Take a look at me.
Go ahead, step closer. If you’re looking for the man in the stained glass window, you’re in the wrong place. And if you’re looking for a little green creature a miniature fairy hiding a pot of gold, holding a mug of beer in his fist like some cheap luck charm then you’ve completely lost your mind.
Somehow, over the centuries, you people took my life and merged it with a leprechaun. You turned a flesh and-blood survivor into a cartoon mascot.
My name is Patricius. But the world calls me Patrick.
Right now, you’re probably thinking about a holiday. You're picturing green rivers, neon lights, and a plastic paradise. It’s funny, isn't it? How a man’s entire existence can be flattened into a joke. They’ve made me out to be a myth.
But I bled for the ground you’re partying on. And if you want the truth, you have to let me take you back to the very beginning. You have to let me show you the night the music stopped, the night the smoke rose, and the night a boy who had everything was reduced to nothing.
Let me tell you my story. And I promise you, there is nothing lucky about it.
The silver goblet from Rome was the last thing to fall.
It hit the mosaic floor of my father’s courtyard with a sharp, metallic ring, spilling sweet, watered wine into the cracks between the tiles. I didn’t care about the wine. I cared about the blood pooling right next to it.
Moments before, I had been arguing with my father about my Latin lessons. I had complained about the boredom of our villa, about the suffocating predictability of Roman Britain, about how nothing ever happened on our quiet coast.
I was an arrogant fool. And the universe has a brutal way of correcting fools.
Suddenly, the air grew thick with the smell of scorched thatch and wild, salty sea wind. A wall of black smoke rolled in from the shoreline, carrying with it a sound that made my stomach drop into a cold, hollow void—the rhythmic, terrifying beat of iron swords striking iron shields. It wasn't an army. Armies marched with order. This was a pack of wolves.
"Patricius! Run!"
My mother’s voice shrieked from the kitchens, but it was abruptly cut short by a heavy thud and the harsh, guttural laughter of men speaking a language that sounded like tearing cloth. It wasn’t Latin. It was the tongue of the western sea.
Scottorum. The Irish raiders.
Panic, hot and blinding, surged through my limbs. I spun around, my sandals slipping in the spilled wine, and bolted toward the rear gardens. I didn't look back at the main house. I didn't look for my father. I only knew I had to reach the treeline of the forest. If I could disappear into the oaks, I might live.
I burst through the wooden gate of the garden, my breath ragged, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Ten yards. Just ten yards to the safety of the brush.
I never made it.
A shadow loomed over the stone wall to my left. Before I could even scream, a massive, calloused hand wrapped into my tunic, ripping the fine fabric. A violent jerk sent me crashing hard into the dirt, knocking the wind completely out of my lungs.
I lay there, gasping, staring up into the sky through a haze of dust. A heavy, iron-shod leather boot stepped onto my chest, pinning me to the earth with crushing weight.
I looked up, trembling violently. Standing over me was a man who looked like he had been carved out of the rugged sea cliffs themselves. His hair was long, braided with bits of bone, and his face was smeared with dark blue paint that twisted his features into a demonic mask. His eyes were a piercing, merciless gray. In his right hand, he casually swung a heavy, notched bronze axe.
The raider looked down at my soft, uncalloused hands, my clean linen tunic, and the gold ring glinting on my finger. A slow, terrifying grin spread across the barbarian's face. He didn't see a boy. He saw gold. He saw a prize.
The man barked a command to someone behind him, spitting a word I didn't understand yet, but would soon learn to live by.
Cimbid. Slave.
Before I could beg, before I could cry out to the God my father always prayed to a God I didn't actually believe in yet a heavy burlap sack was shoved over my head, plunging my world into absolute, terrifying darkness. A rough hemp rope bit deep into my wrists, binding them behind my back so tightly the skin split.
I was dragged backward, my knees scraping painfully across the gravel paths of my own home. I could hear the crackle of our villa's roof collapsing in the distance, the panicked cries of our servants, and the crashing of the waves getting closer and closer.
I was thrown like a sack of grain onto the damp, rotting floorboards of a warship. The stench of dried fish, sweat, and stale blood suffocated me inside the bag.
Then came the rhythmic thump-slosh of oars hitting the waves. The boat groaned as it pulled away from the shore, riding the swells out into the deep, unforgiving gray waters of the Irish Sea.
I wept into the dark burlap, my home disappearing behind me. I thought my life was over. I had no idea that the brutal, wild land I was being forced toward in chains would one day belong to me.