Patrick heard Beth cry out. He turned around quickly. She had been fl ung over a soldier’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“Stop!” Patrick shouted. He pushed through the crowd. He blocked the soldier’s path. “Put her down! You can’t take her!” Patrick said.
“I can do anything I want,” the soldier said. He laughed, but it was not a happy sound. “I’m part of the emperor’s bodyguard—and this is one of the emperor’s slaves. Move aside, little boy.”
Beth pounded on the soldier’s back with her fists. “Let me go!” she cried.
“Ooh,” the soldier said, “I feel a little flea hopping on my back. Is that the best you can do, slave girl?”
“She didn’t do anything wrong,” Patrick said.
“Nothing wrong?” said the soldier. “Why is the emperor’s slave free in the city?”
“Why do you think she works for the emperor?” Patrick asked. He was hoping to think of a way to free his cousin.
The soldier looked surprised by the question. “Are you blind?” he asked. “Her tunic bears the emperor’s mark: the bright gold border.” He shook his head in disgust. “Enough with all this talk. I might get a reward for returning a runaway.”
“I’m not a runaway!” Beth shouted.
Patrick stepped forward, but he was stopped by four soldiers.
The man carrying Beth turned on his heel and hurried away. Beth took one last look at Patrick. Her eyes were as shiny and round as the soldiers’ shields.
Patrick leaped forward, but the men grabbed his arms. They roughly pulled him back.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” said one of the soldiers. He pulled out a shiny sword. “Or you may meet the sharp end of my blade.”
He pointed the sword at Patrick. Patrick struggled to step back, but the soldiers held him tightly.
“There you are!” a voice said. It was soft and low, and yet the voice still cut through the noise.
A man stepped into view. He had thick, dark hair and a long, dark beard. He was short and wore a brown robe. It had a rope belt, just like Patrick’s.
“I’ve been looking for you,” the monk said with a gentle smile.
The hands on Patrick’s arms loosened.
One of the soldiers asked the man, “Does this boy belong to you?”
“To me?” the monk said. “All children belong to the one true God.”
“Then take him outside the city,” the soldier said. “Or he’ll belong to the dirt when he falls from my sword.”
The soldiers stepped back.
“Come along, then,” the monk said gently to Patrick. He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Let’s go now.”
“I can’t!” Patrick said. He pushed the monk’s hand off him. “I’m not leaving without Beth!”
The monk leaned close to Patrick’s ear. He whispered, “You have great courage, but you lack wisdom. Stay and they’ll make you a slave. Come with me. God may let you find your friend later.”
Patrick hung his head. The monk was right. There was no way he could help Beth. Not here. Not now.
Patrick gave the soldiers an angry glare. But he allowed the monk to lead him away.
“I am Brother Telemachus,” said the monk when they were outside the city.
“I’m Patrick,” he said. “Thank you for saving me from the soldiers.”
Patrick followed the monk down a dirt road. He didn’t say anything else, and so the monk said nothing more.
They walked for a long time. Then they came to a little hill. It was covered with trees. Spring snow covered the ground in the shady areas. Snow also dusted the leaves on each tree. Near the top of the hill was an opening. Patrick thought it might be a cave.
They climbed to the top of the hill.
“Welcome to my humble home,” said the monk.
Home was a fire pit with some logs around it. Inside the cave was a pile of blankets.
Patrick sat on a log and buried his face in his hands. He was still sad and angry that the soldier had taken Beth away.
After several minutes, Patrick smelled something burning. It was a strange smell. He looked up.
The monk was cooking a lump of something over the flames. It looked like it might be rabbit—or what had once been a rabbit.
The monk poked the fire with a stick. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “Come and share my small meal.”
Patrick walked over to the fire.
The monk took the rabbit from the fire with the stick. He held it up and looked at it. “This will do,” he said.
Patrick wasn’t so sure. He thought he saw clumps of burned fur.
The monk took out a knife and began to cut the meat. Telemachus offered some to Patrick. Patrick politely said no.
The monk shrugged and sat down on another long log. He bowed his head as if praying. Then he put bits of meat in his mouth.
“Do you live here?” Patrick asked.
“No. I live far away,” the monk said.
“Why are you in Rome?” asked Patrick.
“God told me to come here,” Telemachus said.
“Really?” Patrick said. He wasn’t sure what the monk meant. “What does God want you to do in Rome?”
“I don’t know,” said the monk. He put another piece of meat in his mouth. “It is for God to know. It is for me to obey and go. Perhaps we’ll find your friend.”
“My cousin Beth,” Patrick said. He was worried about Beth and where she might be.
Telemachus quickly lifted his head. The monk seemed to be listening to something. He nodded toward the trees.
“We’re not alone,” he whispered.