The Young Patrician

By Pueros

Author’s Introduction

“I was like a stone lying in the deep mire; and He that is mighty came, and in His mercy

lifted me up, and verily raised me aloft and placed me on the top of the wall.”

- Succat

Succat was born at the dawn of the recorded history of the lands he called home. However, down the centuries, much of his own story has been lost or edited to suit the sensibilities, particularly ecclesiastical, of later times. Fortunately, a worthy academic recently unearthed an ancient copy of the young Patrician’s original autobiographical manuscript, candidly retelling his life, which escaped subsequent censored amendment into the document known today as his ‘Confessio’.

Pueros has used this new unaltered source to produce a brief modern-language version of the subject’s history, shorn for ease of reading only of much diversionary philosophical discourse.

Part I - Caledonia

(Bannavem Taburniae, on the banks of the Clota Aestuarium, Foederati of the Damnoni, Caledonia,

[near Dumbarton, on the banks of the Firth of Clyde, Lands of the Celtic Damnoni tribe, Scotland]

July AD 403)

My name is Succat, or Sucatus in Latin, meaning ‘clever in war’, and I had just turned 16 years of age, although I believe that I looked younger. I had dark brown hair, much of which is alas now grey, and hazel eyes.

I am proud of my Celtic heritage. I was the son of Calphurnius and Conchessa of the Damnoni tribe. My father, himself the offspring of a priest called Potitus, was a prosperous man who owned a small estate, or ‘villula’, with large villa, on the outskirts of the little town, or ‘vicus’, of Bannavem Taburniae.

My father was also a decurion, one of the ‘decuriones’ who comprised the local council, or ‘ordo’, a body based on Roman practice. In tribal terms, my family would be considered equivalent to the patricians of Rome, although I tried to play down this local status. I was keen not to be proud or haughty because I was a gregarious boy who liked to be involved with a large group of similarly aged friends of varying backgrounds.

I believe that I succeeded in this aim, counting amongst my closest companions the sons of some of my father’s servants. I also have to confess, hopefully not at the expense of my modesty, that I was quite handsome, for many girls regularly eyed me alluringly. I truly do not believe that this was entirely because, as a result of my family’s patrician status and relative wealth, I was perhaps the most eligible young bachelor in the locality.

The local Damnoni were termed by the Romans ‘foederati’, which indicates a trusted self-governing native tribe that helps to defend the now largely Christian Empire’s borders. We had been in alliance since the reign of the Emperor Theodosius and missionaries had recently converted my people to the new faith.

Theodosius’ 16-year reign had ended with his death 8 years before the beginning of my narrative and rule of the Empire was then split between his two sons. Honorius took control of the west, whilst Arcadius presided over the east. However, the last of the Imperial legions would soon leave Britannia forever in order to defend Rome itself from rampaging Visigoths under Alaric, who actually succeeded in sacking the great city 7 years after the start of my story.

The Damnoni are called by many outsiders ‘the men who used to deepen the earth’, their appellation literally meaning ‘men under care of the goddess of the deep’, because they were originally particularly famed for their mining expertise. Other branches of the tribe can be found in the far southwest of Britannia and in Gaul and Hibernia. The latter are known as the ‘Fir Bolg’ and their existence was to be of immense significance to me.

Bannavem Taburniae is located on the banks of the mighty Clota Aestuarium. The town is also near to both the tribal capital, known in Latin as Alauna and in Celtic as Al Cluith [modern-day Dumbarton - Pueros], and the western riverside end of the great earthwork defence built at the behest of the Emperor Antonius Pius. This construction, known as the ‘Antonine Wall’, had been erected over 250 years before my lifetime and was the northernmost frontier of the Roman Empire.

The barrier consisted of a line of auxiliary forts and fortlets, connected by a continuous rampart and ditch. These ran for 39 Roman miles, exactly half the distance of Hadrian’s construction further south, and passed along the central glen of Caledonia, just to the south of the two rivers responsible for the creation of the valley.

My father had ensured that his only son had gained a good education, employing a proficient tutor amongst his domestic servants. However, although I believe that I was attentive to my studies and absorbed the teaching well, I have to confess that, like many my age, I had little interest in the new tribal faith. I went regularly to church with my family only as a matter of duty not devotion. Afterwards, I could not escape quickly enough to spend time with my friends, indulging in such pleasurable pastimes as fishing.

It was a hot summer Sunday afternoon and, dressed in a rich but light tunic, with normal loincloth undergarment and sandals, I was sitting on a rocky outcrop on the quiet riverside of the wide deep Clota Aestuarium, crude self-made fishing rod in my hands. No fish had bitten yet, although I was the regular victim of the midges common at this time of year. However, I was hopeful of achieving a start on my friends by catching at least one fish before they arrived to join in the activity.

I was, as usual, early because my family’s privileged wealth and retinue of servants meant that I did not have any domestic chores to perform before embarking on the expedition to try to acquire a fish supper. I did not, of course, know it at the time but I would neither meet my friends that afternoon nor enjoy any supper at all.

