It was an impressive vision, and he was proud of it.
But when Petrus hurried to tell Martinus about it early that morning the monk’s reaction was rather disappointing.
“If you truly wish to serve God,” he said, “you must learn self-discipline. I advise you to go to one of the monasteries in Gaul. Study there for several years: it will teach your unruly spirit to submit to God. Then you may become a missionary.”
Petrus thanked him politely. But he took little notice of the advice. The vision, it seemed to him, had been definitive. He had never experienced such a thing before: and now that God had spoken to him so directly, whole vistas opened up in his mind in which he could see himself in a set of new and heroic roles.
It was late afternoon the next day that Tarquinus saw Petrus riding towards him along the track that led to the big curve of the river. As he stared at the young landowner, the cowherd’s cunning old eyes grew wide with astonishment.
Petrus was riding his horse at a walk, and he was followed by half a dozen estate workers. But what caused the old man to stare was his appearance.
For Petrus’s head was bare, and the entire crown had been shaved completely bald.
Stranger still, as Tarquinus opened his mouth to greet him, the young man stared at him as if he were a monster, and then turned his face away. What could it mean? Confused, Tarquinus waited a little, then followed the party towards the curve in the river.
If he was surprised before, it was nothing compared to his amazement at what he saw next.
Petrus knew what he must do. And he was methodical.
When he reached the clearing where the
taurobolium
pit was concealed, he quickly ordered the men to pull back the planks and break up the wooden grid that covered it.
“Burn the wood, and fill in the pit,” he ordered them. “See that it’s finished tonight.”
When Tarquinus, who had heard his orders, hobbled into the clearing to protest, he gave the old man a withering look and cried:
“Your iniquity is destroyed, servant of Satan!”
Then, before the cowherd could reply, he turned his horse’s head briskly and rode towards the valley.
Darkness was falling when he arrived at the villa where he was eagerly awaited. A farmhand had told Numincus an hour before that Petrus had been seen, and the steward had hurried to the villa to ensure that preparations were made. A dozen welcoming torches now burned near the doorway and even Constantius had roused himself to stand with his wife and the steward to greet his son.
“Let us hope,” he said, “that he has found a rich bride.”
As Petrus dismounted, all three came out; to his surprise, Constantius felt his arm gripped, and found himself embraced by Petrus with an affection that he had not known in years.
It was only when the party moved inside that he, too, noticed the tonsure that had been causing the other two to stare. And as he gazed at his son’s head in puzzlement, Petrus announced:
“I have news that will please you, father. I have been converted at last to the true faith of Christ.” And while Constantius blinked in astonishment he went on. “Before coming here, I destroyed the
taurobolium
. There will be no more such iniquities at Sarum.”
As he took the news in, Constantius felt tears come to his eyes. “My dear son,” was all that he could say, “I thank God.”
It was only when they were seated, and the servants had brought in a huge bowl of steaming fish, that Placidia, who had been staring at her son’s tonsure thoughtfully, quietly asked:
“And what of Flavia, Petrus. Was she to your liking?”
Petrus gazed back at her serenely. A half smile crossed his face and gently he tapped his shaven head.
“Flavia? I don’t know,” he replied, as though it was the most natural reply in the world. “When I vowed to serve only Christ,” he explained calmly, “I undertook a vow of chastity. I swore never to know woman again. So obviously there was no point in going to see Flavia. I just turned my horse’s head and came back to Sarum.” And while the others were still digesting this appalling news, he went on: “I’ve decided to join Patrick in Ireland. I shall leave in three days.”
The battle of will between Petrus Porteus and his mother lasted not three, but five days. During that time each discovered strengths in the other that surprised them.
It began that first night. While Constantius sat slumped and silent, and Numincus’s sad grey eyes gazed at him in mute appeal, Placidia marshalled her forces carefully.
She had no illusions about his conversion. To her it seemed her son had simply found a new and exciting role to play. But she was careful. She argued with him gently: why did he want to do this? He told her in detail about his conversation with Martinus and his dreams. She listened carefully, then plied him with questions.
“Does God demand that you leave Sarum to be destroyed? What of us? Doesn’t the Bible say, ‘Honour your father and mother’? Will you desert us?”
As she argued, Placidia was wise. She took care never to attack his conversion or to suggest that God had not spoken to him. She did not dispute his visions, but only the interpretation of them. “If God commands you to feed his sheep,” he argued, “how can we be sure he meant the Irish? Isn’t there plenty of work to be done for God in Sarum?”
But Petrus was obdurate. And when she pleaded with him that the villa might be destroyed, he answered passionately:
“It is the city of God we must defend, not the work of man. God will decide the fate of Sarum.”
“And did God demand in the dream that you should be celibate?” she pressed him.
To which he only replied:
“I know my own weakness. A woman would distract me. This way is better.”
They argued until dawn, and as the night wore on and she saw the quiet but unshakable determination of her son, she recognised the ruin of all her hopes. I’d rather he married the girl Sulicena and had children by her, she thought, than had none at all. Whether this was a passing enthusiasm or a genuine vocation – she was not sure which herself – it made little difference if he left for Ireland and perhaps was killed.
“You really mean to leave in three days?”
He nodded.
She wondered if she would ever see him again.
Though they argued quietly like this, hour after hour, the other two men did not join in.
