CHAPTER 2
Bannaven Taberniae, Britannia, 5th Century:
“Your roll.” Patrick grinned at his friend and tossed the pair of dice across the table.
“What should I wager?” Linus leaned back in his chair, rattling the dice in his hand with a self-assured smirk. “Another denarii?” He threw the game pieces. Doubles.
Patrick laughed in spite of himself. “You’ve won again.” He drained his mug of ale.
“When are you going to pay me the denarii you owe?” Linus asked good-naturedly. They both knew the debt that had accumulated throughout their training years would remain unpaid. 
Darys, the ten-year-old Pictish houseboy, appeared with another tray of beer. His eyes were puffy from lack of sleep and he wobbled slightly as he set two more mugs before his master.
“Are we keeping you up too late?” Patrick asked. “Well, this will be our last game and last ale.”
Linus yawned. “It will? I thought I was staying here until your parents returned from casting their vote.” The dice clinked in his cupped hand, assuring him of another win.
“We can play until sunrise, but let the boy get his sleep. Go on.” Patrick motioned for the servant to be on his way. “Good thing we don’t have training tomorrow. I’d never be able to lift a sword, drinking at this rate.”
Linus snorted. They practiced drills reserved for wealthy sons of Roman citizens. In their last year, the young men knew they received only perfunctory training of basic techniques and ceremonial duties.
Suddenly, a sharp crack reverberated through the house. Patrick gripped the table and Darys threw himself onto silk cushions piled on the floor.
“Raiders!” Linus sat still in his chair, as if frozen.
“Here? We’re miles up the Sabrina. Raiders never sail this far inland,” Patrick whispered.
Another ripping crash ricocheted off the cool plaster walls, and the sound of splitting oak told him the solid door that protected his family’s home stood no longer.
Patrick peeked cautiously out the dining room entrance. “I’m going to get my sword. It’s in my bedchamber.”
“No, Patrick. It’s too dangerous. Don’t go out there!” Linus hadn’t moved from his chair and Darys cowered beneath the cushions.
“What else are we going to do? Do you have your sword with you?”
Linus reached into the tall leather of his boot. “Only a dagger.”
“It’s better than nothing. Stay here with Darys until I return.”
Patrick darted out into the atrium as the sounds of breaking glassware and ceramics echoed throughout the villa. He ran into his room and searched for his sword at his bedside – not there. His head spun. There it lay, in a slim shaft of moonlight, carelessly atop his trunk. He cursed himself for leaving it out of its usual place and blamed Linus for the distraction of dice and ale.
From the far end of the garden, servants screamed for help in their native tongue, rather than the Latin his father required them to speak. Close by, on the other side of the wall, a woman cried out, a wrenching sound that made his heart stop. Cold sweat lined his brow. These raiders would come for him and kill him. The thud of footsteps approached his doorway.
***
“Deo juvante.” With God’s help, Patrick prayed, something he didn’t often do. He wrapped his long fingers around the familiar hilt of his sword. From his requisite training, he knew his sword thrusts were as accurate as his arrow marks, but he not been tested in battle. He tightened his grip with a nervous breath and raised the weapon.
Four muscular men with long, unkempt mustaches burst through the door. Before he could swing the sword with a cutting slice as he had practiced, the intruders lunged for him. His head exploded in pain as it slammed onto the floor. Hard, callused hands grabbed at his arms and legs. He pushed against the huge men covered in dirty plaid cloaks, anything to get away from them. With his free hand, he waved his sword, struggling for an angle. Several hard blows to his stomach took the wind from him, and forced him to drop the heavy sword. The iron clattered loudly on the tiled floor.
Patrick’s fear gave way to fury, and he bit his attacker’s arm, tasting the old salt of sweat and seawater. He kicked and yelled and his legs thrashed wildly against the intruders who held him down. Their long matted hair covered his face and he bit at that as well. Stringy strands and disgusting grit filled his mouth. His knee struck one man’s groin, and the raider merely grunted. The intruders seemed to be made of solid rock. Outnumbered, he wished his legion were here – wait, where was Linus?
Two men held him fast to the floor while the others bound his hands. They weren’t trying to kill him; they would have done it by now. Ropes, tight and cutting, secured his wrists behind his back as he lay panting, face down in his bedroom doorway. A man in leather breeches, issued from the Roman army and similar to his own, ran past.
“Linus!” he cried, but his friend had gone.
Where were the guards? Linus would call them.
He faintly recognized the kidnapper’s Irish Gaelic, a distant cousin of the local Welsh dialect, before a sack went over his head. Rough, woven flax scratched his face, and it smelled like the inside of a stable; dank and musty.
Forceful hands carried Patrick outside and a gravelly voice shouted orders in Irish. Clanking metal told him these thieves took his family’s heirlooms, lost forever. Cold night air slapped his body as his captor hefted him over his shoulder, and took him from the only home he had ever known. Punches and blade-thrusts between servants and sailors accosted his ears. He bucked in an effort to remove the sack, kicking at his captor with his long legs. Suddenly, the raider grunted and stumbled, throwing Patrick hard to the ground.
Still hooded and bound, Patrick hoped not to be trampled in the melee as he twisted his bound body in an effort to stand. The clash of swords and daggers rang in his ears, and the smell of smoke burned his nostrils. Another pair of hands surprised him and dragged him across the cool grass.
“I got him good, didn’t I? A nice stab to the shoulder made him drop you quickly.”
Patrick gratefully gulped in cool air, tinged with smoke, as Siculus, his father’s manservant, pulled the stifling sack from his head.
Who were these beasts, tearing apart his home? Where were the guards? Linus should have summoned them by now. His eyes adjusted to the dark night, punctuated by the flames of the burning house.
A grove of oaks partially hid them. Patrick craned his neck, trying to see the villa, while Siculus struggled to untie the ropes from Patrick’s hands and feet.
“Head down!” Siculus fumbled with the cords on Patrick’s wrists. Between the haze of billowing smoke and the scramble of terrified servants, Patrick couldn’t see what happened to his home.
“Hurry,” Patrick urged. Although they had refuge in the oak grove, it wouldn’t be for long.
“I dropped my blade when I stabbed that large brute. I have no knife to cut the ropes,” Siculus said.
Patrick squinted through the darkness again. Still no sign of the Roman guards. Perhaps they could hide amongst the oaks until the sacking ended. His shoulders ached and his hands, gone numb, hung loose around the small of his back. Siculus tugged and pulled on the tight ropes, making only limited progress, when his fumbling fingers stopped their movement.
Dampness spattered Patrick’s cheek, and the strong coppery scent of blood assaulted his senses. Siculus gasped, then gurgled, and fell with a quiet slump into the soft earth.
Patrick found himself tossed over the raider’s shoulder once again like a sack of grain. Blood rushed to his head, as he thrashed in an effort to escape, and gasped when they turned. Siculus lay face down, with his own dagger next to his throat. Blood drained in pools around him. Patrick’s stomach churned and bile rose bitter into his mouth. His minor skirmishes had not prepared him for the sight of death. Not of one so close.
Patrick struggled against the raider as the man reached down to pick up the fallen blade next to Siculus. From his upside down 
vantage, Patrick recognized the well-trodden path, which led to the river. His captor slid along the muddied trail to boats that bumped gently against each other at the curve in the river’s bend. Patrick lifted his aching head from his captor’s broad back and saw his home engulfed in flames.