The first recognition that this was not to be a good day in my life dawned when suddenly, around the headland that obscured my view down the great river towards its distant mouth, emerged a fleet of long narrow hide-covered flat-bottomed boats. Each vessel possessed a sail apiece, billowing in a perfect breeze and displaying gaudily coloured warlike emblems, as well as a number of oars.

I immediately appreciated who the unwelcome arrivals were for they had occasionally visited previously. They were raiding Scotti from the island of Hibernia, intent on pillage.

I dropped my rod in horror and turned to run back to my family villula to raise the alarm there and initiate the sending of servants to do the same in the other local communities. My people would then withdraw into their fortifications and the local tribal militia would attempt to assemble to drive the heathen Scotti back into the sea.

Unfortunately, my intent was instantly disillusioned when I now saw that some Scotti must already have disembarked down-river because a number of fierce, heavily armed, warriors were already behind me. My predicament was made even worse by the fact that a few had already noticed and were advancing towards me, presumably intent on killing or capturing a potential inconvenience.

I was, at the period, still rather boyishly diminutive, being some time away from requiring a razor for my chin. I was also unarmed, although I doubt that weaponry would have served me much good. The enemy were too strong and numerous and I had never been very proficient at wielding swords and spears.

My fear, that I was no match for the party of Scotti who now trapped me on the rocky outcrop, was soon sadly realised. I found that I could not use my natural speed and nimbleness to avoid them because the promontory was both too narrow for evasion and too craggy and uneven to run properly.

Accordingly, despite my best brave efforts to live up to the meaning of my name by use of flailing arms and legs, I was soon in the clutches of several Scotti warriors. However, they then quickly disabused my fear of immediate death by binding my hands tightly behind my back with strong cord.

It seemed that the marauders wanted to maximise the largesse from their latest raid by taking human prizes, as well as any other precious objects they could lay their hands on. I knew that slavery was as prominent in pagan barbarian Hibernia as much as it still was in the Christian civilised Roman Empire, and my form therefore visibly shuddered.

This bodily reaction did not, of course, result from any sudden chill, because this traumatic day remained hot and sunny. The acute shiver had instead been caused by appreciation that I would soon be enslaved in a strange land, amongst pagan barbarians renowned for their cruelty, as well as supposedly such terrible practices as human sacrifice.

A single warrior unceremoniously led me to the other side of the headland, which had earlier unfortunately shielded my view of the arriving Scotti. However, any plans that I might have contrived to escape were soon dispelled, as the sharp spear fixed firmly against the middle of my back suggested that any attempt to avoid my fate could only have one conclusion. This perception seemed reinforced by the facts that the barbarian was not only additionally armed with sword and dagger but also seemed twice as big as me.

I considered simply trying to run but I soon knew that the watchful and undoubtedly capable warrior would not let me advance too far before I felt his spear piece my spine. If there was one aspect of Christianity that I did currently recall, whilst my mind was in such dread and turmoil, it was that suicide was a sin.

Accordingly, I was compelled to let myself be escorted to the boat I now saw beached on the other side of the headland. I was soon received onboard by other Scotti, who sat me near the bow and now tied my feet together to make escape impossible.

I found that, as far as this boat was concerned, I was the first captive but, by the time the sun began to set, I was to be joined by many more, all invariably relatively young because old slaves were of no use to the Scotti. The vessel sailed just before night descended but the full moonlight and good clear weather made safe navigation easy.

From my vantage point, I could spot the silhouettes of some of the rest of the fleet as it made its way down the long estuary towards the mouth of the mighty river and the open sea beyond. I could also see that all the boats rested low in the water, indicating a good day’s looting. I wondered how much of the pillage was human.

I then did something that I had never done privately before. I quietly prayed to God that none of the human cargo comprised any of my family and friends and that they instead remained behind, safe and well in my homeland.

I then begged God to allow me to see Caledonia and meet my people again one day.

Part II - Hibernia

The voyage across the channel that separates southwest Caledonia from northeast Hibernia was short but unpleasant. Despite the relatively calm weather, most of the captives had never been to sea previously and so the rocking of the flimsy boat by the waves induced most into sickness and regular vomiting. I was no exception. Consequently, I might have been the best-dressed prisoner onboard at the outset of the journey but my attire was quickly spoilt, to be soon indistinguishable from the poorer garb of my companions.

My fellow captives and I were therefore grateful to reach landfall the following evening, up another river that flowed into the sea. Our feet were unbound and, groggily unsteady on our feet, we were unloaded to stand uneasily for the first time on Hibernian sand and soil, where a stockade waited to receive us. A large village, full of roundhouses with thatched roofs, was nearby.

Despite not having eaten for over a day, few of the captives’ stomachs were in any condition to be hungry, although, of course, our captors would not anyway have wasted food on us immediately. However, most of us welcomed the stone water troughs located in our new temporary home so that we could quench terrible thirsts, even if we did have to consume the liquid refreshment like animals because our hands were still bound behind us.

