by Kirsty Ferry
After the Commandant’s address, the place erupted into mayhem. Men and horses swarmed across the fort and the hillside like ants, yelling and shouting at the people of the vicus to run indoors as they carved their way through the village, spilling out of the fort gates and breaking away in groups to the three sacred sites of Carrawburgh.
Amongst the general confusion and noise, a voice a lot like Marcus’s spoke quietly into Janus’ ear. ‘It is your fault that this is happening. You were named for Chaos.’ Janus shook his head. He was going mad. It was his imagination. Then he heard a woman’s laugh which went on and on and on... He roared to drone the sounds out, and turned, bringing his gladius down on an altar by Coventina’s Well. He could not be party to the destruction of the temple. He could desecrate this Well if he had to, but he refused to work on the temple.
The soldiers around him picked up altars and carvings and hurled them into the well, one after another, directed the whole time by the Commandant’s guards. The guards surrounded them on their horses, shouting and brandishing their weapons at anyone who dared to hesitate. The water was churning up and splashing over the side as the heavy stones were swallowed into the sacred spring. The men were soaked to the skin in freezing, muddy bog water, slipping around on the still slushy path by the well. Janus and Lucius picked up a large relief of the goddess between them and heaved it over the side of the well, jumping back as a fresh wave swept over the side, drenching them.
Lucius, shivering and dripping, glared at Janus, blaming him for the desecration around them.
‘You will pay for this!’ he hissed, looking back towards the Mithraic temple. A squad of men were tearing the timber roof off it, and others were throwing their weight against the walls to break them down. Huge warhorses were being forced to push against the stones to weaken the building, and a pile of artefacts lay in a scattered heap outside the temple. One or two men were carrying altars and statues up to the Well, followed by people who had ripped apart the shrine to the water nymphs. There were guards down at the temple, pointing to the Well, telling the soldiers to take the artefacts up there for destruction. Some men were up to their knees in the stream, pulling items which had rolled down the hill out of the water. Suddenly, there was a huge crash and the temple collapsed in on itself. Two of the men who were carrying altars up to the Well paused for breath and turned to see the resulting devastation.
‘There were still some altars in there,’ said one of them. ‘And two statues by the entrance. And the big relief over the main altar as well; they did not get that out.’
The other man nodded.
‘Do you realise that I was on the list to join the cult? It could have been me next for initiation. After the stories I have heard, I am pleased it was never so.’
‘You have been spared,’ replied the other man. ‘I always believed it to be a peaceful religion. It seems that was not the case. It is a shame that a minority have spoiled it for the rest of us.’
They watched a minute more as the horses settled and the soldiers were moved away from the temple, then they turned back to their work. They came past Lucius and flung the altars into the Well, flexing their fingers and watching as the water churned up again.
‘The cult was always peaceful in the past,’ Lucius said to the men. ‘Once a madman became in charge, things changed.’ He turned away from the Well and limped back to the side of the path where he sat down, rubbing his leg. Janus stared at him in disgust. Another one for my list, he thought and stormed off to the other side of the Well. He pushed some men out of the way and began to smash up a carved stone slab, taking out his frustration on that.
1650
‘So, this is our enchantrix?’ barked the man on horseback. He dismounted, dropping easily to the ground. The man next to him took the reins of the horse from him and led it away to graze in the field next to the Well.
‘I’m sorry? I don’t understand,’ said Meggie. The snow was falling faster now, but her shivers had less to do with the wintry weather and more to do with the panic that was closing in around her. ‘What do you mean?’
The man ignored her. He was swathed in a black robe which flapped around his body in the Northumbrian wind. He carried a staff in his hand. Meggie noticed it was carved with all sorts of strange symbols. For some reason, even though the symbols were Christian in design, the staff terrified her. It had a feeling of evil about it. Meggie’s sixth sense told her it had tortured and killed; it was soaked in the blood of many people. She looked at it in horror. The man laughed softly and curled his fingers around it tighter.
