He was sold at Slemish in the north of Ireland to a lord called Miliuc maccu Bain, who styled himself King of Dal Araidhe, when in fact he ruled from his ringed hillfort little more than a minor Roman magistrate. It was a primitive country with more kings than sheep, it seemed to Patricius, who was set to herd them. Cities and towns were unknown. For six years, Patricius lived mostly under the open sky.

The cold, damp, solitary life of a shepherd rubbed the Roman out of Patricius and exposed the bedrock Bri-gante youth who needed something—anything—to keep his guttering spirit alive. His world in small, he clutched at a personal God for present comfort and deemed the comfort an absolute. Shivering on an icy mountainside, he wasted no time in defining his newfound God beyond protection and warmth, but prayed because he needed to, believed in order to survive in a slave's life where nothing short of iron belief would see him through one more day.

When he escaped finally with other runaway slaves and made his way to Gaul, he was an aggressive believer in the Christ who sustained him in the lions' den and totally intolerant of any dissent. The Augustinians preached the need for God's Grace; he had received that Grace and would not question it. They preached imminent judgment; he would be cleansed and ready if it came that day, that minute. He had never thought deeply about God or anything else and deluded himself that he was now doing so. In mellowed years Patricius saw that the salvation he clung to then was no more than a surrogate nipple. He sucked at the Church like a breast or a baby-thumb, without defining it.

When he and his companions were captured by Franks and shortly ransomed by Christians, his course was set. He found his way to Auxerre and went to the old bishop, Amathor, to be admitted into holy orders.

The years of slavery scrubbed from Patricius' soul any sophistry that might have clung to it. He would be a priest as his grandfather Potitus. What a worldly man would call his self-conceit, Patricius knew for destiny. He studied diligently under Amathor while scorning the bishop's liberal views.

"There are no disbelievers in the cold," Patricius said. To his own credit, Amathor had enough tolerance for himself and one fire-minded young man. When his social friends in Auxerre made fun of the terribly serious

young acolyte, Amathor only responded with a knowing smile.

"This one is tough. This one will last. Give him time."

Patricius heard with a flush of righteous vindication that Augustine was favored over Pelagius at Rome. When Amathor died and was succeeded in the diocese of Auxerre by a rigorous Augustinian, Germanus, the young priest knew he'd come into his own. Germanus had no use for playing with words or the easygoing Pe-lagianism that pervaded the British Church and was spreading its seductive poison even to Gaul. Man's pride-ridden error that his own intelligence and natural inclination to good would save him, Germanus thrust aside with rough contempt, preaching that only those chosen by God would receive Grace, and that blessed company was much smaller in number than the complacent heretics would dare to guess. Germanus routed out and challenged the Pelagian heresy wherever he found it. When he sailed for Britain to beard them on then-very doorstep, Father Patricius followed in his wake like Peter after Christ on the shore, to be a fisher of men.

Germanus was much more popular with the British commoners than the educated followers of Pelagius. Like Caesar, he came and conquered. His appeal was emotional and direct, a strong man in severe garb, plainly speaking his beliefs and supporting them with Scripture. He caused a stir and flutter, announced his victory, and left Britain again.

After Germanus' departure, Patricius was something of a man without a star. For all the triumph, he could see no marked difference in his countrymen, not even his parents, with whom he now had nothing in common spiritually. It was not enough to preach, then; one also had to proselytize. The true men of God were not in the established centers of faith. Potitus had been thus, comfortably preaching to the converted. His father still dozed through the Mass and the sermons along with the other well-fed decurions and tradesmen of Clannaventa. Not

for him: Patricius' panting zeal remembered the caustic purity of Germanus and viewed with the eye of unforgiving youth those Britons whom he now saw as a people gelded of honor or pride, begging Rome to return because they were unable to fend for themselves, yet, like contrary children, wanting their own way in the bargain. Where was the glory in such a congregation of sheep? He would go where men were still benighted but vital, fallow but ripe for his seed. To Ireland.

This called for a tedious round of protocol. Certain prelates must be seen; he must have a sponsor. Patricius grated as harshly on clerics as he did on the laity. The bishop of Camulodunum listened politely and referred Patricius west to the prelate of Caerleon, who neatly deflected him with tactful letters of introduction to Bishop Meganius at Eburacum.

