Chapter 2. From Master to Slave. Fortunately for Patrick and the others, their Irish captors had no interest in their particular heads. The only heads they collected were those of warriors and kings. The heads of this frightened band of women, boys, and servants were of no value as collector's items. Several women and children came running through the gate with outstretched arms, embracing their husbands and fathers. Seeing this, Patrick burst out in disgust. "This whole scene sickens me.
Marcella, can you imagine someone welcoming these smelly beasts like they were Roman heroes or something?" "I don't know," Marcella replied soberly. "Has it ever occurred to you that barbarians might have families just like we do? Love and family devotion aren't limited to the Roman Empire, you know." "Maybe not," Patrick retorted. "But it's still different. We Romans have never gone around kidnapping anyone. Our heroes are real heroes." "Really?" Marcella responded curtly as she brushed some weeds off her dress.
"Don't kid yourself. Do you think our British ancestors voluntarily joined the Roman Empire?" "I don't know. I guess I never thought about it." "Well, they didn't. My father told me that centuries ago the Roman legions landed in Britain, killing and enslaving our people. I doubt our ancestors felt any differently about the Romans than you feel about the Irish." Patrick was about to reply when the warriors shouted to the prisoners, motioning for them to follow some of the servants inside the crude wooden fence.
The servants allowed the prisoners to relax while most of the warriors went inside the king's house. The frightened prisoners sprawled on the ground to rest their weary legs. Many of them were weeping. Marcella and some of the others prayed aloud. Patrick screamed at the dark heavens for deliverance until he was hoarse. A pretty, raven-haired maiden sat glassy-eyed in a corner as though in a stupor.
From the courtyard, Patrick and the others could hear the boisterous laughter, exclamations of glee, and excited talk of the warriors inside the lodge. Two husky servants carried a large cask of ale into the house, straining under the load. "I wonder where we are?" Patrick mused aloud as he gazed around him. "Believe it or not, you're sitting in the courtyard of an Irish king," one of the captives, a red-faced fisherman, answered. Patrick looked around him in contempt.
The king's dwelling was simply a long house constructed from rough-hewn logs cut down from the nearby woods. The roof was thatched with straw. Smoke from the fire inside wafted through the thatch, and Patrick could smell the tarry scent of the resin-rich timber. Dogs and pigs wandered around the courtyard. "This doesn't look like the house of a king to me," Patrick replied scornfully. "But I guess it befits a king of these Irish pigs." A dog came up and sniffed at Patrick's legs.
Patrick sent him tumbling with a swift kick. Meanwhile, servants scurried back and forth, some of them feeding livestock, others carrying large jugs of water or wicker baskets filled with grain. Patrick began to look for a way to escape. Glancing behind him, his keen eyes spotted a broken, rusty iron plow laying against the palisade fence. Patrick thought for a moment about the possibilities.
Noticing Patrick's glance, Marcella whispered to him, "What are you thinking?" "I could rub these ropes against the metal edge of that plowshare," Patrick replied quietly, looking away from the plow. "I think it would easily cut through the rope. I could then make a mad dash through the open gate down to the coast." "And what would be the use of that?" Marcella countered. "Are you going to swim back to Britain?
Besides, one of the warriors would probably run you through with his spear before you took a hundred steps." While Patrick reconsidered the matter, a company of servants brought the prisoners large bowls of porridge and several wooden buckets of water with ladles. After slamming the gate shut, the servants untied the prisoners while two armed warriors stood watch. Patrick stood up dramatically, rubbing his sore wrists.
"Since I'm the only one here who comes from a patrician family," he announced smugly, "I'll eat and drink first." He took a step toward the food but was nearly knocked flat as the famished prisoners stampeded to the food and voraciously wolfed it down. Somewhat bemused, Marcella exclaimed, "I'm afraid we're all equals here, Patrick." Her brown eyes twinkled. They spent a whole week in the crude courtyard of the Irish king. At night, they were bound, but their ropes were removed during the day.