Some Damnoni were already in the stockade as the result of earlier boat arrivals. However, it was only after the remainder of the fleet beached on the riverside sands, over the next night and day, that I realised that over a thousand of my people had been taken by the Scotti.

Thankfully, but certainly retrospectively selfishly, I saw that none were family or friends as far as I could see, although I still worried that the raiders could have killed some of them back in Caledonia.

My fellow captives and I were kept in the open-air stockade for over a week, being fed nothing but raw vegetables, verging on putrefaction and placed in empty water troughs, whilst we obviously waited for something important to be organised. What this was then became apparent when the day of the great slave auction arrived. I later discovered that the sale was the biggest and most lucrative this part of northeast Hibernia, the kingdom of the Ulaidh [modern-day Ulster – Pueros], had known in years, the event lasting from just after dawn until dusk.

The Romans had, during recent centuries, often considered launching an invasion of Hibernia, if only to stop the regular troublesome raids on Britannia. However, they invariably thought better of the idea, being put off by the logistics, worries about the fierceness of the natives and realisation that the island appeared to promise little in natural riches apart from human resources.

Unfortunately, not all of my fellow Caledonians lived to be sold at the auction, some dying of exposure in the stockade in the interim. Their physical condition, already weakened by the sea voyage, had not been helped by the frequently inclement climate of these parts, even in the height of summer. The weather was actually not unlike that of our homeland but there we did not have to live outdoors with little food.

Fortunately, I was one of the survivors, although I would often wish that I had not been over the immediate days, weeks, months and years ahead. I had somehow managed to live in the stockade through the dry hot spells, which quickly and frequently changed to ones much more damp, windy and chilly, to be presented on the auction block. However, I had to forsake my underwear in the meantime.

After the loincloth became inevitably soiled, I somehow managed to loosen the tie that held it place, despite my bondage, to allow the disgusting attire to fall off to the ground. The lack of such clothing naturally added to my bodily chill during the cold spells and nights but that was preferable to continuing to wear the putrid garb. Its removal also allowed easier toilet in the crude cesspits provided within the stockade.

At dawn on the morning of the great auction, the captives were divided up into groups that reflected age and gender. There were those comprising strong mature men, younger adults, youths and boys, with female counter-versions.

Each batch was then led out of the stockade to be sold in turn in the middle of the nearby village. There, a wooden platform awaited each prospective slave, who would be offered, inspected and auctioned individually to Scotti, who had come from far and wide to bid or just watch. However, as most of the goods were now in sorrowful stinking physical states, we were first escorted to the adjacent river under heavy guard.

Here, still in manageable segregated groups, hands were finally unbound, causing most of us to rub very sore wrists. We were then ordered to strip.

Most of us would probably have been very pleased to comply with such an instruction, as our clothing was now inevitably extremely dirty and tatty, if public nudity had not been considered deeply shameful amongst not only our own people but also that of our captors. However, all of us were encouraged to obey the degrading command by the awesome array of weaponry borne by our fierce guards and by the pricks of spearheads into the bodies of the most reluctant.

The naked captives were now encouraged to wash in the cool river water and then groom ourselves, or each other, as best we could. Hands were finally painfully rebound behind still bare bodies before the nudes were led to auction through large raucous crowds of men, women and children.

When it was finally the turn of my group, one of several comprising youths but, as I was to discover, also containing potentially the most valuable on offer, I have to confess to never previously being so ashamed as I was when I was forced to undress. My predicament, and that of my young handsome compatriots in this specially selected group, was compounded by the fact that many Scotti children of both sexes, as well as young women, had positioned themselves to watch the show.

A sharp spearhead, which prodded my vulnerable left buttock, encouraged me to place my now filthy and disheveled tunic and sandals onto already fulsome, waiting, carefully separated piles of discarded garments. The items were presumably being appropriately sequestered for subsequent easier washing, mending and resale.

My acute distress was then increased further when my genitals, untouched for over a week and, at the time, completely smooth, except for a light crowning tuft of brown pubic hair, immediately became erect. This degrading phenomenon had presumably occurred because the unruly penile member, substantial I think for someone of my overall diminutive size, had been accustomed in recent years to daily manual milking of the accumulated contents of the dangling twin orbs comprising my scrotum.

My intense embarrassment at such a display was not tempered by the recognition that a number of my fellow captives exhibited similar genital arousal as they too began to bathe. The situation was also not helped by the fact that I could not help but notice that many of the young women and girls, who were watching, were pointing at me in particular and giggling, whilst they debated the sight with each other.

The day was cloudy but dry, and the weather warm rather than hot. Nevertheless, my form, still shamefully displaying clear sexual need, eventually emerged from the river water not only clean but also gleaming. Meanwhile, the nearby feminine chortling increased in volume. However, the tone had audibly changed. I do not want to sound vain, especially as my circumstances at the time afforded me little cause to be so, but I could not now help but wonder whether it was my imagination or consider whether the female cacophony had truly changed from one of amusement to one of appreciation.

