by Kirsty Ferry
‘Enough of the history lesson, Liv!’ howled Ryan in mock despair. ‘I know you’re all excited but it means nothing to me!’ Liv stuck her tongue out at him and walked away, further along the perimeter.
‘Coventina’s Well,’ she muttered. She squinted into the sunlight, narrowing her eyes against the brightness. ‘Should be about...there. Of course. That must be it.’ Ryan followed her gaze and shaded his eyes with his hands.
‘A pond,’ he stated. ‘Nothing but a muddy pond.’
Liv shook her head. ‘No, you’re looking in the wrong place. It’s there – that square bit with the wall around it. See? There’s someone looking at it.’
‘Nope. Just a pond,’ repeated Ryan. ‘Seriously. A pond. With about two metres of mud surrounding it.’
Liv pulled her sunglasses down onto her nose and stared out again.
‘Oh! Yes. You’re right. It’s the sun in my eyes! Again, what a shame. The history of that place...’
‘Olivia!’
‘Sorry!’ she said, laughing.
1650
‘Meggie!’ a voice hissed from the gap between two cottages. Meggie turned, unsure of the voice’s owner. A few villagers were suspicious of her gifts; some were openly mocking, yet others, maybe even this person, wanted to believe and wanted her help. But they didn’t always want other people to know.
‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Who’s there?’
‘It is I, Charles Hay,’ replied the voice. Meggie closed her eyes briefly and her heart sank. Charles Hay; a young man so privileged and spoiled, that he swaggered around believing he only had to ask for something and it would be his. Meggie had been summoned by him or his father on more than one occasion.
‘Mr Hay, sir,’ she said, moving towards the alleyway. ‘And how are you today?’ She didn’t really care how he was. In her mind, he could be writhing in agony from a fever and she wouldn’t hurry to bring him a tincture to cure him. Charles moved closer to her so his face was half in the sunlight and he smiled. His fair, wavy hair was pulled back loosely and tied with a blue velvet ribbon. Charles was, at twenty, only a year or so older than Meggie; but at times he acted like a petulant child. At others, he acted like a man of the world. Today, he seemed relaxed and cheerful, leaning against a wall and tapping a riding whip against his thigh.
‘I’m extraordinarily well, thank you,’ he replied. He pushed himself off the wall and stood facing the girl. In one seamless movement, he brought out his arm and pulled Meggie into the alleyway. He pushed her against the wall and planted one hand either side of her head. Meggie could smell some sort of lavender perfume emanating from his crisp, white shirt and pressed riding breeches. It made her horribly conscious of how she must look and smell to him at such close quarters. ‘Ah Meggie. You are glorious. And so pretty. I’d never noticed before.’ He laughed as Meggie blushed and turned her face away from him. She pressed herself backwards into the wall, feeling the cold stone through her shabby dress. Then he pushed himself away from the wall and stood looking down at her, smirking.
‘It worked then,’ she stated. Charles nodded.
‘It did indeed. Thank you. Once again. Now would you please just call in on the poor girl and make sure she isn’t suffering any ill effects. I would be most grateful.’
Meggie nodded mutely. How many children would Charles Hay have spawned by now if Meggie had not been called upon to intervene? She hated it. But what option did she have? She hated to see a pathetically grateful village girl kneeling before her and crying with relief. That was worse, in a way, than being asked to deal with the problem in the first place.
‘Tell me, Meggie,’ asked Hay curiously. ‘What is it that you give them?’
Meggie shook her head. She would not share her secrets with him. The mugwort she used was dangerous if you miscalculated the dosage. Picked at midnight, on the Summer Solstice, it had never failed Meggie yet.
‘What does it matter to you, Mr Hay?’ she asked. ‘So long as it does its job.’
Hay sighed.
‘You are right, my dear Miss Meg,’ he said. ‘Later. I’ll send someone with the payment later.’
‘Thank you, Mr Hay,’ she said.
‘No. Thank you,’ he replied. He bent his head down and kissed her on the cheek. Meggie fought the urge to cringe. She didn’t want him to see how scared she was of him. Hay laughed, and turned on his heel. He headed back down the alley whistling to himself, tapping the shaft of his whip in tune.
