by K. M. Ashman
‘How?’
‘By moving her body elsewhere.’
‘Into the cavern?’
‘I don’t think so. It could have attracted too much attention. No I believe they picked a site where nobody would think of looking for a pagan priestess.’
‘Where?’
‘A Christian cemetery.’
Brandon looked around, understanding dawning on his face.
‘You think she is buried here?’
‘I do.’
‘But why?’
‘This church is intrinsically linked to the history of this village and has been since the Romans left.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ said Brandon.
‘Perhaps not but this is the church of St Lawrence. His story is fascinating in itself but it is interesting that his followers built a church here, so far away from Rome and so close to the order of Santa Rosa.’
‘Coincidence?’
‘Perhaps but St Lawrence is known by another title.’
‘Which is?’
‘The keeper of the secrets.’
----
‘Fascinating,’ said Brandon, ‘but even if you are right, how do you intend to find an unmarked grave from over fifteen hundred years ago?’
‘I don’t have to find it,’ said India, ‘I know exactly where it is.’
‘You do?’
‘I think so.’
‘Where?’
India looked at her watch.
‘Just be patient a little longer,’ said India, ‘for if I am right, all will be revealed in a few minutes.’
Brandon looked at her in confusion but she would say no more. Five minutes later an old woman led a little girl into the cemetery and walked slowly along the path. India nudged Brandon and nodded her head toward the couple.
‘Who are they?’ asked Brandon.
‘Shut up and watch,’ said India.
The two generations made their way past all the headstones and across the central clear lawn area toward the oak tree. The old lady opened her basket and pulled out a bundle of grass, bending it over to form a loop. She tied it around the centre and handed it to the little girl, who, after kissing it gently, placed it at the base of the oak. Without further ado, they turned around and headed back toward the gate, passing India and Brandon on the way. India stood up and spoke to the old lady.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I hope I’m not intruding but I couldn’t help noticing what you just did? Would it be rude of me to ask if there was any significance in placing a knot of grass at the base of the tree?’
‘Oh that,’ said the old woman, ‘just a silly tradition. Been doing it all my life. Got to pass these things on to the younger generation, haven’t we?’
‘Of course,’ said India, ‘is it widespread around here?’
‘Oh no,’ said the old lady, ‘it’s a family thing.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said India, ‘sorry for the intrusion.’
‘That’s okay,’ said the lady and turned to the girl, ‘say goodbye, Ruby.’
‘Bye,’ said the girl looking up at India and they both turned away to walk back to the village.
Brandon walked over to the tree and picked up the straw doll the woman had left. It was made from a fistful of long grass, bent in the middle to form a loop for the head. More grass was tied around the centre to secure the shape and two smaller bunches had been drawn out of the torso to form the arms. Brandon gently pushed the grass arms down to the doll’s side, forming an even more familiar shape,
‘Isis,’ he whispered in awe, ‘India, look at this… India…’ He turned around to speak but found her back was turned toward him as she stared at the retreating old woman and young girl.
‘Oh my god, Brandon,’ she gasped, ‘did you see her eyes?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The little girl’s eyes, have you ever seen anything so blue?’
----
They turned back toward the tree and both looked at it in a new light. They were silent for a long time before Brandon spoke again.
‘How did you know?’ he asked eventually.
‘Simple,’ said India, ‘an oak has no place in a Christian cemetery, it’s a Pagan symbol.’
‘And Rubria was a Pagan?’
‘She was.’
Silence fell again.
‘I suppose an oak would have been a good grave marker for a priestess.’
‘A perfect choice,’ said India, ‘though it wouldn’t have lasted two thousand years.’
‘I suppose it could have been replanted as each tree died.’
‘It could have but that would have meant that her descendants, or at least her followers, still survived throughout the centuries.’
‘The old lady?’
‘And the little girl,’ said India, ‘don’t forget, the secrets of the goddess were passed down the female side of the families.’
‘But how did you know they would come here today?’
‘I didn’t but I knew that if my assumption was correct, someone would probably turn up.’
‘Why?’
‘The date,’ answered India.
‘June 29th,’ said Brandon, ‘why, what’s the significance?’
‘It’s an ancient festival carried out since the time of Isis,’ said India, ‘eventually, the Vestals adopted the ritual and every year, on June 29th, they would make straw dolls in Isis’s image and cast them into the river Tiber in Rome. Over time, it became a symbol of Vesta herself and any tomb or representation of any devotee of Vesta is honoured with this offering on this day.’
‘So, this is actually it,’ said Brandon, looking at the Oak, ‘the final resting place of Rubria, Priestess of Vesta’
‘And the statue of Pallas Athena,’ added India.
‘And nobody knows except you and me.’
‘And let’s keep it that way, eh?’