‘She looks at my staff in distaste. She knows what it can prove. Tell me, what is your name girl?’
Meggie’s mouth worked but no words would come out.
‘Speak up, girl,’ barked the man. He cupped his hand around his ear and leaned closer to her. ‘I am listening. If you cannot tell me your identity, you will hinder your chances of freedom. I would hate to think I had the wrong person here. I have been charged with finding a witch. Do you understand?’
‘A ...witch?’ said Meggie. Her voice was cracked and breathless. ‘Then, Sir, I am not the person you seek.’
‘Oh, you have a voice. That is good. And why do you dispute the claims?’
‘Because I am not a witch, Sir,’ she said.
‘Not a witch? Then why are you here? This is a pagan place of worship. This place stinks of the dark arts. You, my girl, stink of the dark arts. I think you are lying to me.’
‘No, Sir! No! I am not a witch. I work with nature, I work with herbs and the goodness Mother Earth provides. I help people, I ease people’s suffering, I...’
‘She takes lives!’ called someone from the back of the group. The men turned. It was a young man called John. He was a farm labourer; Meggie knew he had always harboured a secret love for Alice. Meggie and Alice had giggled over it, talked about his small offerings of love – a posy of wildflowers left on Alice’s doorstep, a fresh apple, polished and plucked from a tree, drawn from his apron and given to Alice as he blustered and blushed an excuse...
‘John! You know that’s not true!’ cried Meggie. ‘What happened to Alice was...’
‘It was murder!’ cried another man.
‘No!’ shouted Meggie. ‘Please, no. It wasn’t. It was a mistake...’ she stopped short as the words of the Roman soldier came back to her. It was a mistake. There have been too many mistakes. She rammed her fist in her mouth and choked back a sob. ‘John. You know that’s not true, I beg you.’
Nicholson smiled down at Meggie.
‘So. We have a young lady here who denies murder. Can she also deny encouraging a man into her abode and attacking him? Drawing blood from an innocent?’
‘She used it in a spell!’ yelled another man. Meggie recognised him as Robert, Mary’s husband; the stupid, deluded idiot, she thought. Mary was the village whore and he pretended he knew nothing about it.
‘No! He attacked me!’ she shouted back.
‘My wife told me otherwise!’ Robert called, enjoying the moment, He was a small, thin man whose arms and legs seemed to belong to a different person.
‘Your wife should walk around the village with a straw mattress strapped to her back!’ cried Meggie, all reason deserting her. ‘It would save her time!’
‘Silence!’ boomed Nicholson. ‘You are an evil woman. You denigrate the women of the village. You cast spells using the blood of innocents. You cause harm to men, women and livestock...’
‘No!’ shouted Meggie. ‘You’re lying! I’ve never harmed livestock..’
‘By that, you have admitted you harm men and women,’ roared Nicholson.
‘No!’ cried Meggie, ‘I’ve never intentionally harmed anyone!’
‘But you have harmed people!’ pressed Nicholson. ‘Admit it, Witch. You have harmed people.’
‘I...’
‘Admit it!’
‘Yes, oh please, yes I have. But I never meant it. I never meant to do it. Alice, my dear, sweet Ali
ce; I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ sobbed Meggie. She crumpled to the floor and pressed her face into the cold, wet grass. There was a thin layer of snow on it now and her cheek was so cold, it felt as if was burning. ‘Coventina, blessed Coventina. Goddess of snow, goddess of this place, please help me. Please help me...’ she wept into the sacred ground. An image flitted through her mind of the people who had lived here before, who had worshipped at this Well, who had trod the very grass she was lying on. Had Coventina helped them? Would she find it in her heart to help Meggie?
On the fort at Carrawburgh, another figure appeared. It was a man on horseback, looking down at the drama below him. He would wait a little while, he thought, and see what happened. He shivered, then flinched as the shiver jarred his back. He pulled his velvet coat closer to him and looked at the sky. The snow was in for the day. After this was over, it would be nice to go to a local hostelry for a little mulled wine and company, he thought. But he would wait a while and observe it all from up here.
