by Morgan Wade
Mark glanced back at the refugees, magazines in their laps.
“He’s demanded that the city cut funding to Caritas. Handmaidens of sin he called us. Now it’s Operation Sweep for Jesus. He’s here today, with his youth pastors and a TV crew. They’ve already rounded up a dozen.”
Mark lowered his voice, “What could happen?”
“Deportation.”
Sura dropped her magazine. “I’ve forgotten my flute!”
“It will probably still be there,” Sebastian said without any real conviction, as he and Mark rejoined the pair. “Anyway, we can always get you another, if that one should happen to go missing.”
“No. It’s special,” she continued, struggling to control her tone. “It’s been in the family a long time. It has a history.”
“I’ll go.” Mark said.
Sebastian put his hand roughly through his hair and inhaled, but didn’t object. Mark exited the shop and jogged back. Onlookers lined the streets. He heard Rick Reid before he saw him. A squashed, adenoidal voice intoned from around the corner, “…and I’d like to introduce some friends of mine!”
His voice bounced off the walls of the buildings along the street, warped, amplified, and echoing.
“Mr. and Mrs Gerald Henderson. Of three hundred and five Pennington Road, four blocks from here. I met them just last week, in fact. Good, decent, god-fearing folk. Like you and me.”
Mark sprinted back to the street corner.
“They came to the Ministry. They’ve been through an awful ordeal. They…, oh dear.” Reid paused. “The memories are still fresh. It’s okay Mrs. Henderson, here’s a handkerchief. Please. Don’t be afraid, you’re safe now.”
As Mark reached the mouldering heap left by Nasir and Sura, Rick Reid hove into view, making a slow and steady progress down the adjacent street, on the licorice-red back seat of a giant, white Cadillac convertible. Mrs. Henderson, a nervous, bird-like woman, sat on his left with her beak nose in a handkerchief. Her husband, a slight, mirror-image of his wife, sat on Reid’s right. Reid was at the centre of a motorcade, with several police motorcycles ahead, one cruiser and a paddy wagon behind, a television crew with their van sprouting dishes and antennae, the KROS 12-20 Christian radio Good News HumVee, and the 24-Hour talk radio Jeep, with “Kommunity Kruiser” emblazoned on its garish sides. Supporters and interested onlookers on foot accompanied the motorcade on all sides.
“Poor Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Henderson suffered a violent assault last week! The sanctity of their home was broken!”
Mark rifled through the blankets and cardboard at the corner, searching for Sura’s flute.
“Crack addicts, crazed from withdrawal, broke into their home on Pennington, while they were still in it! One addict threatened them with a baseball bat, and another with an HIV infected needle, while the others ransacked the house. There, there, Mrs. Henderson, this must be very difficult for you.”
As Reid’s Cadillac arrived at the corner, Mark found the flute and snatched it from the debris. He turned to face the pastor. With his large, globe of a head, pink and fleshy, with wisps of fine, sandy hair combed over from left to right, his soft, pudgy features, his light-coloured eyes and the complete absence of stubble on his jawbone, Mark thought he resembled a puffed up infant, clutching a giant rattle of a megaphone. The pastor noticed Mark staring up at him and he halted his oration, switching off the megaphone.
“Check him out,” Reid said to one of his associates.
Two young men walking alongside the car strode toward Mark.
“He’s not homeless, Reid! And he’s not an addict.”
Sebastian was on the sidewalk, a dozen feet from the start of the motorcade. The stringy activist, with his head of overgrown, dreadlocked hair, disintegrating sandals, and tattoos, might have been a street person himself. The pastor smoothed his sky blue tie, brushing sausage fingers over the chunky, gold cross pinning it. He motioned to his driver and the car inched forward, until they were face to face.
“One misstep and I’ll have you arrested.”
Sebastian showed no emotion.
"If your enemy is hungry, feed him. If he is thirsty, give him a drink."
“That’s very good, a fine sentiment, did you learn that in Sunday school? Do we not also have a duty to keep our citizens safe? He who does not prevent a crime when he can, encourages it.”
“Don’t be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”
“Enough. Everything changed last week. People are afraid.” Reid waved vaguely at the squalor in the street, “We’re cleaning up.”