One morning, after the prisoners had eaten, a group of warriors suddenly appeared. They made the prisoners line up in single file and tied ropes around their necks. Then they led the pathetic group out of the courtyard to a field about half a mile away. What a scene met Patrick's eyes. A crowd of brightly clad men and women had gathered in the field. A carnival-like cacophony assaulted Patrick's ears. Men shouted, women laughed, dogs barked, sheep bleated, bulls bellowed, and calves bawled.
Peddlers displayed their wares while wandering bards sang joyful songs, accompanied by the clear and resonant plucking of their harps. The whole field swayed with noise and color. "What's this all about?" the distraught Patrick asked Marcella, who was ahead of him in the line. "It looks like it's market day," she responded soberly. "I think we're going to be sold as slaves." "But you said we'd be ransomed!" Patrick protested as he started to panic.
Several men led the prisoners to an empty wagon where a small crowd had gathered. The onlookers carefully scrutinized the prisoners as they walked through the throng. An old white-haired woman grinned at the captives through toothless gums and poked at their bodies with a twisted stick. Numb from hunger, cold, and fear, most of the captives put up little resistance as the buyers examined them. Patrick winced as they felt his muscles and examined his teeth as though he were a horse being sold at market.
"I'll get even with every one of you miserable beasts as soon as I get free!" Patrick screamed. Before long, Marcella was sold to a blonde-haired woman wearing a richly embroidered dress. Marcella glanced back at Patrick as she was being led away and tried to give him a reassuring smile. Several of the men seemed particularly interested in Patrick, and they were haggling with one of the warriors about him. The dickering grew rather heated, but finally one of the men outbid the others.
He was a muscular man in his twenties with auburn hair and green eyes. The warrior struck the young buyer's open palm, signifying they had reached an agreement. A kind-faced man with graying locks walked up to Patrick and tried to lead him away by the rope tied around his neck. However, a wave of panic engulfed Patrick, and he began tugging furiously at his ropes and screaming out to the dark gray sky, "God, help me! Help me!" "Easy there, lad," the kind-faced man said calmly.
"No one's going to hurt you." "You speak British?" Patrick asked in surprise, calming down. "I should hope so. I was born and raised there." "Then what are you doing here? Working for these Irish pigs?" "I was captured, just like you," the kind-faced man explained as he tried to lead Patrick along. He then stopped and sighed. "Look, we've got a long walk ahead. Quit struggling, and I'll tell you all about myself as we walk." Seeing that resistance was useless, Patrick reluctantly complied.
Soon the young auburn-haired man who had purchased Patrick joined them, and the three men followed a small path that crisscrossed through dark woods and open flower-strewn meadows. "What's your name?" Patrick finally asked the man from Britain. "My name is Sid," he replied. Then, pointing at the other man, he added, "And he's Donovan. What's your name?" "Magonas Sucatas Patricios." "Quite a name. You must come from a patrician family." "I do. My father, Calpornius, is a decurion." "A decurion? Really?
Quite an important man, I take it." "Well, to tell you the truth, my father has tried hard to be released from this responsibility, but they won't let him. You see, he and the other decurions have to pay the provincial taxes out of their own pockets if they don't collect enough from the other citizens." "Sounds more like a burden than an honor," Sid observed. "You're right. It is. But my father tells me that it hasn't always been that way. People used to seek eagerly after decurionship.
Maybe it was easier to collect taxes in those days." Patrick shrugged his shoulders. "What about you? Do you come from a patrician family?" "With a name like Sid," he answered with a broad smile. "Hardly. I come from a poor family of fishermen. However, we were all devout Christians, Patricios." "Oh, you can call me Patrick," Patrick volunteered, beginning to warm up to Sid. "That's what my friends all call me.
Tell me, whereabouts in Britain did you live?" "I was born and raised near Glenaventure, on the west coast." "Yes, I've heard of it. So were you a fisherman like the rest of your family?" "Some of the time. However, when I was about twenty, I resolved never to marry so that I could devote my life to Christ's service. Through the help of the church, I obtained a basic education and was eventually ordained as a deacon." "Really? My father is a deacon." "Is he? What about you?
