Mortuus Virgo

by Kevin Ashman

  ‘Perhaps she still used it or he preferred it,’ said Brandon.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so, going back to an old name was seen as unlucky, and anyway, Alexander was born in the same year and it would have been an insult to him. No, this is one of the reasons I think this is a fake, the coin was minted by a different culture who perhaps got their names or dates wrong.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Phillip, ’What about the other side?’

  She didn’t bother using the magnifying glass for this one, just picked up the sheet.

  ‘This is something altogether different,’ she said ‘And is wrong, wrong, wrong.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Wrong country, wrong period, wrong culture.’

  He looked at the picture on the coin. To him it looked like a crude attempt at a matchstick man, the type often drawn by young children in their first attempts at drawing. A large round head sat on two vertical thick lines depicting the body and legs, whilst the arms were held tight against the sides.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Where do I start?’ she asked, ‘This image is a symbol recognised by many different cultures across the world. It refers to an ideology shared by thousands of religions from Christianity to Catholicism and ranges from the dawn of time right up to modern day. It is Pagan in origin and represents the universe itself or more recently, an actual person or should I say, Deity.’

  ‘Who is it?’ he asked, ‘Do I know him?’

  ‘Not him, her. The image is called the Tyet’ she explained, ‘The original meaning is unknown though it probably undertook different variances throughout time. In particular it is associated with one of the greatest female deities of all time. Her name was Aset, and she lived about nine thousand years ago in the area now known as the Black Sea.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of her,’ he said.

  ‘I expect you have,’ she answered ‘But the more recent incarnation. You see, this design, the Tyet is also known as the Blood of Isis.

  ‘Isis, wasn’t she an Egyptian queen?’

  ‘Not quite, more a Goddess though she was based on a real person.’

  ‘And is there a link between Phillip and Isis?’

  ‘Not at all, there is almost a seven thousand year gap between them.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Nope, except, as I said, this coin seems to be no more than a few hundred years old. That would explain the mistakes but why anyone in the middle ages wanted to represent these ancient characters is beyond me. Actually, come to think of it, most of what we know now only came to light in the last hundred years or so. People in the middle ages would have known virtually nothing about ancient history.’

  ‘So we are no further forward then.’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘Sod this,’ he said, ‘Come on I need some air.’ He stood up and led the way towards the door.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Victoria Station,’ he said, ‘Let’s see if there’s anything the police missed there.’

  An hour later Brandon and India left the station managers office and descended a private staircase into a maintenance tunnel. They stood before a metal door as the manager fumbled with a set of keys.

  ‘It’s here somewhere,’ he said, ‘After the incident we had this door specially installed. Staff have to sign for the key now, here we go,’ He pulled the door towards him and stood to one side, ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you detective?’

  ‘No, we will be fine thanks.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘The tunnel is about two hundred yards on your left and the linesman’s room is a further one hundred yards along. You can’t miss it; there is still police tape over the door.’

  ‘It’s still sealed?’

  ‘Yes, you are the first people down there since the incident. You’ll need this.’ He retrieved another key off the ring, ‘And these.’ He picked up two torches from a side table and handed them over along with high visibility vests and safety helmets. ‘The side tunnel has no electricity,’ he explained.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Brandon, ‘We’ll probably be no longer than an hour.’

  ‘If you’re not back by then,’ said the manager, ‘We’ll send someone to get you. Don’t worry, you can’t get lost, the tunnels are blocked at the other end, have been since the forties.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Wrong ground type,’ said the manager, ‘The engineers discovered a fault at the time and they had to be abandoned.’

  They thanked the manager and started down the dimly lit tunnel carrying the torches. As soon as the door shut behind them Brandon discarded the jackets and helmets.

  ‘You really don’t like health and safety, do you?’ laughed India.

  ‘It’s the bloody principle,’ stated Brandon in frustration, ‘If they were there for us to pick up, then I would probably have used them, I just don’t like people telling me how to look after myself.’

  Within a few minutes the entrance to the side tunnel loomed darkly on their left and they turned on their torches, the beams cutting through the darkness as they made their way to the linesman’s room. Suddenly Brandon stopped and held his hand up.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked India.

  ‘It’s open,’ he said and India aimed her torch past him onto the door sticking out into the passage.

  ‘I thought he said it was sealed?’

  ‘He did,’ he said, examining the door. Reaching across the full width was n industrial hasp, hinged at the end to drop over the looped staple fixed to the frame. A heavy duty padlock lay on the floor, one end of the shaft forced from the body. ‘It’s been forced,’ he said and entered the room closely followed by India.

  They shone their torches around the small room. There was a mess table, a wooden locker and two benches. A crowbar lay in the dirt floor, obviously left by the person who had forced the door. A dozen or so cables fed trough the wall at head level and terminated in a large distribution cupboard, the doors hanging off the hinges.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘I just need to get a feel for the place, to see where that poor girl spent the last days of her life.’

  ‘How old are you Brandon?’ asked India, as she examined her side of the room.

  ‘Thirty, why?