Meggie watched him go, then she sent a quick prayer to Mother Earth and Brigantia, the ancient fertility goddess. She made a mental note to offer something back to them, in exchange for the life she had taken from them.
AD 390
Marcus lay naked and blindfolded on the floor of the temple. His face was pressed against the stone flags, his arms and legs were spreadeagled as he emulated the rays of the Sun God. The Pater raised his staff and intoned the words of initiation.
‘As the sun spirals its longest dance, cleanse your servant. As nature shows bounty and fertility, bless your servant. Let your servant live with the true intent of Mithras and enable him to fulfil his destiny. Marcus Simplicius Simplex, arise from the rock as our god Mithras was born from the rock. Let us witness the Water Miracle.’
Marcus raised himself up, his limbs stiff and sore from the position he had been forced to assume for so long. He stumbled as he stood up, disorientated by the low chanting which filled the temple. He felt two men grasp his wrists and roughly bind them together, so they were fettered before him.
‘The Heliodromus, my Sun Runners, have bound you with their whips,’ said the Pater. ‘You must take this lance from my soldiers and strike the stone before you, releasing water from the stone as Mithras released it.’
Marcus felt the wooden shaft of a spear be forced into his clasped hands. He knew that the Miles, or the Soldiers of Mithras, were the third ranking up in the cult. Today, Marcus hoped to become a Corax; a Raven. This was the first level and equated with the protection of Mercury. He shifted the spear so he had a better grip on it and squared his feet. The chanting was becoming louder. He felt his heart banging against his chest. He was a soldier of the First Batavian Cohort. He could do this. The chanting reached a crescendo, and he yelled out as he charged blindly forward.
Marcus felt the point of the spear strike something hard. There was a crack and a crumbling sound and he pitched forward, the object giving way as the lance dug into it. He fell to his knees. There was a gushing sound as water burst forth from something and soaked him. He threw the spear down and the chanting stopped abruptly.
‘Marcus Simplicius Simplex. You have released water from the rock. We shall not sacrifice today – the Corax does not sacrifice. Instead, let us feast as Mithras feasted on the bull, and bow down to our god.’
Someone ripped the blindfold off him and Marcus blinked as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness in the temple. There were no windows in these temples to Mithras, no light except that of candlelight. He found he was staring at the shattered remains of a clay vessel, which still dripped with water. Shadows flickered weirdly across it, and a cult member appeared soundlessly beside him and swept the pieces of the vessel away. Several men were ranged around the altar area where Marcus knelt. They stood silently, arms behind their backs, their faces covered with masks. There was no way of knowing who was behind the masks and Marcus suppressed a shudder. Although he worked with these men daily, the cult decreed secrecy and until he rose through the ranks, he would remain ignorant of the soldiers who carried out the rituals.
The Pater, or Father, of the cult was the highest ranking member there. He wore a head-dress that mirrored the rays of the sun and extended down to cover his face. He was wearing vibrantly coloured robes of ruby red and citrine yellow and was carrying a staff decorated with flowing ribbons of red and yellow material. Marcus stared up at him in awe. The Pater was reclining on a stone plinth, watching him.
‘I submit to you, Pater, as Sol submitted to M
ithras,’ whispered Marcus and bowed his head to the Pater.
‘Welcome, Corax Marcus,’ said the Pater. ‘Arise and be clothed in deference to our god.’ Marcus stood up and another man brought a simple sacking loin cloth over to him. Marcus allowed the man to dress him and bowed once more to the Pater.
The Pater held his hand out to Marcus.
‘Let us shake hands as Mithras shook hands with Sol,’ he said. ‘We are now united with a handshake. You are welcomed, not only as a Corax, but as a syndexioi; an initiate.’
‘Thank you, Pater. I shall carry out my duty as you decree,’ he said.
‘You shall, Corax Marcus. It is part of our cult,’ said the Pater.
Marcus knew that he was serious.
2010
Liv clambered back over the stile and adjusted her backpack.