Were you seeking to enter the ministry too?" Patrick paused for a moment, looking a bit sheepish. "No, I guess not," he stammered, half ashamed. "You see, I'm not much on religion. I mean, I guess it's okay for people like you and my father, but not for me." The men had been walking for several hours and had just reached the top of a high emerald-green hill. Donovan paused to rest. Sitting on the ground, he produced some bread and cheese from a leather satchel and shared it with the other two men.
With Donovan's permission, Sid untied Patrick's hands and took the rope off his neck. Patrick rubbed his sore neck and wrists, relieved to be free of the constraining ropes. Sid relaxed on the grass, surveying the panorama before them of lush valleys, rolling pastureland, and dark, primeval woods. "Ireland is truly a beautiful place," Sid reflected, drinking in the landscape. "It's a masterpiece of God's handiwork." "No, Ireland is a prison," Patrick countered angrily.
He stood up and brushed the dirt off his knees. "Any place that holds slaves is a prison." "I see. And so your parents don't own any slaves," Sid responded, turning around to face Patrick. "Well, that's different." "Oh, really?" Patrick sat back down and quickly changed the subject. "You haven't told me how you ended up in Ireland." "Well, one day I was out fishing. I was about thirty years old at the time, and I got caught in a storm. The wind blew me off course, and in the fog and darkness, I was completely lost.
Through God's grace, my little boat was finally washed ashore. In the darkness, I had no idea where I was. However, since my boat was badly damaged, I knew I needed to find help. I saw a light not too far from the shore, and so I followed it to a small cottage. Without thinking, I knocked at the door and..." "And you found out you were in Ireland and were taken prisoner?" Patrick interrupted. "Exactly.
That was about twenty years ago, and I've been a slave ever since." "And I take it he's your master?" Patrick asked, gesturing toward Donovan. "No, he's not my master. He's the eldest son of my master, Milchu." Then, touching Patrick's shoulder playfully, Sid added, "Or, I guess I should say, our master." Patrick's lips tightened at the last remark, and he brushed Sid's hand from his shoulder. He was still sulking when Donovan indicated it was time to continue on. After a while, Patrick broke the silence.
"What's this Milchu like?" "Well, he's a little older than me. For an Irishman, he's fairly wealthy. He's got fifteen or so servants and several flocks of sheep, not to mention a herd of cattle." "I mean, what's he like as a master?" "Oh, I can't complain. He's not bad at all. I've seen far worse." "My legs are tired," Patrick complained. "When are we going to get where we're going?" "Our master's place is near the wood of Voclut, several days away, so you better get used to walking," Sid answered with a smile.
He was determined not to let Patrick's constant whining upset his usually cheerful disposition. The small band trekked on until dusk and then set up camp in a forest. "Ow, I'm not used to so much walking," Patrick complained as he gingerly rubbed his feet. Sid produced some liniment from his satchel and daubed it on Patrick's feet. "This is made from sheep's fat," he explained as he worked. "There, that should help. Don't worry, in a few days your feet and legs will be used to walking.
I guess you've lived a pretty soft life, huh?" Too tired to answer, Patrick lay back on the forest floor. Apologizing first, Sid tied Patrick's legs and hands before they all went to sleep. At sunrise, he released him, and they continued their journey. "Don't you just love the scenery, Patrick?" Sid asked cheerfully as they journeyed through emerald valleys and flower-covered hills. "All I can think of right now is my own misery," Patrick grumbled, massaging his wrists to restore the circulation.
"You know, you didn't have to tie those ropes so tight." "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. But I do have to follow orders, you know," noting Patrick's downcast face, Sid added sympathetically. "I know how you feel. Being a prisoner in a foreign land... I have to admit that I was pretty upset when I was first taken captive.
But I finally realized that being gloomy wasn't going to change the way things are, so I just had to make the best of it." Patrick made no reply but simply continued to march on with his head hung low. However, over the next few days, Patrick and Sid became friends as they journeyed to the wood of Voclut. Patrick brought Sid up to date on things in Britain, and Sid answered Patrick's endless questions about Ireland. On the fifth day, the party began to cross a vast peat bog. "Help me, Sid!
I'm sinking!" Patrick suddenly cried in alarm, flailing his arms wildly as his feet sank into the spongy bog.