The motorcade moved forward. Reid forgot about Mark.
SIXTEEN
Marcus was led blindfolded down a flight of stairs. The sultry midsummer air gave way to a cool, damp stillness. He heard reverberations; boot-steps, distant laughter, his own heavy breathing. He regretted that he had agreed to Gus’ invitation.
When they stopped, the thick scarf was removed from his face and his eyes adjusted to the light. Looking up, Marcus thought they were still outside, under the night sky. Stars shone overhead and he could identify dozens of constellations. Behind him, a shaft of light dappled the stone stairs leading up the tunnel he’d just descended. Wavering candles and oil lamps produced a glimmering effect.
“An illusion. Gregorios of Melos painted it fifty years ago.” Gus was at his shoulder.
“I’ve heard of him. There’s a statue by Gregorios in the square near my insula.”
“A Greek, but still. He made Perses, fifth degree. Come, I’ll show you the rest of temple hall.”
At one end of the rectangular cavern, along the wall opposite the entryway, there was a bas-relief that covered its entire length, from floor to ceiling. A muscular youth grappled a bull under the shade of a sprawling fig tree, his lance piercing the beast’s flank. A mastiff clamped on the bull’s neck and a scorpion pincered his genitals while a viper sucked at the blood. Above right, a raven soared across a fanciful representation of the sun.
“That’s even older. It’s been here since the founding. Another Greek, Andronikos of Crete. Not a fellow, just a hired artisan.”
Marcus recognized the sculpted tableau of the slaughtered bull. It was a tauroctony; centerpiece of the Mithraic temple. The demi-god Mithras slays the bull whose sacrificial blood gives rise to all life on earth. In front of the wall sculpture there were two elaborate altars, one on the left featuring a prominent depiction of the sun in bronze. The one on the right depicted the moon in silver surmounted with a human skull. Long, continuous concrete benches extended back from the altars. Statuary adorned each of the side walls including a dominating figure of the emperor Commodus.
“Our most famous brother,” Gus said.
“Hail Marcus, our newest Corax prospect!”
Marcus pivoted to see his boss, the cherubic Paulus Cornelius, in robes of saffron, a gold chain around his neck and thick daubs of kohl at the corners of his eyes.
“Have you ever attended a Mithraist ceremony before?”
“No sir.”
“Paulus is a fourth degree Leo,” Gus said.
“You’ve got good timing Marcus, we have a very special guest in attendance tonight.”
“He arrived?” asked Gus.
“Yes.”
“You’d better take your seats we’ll be starting soon.”
Marcus followed Gus and they sat near the back, with the princepales, the low ranking soldiers, and the merchantmen. He watched as Paulus crossed the room and greeted the city’s chief magistrate and the praetor of the court. The legatus of the tenth legion, stationed nearby, joined them to share a joke. A dozen military tribunes and a score of lictors stood along the walls, alert and watchful. Paulus moved on to chat with the landowner who was financing their work. A rotund man, with bright blue eyes and a baby face stepped up to the dais. There was a tall, conical hat of bright scarlet atop his hairless head and long flowing robes below, festooned with the sun, moon, and other celestial bodies.
“That’s the Pater,” Gus said in a low voice.
“Jupiter Optimus Maximus,” Marcus cursed at a whisper, staring at the dais, in particular at the young adept standing next to the Pater.
It was Patricius Constantius, assisting the Pater with his preparations, arranging the ceremonial accoutrements. He was clad in a hooded tunic with an iron chain and amulet around his neck. Marcus recognized him immediately despite the kohl at his eyes, the cross branded into his forehead, and the hood partially obscuring his face. The man with the knife from the night of the Ludi Plebei. A memory returned of the altercation at the Via Flamina in Rome, at the inauguration of the emperor’s baths. He was there too. He accused me publicly. Marcus raised the scarf up over his mouth and nose.
“What is it?” Gus asked, also whispering.
“Nothing. Someone I thought I knew.”
“Who is it?”
“No-one, I was mistaken.”
Marcus shrank back on the bench. The Pater continued.
“It is, as you know, a special night. We have our confirmations. Brother Julianus is becoming a Leo…,”
Cheers.