Constantius had no need to. In the first place, he was delighted with his son’s conversion to the true faith. In the second, he saw at once that if his son did as he suggested, then the defence of Sarum would be in his hands again. No one could argue now if he got rid of those German heathens. He would show them what he could do. After a time, during which he had quietly drunk a pitcher of wine to celebrate, he had subsided into sleep.
Numincus sat, as he usually did, only speaking when spoken to, his grey eyes blinking slowly. Some time before dawn, his eyes closed and only opened again once or twice, for a few seconds at a time.
At last, mother and son retired to their rooms.
Alone in his room, Petrus prepared his bed carefully. He did so in a strange manner.
Instead of lying down on the couch beside the wall, he began to dismantle it, removing the slats of wood on which the mattress rested and placing them on the floor. The pillow cushion he discarded. Then he stripped. Under his clothes he was wearing not linen, but a hair shirt: a coarse garment which he had managed to acquire from Martinus, and the prickly discomfort of which had already brought his skin out in a rash. Dressed only in this, he lay down on the bare boards, his head on the stone floor. His feet were cold. He shivered slightly. But this, he knew, was how the great men of the Church, men like Germanus of Auxerre, mortified their flesh, and he was resolved to do likewise. And this was how Placidia found him, asleep, later that morning.
During the next day, he paid two more important visits. The first was to the dune.
He rode through the gate and walked his horse slowly past the camp of the Germans, who watched him curiously. He ignored them however, and headed for the little house at the far side of the place, that was occupied by Tarquinus. There he halted, and called to the cowherd to come out.
Tarquinus emerged suspiciously. After the incident of the day before, everyone at Sarum knew that strange changes had come over Petrus. No one could be sure what might come next.
Petrus came straight to the point.
“Bring the idol of Sulis out of the shrine,” he ordered, pointing to the little hut beside Tarquinus’s house.
Unwillingly Tarquinus went in and came back with the little stone figure.
“There will be no more pagan gods at Sarum,” Petrus announced. “The idol must be broken up. Give it to me.”
But Tarquinus clutched the little figure close to his chest.
“No.”
Petrus stared at him. Was the cowherd defying him?
“I can make you,” he threatened.
Tarquinus said nothing, but he did not loosen his hold. Petrus looked into his eyes and saw that they were full of hate. He had no doubt that Tarquinus was laying curses on him; but though such a thought a month ago would have terrified him, now he found that he did not even care.
“Very well,” he said coldly. “You are to leave Sarum. For ever. Collect your things and go.”
Without a word, Tarquinus turned and went back into his house. A few minutes later he reappeared with a few belongings. Not even looking at Petrus this time, the old man shuffled out of the dune; and once outside, he went down the path to the empty settlement of Sorviodunum and the river. Pulling a small boat from its mooring, he stepped into it and paddled down stream; only as the current caught him and swept him southwards did he turn and mutter:
“I’ll be back, young Porteus. And so will she.” He stroked the little stone figure. “But your Christian eyes will never see us.”
From the dune above, he saw a thin column of smoke rising. Petrus was burning down his house and the little shrine.
It was a few hours later that Petrus arrived at the house of Sulicena. The girl was standing in front of the door, her large eyes watching him approach. She was dressed only in a thin robe tied with a girdle round her waist, and as he saw her slim figure he felt his familiar lust rising again.
She stepped forward, obviously expecting him to dismount, but he did not. For a second he felt his hand tremble, but he controlled it. She looked curiously at his shaved head.
“I am leaving for Ireland,” he told her coldly. In a few words he explained his conversion and the vows he had taken. She stared at him in disbelief.
“You mean you’ll never lie with a woman again, as long as you live?”
He nodded.
She laughed aloud, and for some reason Petrus found himself blushing. But when she found that he was serious, he saw a hint of scorn appear in her face.
Finally she moved to stand beside his horse, stretched up her arm, and before he could stop her, ran her hand down his leg. She looked directly into his eyes.
“You feel nothing?”
He felt his body tense, determined to resist.
“You don’t want me any more?” she asked again.
“No.”
She stepped back angrily.
“You lie,” she exclaimed furiously.
He coloured, but fought it down.
“I’m leaving anyway.” He suddenly felt embarrassed.
She stood quite still. Her face now showed nothing except anger and contempt.
“Enjoy yourself then, celibate,” she hissed the last word scornfully, and spat on the ground in front of him. “I hope the Irish kill you.”
“What will you do?” he asked. Despite his convictions, he felt guilty.
“Find a man instead of a boy,” she said coldly. “Now go.”
He hesitated.
“You may need money.” Awkwardly he dropped a small bag of coins in front of her. She picked it up without a word. He felt a need to explain himself.
“It is only the service of God . . .” he began earnestly.
But she cut him short.
“Tell the Irish,” she said flatly, and turned away, into her house.
The battle with his mother was resumed that evening.
In his desire to cleanse the villa of all pagan images, he had intended next to destroy the mosaic of Orpheus; but here Placidia succeeded in stopping him.
“When the villa is yours, you can do as you wish; but while it belongs to your father and to me, you must respect our wishes. Your father’s Christianity has never been offended by the mosaic, which portrays the birds and animals of God’s creation as well as Orpheus.” Although he did not approve of the mosaic any more, he had to admit the force of Placidia’s argument, and let the matter rest for the time being.