Thus, blind luck and God's intervention being perhaps two names for the same effect, Patricius came on a summer evening to the man who could shape his life for the best while it was still malleable.

Like Patricius, Cai meqq Owain was the son of a de-curion and styled himself Caius Meganius to the clergy at home and abroad, with whom he was in continual touch. A mellow and worldly man well past fifty, Meganius knew to the core the spirit and needs of his people and those of the Church that had consecrated him bishop of Eburacum. If the needs were often at odds with the spirit, so were those in any marriage. The faith would endure, as would the people of his diocese, both strong enough to tolerate a few differences.

"Surely you will take a little more wine, my lord." Smiling at Prince Marchudd, Meganius barely lifted his hand to the hovering servant, and the prince's silver goblet was refilled. Meganius savored both his wine and that exquisite moment when the heat of the afternoon was softened but not quite gone from the day. The sun was well below the courtyard wall, light still sparkled on the water of the fountain, and the mournful falling

cry of the peacocks punctuated the tranquil afternoon.

Prince Marchudd's fingers drummed on the arm of his chair: a restless man, Meganius thought, quite aptly named before he changed the appellation. He was christened Rhys, which means "rapid" or "rushing," and only on his accession to the throne of the Parisii and Brigantes did he style himself Marchudd or "horse lord." Some clergy saw this as a lapse of faith. Meganius knew it was entirely political, helping Marchudd and his consort to identify with the unbaptized among their tributary chieftains, especially the remote Brigantes. The royal house of Eburacum, like the Church, would do or be whatever it needed to survive.

Marchudd shifted in his chair, obviously more comfortable in movement than repose. A small, darting, intelligent man, he was more at ease in British trousers and tunic than the purple-striped gown and toga his visit prompted him to wear. The toga trapped his left hand, holding it in place, quite an annoyance since he was left-handed, and forced him to wear the gold armlet of the Parisii and Brigantes on his right arm, where it always felt awkward.

"On this matter of the Coritani," he said in clipped tones, "if they want a war, they've got one. I've relinquished the claims on their northern lands, but I'll have their respect. The cattle raids will cease, by God. Those people are worse than Faerie for thieving and I've told their nuncios as much."

"How do you think it will come out?" Meganius plied in real concern.

"In all candor?"

"And all confidence."

"I think in a year or two I'm going to be at war— och! Let's talk of pleasanter things." Marchudd's balding pate jerked impatiently. "My new son."

"Ah, yes. How does he?"

"Lusty as a bull, hungry all the time."

"A proper princeling."

"We'd have him baptized tomorrow if you will officiate."

"Of course. What will you name him?"

"We thought of Constantius, but the princess thinks something old-fashioned might be better, so we'll name him Cador."

"Excellent." The bishop bobbed his head judiciously. He raised his goblet to the notion. "May he be chosen prince in his time and grow wise as his father."

As a matter of fact, Meganius' wish was answered with an embarrassment of riches. Marchudd was an able administrator. Cador grew into one whom even Ambro-sius noted as a wizard at playing both ends against the middle, and he sired Guenevere, who was much of the political genius ascribed to Arthur.

Meganius was distracted for a moment; his gatekeeper had just admitted a stranger, a young priest who stood waiting inside the portal, noting with obvious disapproval the bas-relief of Janus carved into the gate arch. The gatekeeper relayed his whispered message to the servant in attendance on Meganius and his guest, who then hurried to the bishop's elbow.

"Who is it, Corns?"

"A Father Patricius, your grace. He says you have had letters from Caerleon of his coming."

"Oh, yes," Meganius verified without enthusiasm. Then to Marchudd: "The young Augustinian, my lord. One of Germanus' lion-killers."

"Well," Prince Marchudd rose, eager to be away and to waiting business as always. "I'll leave you to receive him. I can't abide that sort."

"Perhaps he's still green enough to be salvaged. Besides, I think you know his father. Send him to me, Corns."

Marchudd looked blank. "His father?"

"The decurion Calpurnius of Clannaventa."