Aaron, however, preferred to go straight to the frigidarium, with its controlled climate under a high-vaulted ceiling. After a refreshing plunge that left his skin tingling, he anointed his body with oils from the green and blue glass bath flasks supplied by slaves, then donned a pair of wooden sandals to protect his feet from the hot tiled floors of the heated rooms, and purchased a dish of olives before settling down to relax in the tepidarium. He savored the oily brininess of a small black olive and spit the seed into the pool. The Roman drain system could handle anything.
When Julius entered the pool beside him a few minutes later, he turned to offer him an olive but stopped at the look of horror on his friend’s face.
“Julius! What is it? You look like you’ve just seen into Tartarus.”
“I have. It’s started.”
Aaron spat another olive seed into the pool. “What? Another of those cursed Silurian uprisings?”
“No. The persecution of Christians. We knew it would happen. You remember that rumor that Galerius had finished his campaigns and moved into the palace at Nicomedia with Diocletian? They say he even wanted to persuade the Augusta to move ahead with stamping out the ‘atheistic’ Christian cult.”
Aaron looked around to be certain no other bathers were within earshot. “But Galerius is only a caesar—not half the power Diocletian Augusta holds. Diocletian has been moderate.”
Julius shook his head. “But Galerius is married to Diocletian’s daughter, and Diocletian will do anything to strengthen the empire. Anyway, he’s not being moderate now.”
“What’s happened? Did you receive a letter?”
Julius’s white face showed the strain of his control. “From my sister, Carola. She’s married to a centurion in the Theban Legion serving in Gaul—was married.” He turned his face away and swallowed.
“Has he divorced her?”
“He’s dead. Quintillian, along with the entire legion.”
“An uprising?”
Julius turned back to him and now his formerly pallid face was flushed with anger. “Put to the sword. Maximian ordered a general sacrifice. The whole army was ordered to burn incense to Caesar before they set about wiping out Christianity in Gaul.”
Aaron grabbed his friend’s shoulder. “Your family. They’re all Christians.”
Julius gave a jerk of a nod. “They’ve survived so far. But the legion.” He paused again, fighting for control. “Aaron, the entire legion was Christian—every man of them. Not a single one would perform the sacrifice or swear the oath. So Maximian ordered the legion decimated.”
“Literally, you mean?”
“A literal decimation. Divided the legion into groups of ten. Each group drew straws. The short straw was put to the sword. Maximian had to call in a special auxiliary to do it. Then Maximian ordered the sacrifice again.”
“And?”
“Not a one.” Julius shook his head. “Not a single man gave in. So Maximian ordered a second decimation. The remaining soldiers stood firm. They drew up a petition to Diocletian, swore their allegiance to empire and emperor, but asserted their privilege as Roman citizens to worship their God.”
Aaron caught his breath. He suspected the answer. “Diocletian refused?”
“He put them to the sword. The whole legion. More than six thousand loyal, well-trained fighting men. He had them slaughtered.”
Wordlessly the two men got out of the warm water and went to the frigidarium for a final cold rinse. Neither spoke until they were well beyond the bath house. Aaron broke the silence. “The edict is universal.”
“Yes. It will come here.”
“There will be no need of a decimation of the Augustan.”
“No, Mithra worship is strong here. We may well be the only Christians in the legion.”
Aaron regarded the man he had joked with and fought beside and prayed with for so long. “When it comes, I hope I can stand firm.”
Julius’s countenance cleared for the first time since he began his account. “We will, my brother. We know our Lord stood firm at his trial.”
Aaron nodded. “Yes, we will stand also.” Then he thought. There was something he must do. His family’s hereditaria must not fall into the wrong hands. The enforcement of the edict could come at any moment.
Back in the barracks he took the amphora from the bottom of his chest, seized a shovel and went out into the night.
Antony’s gaze swept the faces of his listeners. “In his De Excidio et Conquestu Britanniae, Gildas records that, ‘God, in the time of persecution, lest Britain should be completely enveloped in the thick darkness of black night, kindled for us bright lamps of holy martyrs.’ He names Alban and ‘Aaron and Julius, citizens of Caerleon, who stood firm with lofty nobleness of mind in Christ’s battle.’”