‘This way now, Ryan,’ she called. ‘We have to go down this path and through the field. If we skirt around the edge of the fort, we’ll get to the temple. Ooh. I wonder where the cemetery was...it was...’ she referred to her notes again. ‘It was..west. Again. West of here. They found some tombstones in the bath house, you know. Trumpeters and standard bearers. Trumpeters were held in really high regard. They were exempt from the normal soldier duties, you know. And standard bearers. Well! Talk about the best men in the legion...’
Ryan thought it was best not to answer her or encourage her in any way. That way, she couldn’t strike up a conversation about any sort of Roman remains – be them bodily remains or shrine-like remains or fort-like remains. He kind of thought that he might be a little bit in love with Liv; but at times like this, he wondered whether they actually had any basis whatsoever for a long-term relationship. He imagined conversations about history around the dinner table, or Liv taking off for months on end to dig around some old Roman ruin they had hardly discovered yet. Archaeology. That was another thing she was banging on about. She fancied archaeology as well as history at Uni. Would it work? He didn’t know. He was glad in some ways that he hadn’t pushed the subject of a relationship with her, just in case.
‘There are cows here,’ he muttered. ‘And sheep. Look. Living things. There’s crap everywhere. Why are we heading through a field of crap?’
Liv was stomping ahead, throwing facts and figures over her shoulder at Ryan. He sent up a small prayer of thanks to whichever gods were listening, that the history lesson was getting whipped away by the summer breeze.
‘Shall we do the Well first or the temple?’ Liv called out.
‘Does my opinion really matter?’ moaned Ryan.
‘No, not really,’ replied Liv. ‘So let’s do...the Well.’ She circumvented the temple area and began to march across the field, following a pathway made of flattened, dried grass. She didn’t really know where she was going; but, and she couldn’t explain this to Ryan for fear of him thinking she was completely crazy, she felt a strange sort of pull to Coventina’s Well. She didn’t know why. But she knew she wanted to go there.
AD 390
‘Janus! Janus! Are you able to speak with me?’ hissed Marcus, as they passed one another on the main pathway through the vicus. Janus knew of a very good gambling house in the township, or the vicus, which had sprung up around Carrawburgh fort, and he often spent his evenings throwing dice with the men who ran it. It was next door to a house where a beautiful sloe-eyed girl lived with five of her ‘sisters’; and it was not unknown for the soldiers to visit these ladies for a little conversation and comfort. The auxiliary soldiers were unable to marry – but when they were discharged from the army, their uxorio – or co-habitation – could then became a legal marriage. Until then, they kept their ‘wives’ and children close by in the townships near their forts. As well as an assortment of families relating to the Batavian Cohort, the vicus near Carrawburgh housed at least three places of worship; the Mithraic Temple, the Shrine of the Water Nymphs and Coventina’s Well. The bubbles of excitement kept rising up in his stomach, and Marcus was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his initiation secret. Surely, it would do no harm to tell Janus?
Marcus ducked out of the way as a cart carrying animals ready for slaughter bounced along the rutted road and called out to get Janus’ attention again.
‘Marcus! My friend! What is this urgency?’ laughed Janus. He was in a good mood, his gambling for once having a positive effect on his fortunes.
‘I need to speak to you. I have something to tell you,’ said Marcus. Janus could tell that he was fizzing with energy.
‘I see this is important to you,’ Janus said. ‘Let us take some wine together at this establishment and you can tell me. It is obvious you are delighted about something. Or someone. Tell me; what is her name?’
Marcus laughed. Women, for all they were marvellous creatures, were way down on his list of priorities at the minute. He was a Corax! He had been accepted and initiated into the cult of Mithras. What more could he want from life at this moment in time?
The two men ducked into the public house and Janus ordered a flagon of wine.
‘Janus, I feel ashamed that you are purchasing this wine for us when I am the one who has need to celebrate!’ cried Marcus, throwing himself onto a bench in the corner of the room. Janus waved his hand.
‘No, it is my pleasure, dear friend. I have been lucky tonight- The goddess Fortuna has smiled upon me. Now. What is it you need to tell me?’
