by Kirsty Ferry
‘But didn’t she sort you out, when you had that foul rash last year?’ asked the snide one. The first woman flushed an ugly red.
‘That’s as may be,’ she said. ‘But it’s still unnatural what she does. It just needs to go bad the once, and she’ll be in trouble.’
Meggie was oblivious to all this. She needed to go to the Sacred Well – the meeting with Charles Hay had unsettled her, and only by distancing herself from the village, could she find any sort of inner peace.
2010
Liv walked along the grassy path across the field and scanned the area ahead of her for any sign of Coventina’s Well. She was fairly sure it was along here. Looking down on it from Carrawburgh had played havoc with her perspective, throwing her geography into disarray as well as throwing a mirage at her.
She looked down at her notes and stopped where the grassy path led off on a smaller track, obviously well used by sheep, cows and other farming stock. It was narrow and straight, heading directly towards a muddy mess by the fence. Tall, white flowers, like stars, nodded towards the mud, and delicate fronds of greenery dripping with more pale flowers fluffed around the edges of a grey, marshy pool.
‘That’s it,’ said Liv. ‘That’s the Well.’ She looked around for Ryan. He had wandered off up the hill, away from the Well, for some reason. She opened her mouth to call him down, but then thought better of it. It didn’t seem right to shout or to raise voices here. It was strangely peaceful. Liv felt calm and tranquil, standing at this sacred spring, which burst through the moorland and fed the burn, running into the River South Tyne near Stanegate fort at Newbrough, three miles south. She looked up at Carrawburgh and tried to imagine it when it was inhabited by the Batavian Cohort. It would have been immense – soldiers moving briskly around, planning battles, perhaps, or just looking after the day to day arrangements of the fort. Someone was up there now – maybe a backpacker, or one of the holidaymakers from the camper van. She could see them standing on the edge, looking down towards the Mithraeum. Then they turned and moved away, disappearing behind a scrubby bush, no doubt on their way back to the car park. Liv heard footsteps as Ryan came up behind her. He put his hand on her shoulder and she turned to speak to him.
But her heart skipped a beat when she realised that Ryan was still on the hillside, staring out across the fields. And she was still alone, next to an ancient sacred spring in the shadow of a ruined fort.
AD 390
‘Io, Saturnalia!’ cried Janus. He was dressed in women’s clothing and had a wreath of ivy and berries balanced on his head. Ridiculous as he should have looked, Marcus was forced to admit he carried it off well. Janus was tall and muscular; olive-skinned and dark-haired, he was one of the few true Romans in the cohort. He seemed to have been born with confidence and a natural ability to lead. He was the unanimous choice for the Saturnalicius princeps, and as such would lead the Saturnalia celebrations. Other members of the cohort, like Marcus, had come from Germania Inferior; the area that would eventually become known as the Netherlands. They were happy to be guided by Janus this year – nobody knew how the new Commandant would react to future celebrations if the rumours were true, so they were determined to enjoy themselves while they could.
‘Ho! Praise to Saturn!’ laughed Marcus in response. He was wearing a colourful outfit begged from one of the sloe-eyed sisters in the vicus. As he left her house, Aelia had placed the pileus, or ‘freedman’s hat’ on his fair hair and stretched up to kiss him.
‘Enjoy yourself this week. It is the strangest sight, seeing all you men dressed as women,’ she said. ‘I hope you do not forget yourselves and become less than masculine after the celebrations end!’
‘With beauties such as you and you sisters so close to us, that is hardly likely!’ said Marcus. ‘Thank you once again for these wonderful robes!’ He lifted the edge of the purple cloth and let it drop again. ‘I cannot recall seeing you in this, Aelia? I hope it is not your best outfit. I cannot forgive myself if that is so.’