I had, however, little time to contemplate the question before my hands were painfully rebound and I was led, with my youthful group, still humiliatingly naked and overwhelmingly erect, through large crowds towards the village. The similarly aged and nude captives and I soon found ourselves standing behind the wooden platform, which served as the auction block.

The auctioneer, holding a leather crop for use on recalcitrant goods, was the first to stand on the platform to announce the next lot of human commodities to be sold. The Scotti spoke an allied tongue to that of the Damnoni but none of the captives could understand what was being said, although I somehow remembered the words and translated them much later.

The man advised the massive throng that the next batch represented the cream of Caledonian youth, based on health and appearance. He added that one young male was also even more special because, judging from his attire on capture, he was of patrician stock. A loud murmur then arose from the surrounding crowd, for possession of a slave of such deportment and background was considered a significant symbol of a family’s standing in local society. Everyone therefore knew that the young person concerned would probably fetch the top price of the day, and therefore he was now brought forward first onto the block.

The youth, of course, was me and I did indeed go on to earn the raiders, who would later pool and then share their spoils according to rank, their highest earnings from an individual human. However, I would first have to suffer much more intense humiliation before the transaction was concluded.

Everyone knew who the serious bidders would be and so only they were permitted by the auctioneer and his assistants to examine the goods. Nevertheless, they were sufficient in number to make the deeply shameful process very time-consuming. The only slight compensation for me, as I was now scrutinised, prodded and probed most intimately, was the fact that no women were allowed to participate, for only men were permitted to buy slaves.

The men came forward individually to examine methodically my naked form, invariably starting by checking the straight brown hair on my head, cut in the Roman bowl style, before working slowly downwards. My teeth, pristinely white at the time, would invariably follow, before an adult male hand ran across my chest to squeeze my nipples, causing me to blanch. However, it was when my genitals were fondled and weighed that my face truly turned bright crimson. This reaction was induced not only by shame but also by a desperate desire to avoid public ejaculation, which my demeaningly rock-hard and throbbing cock now clearly wanted to do. My predicament was invariably compounded when most prospective purchasers then confirmed my anal virginity.

Unfortunately, my genital fortitude in response to such manipulation had limits. Accordingly, whilst the fifth man to inspect me pulled my fulsome foreskin back to check my cockhead more fully, presumably to ascertain cleanliness and lack of genital ailments, the possible buyer was rewarded with several copious spurts of creamy white sperm that sprayed his tunic. Meanwhile, I almost bent double as my body enjoyed the involuntary and very public delight of intense orgasm. However, my pleasure was very short-lived, and not just because of the acute shame of climaxing in front of so many people, male and female, young and old.

My unfortunate ecstasy was also curtailed when the highly annoyed middle-aged victim of the semen fountain grabbed the auctioneer’s crop and landed a choice blow, with apparent practised expertise, expertly downwards on the top of my erection, still dribbling cum. Before I could react to this genital assault, the launching of a similarly well aimed vicious uppercut to my vulnerable ball sac then compounded my anguish. Naturally, the pained young victim immediately collapsed to the wooden floor of the platform in a highly distressed heap. Meanwhile, the laughter from all around was deafening.

I did not have the comfort of crouching doubled-up on the platform for long, for I was quickly dragged back to my feet by my hair by the man who had laid me low.

“For what you’ve just done, Patrician,” the chieftain, clearly furious at the ridicule now thrown at the pair of us from many in the surrounding throng, declared, in good Damnoni dialect, “I’ll buy you no matter what the cost, and make you suffer a life of abject misery!”

The man was called Miliue and he was a chieftain from Dalriada [modern-day Antrim - Pueros]. He was also to prove as serious as his promise.

Part III – Dalriada

Miliue had attended the auction with his two sons. One was 16 like me, although he looked older, whilst the other was two years younger but seemed the same age as their new slave. The boys delighted in tying a rope around their new purchase’s neck, whose hands were still tied behind him, so that he could be led, still naked, by their father to his new life in the distant hills of Dalriada.

I had been bought mid-afternoon. The walk to Dalriada, along rough steepening pathways, would take the rest of the day, the whole of the next and the morning of the one after until our remote destination was reached.

If I thought that the auction had been intensely humiliating, I now appreciated that being dragged naked through tiny decrepit villages on the way to my new destiny was even worse, as my nude body was loudly scorned, as well as assailed with many small stone missiles and much mud thrown by children. My shame was again compounded by frequent displays of incongruous arousal by my wickedly unruly cock.

My only consolation during the journey was the fact that the overnight stops, when I would be tied to a tree, were not too cold and the food given me by my new owner was slightly better than that received in the stockade. However, the raw vegetables were still almost inedible and lacking in true nourishment, whilst my feet, unused to being unshod, were increasingly sore.