‘I have been accepted as a Corax into the cult of Mitrhras!’ said Marcus. ‘A Raven. The very first step on the ladder!’
‘No!’ cried Janus. ‘That is worthy of a celebration indeed, my friend!’ He leaned over to Marcus. ‘Do you realise how fortunate you are? It is every man’s dream to become initiated into the cult of Mithras. Tell me; what ordeal did you have to perform for them? Or do you no longer call them ordeals? Now that there is allegedly no ordeal pit.‘
Janus shook his head, but failed to stop the grin spreading across his face.
‘I cannot tell you,’ he said. ‘It is a secret ceremony. And only those lucky enough to be accepted into the Cult can discuss it.’
‘Ah, Marcus! We are good friends! Why do you not tell me the whole story?’ cried Janus, refilling Marcus’ glass. ‘Please. I shall not divulge it. You can tell me, your oldest friend!’ His dark eyes twinkled with mischief and his handsome face creased into a grin. ‘Please. You know you want to!’
‘I know I want to!’ laughed Marcus. ‘But I am afraid I cannot tell you.’
‘No! You cannot tell me half a story!’ moaned Janus, rolling his eyes and clasping his hand to his forehead. ‘What if I want to do it? Who shall advise me if you, my dearest friend, will not do so?’
‘You shall simply have to join the cult, as I did,’ said Marcus. ‘The Pater will advise you on what you need to do. He is the man with the power. He is the man who walks with Mithras.’
Janus nodded slowly.
‘I see. We know the temple is there. But the rites are secretive.’ He shook his head. ‘However. It is maybe something I will consider in the future. After the new Commandant arrives. The stronger our support for our ancient deities the better. The more power we have over these Christians that force us to change our beliefs, the better. Shall we drink to that, my friend?’ Janus raised his glass to Marcus and took a deep swig from it. Marcus echoed the action
‘Indeed, my friend,’ he said seriously. ‘Let us drink to Mithras and our sacred deities. And let no Christians tear us asunder.’
1650
A gaggle of village women stood by the edge of the market, arms folded and baskets laden with purchases. Some of their items had been paid for, others had been bartered for. Stray chickens and animals wandered amongst the merchants and bits of old straw and rubbish littered the ground.
‘If I was her, I’d watch my step,’ said one of them. ‘I heard tell there’s a man been to Newcastle who’s flushed them all out over there.’ The rest of the women nodded in agreement.
‘The likes of her should be careful,’ mutter
ed another - a toothless old biddy who walked with a stoop and stank of ale.
‘You’re just worried about yourself,’ said another one snidely. ‘You can see the signs on any old woman if you know what to look for. They just need to see you and they can tell. Then they do the test and that proves it.’
Meggie hurried past the women, her head down and her shawl pulled over her hair. In another life, Meggie would have been beautiful. Her hair would have been ash blonde and her eyes a soft, dove grey. Her skin would have been smooth and peachy and her smile would have lit up her oval face. Living in this village, however, the reality was different. Her hair, although blonde, would hang in greasy rats’ tails over her shoulders until she managed to wash it with some rough soap and a pail of water. Her grey eyes were haunted and as she was short-sighted, she squinted, which had the effect of creasing her face into a scowl as she studied distant objects. Her face was too gaunt to be smooth; instead her cheekbones were planed and angular and her eyes appeared too big. The worst thing was, Meggie knew all of this. She knew that she could have been beautiful if she had been given the privileges Charles Hay had. She knew he mocked her when he told her she was pretty. But, on the other hand, she had much to be grateful for. If she was truly beautiful, like some of the village girls, then she could have been in the same situation as they had been, when she had been ordered to help them out of it. Charles Hay would not just tease her, but he would target her. And what she lacked in beauty, she made up for in knowledge – the knowledge she had gleaned from the world around her and the ancient tales her Grandmother had told her. Meggie was an autumn-child. Her Grandmother told her she had given her hazelnut milk to drink when she was a baby, in order to encourage her abilities.
‘Yes,’ said the first gossip, watching Meggie scurry by, ‘she ought to watch herself, that one.’