‘Dear Marcus! Do not worry. I have many, many outfits. You beautiful men do not see most of them! Or indeed, do you even see any of them?’ Her eyes twinkled and she kissed him again. ‘Just return my dress after the week is over and do not forget who you are. Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ said Marcus. He bowed to her and made his way back to the fort. On his way, he threw a few coins into the Sacred Well. The cohort had dedicated this Well to Coventina, the water goddess. It was an open air shrine, made from a natural spring which started at the Well and gurgled past the Mithraeum and the shrine to the Water Nymphs. One day, he had walked the length of the stream and stood and watched as it emptied into the River Tinea, near Carvoran fort. He had a great respect for Coventina. She was the goddess who eased them out of the harsh winters they experienced at Carrawburgh; the goddess who helped the ice and snow melt and returned water to the frozen landscape. This Saturnalia, her help would be appreciated more than usual. The ground was icy underfoot and drifts of snow piled up against the walls of the fort and the buildings in the vicus. Someone had been out and broken the thick ice which had formed on the surface of the Well. Marcus thought it would do no harm to pacify Coventina by offering her a few denarii. What did the coins matter to him, really, anyway? He was well-paid and could afford to give some coins to the goddess.
Marcus walked past the Mithraeum, and stole a glance inside it. The door was open, which was unusual. He could see someone inside, reaching their hand out to touch an altar; another soldier, he guessed, celebrating Saturnalia by being clothed in white. His heart swelled with pride as he thought about his altar, which now stood propped up against the inside wall.
DEO INVICTO MITRAE M SIMPLICIVS SIMPLEX PREF VSLM
"To the Invincible God Mithras, the prefect Marcus Simplicius Simplex, willingly and deservedly fulfills his vow."
He knew this would be the case, whatever the Pater asked him to do. Being initiated into the cult was the second most important thing he had done in his life. The first thing, had been to join the Roman Army.
Marcus had walked on past the temple and up to the fort. He nodded at the guard standing at the gate, and the guard moved aside to let Marcus in. It looked faintly ludicrous – both the men wore female clothing and hats, yet they still had the stature and bearing of soldiers. Saturnalia was a time for revelry and feasting; a time to eat, drink and be merry. The fort was decorated in swathes of greenery and candles stood in alcoves and niches around the building. A long, low couch had been placed in the quadrant inside the fort, and it was on this that Janus was reclining.
Two of the most honoured officers in the Cohort stood to his side, and he waved them away regally as Marcus approached him.
‘Please, bring my friend Marcus some wine and some food. He must be tired after his exercise,’ called Janus. The men bowed and moved away from the couch. Janus grinned at Marcus. ‘I do so love it when we are able to order the likes of Longinius and Milenius around. Buglers and standard-bearers – pah! They think they are as godly as Saturn himself. It is a shame that we can only do this for seven days.’ He sighed theatrically, and beckoned Marcus over to him. ‘So.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Whilst my slaves are otherwise engaged, let me discuss some interesting information with you. Not only does our new Commandant seemingly worship the Christian God, but he is a firm follower of the Emperor.’
‘No!’ cried Marcus, opening his eyes wide. ‘So all this...’ he gestured around the fort. ‘All the celebrations will be stopped once he comes? And that is definite?’
Janus nodded.
‘I am afraid it seems that will be the case. Theodosius’ people have already been despatched to break up certain temples. It is he we must thank for criminalising our sacrifices. We might be fortunate and maintain some of our Saturnalia celebrations, as it co-incides with the Christian Yuletide celebrations. But I fear for our shrines and our Mithraeum once he arrives.’ Janus pulled a face. ‘I can only hope that the information is incorrect on some level. For t
he likes of you, this will make your next step up the Mithraic ladder seem further away than ever. It seemed as if you had your name down for months, before your initiation as a Corax.’ His face fell. ‘I suppose it is no good me putting my name forward to follow you, if this is going to happen. I might as well go back to Rome and throw myself to the lions if I will be forced to become a Christian.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ whispered Marcus. ‘It is wrong. We have been sent to this outpost, forced to retreat from Caledonia and now we have to bow to this man. It is all wrong.’ He balled his fist and punched it off his thigh. ‘Janus, let me speak to the Pater. He may be able to initiate you as a favour to me, if I tell him this news...’
