be qualified as sentimental, this moment found him defenseless against the flood of feeling that welled up from deep inside him. Looking at Conchessa, he laughed and burst into tears all at the same time. Joy and relief mingled together in the tears that coursed down his cheeks. Through her fatigue, she smiled back.

While Delen guided Conchessa through her first attempts at breastfeeding the newborn, Calpurnius paced back and forth, engaged in serious thought broken by an occasional interjection. Now, what to do for a name? he thought out loud. Paulus. No. Every family has a son named after him. More pacing. No. I don’t know if it should be Christian. Or even biblical. He paused in front of the window, looking into the moon-lit sky. Something dignified. Yes. That’s what he needs - something that makes a strong impression.

Strong impressions, in general, seemed to be a higher priority for Calpurnius than more spiritual considerations, and not just in the choosing of names for his offspring. Calpurnius was a deacon at the local cathedral church in Bannavem Taberniae - ‘cathedral' because it was also the see of the regional bishop, and Calpurnius was very content with his secure, long-standing position as one of Bishop Benedictus’ influential deacons. The diaconate had been a good compromise, Calpurnius thought, in light of his goals. It had allowed him to assuage his late father Potitus’ insistence that his son follow in his footsteps in an ecclesiastical vocation (Potitus had been a presbyter, pastoring a local congregation not far from Bannavem Taberniae, when Calpurnius was born), while at the same time gaining him rank and prestige he felt would further his true passion, namely, accruing wealth and elevating his social status.

His known lineage indicated a good lot of Briton tribesmen, though for his tastes, he would have loved to claim a few Roman senators or conquering generals as ancestors. What his bloodline could not furnish him in the line of connection to Rome, he had sought to supplement by his voluntary enlistment into the Roman army. His father’s ecclesiastical connections had served Calpurnius well, and combined with his relentless ambition, greased the wheels for his rapid promotion in the service of the empire. His tours of duty on the continent had exposed him to culture and civilization he could never have imagined, and only served to accustom his palate to the urbane, leaving his largely provincial lifestyle up to that point tasting disdainfully bland. If his blood was in fact Briton, there could be no question that the heart that pumped it was Roman, through and through.

As a deacon, Calpurnius saw himself as a leader in the community, certainly not a starchy theologian or clergyman. His work would be among the laity. Though in theory, that work was to focus on the service of the church, particularly the needy, he had found that not much was demanded of him by his superior in regard to that. So, Calpurnius contented himself to focus mainly on trade, land speculation, and other lucrative enterprises that he approached with his shrewd mind for business. He had little appetite for more spiritual gains.

Though he did accept the Christian faith in which he had been raised, and truly cared for his more fervent brethren in the church, his aspirations were largely tied to this earth. So, in choosing a name for his firstborn son, Calpurnius approached the decision with a strong secular bias. His goal was to impress. That’s it! he blurted, settling on his choice. Calpurnius liked the ring of it, and smiled widely. Noble. Dignified. Potent. What could be more appropriate? he thought to himself as he walked to Conchessa’s bedside. Looking into the glimmering eyes of his newborn son, his heart pulsing with all the hopeful aspirations one could imagine, he said simply, Patricius. You are Patricius. Nobleman.

II. Anno Domini 402

Hurry up, Patrick! The sun will be up soon. While the whole scheme had seemed like a great idea the night before when he and Rowan had planned it, Patricius didn’t feel the same enthusiasm now in the pre-dawn dark as they tromped through deep meadow grass laden with chilly dew. His leather boots were soaked thoroughly now, and the cold moisture penetrated through his woolen stockings; his feet were freezing. There was just enough light from the rising sun to see his hot breath convert to vapor in the brisk air of early spring. Why did I even agree to this? he asked himself, shaking his head and grimacing in mild consternation with a frown altogether too heavy for such a slight-framed boy of twelve. Rowan, contrastingly, plowed energetically through the tall grass ahead of him, her glee at their prospect visible in every stride. Patricius’ grumblings were cut short when she turned back toward him with a laughing smile. He couldn’t help but smile back. And he was suddenly reminded of that initial impulse that had led him to agree to this adventure in the first place.

It would seem that Rowan and Patricius had always been the best of friends, though their companionship was, perhaps, quite unlikely. Patricius was from the upper class, the Roman nobility; Rowan’s parents were tenant farmers on Patricius’ family estate. In terms of proximity, it was not unexpected that the two would have some dealings with one another through the years. But class has a way of distancing people’s hearts from one another, even when their bodies reside one beside the other. Of course, the innocence of children also has a way of causing them to remain delightfully oblivious to such adult distinctions. So Patricius and Rowan, born during the very same winter, on the very same estate, into two very different families, grew alongside one another year after year like the yews that stood at each side of the entryway to Patricius’ home.

As a father, Calpurnius had often expressed his concern over his son’s ongoing friendship with Rowan. "Think about it, Conchessa! A landowner’s little son and heir, befriending a tenant farmer - and a girl one, no less. What will people say?" Each time he spoke this way, Conchessa would defuse him with a look that fell somewhere between amusement and ridicule. Class distinctions be what they were, he knew that his wife did not care about them one bit. Her unspoken altruism left him feeling the full brunt of his shallowness. So despite his occasional grumblings, he always left those two with their unique bond.

Rowan’s parents had named her red-headed at birth, when the fuzz on her newborn head showed a subtle reddish hue; now, twelve years later, their expectation held true. Her hair now flowed halfway down her back, in auburn waves bordering on curls, that bounced and sprang as if animated by the spirit of the girl housed within her tiny body.

As they approached the cathedral, still cloaked in shadow, they both knew that time was of the essence. Soon, dawn would break and the morning sun would make that much more likely the discovery of their plot. They slunk up to the rear entrance of the cathedral, the view of which was partly blocked by a decorative wall. "Give