I therefore felt some relief when Miliue’s own village was eventually reached, as I felt that my feet could not take much more walking and my bare body many more projectiles hitting their target. However, my comfort was very short-lived. This was not only as a result of the reception of the villagers towards the young nude newcomer but also because their chieftain immediately ordered his new slave bound between two sturdy wooden stakes, which were the community’s whipping posts, although they were now to serve a different function.

My hands and feet were fixed to the well-used sturdy structures so that I was spreadeagled and could hardly move a muscle of my body, once more in need of a wash. I was then a little surprised to discover that such an ablution was indeed the first deed to be inflicted on me whilst I was publicly exhibited in this degrading manner. However, I was soon to find out that this cleansing was not for my own welfare.

The washing, performed by Miliue’s younger son, was quick and perfunctory. I at first wondered why it had concentrated so much on my upper front thighs and why everyone’s eyes in the now large watching crowd seemed to be displaying clear excitement. However, my private questions were rapidly answered when the chieftain and his older grinning offspring emerged from a nearby roundhouse, holding a red-hot branding iron apiece.

I have to confess that my cock was again already embarrassingly hard. Its rigid length now emitted a fulsome stream of urine as my bladder emptied at realisation as to what was about to happen to my young body.

“Please no,” I began to beg loudly but I also somehow knew that my desperate action was to prove fruitless.

Miliue must now have issued an order for his younger son to stop my begging, by gagging me, because the boy now ran up to my vulnerable body and smilingly tied a wide leather chew in my mouth. This proficiently terminated my entreaties, whilst at the same time protecting my tongue from my own teeth.

Tears began to flow from my brown eyes when Miliue presented them with a close view of the glowing brand he was holding, which represented his family’s crest, a horned ram. He then moved the red-hot implement downwards to rest just above the place where it would mark me for life as his property.

Miliue had obviously somewhere become acquainted with my tribal tongue because he now declared, to my clear understanding, “This’ll teach you to spray me with your filthy Damnoni seed!” Awful excruciation then overwhelmed my form, to the accompanying smell of burning flesh and ribald cheering from the spectators. My erection also haplessly erupted, once again spoiling my new owner’s tunic.

I was barely conscious after Miliue had branded his mark on my left upper front thigh, almost adjacent to my genitalia, which were still degradingly dribbling residual cum. However, the somnolent bodily reaction to the recent overpowering agony was not to be allowed to persist, for my owner’s older son owed me a matching brand and I also had to pay once more for despoiling ejaculation. My young body therefore had to be readied to be fully alert to appreciate the further pain, and this was achieved by the simple application of a bucket of cold water thrown over me.

Miliue’s smirking older son now repeated what his father had just done, taking great care to match his parent’s mark on my other leg. This did induce me to faint completely, but another bucket of water revived me so that I could enjoy my imminent flogging.

When I opened my eyes, I saw Miliue standing in front of me, short-handled multi-stranded whip in hand. I also still perceived acute excruciation, especially on my upper legs, and the awful smell of my own burnt skin.

“My sons want me to castrate you,” Miliue announced in my own tongue, whilst displaying a wicked sneer, “to put an end to your cock’s unruliness.” He then let me contemplate this dreadful fate for a few moments before continuing “However, I might need your patrician seed for breeding a better quality of slave later. I’ve therefore decided instead to encourage you to discipline your prick by whipping you. You’ll receive five lashes. For your next misdemeanour, of any kind, it’ll be ten, and your punishments will increase by five each time thereafter.”

I was still gagged and so could not argue or beg for mercy, although I doubt that such pleas would have received a sympathetic response. Miliue then took up position behind me and I was left, still in intense shame and agony, to face the eager noisy watching crowd in front of me, whilst also awaiting the first blow of my new owner’s whip. It soon landed across my back, causing my already deeply hurting frame to shudder violently within the constraints of the tight bondage.

The further pain created by the multiple leather thongs was frightful and my mind entered a delirium of anguish. Copious tears flowed but the effective gag silenced the screams my mouth wanted to utter whilst my back endured a further two strikes before Miliue attended to my buttocks with the last pair of hits.

I could not, of course, see my rear but I could feel each and every stripe, initially red but rapidly turning a darker hue, that had been created. The pain and heat engendered gave their conception vivid life. Some blood also ran down my back and bottom, evidenced by the occasional sanguine droplet that I saw hit the earth below me. Seeing the dreadful new marks on my upper legs, as I looked down, further tormented my observance. Nevertheless, my cock had somehow shamefully regained its earlier rigidity.

After he had done, Miliue and his sons went to their roundhouse to eat, whilst their new slave, fresh with the various marks that denoted the chieftain’s proprietorship, was left in his bondage, shame and agony, for the rest of the villagers to admire more closely.

One of those who came to look was a girl about my own age, whose face seemed familiar. I was soon to discover why, for she had just supervised the preparation of the meal for my new owner, who happened to be a recent widower, and his male offspring.

The beautiful girl’s name was Fodhla and she was Miliue’s only daughter, the twin sister of his older son.