‘No!’ hissed Janus looking worried. ‘You can’t tell him the information came from me. He might think that I used to my advantage, to ensure I was initiated. Please. Do not mention it to anyone. Just – just take my name to him and let him know I am interested. At least I will be on record. And if all this comes to nothing, I may eventually be able to worship inside the temple with you.’ He smiled at Marcus, and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Would you do that for me?’
Marcus nodded.
‘Certainly, my friend. I shall let it be known you are interested. And if our god wills it, you shall be initiated as a Corax and we shall work together in the service of Mithras.’
‘Thank you,’ said Janus. ‘I appreciate it. I shall offer something to Coventina and the water nymphs next time I am passing. It cannot do any harm to have them on my side, can it?’
‘Not at all,’ replied Marcus. He looked up. The two officers were coming back with glasses of wine and a plate of food. They looked preposterous, dressed up as women and doing the work of a slave; Marcus couldn’t help but laugh at them.
‘Thank you my dear slaves,’ he called. ‘I shall recommend you to your master.’
Milenius, a standard-bearer and therefore a highly privileged man in the cohort laughed good-naturedly.
‘Enjoy it, Marcus Simplicius Simplex. I shall store all this up here,’ he tapped his head with his forefinger, ‘and remember it. Six more days, my friend. Only six more days!’
‘Ah, and what a wonderful six days it shall be,’ retorted Marcus taking a glass and raising it to Milenius. He took a sip and rolled the wine around his mouth, tasting the rich berries. ‘Is this your best wine, Slave? If I find you are giving me the dregs from your amphoras, I shall be forced to make a complaint to your master.’
‘Only the best for you, Sir,’ said Milenius and bowed low. ‘Would I ever give you bad wine?’
‘Am I able to trust you, then?’ asked Marcus, taking another sip of wine.
‘For six more days you can,’ replied Milenius, barely hiding his smile. ‘For six more days. Then I shall tell everyone how much you enjoy dressing as a woman. Lucius was right.’
One evening later that week, Marcus slipped into the Mithraic Temple. He had discarded his women’s clothing and dressed in his Corax loincloth, wrapping a thick woollen blanket around his body. It was bitterly cold, with a fresh snowfall and a whirling blizzard covering the countryside. He was shivering as he took his place on the feasting benches, next to the statue of Cautopates. Plenty of candles had been lit and the temple was filled with a smoky haze, but it did not do much to disguise the fact that it was bleakest winter outside. The stone plinth was covered with animal skins and the Nymphus were walking down the aisle holding their lamps before them. The other grades of initiate were processing behind them, amongst them, the Leos, carrying carved thunderbolts before them, and the Perses, who held images of the moon and stars aloft.
Marcus joined in with the chanting as the procession passed him. The Pater was at the back, flanked again by his Miles, or soldiers. He took his place on the stone plinth and began the ceremony. Marcus participated whole-heartedly, despite the coldness of the cave-like building, and privately wondered when it would be the best time to approach the Pater about Janus.
At the end of the ceremony, the cult members partook of a feast. Marcus raised his glass along with the others, and wryly considered how much wine he had consumed over the past few days. He knew the major ceremony for Mithras was at mid-summer, to celebrate the solstice. Marcus had wondered whether they would still be worshipping Mithras by mid-summer, knowing what he now knew about the Commandant. All the more reason to approach the Pater about Janus as soon as possible.
Marcus got up from his seat with the other cult members and wandered around the temple, chatting to people. As a Corax, he was the only level of initiate not to wear a mask. As such, there was only one Corax at a time. This was to preserve the mystery of the higher echelons and to remind the Corax that they were the lowest of the low. That was why their identity was not hidden within the temple walls. It felt odd talking to people who you did not recognize. He had his suspicions about the odd person here and there; a movement, a gesture familiar to them, and he could sometimes make an educated guess. He felt certain that one of the Leos was Lucius; he had a particular way of standing. An old wound had left him putting more weight on his left leg than was usual. The Leo in question seemed as if he tried to compensate for this, and as such looked awkward and ill at ease. Which was why, Marcus noticed, he sat down more than the other Leos. Marcus took a deep breath and approached the man he thought was Lucius.
