Patrick (37 page)

G
AUL, 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 Namnétes, 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 Namnétes, 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 natter
ing 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 cam
paign 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.”