AD 391
An unsettled silence descended on the area, the night following the desecration of the shrines and temple. The people in the vicus were subdued, having been forced to give up the shrines to their household gods as well as the soldiers giving up theirs in the barracks. Titus had ordered spot checks on the men, to ensure no relics of Paganism remained in the fort. The delights of Aelia and her sisters, the gambling dens and taverns of the vicus held no pull for the soldiers that evening. The bath house was busy; especially in the hot rooms, where the men tried to thaw themselves out and relax after the physical demands of the day.
Janus kept out of the way. He sensed that the rumour mill was grinding and he would not be particularly welcome in the social areas of the fort that evening. He would let them get it out of their system and talk amongst themselves. He would make amends with them over the next few days. He had not lived a double life all this time without learning a few things. It was amazing what some charm and some half-truths could achieve. He was not unduly concerned. And he would deal with Lucius and the Commandant efficiently when the time came. He just had to wait it out, that was all. He slipped out of his quarters to go for a walk around the edges of the fort. It would burn off some of his adrenalin and help him think.
Janus wandered around the fort, blowing on his hands, trying to warm them up in the silvery glow of the moon. He found himself behind the stables, where he had met Marcus last night. Had it only been last night? He stood by the bench where they had sat, and stared at it. He had done a surprisingly good job of cleaning it up. He had covered the ground with straw afterwards. It had soaked up the worst of the blood, and he burnt it in the furnace to get rid of it. A new covering of straw and a fresh snowfall had covered everything else. He sat down on the bench for a moment, watching a couple of men walk by. He sat very still so they did not see him in the shadows, then he leaned his head back against the wall of the building and closed his eyes. It had been a long, difficult day.
The man Syrus moved quickly and silently. He was a slave; he was unobtrusive. Nobody noticed him. But what they did not realise, was that he was a trained killer himself. His men had been defeated by Titus Perpetuus’ troops several years ago. He had been taken prisoner and designated a slave. He could have prevented what had happened to Aemelia, had Titus only listened to him. Instead, he assigned him to other duties and gave Aemelia a female slave the day before it happened. Syrus had tried to explain to his master about the young Prefect who sought his daughter out, but Titus waved him away; other business was more pressing. Syrus had known the fair young man was no danger. He could see genuine affection between the two of them. It was the dark man he did not trust.
He did not know exactly what had happened; Titus had reclaimed Syrus for some other purpose, not even realising his daughter and her new slave were missing. But later that night, he had seen the dark man enter the temple; heard the noises from within, and watched the procession of stunned men leave the temple afterwards, muttering in horror about what they had just witnessed. Syrus had not yet found Olivia. He did not think that he ever would. But he was an intelligent man and knew that, whatever secrets the temple held the dark man was the keeper of them; and Syrus cursed his master for neglecting to listen to him.
And now the dark man was sitting on the bench where he had murdered his friend. Syrus had seen that as well, hidden in the shadows; unobtrusive and unnoticed. Silently, the slave flicked a blade from out of his clothing and moved towards the man on the bench.
In a moment, it was done. The dark man’s body slumped to the ground and lay in a pool of blood until the next morning, when the early watch found him. More rumours spread throughout Carrawburgh, with some version of the truth amongst them all. But nobody ever knew for sure what had happened or who had killed Janus. Some said it was the Commandant. Some said it was another member of the cult. Some even said it was the shade of Marcus, come back for his revenge. Nothing was ever proven.
But the temple, the Sacred Well and the shrine to the water nymphs would never be restored. They would fall into disrepair, swallowed up and reclaimed by the earth. The Roman Empire collapsed and the soldiers were moved away from Britannia. What was left of the shrines and their secrets would be discovered again one day. But not for centuries.
1650
It happened so fast, that at first she was unaware of it. Whilst Meggie lay sobbing on the snow-covered grass a group of men appeared by her side and roughly hauled her to her feet. They pulled her shawl off her, and yanked her hands around to the front of her body. They bound her wrists with thick, scratchy rope. The rope dug into her skin, ugly, red weals appearing where it bit into her. They dragged her towards Nicholson who looked down on her with contempt.