‘May I ask your advice, Sir?’ he began. The man turned his head towards Marcus and nodded.
‘You may, Corax,’ he replied. His voice was muffled through the head-dress. Marcus had realised, to his mild annoyance, a while ago, that you could not even identify the members from their voices.
‘I have a friend who is interested in joining our cult. I need to pass his name on to the Pater. How do you suggest I do this?’
‘Why can he not go through the correct channels?’ asked the Leo. ‘His name shall stay on the list until the Pater decides and works through it.’
‘It’s…complicated,’ said Marcus. He felt his cheeks redden, despite the chill in the air. How could he explain his reasoning to the Leo? ‘Perhaps I should just ask the Pater directly. Do you think he would accept it?’
The Leo laughed.
‘You have much to learn, Corax,’ he said. ‘We do not bother the Pater with such requests. If you are desperate, you could try to speak to his Heliodromus. As we are celebrating Saturnalia outside in the fort, the hierarchy may be slightly more open to your suggestions. After all, doesn’t our Pater fall under the protection of Saturn? As second-in-command, the Heliodromus could attempt to grant you an audience, if the Pater accepts it.’
‘Thank you. I shall do that,’ replied Marcus. ‘I realise that you act in my best interests here, Sir. You cannot bring pain or harm or anything impure to bear at your grade. Which is why I requested your counsel in the first place. I thank you once again.’ He inclined his head and moved away from the Leo. He looked around the temple and caught sight of a Heliodromus. He had no idea who these men were – so he would act in deference to them, as befitted his status in the cult, and beg them for an audience from the Pater.
Ten minutes later, Marcus found himself escorted to a screened off portion of the temple. His heart was banging against his chest and his palms were horribly sweaty. Which was ridiculous, because he obviously worked with the man he was about to see. He just didn’t know who he was. And here in the temple, normal day-to-day relationships in the fort did not count.
‘I have been advised that you wish to speak with me privately?’ said the Pater.
‘Yes Sir,’ replied Marcus, kneeling before him. ‘I was hoping you could advise me about something.’
‘Go ahead, Corax,’ said the Pater. ‘I am listening.’
Marcus took a deep breath.
‘I have a good friend who wishes to join our worship of Mithras,’ he said. ‘He would like to be considered for an initiation into the cult.’
‘So he must go through the correct channels. As you did. Then I shall discuss his case with my
colleagues and add him to the waiting list. Is that all?’ said the Pater, looking down at Marcus.
‘No – it’s…complicated. I don’t know if we have much…time to do this. He was wondering…’ Marcus tailed off, suddenly deflated. It was hopeless. He would have to tell Janus tomorrow he had been unsuccessful. It was ridiculous to even think that he could have pushed his friend up the waiting list, even if there was no threat of a Christian Commandant coming to Carrawburgh. ‘I’m sorry. It was stupid of me. Forgive me,’ he said, bowing. ‘I will advise him of the correct procedures and he shall have to adhere to them.’
‘Hmm,’ said the Pater. ‘You have me slightly intrigued now. You say there is an urgency to this. Your friend is unwilling to wait for a place, and is desperate to become part of us. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, Pater,’ replied Marcus.
‘I wonder – is he perhaps due a posting?’ said the Pater. ‘Good luck to him if he is. I sincerely hope he finds himself somewhere warmer than here. Or could it be something else? I have heard a nasty rumour, Corax. Regarding our new Commandant. Could it have something to do with him?’
Marcus did not reply. He felt himself blush. Janus had sworn him to secrecy, yet the rumour mills had already began to grind.
‘I cannot say, Sir,’ Marcus said finally. ‘All I can say, is that, as far as I am aware, he is not due a posting elsewhere.’
‘Leave his name with my Heliodromus,’ said the Pater. ‘I shall not promise anything, but I shall consider what you have told me. Or what you have not told me. This is quite an interesting development. I hope it shall not have a detrimental effect on our worship; both here and at the shrines nearby. Thank you, Corax. I have enjoyed our little chat this evening. Blessings of Mithras be upon you. I shall be curious to watch how this develops.’