“…Brother Victorius attempts promotion to Miles…”
Cheers.
“…and Sylvanus Avitus may become our newest Corax initiate, if he completes the rites.”
Loud sustained cheers. Marcus was relieved that his name had not come up as part of the evening’s business.
“We have a special guest taking part in this evening’s communion.”
The assembly murmured its approval.
“Let’s bow our heads and fall on our knees in worship to our saviour, Sol Invictus, the great god of the sun!”
The congregation knelt forward from the benches, conveniently constructed at such an angle that supplication came naturally, and the Pater began his prayers.
“We beseech you, O Mithras, sun god, bringer of light, bringer of warmth, enemy of darkness, annihilator of evil, champion of the legions, friend and protector of man, our advocate in heaven, you who were of divine birth, without mother or father, a gift to mortals from the almighty, found naked and shivering among the rocks, under the mighty fig tree, by shepherds who witnessed the miracle and who adored you and the magi who journeyed from afar to lavish you with gifts, you who vanquished the sacred bull of Ormazd, dragging the magnificent beast into a cavern, just such as this, spilling its blood so that all of the animals of the world could have life. Through you we can attain salvation, you who will guide worthy mortals to heaven and deliver us from evil, when drought besieged our land you drew water from a rock, when the deluge threatened you provided boats to our ancestors and saved them, it is you who will lead the faithful from their graves before the conflagration of the final judgment…”
And so the liturgy went. Congregants rocked back and forth solemnly, kissing amulets, sprinkling themselves with holy water, making intricate signs with their fingers. An initiate near the statue of Commodus stripped to the waist flogged himself earnestly with an iron-tipped flail. Marcus began devising tactful ways he would be able to tell Gus and Paulus that Mithraism was not for him.
“Hail, O Lord, Great Power, Great Might, King, Greatest of gods, Helios,” the Pater continued, “first origin of my origin, aeeioyo, first beginning of my beginning, the Lord of heaven and earth, God of gods: mighty is your breath; mighty is your strength, O Lord. If it be your will, announce me to the supreme god, the one who has begotten and made you: that a man who was born from the mortal womb and from the fluid of semen, and who, since he has been born again from you today, has become immortal out of so many myriads in this hour according to the wish of god the exceedingly good resolves to worship you.”
The Pater spoke in tongues. Adepts around him, including Patricius, were breathing loudly and rhythmically, hyperventilating.
“Give ear to me, hearken to me, O Lord, you who have bound together with your breath the fiery bars of the fourfold root, O Fire-Walker, Pentiteroyni, Light-Maker, Semesilam, Fire-Breather, Psyrinphey, Fire-Feeler, Iao, Light-Breather, Oai, Fire-Delighter, Eloyre, Beautiful Light, Azai, Aion, Achba, Light-Master, Pepper Prepempipi, Fire-Body, Phnoyenioch, Light-Giver, Fire-Sower, Arei Eikita, Fire-Driver, Gallabalba, Light-Forcer, Aio, Fire-Whirler, Pyrichibooseia, Light-Mover, Sancherob, Thunder-Shaker, Ie Oe Ioeio, Glory-Light, Beegenetee Light-Increaser, Soysinephien, Fire-Light-Maintainer, Soysinephi Arenbarazei Marmarentey, Star-Tamer: open for us…,”
The grotto was now alive with moaning and chanting. Marcus looked over at Gus. He looked amused.
“Proprophegge Emetheire Moriomotyrephilba, because, on account of the pressing and bitter and inexorable necessity, I invoke the immortal names, living and honored, which never pass into mortal nature and are not declared in articulate speech by human tongue or mortal speech or mortal sound…”
The assembly erupted into a chorus of cacophonic gibberish and nonsense.
“eeo oeeo ioo oe eeo eeo oe eo ioo oeee oee ooe ie eo oo oe ieo oe ooe ieo oe ieeo ee io oe ioe oeo eoe oeo oie oie eo oi iii eoe oye eooee eo eia aea eea eeee eee eee ieo eeo oeeeoe eeo eyo oe eio eo oe oe ee ooo yioe…"
The Pater collapsed upon the dais. Two adepts rushed in from either side and helped him to regain his feet. He straightened the cone of his hat, unruffled his robes, and composed himself.