Brandon nodded, no explanation needed. They stayed for a long time, talking quietly beneath the tree.
‘I have some news,’ said Brandon eventually.
‘Oh yes and what is that?’
‘I’ve given in my notice,’ said Brandon, ‘I’m leaving the army in three months.’
‘But why?’ asked India.
‘It’s not the same anymore and I need a change. I was thinking about starting a small detective agency specialising in anything to do with the past. What do you think?’
‘You know nothing about the past,’ laughed India, ‘in fact you are crap.’
‘I know but I do know someone who knows quite a lot. What do you think, fancy it?’
‘Who, me?’ asked India in surprise.
‘I don’t see why not, we make a good team, you and me, unless of course you are happy in that little library of yours.’
‘What about work?’ asked India, ‘how do you know there will be enough to earn a living?’
‘I have fantastic contacts,’ said Brandon, ‘besides, they need someone like me who can work just far enough away to keep their hands clean, yet close enough to rely on in tricky situations. I already have their support.’
‘Whose support?’ asked India.
Brandon laughed.
‘Let’s just call them the grey men,’ he said, ‘anyway, you have a think about it and let me know.’
‘I will,’ said India.
They reached the gate in the cemetery wall and Brandon stopped, turning to face India
‘Something’s still puzzling me,’ he said, ‘earlier on you told me that you went back down into the crypt to replace the ashes into a new urn.’
‘I did.’
‘Surely that was a job for one of the nuns?’
‘I asked the church for special permission.’
‘Why?’
‘There was something personal I had to do.’
‘Like what?’
India smiled at him.
‘Perhaps I’ll tell you one day,’ she said, ‘come on, you can buy me a drink.’
As they lef
t the cemetery, India looked back at the majestic oak and after a moment’s pause, whispered gently into the breeze.
‘Sleep well, Rubria,’ she said, ‘sleep well.’
----
Epilogue
The tomb was still and silent once more. A new stone lid had been fitted above and the modern day rubbish that had littered the ancient floor had gone. Everything was back as it had been for over two millennia.
One modern item did remain though, in the far wall, a new and beautifully made oak casket, no bigger than a loaf of bread, sat centrally in the alcove. The lid had been fixed down and all the spilt ashes secured inside.
Deep within the ashes, however, lay something that only one person on the planet knew about. Since being spilled onto the tomb floor months earlier, it had been cleaned up and restored to its former glory until eventually, during the recent rededication of the ashes, the last missing necklace of Vesta had been returned to the resting place where it had spent the last two thousand years.
Alongside the necklace was one last thing, a tiny folded note bearing a personal message that would probably never be read by any living being.
Santa Rosa
Servant to Rubria, Priestess of Vesta
Rest in peace, Rose
All my love
India
Follower of Isis
*****
The End
Author’s Notes
Though this book is a work of historical fiction, many of the places and references are true, or believed to be true by many people. I have endeavoured to identify most, if not all of the situations below. However, it is up to the individual to ascertain the facts themselves.
The Cult of the Great Mother.
This is a very old religion dating back into pre-history. The Goddess figure is known in many cultures under many different names.
Flooding of the Black Sea.
Current research indicates that the Black sea was indeed flooded about seven thousand years ago when the land link between the sea of Marmara and the fresh water Black Sea was breached creating the Bosporus strait separating Europe from Asia.
The link between Egyptian Gods and Christianity.
Many people believe that Christianity is based on much older religions, such as the Egyptian Goddess Isis and many striking similarities can be seen with some research.
The Palladium
According to records, the Palladium did exist and Greek mythology says it was based on the statue of Pallas Athena. Troy was reputed to have been built around it and early records suggest that it was stolen just before the end of the siege of Troy. It ended up in the temple of Vesta in Rome and the last suspected location was under the Constantine tower in Constantinople.
The Samothrace Mysteries.
Samothrace is an island in the Aegean Sea. The statue of Nike was indeed discovered there and the Samothrace mysteries refer to ancient rituals carried out on the island thousands of years ago. Not much is known about the rituals, though it is known that Phillip of Macedonia was a devotee.
Vesta
Vestal Virgins were an important part of Roman society for hundreds of years and were required to remain chaste. Any breaching this rule were often buried alive with some food and water. They were usually rich and very powerful, often able to decide the fates of condemned men.
Rubria
Was a famous Vestal Virgin and reputed to have been raped by Nero. She is one of the few, whose ultimate fate is unknown and disappeared soon after the fire of Rome in 64 AD.
Church of St Giles
There is a Church of St Giles in Tockenham, which contains a Roman statuette built into one of the outside walls. Though it resembles the Palladium, current theories suggest it is a statue of Aesculapius.
Church of St Lawrence
There is a church of St Lawrence in Waltham St Lawrence situated between Maidenhead and Reading. St Lawrence was also known as the keeper of the secrets.