Nancy sighed. “That was beautiful, Father. Thank you.”
The others were going on to the amphitheater, but Felicity felt as though she couldn’t move. She always loved it when Antony spun his web of storytelling. Well, she hadn’t always. It used to irritate her no end. But she had come to appreciate the depth—of both the stories and the storyteller. “That was wonderful.”
His lopsided half-smile told her how much her compliment meant to him. “Would you like to see their memorial in the church?”
“Yes, if we don’t have to keep up with the others.”
“Michael will look after them and we can catch them up soon.”
They walked over the field then down High Street toward the square Norman tower of the stone church. Antony paused at the corner of High and Museum streets. “This would have been where the Via Pretoria made a T-junction with the Via Principalis, the main streets of the fortress. And this,” he led into a green churchyard, dotted with gravestones and altar-like monuments, “would have been the courtyard of the headquarters building. The first church may have been built of wood, but this, like most of the older buildings in Caerleon, is built of reused Roman stone.”
Felicity placed her hand on the rough stone of St Cadoc’s Church. What history that block of stone stood witness to. They entered the cool, dim nave, afternoon light coming through the colorful stained-glass windows all around them.
“These windows were given to the church in the middle of the eighteenth century by a local lad who killed his cousin in a duel, fled to Turkey where he made his fortune and, on a pardon from Queen Anne, returned to London.” Antony pointed to the Gothic east window above the dark carved wood of the reredos. “Our Savior in Glory in the red robes in the centre, St Julius on Christ’s right, St Aaron on his left. In the smaller light beneath, Julius is being put to the sword by a Roman soldier as Aaron is led to his execution.”
They walked on around the church, admiring the scenes from the life of Christ told in glowing stained glass. Felicity paused at a table at the back of the church to purchase a book about the history of St Cadoc’s and its windows. As she was putting her 20p in the box she noticed a red and gold folder with a striking figure of St David on it. “Support The Bishop’s Palace Appeal,” it implored. Intrigued, she put it in her bag with the book, intending to read it later.
They were walking back along the former Via Principalis toward the amphitheater when Felicity asked, “What did you mean about Aaron burying his family papers before his martyrdom?”
Antony furrowed his brow. “Did I say that? I’m afraid I get rather wrapped up in my accounts sometimes. Seems they have a way of taking on a life of their own. But it does make sense. If he did have letters or documents, he wouldn’t have wanted them to fall into the hands of inquisitors.”
Felicity nodded. “Yes, we know some were saved somehow— by accident or on purpose—or they wouldn’t be in the museum now.”
They had gone only a bit further when she asked, “Julius and Aaron—would they have worn horned snake hooks on their armor?”
Antony stopped and turned to her, his hand warm on her shoulder. “They would have worn armor, certainly. And chain mail was standard is
sue. But Felicity,” his grip tightened, “you’re to forget about that.”
She gave a rueful grin. “Yeah, I know. I forgot. I must remember to forget.”
Afternoon shadows were beginning to lengthen as they walked across another stretch of verdant grass to the amphitheater. Felicity, as always, was reveling in the greenness of the world around her—so different from her native Idaho.
As they approached the amphitheater, Felicity heard shouts, laughter and applause. They walked up the nearest sloping bank of the arena and looked into the great green oval where Colin and Adam were locked in deadly gladiatorial combat while Lydia and Michael, standing on the rim to the left where the dignitaries’ box seats would have been, cheered. Nancy sat a bit apart, looking on, but not engaging with the action.
Felicity held her breath as Colin, the lion, launched a fresh attack. It was only horseplay, but she didn’t want anyone to get hurt. Adam was slightly built, but spunky. Colin was the older and broader, but softer. Weaponless, they grappled hand to hand. Then Adam broke off and sprinted around the arena, Colin in hot pursuit. A good tactic on Adam’s part to tire his opponent.