Part IV- Fodhla

It took me over a week to recover sufficiently from my recent ordeals to be capable of serving Miliue and his children. I was basically a minion in their three roundhouses, one kept for family living, another for preparing and storing food and the third to provide accommodation for their increasing retinue of slaves. The exception to the latter arrangement was those assigned to looking after the animals grazing on adjacent hills and in the nearby valleys, who were expected to live rough.

I believe that I was kept particularly close to the family, constantly at their beck and call for menial tasks, so that they could show me off. After all, their possession of an expensive young slave with a patrician background neatly demonstrated to everyone how the wealth and social status of Miliue and his offspring were climbing. I soon learnt that this situation had been helped by successfully concluding feuds with neighbouring clans, in which much property, not least horses, cattle, sheep and goats, had been acquired, whilst a number of rivals had been eliminated.

I was now grateful for the provision of a simple but clean tunic to hide my nakedness and provide some protection against the changeable elements. However, I was much less appreciative of the way Miliue and his sons treated me, for they did so with far more disdain than was shown towards any of their other slaves, even those whose work kept them largely in the countryside, caring for their master’s animals. They reinforced their subjection of me by addressing me not by my name, or as ‘slave’ or ‘boy’ or other such humiliating appellations applied to their other servants, but as ‘Patrician’. This was undoubtedly ascribed to ram home how much my status in life had fallen.

My situation was not helped by my initial ignorance of the local dialect. However, I found it interesting to note how quickly you are encouraged to pick up local language, which Miliue now sadistically kept to, when you are beaten for not understanding commands or instructions. I therefore rapidly became trilingual, speedily learning the native tongue to put alongside my proficiency in Latin and Damnoni Celt.

The one sanctuary of kindness amongst this distressful routine was the beautiful Fodhla, who was always patient and considerate with me. She would take great pains to ensure that I understood her instructions, invariably delivered from her wondrous visage with a sweet smile, before I set off to attempt to implement them.

The months passed. Autumn came and went and winter arrived. I soon discovered that this season, in this part of the world, was as inclement as that in my homeland, although snow was rare. My one consolation was that, since my capture, my body had somehow speedily hardened, becoming more accustomed to wearing only a light coarse tunic outdoors and being barefoot, regardless of the weather.

My quick adoption of the local language also now enabled me, when circumstances permitted, to chat innocently with Fodhla, whom I could tell liked me. The feeling was not only seemingly reciprocated but also began to turn into loving infatuation, at least on my part. To my mind, the girl represented the only good in my grim existence. To my cock, she signified my sexual dreams.

I began to have difficulty in hiding my attraction to her whenever we were close, which was quite frequent as I usually helped her to prepare meals. I was additionally embarrassed that she must have noticed my burgeoning interest, not only from my attitude towards her but also from my eyes and the common bulge in my tunic, deprived of underwear.

My conviction about her perception became assured when, one day, Fodhla asked me to accompany her for a walk, ostensibly for protection, in the surrounding countryside. It was a clear, bright, very mild winter’s day and the hills looked marvellous in their various hues.

We talked about my background and then her own until, totally unexpectedly as far as I was concerned, Fodhla asked me, whilst we stood close to each other on a remote hilltop, and she stared into my eyes, “Do you like me, Patrician?” I floundered over an answer until something imbued my spirit with rash daring, which caused my lips to seek hers.

The result was no more than a long lingering reciprocated kiss and embrace, but it was to have tragic consequences for me.

I recognised that I was in serious trouble immediately when a voice from nearby shouted “What do you think you’re doing to my sister?” I reluctantly but rapidly terminated my delicious embrace with Fodhla to find her twin brother advancing towards us, in the company of a couple of strong stout adult slaves.

It was instantly clear that Fodhla’s brother resented what he had just seen his sister and me perpetrating because, on his arrival before me, he punched me in the face. The blow was so powerful that I was knocked off my feet and a stream of blood began to flow from my nose, although thankfully the appendage remained unbroken. Unfortunately, I would soon be unable to say the same of another part of my anatomy, which was destined to suffer for my impertinence with my owner’s beautiful 16 year-old daughter.

Fodhla’s brother advised his sister “You’re a disgrace to the family, cavorting with a slave. Back home with you straight away, where I’m sure father will deal with you later!”

Fodhla immediately burst into tears but, after taking a quick rueful glance at me, who was still dazed and sprawled on the ground, she ran off to obey her brother. The latter now also looked at me and an evil grin appeared on his face. “You’re really for it now, Patrician,” he then suggested, before commanding the accompanying adult slaves to drag me to my feet and hold me.

Once the men had achieved this feat, Fodhla’s brother ordered “Take him to the whipping posts. Strip him and tie him there in the usual way. Then guard him until my father arrives and, whatever else you do, don’t let him escape, or you’ll be punished in place of him!” The slaves then went proficiently about their task, undoubtedly elped by the youth’s warning and the fact that I was too stunned, by both the blow to my face and my rapid change of fortune, even to contemplate resistance.