Weycock Hill
There are remains of a Roman building on Weycock Hill in Waltham St Lawrence, believed to have once been a Vestal temple.
Littlewick Green.
Is a real village near Weycock hill and is reputed to be haunted by a ghost known as the white lady, rumoured to be the spirit of a Vestal Virgin.
----
Click here to find more books by K. M. Ashman
Or Read on for a sample of book two in the India Sommers Mysteries:
The Treasures of Suleiman.
Click here to find more books by K. M. Ashman
Or Read on for a sample of book two in the India Sommers Mysteries:
The Treasures of Suleiman.
The Treasures of Suleiman
Chapter 1
Turkey 1554 AD
Topkapi Palace
Muhiddin lay shivering in the dark, his eyes staring into the nothingness as he contemplated his last day on earth. The straw mattress was little insulation from the damp slabs of the cell, yet compared to the searing heat that would follow from the dawning Aegean sun, the cold was almost welcome to the old man’s ninety year old bones. Beyond the cell door, the Sultan’s dungeons were stirring into life and already the whimpers of those condemned to die seeped along the blood stained corridors, adding to the prayers of the devout as they paid tribute to their various gods for the last time.
Footsteps echoed down the passage and Muhiddin counted the slams of wood on stone as the daily rations were slid through the floor level hatches. He was number twenty and when the slams reached eighteen he rose quickly to place his empty jug just inside the door. He may be condemned to die but it was pointless going to the executioner thirsty.
He knew the drill well. As soon as the jailers reached the door they would raise the hatch and the prisoner would slide out the empty clay bowl and pot. In return, they would receive a full jug of water and if they were lucky, a bowl of whatever food had been discarded from the Sultan’s kitchens. Not that it was food fit for a Sultan, oh no, the leftovers went through the ranks of the rest of the palace hierarchy long before any reached the prisoners.
First the courtiers took their pick, then the kitchen staff and servants, followed by the dungeon guards. Any scraps of meat remaining were extracted for the dogs before what little was left was boiled into a foul smelling soup, a bowl of which was all each prisoner could expect during the long solitary hours.
The slams reached nineteen and Muhiddin bent, anticipating the lifting of the hatch. He had to be quick as the impatient guards would not wait and any prisoner not having their wits about them often missed the meagre allowance and had to wait a day before the opportunity came again. The footsteps reached his door and though he could hear the muffled voices of the guards outside, the hatch remained closed. Instead, the footsteps carried on and he listened in confusion to the slam of hatch number twenty one. He stood up and sighed deeply. Many years ago, he probably would have kicked up a fuss and demanded to know the reason he was being denied the simplest of human needs, even if it meant a beating but at ninety years of age he was tired and knew that protestation was useless. They probably thought that giving condemned man a bowl of soup was a waste of time. He returned to his corner and laid down on the urine stained mattress.
‘Not much longer,’ he thought, ‘and this will all be over.’
----
Elmira entered the palace of Suleiman the Magnificent though the wooden side entrance used by soldiers and minor officials. The main Imperial Gate was only opened for state visitors, mounted palace guard or when the Sultan ventured out into the city. A courtier was waiting for her and diligently checked the basket for anything untoward.
‘Follow me,’ he said when he was satisfied.
Not many people had ever been inside the palace walls and Elmira looked around in wonder at the extraordinary layout, forgetting for a moment the tragic task she was undertaking. Compared to the sprawling mess of the city outside, this was exactly how Elmira envisaged heaven to be. Avenues of trees stre
tched away toward the inner walls bordering manicured lawns and gravel pathways. Beds of exotic flowers paraded their breath-taking colours while peacocks strutted between the many fountains that shot skyward from deep, clear pools.
Elmira stopped, gazing in awe at the inner palace further up the hill. Though the tower of justice could be seen from miles away outside the city, the actual palace of the Sultan could not be seen by the commoners and the twin octagonal towers framing the Gates of Salutation took her breath away.
‘Are we going up there?’ asked Elmira, more in hope than expectation.
The courtier followed her gaze.
‘The glory of the Sultan is not for the likes of you,’ he said, ‘your path lies this way.’ He turned to follow a gravelled path along the inside of the wall and entered a guard house built into the wall itself.
‘So, this is the one,’ said a burly guard rising from his chair. ‘About time, empty your basket.’
‘I have already checked,’ said the courtier.
‘Then I will check again,’ snapped the guard and turned the basket over onto the table.
Elmira watched as the guard rummaged through the contents.
‘I’ll take these,’ he said, removing a haunch of cooked lamb and a jug of white wine, ‘it would be pointless wasting them on a dead man.’
Elmira turned to the courtier, her eyes pleading.
‘Please, is it not enough that my grandfather dies today? Please, do not deny him his last meal.’