Antony swept the site with his arm. “It’s the only fully excavated Roman amphitheater in Britain.” The mounds of carpeted green looked as soft as cushions, as if made of cotton batting and velvet rather than of stone buttressed by banked earth.
“The seating would have been a massive timber structure.” Antony pointed high above their heads. “It seated around six thousand to accommodate the full legion.”
Below them Colin caught up with his prey, giving a mighty roar. “Come on, Julius! Bite him back,” Lydia shouted.
Antony led the way to the dignitaries’ box their companions occupied. “This box would have been above a waiting room for the combatants.” He pointed to a brick structure built into the wall. “That was a shrine. Most likely dedicated to Nemesis.”
Felicity shivered. The goddess of fate and vengeance. How many brave men, and perhaps women, met their nemesis here?
In the arena, Colin overpowered his opponent as Michael, in best Roman style, cheered for the lion. It was all in jest.
But Felicity wondered. The window in the church had shown Julius dying by the sword, but the means of the martyrs’ death wasn’t recorded. Did Julius and Aaron actually die in the center of this soft green oval?
The roar of 6,000 bloodthirsty legionnaires rang in Felicity’s ears, and in her mind’s eye the grass ran red with blood. As the grass at her feet had been stained with Hwyl’s blood on Ascension morning.
Chapter 5
Saturday, continued
Antony looked at his watch as the re-enactors joined them. “Time to get back into town. Ryan should be arriving soon. Where did you say we’d meet up?” He turned to Michael.
“The Olde Bull. I told him we would meet him there for dinner. He was cadging a ride with a mate, so I hope his timing works out.” Michael led the way back toward the High Street.
Antony was glad the youth walk members would be assembling in intervals over the weekend. It would give him a chance to get to know them as individuals, and to get a grip on this adventure he had been thrust into so suddenly. Knowing the history and having detailed maps of the terrain were small steps, indeed, to the actual job of leading almost a dozen people across the rugged Welsh countryside. The youth walk had seemed such a good idea months ago when the energetic Stephen, along with Antony’s support, had proposed it to the Ecumenical Council: Get young people involved in endeavoring together, learning about some little known heroes of the faith… They had written to all the congregations in Wales and across southern and western England that supported the council, asking them to encourage their youth to join the walk. Stephen had been disappointed that there hadn’t been more takers—he had envisioned twenty or thirty pilgrims. Antony felt overwhelmed with eight, plus Michael and Felicity.
Antony and Felicity were the last to enter the black and white timbered pub in the center of town. The group was just finding seats around tables near the fireplace when a large young man in a plaid shirt entered. His face lit up when he saw Antony’s collar. “Ah, Father Stephen.”
“His locum, I’m afraid. You must be Ryan.” Antony explained about the substitution and introduced the newcomer to the group.
Under the ensuing bustle of shifting seats, sorting out drinks orders, and discussing menus, Felicity invited, “Tell us about yourself, Ryan.”
His voice was soft, but Antony caught the essentials that their newest pilgrim was from Swindon, doing his gap year working in a garden center, and had a place at uni to study geography this fall. “That’s why I’m looking forward to this walk so much; we’ll be going right through some of the most famous glaciated valleys and moraines in the world.”
His listeners were spared attempting an intelligent reply by the approach of the amiable host. “Welcome to the Olde Bull. I hope you’re finding all to your liking.” He eyed Antony’s collar with apparent interest.
“Yes, thank you. We’re a pilgrimage group. Walking to Penhrys,” Antony attempted an explanation.
“Oh, interested in history, are you?” He would almost certainly have been expansive even without the encouragement of nodding heads. “Well, now, you’ll want to know you’re sitting in the oldest inn in Caerleon. I’m sure you know our car park was the courtyard of the Roman baths. And across the street, now,” he waved his arm in the general direction, “you would have noticed the Priory. It’s a hotel these days, but it started out as a monastery—some say even the very site of St David’s himself. Founded in the twelfth century, it was, by Hywel ap Iorwerth, the Lord of Caerleon.
“Later on, Caerleon grew and got too noisy for the monks, so they moved on and founded Llantarnam Abbey. Kept this as their town house, though.