When I was once more publicly naked and spreadeagled between the two wooden stakes, with a large crowd of eager spectators speedily gathering to watch the fun, my head finally began to clear. This had two unfortunate repercussions. First, terror gripped me because I knew that the whipping I would undoubtedly now receive would be grievous in the extreme, a fact about which I was not to be disillusioned. Second, my cock began humiliatingly to grow again. To this day, I do not know whether the latter phenomenon was somehow linked to the former.

Miliue did not take long in arriving, multi-stranded whip in hand once more and accompanied by his sons. His face was red with anger whilst he first verbally abused me before physically doing so. “How dare you,” he advised, spitting much phlegm in the process, “try to seduce my daughter. You’ll now not only receive a punishment that will flail the skin off your body but also I’ll make sure that you never want to try to impose your dirty, unwanted, lecherous attentions in the future either on my daughter or anyone else’s!”

Miliue then produced a thin but strong leather cord and instructed his older son to “Tie his ball sac so tight that nothing can pass to it from his body. Cutting’s too good for him. His balls can instead die very slowly and excruciatingly.” It was now that I appreciated, for the first time, that a severe whipping alone would not satisfy my owner’s desire for vengeance for having the temerity to kiss his daughter, for my suddenly traumatised mind now recognised that he wanted me to forfeit my manhood too. However, the re-emergence of pleas for mercy were forestalled when the younger son was ordered to gag me, as he had done at this very spot a few months earlier.

My scrotum began to hurt as soon as Fodhla’s evilly grinning male twin had efficiently and keenly accomplished his task. However, this ever-increasing pain was soon put to the back of my mind when Miliue began his comprehensive flagellation of my 16 year-old form. My owner did not now restrict himself to five strokes, or to my back and buttocks. He instead rained many more venomous blows all over my naked body, with the sole exception of my head.

Anguished semi-consciousness soon enabled me to lose awareness of the surrounding cheering, now even louder than that endured during my previous flogging, as well as the shameful continued exhibition of penile hardness, maintained despite the severest scrotal constriction. I was also unaware that I later again publicly climaxed and ejaculated until, after the whip had finally concluded its gruesome and literally bloody work, my mind slowly began to recover from the consequent trauma.

I then looked down to see that my cock, striped because it, like everywhere else, had received nasty hits, was still drooling semen, a long sting of which almost extended to the ground below, now much more sanguine than when I had last appeared at this wicked venue.

As my mind gradually began to clear further, however, one anguished pain began to overwhelm all others, and it had not appeared as a result of my whipping, for it emanated between my splayed legs. I again looked down my striped, bloody and tearstained body, and now noticed that my scrotum was purple in colour, a hue that would slowly darken even more as the hours passed.

The pain in my groin was such that I look little notice as Miliue probed my damaged body to feel his handiwork. I also barely heard him finally declare to his sons “We’ll leave him here until morning, by which time his balls will be well dead.” Instead, my tears continued to fall nonstop, as my form was racked in excruciating pain.

I was additionally oblivious to many spectators, who now approached for their own intimate visual and manual scrutiny of my suffering body, including regular handling of my doomed sac, until, after a few hours, dusk began to fall. All the time, my mind was instead focused on only one consideration, which was the grievous distress in my loins, and the fact that this represented the destruction of my masculinity.

Fortunately, with the descending gloom, darkness also befell my eyes, and I remained unconscious throughout the cold night until dawn brought the return of Miliue, his sons and the villagers. A freezing bucket of water then brought me back to some semblance of life.

It was now that I appreciated that the pain between my legs had gone, along with my manhood.

“They’re well dead,” a smiling Miliue announced with clear satisfaction, “because you can tell by the blackness of the sac. We’ll therefore do the cutting now. After all, we don’t want to lose the brat because of infection.” My owner then commanded his older son to “Go collect the cauterising iron from the fire whilst I gather Patrician’s balls with my knife.”

Miliue’s smile now broadened as he approached me from the front, blade in hand. However, after he knelt to introduce the weapon to my dead scrotum, I cannot say that I felt much as he severed the sac from my body, before introducing his latest work to my appalled eyes in the palm of his hand.

Miliue’s subsequent use of the glowing cauterising iron was, however, a different matter, and I fainted as a consequence of the searing heat applied to my ruined genitalia.

Part V – Bolg

For the next six years, I lived a wretched existence in the hills and valleys, mainly on the slopes of Mount Slemish and in the glen of Braid [near to modern-day Ballymena – Pueros], around Miliue’s small community, looking after my owner’s herds of animals. I was permitted nowhere near his roundhouses or village. I was also threatened with death, by terrible means, if I ever either approached Fodhla again or tried to escape. The idea of perpetrating the former was anyway now forlornly unattractive because I was a eunuch, and the prospect of attempting the latter was deterred by the fact that success was unlikely, primarily because of the huge wolfhounds, very efficient at tracking fugitives, possessed by my owner.