  ‘Aren’t you a bit young to be wearing Brut?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘My father used Brut; I thought you would be more of a Paco Rabhan sort of guy.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ he asked.

  ‘Your aftershave,’ she said, ‘I recognise the smell.’

  He spun around and stared at her, blinding her with the beam of his torch.

  ‘Oy,’ she said, ‘Get your light out of my eyes.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Your light…’

  ‘No, about the aftershave!’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, there’s no drama here, you’ve just used a bit too much that’s all.’

  ‘India,’ he said,’ I’m not wearing any.’

  A noise outside made them both spin around, but before they could do anything else, the door slammed shut into its frame. Brandon lunged for the door in vain.

  ‘What’s happened?’ shouted India, ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Someone’s closed the hasp,’ said Brandon, ‘They must have dropped something through the staple, probably the shaft of the broken padlock.’

  India banged on the door.

  ‘Let us out,’ she shouted, ‘Hello, whoever you are, open this door right now.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ said Brandon, ‘Calm down.’

  ‘What do you mean calm down? Some creep has locked us in.’

  ‘I know, and do you think that just by shouting at him is going to change his mind. Anyway, he’s probably long gone.’

  ‘No, problem,’ said India, ‘The station manager said he would send someone for us in an hour and we’ve been gone half of that already
. All we have to do is wait for him and we will be okay, right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Brandon, ‘May as well make ourselves comfortable. He pulled up the two benches and they sat opposite each other across the table. ‘Turn off your torch. We need to conserve our batteries.’

  ‘Who do you think it was?’ asked India eventually.

  ‘No way of telling. Obviously someone who doesn’t want us snooping around.’

  ‘Do you think it was the killer?’

  ‘No, Like I said, we know who that was and he is dead.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said India and fished out her mobile phone. ‘Shit, no signal,’

  ‘What did you expect you’re about a hundred feet underground?’

  ‘Well it works on the tube.’

  ‘Signal amplifiers,’ he said simply and silence fell again.

  ‘While we are waiting,’ said Brandon eventually, ‘Fill me in on this Isis character.’

  ‘I am not sure I want to,’ she said

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We’re in the dark, locked in an underground room where a girl was murdered. Not a good place to discuss a long dead Egyptian Goddess.’

  ‘Not afraid of some long dead spirits are you?’ he laughed.

  ‘I know, it’s stupid, it just feels a bit, I don’t know, spooky I suppose.’

  ‘Humour me,’ he said, ‘None of this makes any sense. We may as well make the most of the situation. Fill me in on everything. Go back to the very beginning. Leave nothing out.’

  ‘Okay she sighed, ‘Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.’

  His smile at her sarcasm was lost in the darkness.

  ‘It all began,’ she said about ten thousand years ago!’

  Chapter 7

  Rome 64 AD

  The giant doors swung inwards opened by a pair of female slaves of eastern descent. They were bare breasted and wore simple wraps of pure white linen around their waists that fell to halfway down their thighs. Rubria ignored the impropriety and walked gracefully into the Emperor’s audience chamber. She had decided that nothing she saw today would get a reaction from her. At the end of the day, he was her Emperor and who was she to judge his actions?

  She looked around in wonder. The Temple of Vesta was very ornate but this was something else altogether. First of all the room was enormous and was entirely clad in sheets of white marble ingrained with sweeping veins of colour. The floors were slabs of black marble interspersed with mosaics of exquisite design ranging from gladiatorial contests to feasts of the gods. Ornamental fountains sprayed coloured water from hidden spouts to disappear once more under suitably displaced marble sinks. Other pools of water rippled lazily and she was astonished to see multi coloured fish swimming within, something she could not have even imagined. More slaves were located throughout the room and watched in interest as the Priestess walked towards the empty throne. As she approached an official walked forward and stood in front of her, stopping her in her tracks.

  ‘Wait here!’ he said and disappeared into an ante chamber.

  She stood for an hour, absolutely still in the sumptuous room, accepting the aches in her legs as a blessing from the Virgin. The monotony was briefly broken for a few minutes as she stared in astonishment when a white stallion walked lazily into the room, bedecked with jewels and flowers. No-one seemed to take any notice and the horse eventually disappeared though a side door. Finally a figure draped in a purple silk toga strode into the room accompanied by half a dozen officials. He made his way to the throne and sat answering questions with an air of boredom. Rubria stood up straight and awaited instruction. Eventually the Emperor spotted the Priestess and held up his hand to silence his entourage.

  ‘Be-gone!’ he said eventually and his staff duly disappeared into the depths of the building. He lounged back on his throne, staring across the marble at the Priestess fifty paces away.

  ‘Who are you, spirit lady?’ he called out.

  ‘I am Rubria, lord,’ she answered, ‘Humble Priestess of the Temple of Vesta.’

  She lowered herself gracefully down spreading her gown out as she went and leaned forward, her head low and her arms outstretched with palms flat on the floor.

  He left his throne to walk slowly towards her.

  ‘A Vestal Virgin,’ he said eventually, ‘How wonderful. Tell me something Virgin,’ he said, ‘Have you seen my horse?’