“Amen,” he said.
“Amen,” replied the congregation.
The legatus of the legion walked across from the mithraeum exit and stepped up to the dais to whisper in the Pater’s ear. The Pater nodded sagely and the legatus withdrew.
“Brothers! Our special visitor is here! It is my great honour to introduce to you, visiting from Rome, our most illustrious brother, our glorious emperor, Lucius Septimius Bassianus!”
All rose to their feet, stamping boots and clapping hands. A figure emerged from the tunnel, cloaked and hooded, flanked on either side by a dozen Praetorian Guard. The figure pulled the hood back to expose his shaved head and shaved eyebrows marked heavily with black kohl. There was no mistaking Caracallus. No customary full-length Gallic cape, but the face was thoroughly familiar, from the coins Marcus used every day, to the busts he saw at the courthouse and the forum and in the city square, to the day he saw him slay the lion at the baths. He had the same stern, savage expression, the same thin-lipped smile.
The emperor took to the dais.
“Good evening to you brothers. Fate has brought me to your fine and humble temple, as we prepare to invade Parthia, ancestral home of Mithras, now overcome with barbaric and evil people. Like Alexander, I will march into this distant, ancient, eastern land and civilize it for the glory of the sun god. Mithras has spoken to me directly. He has bid me to rid the land of his birth from this scourge of darkness. I’ve been thrice visited by a raven, which cried seven times. We cannot fail, anointed as we are by divine providence.”
The emperor paused after each sentence and the congregation filled each pause with the sound of their approval.
“I have come tonight to share communion with you and to receive the benefit of Mithras’ good grace through your prayers.”
Caracallus knelt before the altar. The Pater turned to a baptismal font and dabbed at the emperor’s forehead with his wet fingers.
“May Mithras bless you in your endeavour and may you bring the glory of Rome to the holy land. And now we shall have communion.”
The emperor left the dais and returned to a place of honour at the head of the first bench, along with his advisors and guardsmen. Acolytes dispersed through the temple to distribute the bread and wine of communion. Marcus inched his scarf further up his face and prayed. He gave thanks to Fortuna when Patricius started at the opposite end of the auditorium. A novice stood before Marcus, a crude cross branded into his forehead, passing him a small circle of bread and a goblet of wine. Marcus sipped from the goblet as he had seen the others do and took and ate the circle of bread, which was also marked w
ith a cross. When all had partaken in the communion the Pater spoke again.
“In honour of our great emperor and the divine quest he has taken on, we shall be performing the ultimate sacrifice as part of our ceremony tonight. Please let us adjourn to the altar.”
The assembly stood and squeezed into an adjoining room with a lower ceiling and a floor that sloped toward a centre grate. Inside, a white brahma bull snorted, his great, horned head shackled to the floor by a nose-ring attached with heavy chain to an iron grommet in the ceiling. The animal frothed and bucked, seeking deliverance. The Pater recited an incantation. A man with a sledgehammer stepped forward, pulled it behind his back, and landed it between the bull’s bulging eyes.
“Emperor? Would you like the honour?”
“With pleasure.”
Caracallus received an ornate sword from the Pater. A pair of acolytes pulled on the chain attached to the ring in the bull’s nose, lifting his insensate head to expose his neck.
“In the name of Mithras,” the emperor intoned, “I water the earth with the blood of the sacred bull.”
He drove the sword deeply into the neck of the animal and wrenched it until the blood geysered out. A portion of the blood was captured in a large chalice and it was passed around the assembly. Each brother took a sip of the thick, salty liquid, still warm. When the chalice arrived at Marcus, passed to him by Gus, he hesitated. He considered passing the cup on. Instead, he turned, lowered the scarf and held the chalice to his mouth, brought the chalice down and passed it on, discreetly wiping his upper lip.
The slaughtered brahma bull was not the ultimate sacrifice.
“Our final act of devotion. Bring in our final offering.”
A thin man with matted beard and brown curly hair was led in by the acolytes. A piece of cloth that wound around his waist and between his legs was his only covering. His arms were tied behind his back. They forced him to kneel next to the bull that still twitched, bleeding to death.