My only attire remained the tunic I had been given six years earlier, which was now very ragged and full of holes, although I tried to keep the garment as clean as possible by washing it in hillside streams. My only shelter was a cave I had found in a rocky outcrop and my only food some spare fare, invariably the poorest because it was unwanted by anyone else, brought from the village and deposited at pre-arranged points for the lonely guardians of the cattle and sheep.

My only comfort was my God, for I had finally turned to Him in my despair. I frequently found myself not only praying to Him but also actually holding prolonged discussions with Him, even during my waking hours, although His answers invariably took the form of thoughts entering my head as opposed to words audibly heard.

I was now 22 years of age, and in a very sorry state, when one summer’s dawn I awoke, realising that God had again spoken to me in my dreams. However, this time His message was different than any before, for He now urged me to run away, far to the southeast. He also promised to protect me on the way, from Miliue’s wolfhounds and other dangers.

I did not hesitate in obeying my God, whose promises were of course kept. Although I could at first often hear Miliue’s vicious baying hounds pursuing me, they never caught up and eventually gave up the chase. Meanwhile, I used the sun, moon and stars to guided me to the east coast of Hibernia, before following the shoreline south. I foraged to survive and took great care to avoid any centres of population, where the people might recognise an escaped slave, and his brandmarkings, and return him to his owner for the undoubted reward on offer.

My desperate lonely journey took weeks, but I travelled about 200 Roman miles in that time until I came across a small seaside settlement, where I saw a beached boat being prepared to be launched into the waves. God now told me to beware of the local people no more.

Despite God’s reassurance, I guiltily have to confess that I was afraid as I entered the village, thoroughly malnourished, disheveled and dressed in my sparse rag garment. My concern was exacerbated when I saw the local people regard me with hostile curiosity, because I was a stranger, and obvious disgust, because of my appearance. However, my worry lessened somewhat when I recognised some of the words they spoke to each other, for they were similar to many in my native Damnoni tongue.

This turned out to be no coincidence when I realised that the local people, the Fir Bolg, were the Hibernian offshoots of my own tribe, with whom I should not only easily be able to communicate but also strike up a mutual affinity. However, I initially chose to seek out the commander of the boat first because my prime aim was to return across what the Romans call the ‘Oceanus Hibernicus’ to my homeland.

I walked across the beach to where a group of men were supervising the launching of the boat, which was not dissimilar to the one in which I had been forcibly brought to Hibernia. I asked if I could address the commander. Fortunately, my words were understood and one man responded “That’s me!”

I then enquired as to the destination of his boat. His eyes appraised me carefully before answering “We’re going on a trading mission to Caledonia!” I quietly thanked God for the miracle granted me. However, I was then quickly disillusioned as to the ease with which I could translate the man’s reply into personal salvation.

I begged the commander to take me, telling him that I was from Caledonia and that, although I could not personally pay him, he would be well rewarded for his help by my family. Unfortunately, he disbelieved me, presumably thinking that the ragged person in front of him could not possibly be of wealthy background.

My change of tack to plead to work my passage instead was also refused, the commander advising that he already had a full crew. His response was also probably aided by perceptive recognition that I was clearly no sailor. Nevertheless, my begging continued until I eventually appreciated that I was not only losing the man’s interest, and possible sympathy, but also beginning to engender his anger. I therefore finally and reluctantly apologised politely for wasting his time and wished him a safe voyage before turning to walk sadly back across the beach to the village, but not before quietly uttering a prayer for God’s help.

The man later told me that it was the tears in my eyes as I turned that must have induced a voice in his mind to recall me.

Author’s Postscript

Succat did miraculously return to his homeland, as well as to a rapturous welcome from his family and closest friends, all still intact and alive. However, God subsequently called him to His ministry, and the young man eventually left Caledonia once more, this time for Gaul, where he was to train for the priesthood.

The acquiescence of Succat’s loving father and mother to their son’s desire was, of course, encouraged by the fact that, as a eunuch, he could unfortunately neither marry nor propagate the family line. The Church therefore seemed an ideal calling to his devout parents.

Over subsequent years, Succat rose rapidly from Novice to Bishop, being afforded a Latinised name by Pope Celestine when he was elevated to the latter position. He was also given a special mission, which involved a return to Hibernia.

Succat was commissioned by the Pope to convert the heathens of Hibernia to the true faith and he was to prove splendidly successful in his work, so much so that he was canonised after his death. His achievement was perhaps fortified by a desire to forgive, forget and forge a new, more just, society on the great island.

Nevertheless, Succat thought that the crowning moment of his whole lengthy historic mission was when he baptised a still beautiful but impoverished widow called Fodhla, whose husband, father and brothers had all been killed during internecine clan warfare. The Bishop, of course, lovingly looked after her welfare, and that of her children, thereafter.

Succat’s Latinised appellation, granted by Pope Celestine, was Patricius Magonus Sucatus, the first name reflecting his patrician background.

Patricius was a name that became corrupted during later centuries so that today we know Succat, now rightly the patron saint of Ireland, as St. Patrick.

THE END

of

‘THE YOUNG PATRICIAN’

by Pueros