  ‘I believe he walked through this glorious hall not ten minutes since, Sire. ’

  ‘Ah, good,’ he said, ‘It’s almost time for his bath.’

  Rubria didn’t flinch at the strange conversation, remaining prostrate at his feet.

  ‘You may arise,’ he said eventually.

  Rubria stood but kept her gaze lowered.

  ‘Do you know me, Virgin?’ he asked.

  ‘Sire, you are Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, our glorious Emperor.’

  ‘Correct!’ he shouted, making her jump, ‘Look at me.’

  Nero’s intake of breath was audible as the sight of her eyes caught him by surprise. He took a step forward staring into her gaze, astonished at the colour and the depth. Rubria breathed shallowly in order not to take in too much of his wine laden breath.

  ‘Are you a demon?’ he asked.

  ‘No Sire, I am a humble servant of the Goddess, keeper of the hearth and protector of the secrets.’

  ‘I have to admit,’ he said, ‘You are by far the prettiest of them. How old are you?’

  ‘Eighteen Sire.’

  ‘More wine!’ he shouted suddenly,’ making her jump again and a slave ran forward with a silver tankard. He took a deep draught and held it to be refilled from the waiting amphora.

  ‘Wine, Virgin?’ he asked.

  ‘No thank you, Sire, I am fine.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said, ‘Come with me.’ He turned and made his way back to throne followed by Rubria and dropped onto the soft cushions.

  ‘Bring the Priestess a glass.’ he ordered and within a minute a beautiful goblet filled with a scarlet liquid was brought by the same slave. An ornately carved chair, albeit far smaller than the overpowering throne, was carried out for Rubria to sit on. She sipped from the delicate glass, waiting for Nero to speak. Duly he obliged.

  ‘What do you know about politics, Virgin?’ he asked.

  ‘Very little, Sire. ’

  ‘You know what a Senate is?’

  ‘Of course, Sire, the political body that acts in the interests of every citizen, guided of course by your own glorious hand.’

  ‘By my hand,’ he scoffed, ‘A jest indeed, Virgin, a generation ago perhaps but these days they steer their own course.’

  ‘Perhaps so, sire but their actions can never detract from the good that has arisen from your great guidance.’

  ‘My guidance? And what would someone who has spent more than half their life locked in a tiny cell know about such things?’

  ‘It is true many of the ways of the world are strange to me but I am aware that your rule brought happiness to the downtrodden until…’

  ‘Until what?’ he asked.

  ‘Forgive me, sire but I think perhaps you may have become distracted.’

  He looked at her in astonishment.

  ‘You are free indeed with your tongue Virgin,’ he said, ‘Take care you do not raise my ire.’

  She looked deep into his eyes.

  ‘Sire, your majesty is undoubted, your glory is without question and everyone in the city whispers your name in awe. But do not the words of those nearest to you ring hollow? Do you not crave words of truth from someone who has nothing to gain from agreeing with your every sentence?’

  ‘Continue!’ he said intrigued.

  ‘Sire, I am nothing more than a servant to the Goddess. I hold no political ambition and have nothing to gain by pandering to your every word. If I offend then I can only apologise but the path I have chosen is one of truth.’

  He stared at her for a long time before tilting his head back and roaring with
laughter.

  ‘By the gods, Virgin he laughed, your impudence astounds me. I grace you with an audience and within minutes you criticise my rule with tangled words of hidden meaning.’

  She smiled at him while he wiped the tears of mirth from his eyes.

  ‘I like you’ Virgin,’ he said eventually, ‘For the first time in an age my ears detect no ulterior motive and your candour refreshes me, I would hear more.’

  Her eyes closed briefly as she nodded her head in acceptance.

  ‘So, Virgin,’ he said, ‘Now the level between has been agreed I would seek your view on a political situation that irks me.’

  ‘If the Goddess has blessed me with the knowledge sire then I will convey my view with truth and candour.’

  Nero stood up and walked around Rubria with his hands behind his back.

  ‘Bearing in mind your extraordinary person and henceforth privileged position, I shall accept no less. Therefore, Rubria, Priestess of Vesta, ask your Goddess this,’ He turned to look back at her, his head tilted to one side, ‘Should I make my horse a Senator?’

  Several hours later the High Priestess and Rubria sat in an antechamber of the Vestal Temple partaking of their evening meal. The citrus fruit segments were the perfect antidote for the rich slabs of meat and Garum sauce they had just finished and though the meal was delicious Rubria was still getting used to the higher quality of life she enjoyed as a Priestess than an Acolyte.

  ‘So how did it go?’ asked the Priestess eventually.

  Rubria took a deep breath.

  ‘To be honest, Holy Mother, I am not quite sure what to say. The conversation ranged from the ordinary to the ridiculous.’

  ‘Do you think he has lost his mind?’

  ‘Oh no. I think that despite the bizarre nature of some of his edicts he knows exactly what he wants and what he is doing. He harbours a deep distrust of the Senate and sees them as an obstacle that must be overcome in order to achieve his plans.’

  ‘And did he expand on those plans?’

  ‘No, Mother.’