Patrick: Son of Ireland by Stephen R. Lawhead

Author:Stephen R. Lawhead
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Christian, Historical, Christian saints, Biographical fiction, General, Christian fiction, Ireland, Fiction, Religious
ISBN: 9780060012823
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2004-01-08T00:00:00+00:00

THIRTY

DESPITE MASTER HERACLES’ oft-repeated assurances of a swift journey home, three months later I was still aboard the ship with him. The summer was fading into autumn golds and browns, and still we plied the coasts, trading in every seaside settlement we came upon and many inland, too, each stop taking a day, or two, or more—days that chafed me raw with frustration. Reasoning, pleading, complaining availed nothing; Heracles blithely refused to hear my complaints. God knows I made so many my teeth hurt. All my efforts met with the same knowing smile and the words: “Soon my friend, very, very soon. Like the wind, we go.”

I slowly came to realize that I had wildly underestimated the value of my services to the ship’s master. It was not just my knowledge of the Irish language—a perpetual battle for the Latin speakers—but that I understood the Irish people. I knew how to present the trade goods in the best possible way to attract ready buyers. For example, the lords liked wine—or they did as soon as they tried it—but most considered it much too expensive for a mere drink. But when I told them I knew in truth that the high king of Rome drank only wine and drank it every day, they were amazed and duly impressed. Eager to show themselves the equals to any Roman king, they had to drink it, too, and cheerfully bought whatever we could carry.

Another time Heracles labored mightily against steady and stubborn resistance from a tight-fisted pack of southern noblemen. He showed his best wares—the bright-patterned cloth, the sweet wine, the gleaming steel knives, and all the rest—to little interest and no sales whatsoever. “It is hopeless,” he said, wiping his hands on his shirt. “They are not for buying today.”

He bade me wish the Irish lords farewell and tell them we would come again next year when, perhaps, we might have something they desired. But as the crewmen began packing up the goods, I noticed one of the Irishmen eyeing the basket containing a number of small glass jars of the kind useful for storing unguents and aromatic oils. We sold a few of them now and then, but mostly Heracles used them to sweeten a bargain, throwing in a handful to help persuade a waverer.

I moved to the man’s side and, taking up one of the little jars, told him, “These are made in Rome. I will make you a good price. A fine gift for your wife or daughter. How many would you like?”

He took the jar and held it between his thumb and finger, turning it this way and that in the light, and then dropped it to the ground and stepped on it. The glass surrendered with a brittle crunch, and he removed his foot to reveal a pile of shiny fragments. The fellow laughed, thinking, I suppose, that anything so fragile could not be of significant value.

He made to turn away but hesitated, looking once more at the heap of glass jars.

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