“Now here’s the good bit, if you’ll pardon me, Father.” He leaned closer to the table, looking around to be sure he had everyone’s attention. “There’s an underground passage from the Priory to the Olde Bull. The inn used to be the monks’ kitchen, you see. And this passage is what the monks and nuns used when they were getting up to no good.” He finished by tapping the side of his nose with his forefinger and giving an exaggerated wink.
Antony was about to reply that he wasn’t aware that there had been nuns here as well—there certainly hadn’t been in St David’s day, but Michael intervened to get everyone’s drinks order. A few minutes later, Antony noticed his driver chatting up the barmaid as she filled their orders.
When Michael returned, though, his attention was all on Lydia, who seemed to be attempting to persuade him to her viewpoint on something as ardently as Colin was working to fill in gaps in Nancy’s archeological education. Antony smiled. The energetic conversation around the tables indicated that the pilgrims were getting well acquainted. Later, though, he was enjoying his steak and mushroom pie when he noted Michael disappearing around the corner of the bar. Antony hoped he wasn’t going to have a problem with his driver. He relied on Michael for all the practical arrangements. If he were to be slipping off for drinks or women…
Just then Felicity returned from the loo with a stricken look that drove all other concerns from his mind. “What is it?” He jumped from his seat and strode to her. “Are you ill?”
“Come see.” Her voice was tight.
Back along the passageway to the car park, she pointed to the wall outside the loo. A community noticeboard was plastered with various announcements of rewards for missing dogs, bring-and-buy sales and housecleaning services. “Here, look.”
Antony saw immediately: A notice bearing the emblem of a triangle spouting horned snakes. Felicity looked even paler than a moment ago. Antony put his arm around her for support. “The Thelemic Society of The Orbis Astri,” he read.
“I know the last bit means Circle of the Star,” Felicity said, “but what’s a thelemic society?”
“Essentially an order that tells people to do whatever feels good. It’s an abbey in th
e novel by Rabelais where the only rule was ‘do what you will.’” Antony looked at the notice again. “Yes, just like this: ‘Become the master of your own life, the architect of your own destiny,’” he read aloud. This society was sponsoring a lecture on how each person could become a Master of Existence and reach an inner state of perfection and power.
“‘Inside each person exists all the good of the universe. You, too, can become an adept, a Master of Existence,’” Felicity read the last line in a weak voice.
Antony turned to reassure her, but one look told him she had made one of those quick recoveries he was becoming accustomed to. She looked far readier to march into battle than to faint. “What nonsense! Do you think Hwyl was killed over some new age mumbo-jumbo?”
“I’m sure it was more than that, but I’ll certainly report this to Nosterfield.”
Felicity turned back to the notice. “It was a shock to see the emblem again, but this is just moonshine.”
Antony shook his head. “I don’t know. It might be, but, as little as we like to face it, evil is a very powerful force.” He didn’t want to frighten her, but he knew all too well how rash she could be, so maybe just a small caution would be in order.
When they returned to the table, Michael was calling the group to attention. “All right, boys and girls, time. We need to be getting on to our lavish accommodations for the evening. You’ll appreciate that no expense has been spared for your comfort.”
He led the way up Church Street to the hall beside the square white Methodist church with their silver minibus parked outside. Michael opened the back doors and began handing out bags, bedrolls and assorted equipment. In a few minutes the hall was a buzz of pilgrims inflating air mattresses and arranging belongings as each established their space. Felicity, Nancy and Lydia settled in the far end of the hall. Antony dropped his bag beside Michael, Ryan, Colin and Adam nearer the door.
This would be as good a time as any to ring the number Sergeant Silsden had given him. It was likely the detective inspector would want the local constabulary to check out this Thelemic Society of The Orbis Astri. Antony stepped out into the dark and walked a way into the churchyard before clicking on the number he had entered into his phone. Silsden answered on the third ring and seemed genuinely appreciative of Antony’s information, if puzzled. “Sounds a load of codswallop, doesn’t it? But still, you never know. I’m sure the inspector will want to check it out. Thanks for ringing.”
An Unholy Communion Page 4