‘She is a suspected charmer, enchantrix and witch,’ he intoned. ‘We grant this woman fair trial by pricking. If she bleeds, she is not guilty of the aforesaid crimes. If she does not bleed, she shall be dealt with as befits a servant of the Devil. We shall take her to the old temple and try her there. The weather puts in, my friends. The snow is falling thickly and we must take shelter.’ He indicated the ruined temple of Mithras that lay between the fort and the Well. It was derelict, but still afforded some shelter. Nicholson did not like feeling damp, or cold, or uncomfortable. The old temple was a heathen place, but he could be persuaded to use it. The sooner this trial was over the better. Meggie was a young, flighty thing. She had shown spirit when she had confronted that man at the back of the group, but he did not like her. She knew too much; he could feel it. The sooner she was tried, the better. Yet he could still be persuaded to change his mind. He liked to see the women beg. He thought lasciviously of the rumours he had heard about this John Kincaid he had been charged with bringing back from Scotland. One woman had been tried twice; the first time, Lieutenant-Colonel Hobson had decided she was too pretty to be a witch and asked for a re-trial. The second time Witchfinder Kincaid had pricked her, the blood had gushed from her thigh and rendered her innocent. It was not beyond the realms of possibility that this blonde creature presently tied up behind him would be acquitted in a similar way.
The company of men half-dragged, half-pulled Meggie to the Mithraic temple. She stumbled several times on the way, her bare feet freezing as she ploughed through frozen mud and her white shift falling off her thin shoulders. All the while, she begged and screamed and cried. She prayed to Coventina, she prayed to Mithras, she begged the water nymphs to take pity on her and help her. The men barged in through the door; but they did not see the man in the shadows peel away from the altar and melt into the wall. They were too intent on demonizing a nineteen year old girl.
‘Bring the accused before me!’ shouted Nicholson. He had taken up position at the front of the temple, beneath a huge carving of the god slaying a bull. The temple made him feel uncomfortable, but he was determined to do this right now. The thought of the three pounds he could potentially earn drove the uncomfortable feelings out of his mind.
The men who ha
d been dragging Meggie towards the temple threw her down in front of Nicholson. She lay shivering on the stone floor, curled up in a foetal position muttering to herself, repeating Coventina’s name and squeezing her eyes shut.
‘Make her stand!’ growled Nicholson. Two men appeared from the side and forced her to stand upright. Meggie clasped her fingers together, crying and begging for someone to listen to her, for someone to hear what she had to say.
‘Take her clothes off. Strip her to the waist!’ said Nicholson. The men looked at one another. Who was going to do this?
‘Strip her!’ shouted Nicholson. ‘What keeps you? For God’s sake, if you won’t do that, then lift her clothing and pull it over her head. I must have her lower body exposed. That is where the blood will settle if she is human. I need to prick her to test her. Do you want this witch vanquished? Do you want her out of your village? Then do it! Strip her! Now!’
John stepped forward. His face was grey and his eyes huge and terrified.
‘I shall do it, Sir. I feel I owe it to Alice to have her convicted. She killed my Alice and she must pay.’
John!’ cried Meggie, some of her senses returning to her. ‘Please, no. What would Alice think? How can this help her?’
‘You killed her,’ he spat out. ‘You killed her and you need to pay.’
With that, he lunged forward and grabbed hold of the hem of Meggie’s shift. He yanked it over her head and tried to ignore the muffled screams and cries of shame and humiliation. Nicholson’s eyes glinted as he scanned the girl’s body. It was milk-white and slender, her breasts small and her stomach flat. Perfect. She was a joy to behold. He would make this last.
‘What is this witch’s name? It is correct practice that someone confirms the identity of the accused. I shall not be held responsible for harming an innocent,’ said Nicholson, looking around at the assembled men in the temple.
