London (13 page)

At last, ahead of them in the darkness, there it was: a dark building standing alone, its doorway lit on each side by burning torches. Julius heard his father give a little hiss of satisfaction.

Though he was an easy-going man, there were two things of which Julius’s father Rufus was fiercely proud. The first was the fact that he was a Roman citizen.

Civus Romanus sum
: I am a Roman citizen. In the early decades of Roman rule, few natives of the island province gained the honour of full citizenship. Gradually, however, the restrictions were eased, and Rufus’s grandfather, though only a provincial Celt, had managed by service in an auxiliary regiment to earn the coveted status. He had married an Italian woman, so Rufus could also claim that there was Roman blood in the family. True, when Rufus was a child the Emperor Caracalla had opened the gates and made citizenship available to nearly all freemen in the empire, so that in truth there was nothing to distinguish Rufus from the modest merchants and shopkeepers amongst whom he lived. But he still took pride in telling his son: “We were citizens before that, you know.”

But the second, and far greater, source of pride lay in the doorway with the flickering lights.

For Rufus was a member of the temple lodge.

Of all the temples in Londinium, though many were larger, none was more powerful than the Temple of Mithras. It was situated between the two hillocks, on the eastern bank of the little brook, about a hundred yards up from the precincts of the Governor’s Palace. Built recently, it was a stout little building, rectangular in shape and only sixty feet long. One entered from the eastern end; at the western end was a small apse containing the sanctuary. In this respect it resembled Christian churches, which at this time also had their altars at the western end.

There had always been many religions in the empire, but in the last two centuries the mystery cults and religions from the East had become increasingly popular, two especially: the religion of Christianity and the cult of Mithras.

Mithras the bull-slayer. The Persian god of heavenly light; the cosmic warrior for purity and honesty. Julius knew all about the cult. Mithras fought for truth and justice in a universe where, in common with many Eastern religions, good and evil were equally matched and locked in an eternal war. The blood of the legendary bull he killed had brought life and abundance to the earth. The birthday of this Eastern god was celebrated on 25 December.

It was mysterious, for the initiation rites were shrouded in secrecy, but it was also staunchly traditional. Its followers made small blood sacrifices in the temple, in the time-honoured Roman manner. They were also bound by the old, Stoic code of honour to keep themselves pure, honest and brave. Nor was membership of the lodge open to everyone. The army officers and merchants with whom the cult was popular kept it exclusive. Only sixty or seventy people could even get into the Londinium temple. Rufus had good reason to be proud of his membership.

By comparison, the Christians, though expanding rapidly, were a very different crowd. Julius knew some down at the docks, but like many Romans, he still thought they were some sort of Jewish sect. And anyway, whatever its precise nature, Christianity, with its emphasis on humility and the hope of a happier afterlife, was clearly a religion for slaves and poor people.

Julius had never been in the temple before; even his presence in the lodge that night, he realized, was some sort of preliminary test. As they reached the door, went down three steps and entered, he hoped he would pass.

The temple consisted of a central nave flanked by pillars, behind which were side-aisles. The nave itself, nearly fifty feet long, was only twelve feet wide, with a wooden floor; wooden benches were fitted in the aisles. They were motioned to one at the back, Julius looking about him curiously.

The burning torches cast an uncertain light; the aisles were in deep shadow. As other men came in and moved forward to their benches, Julius realized that he was being inspected, but he could not always see the faces of those who passed. At the far end, at the front of the little apse between two columns, stood a fine statue of Mithras, his staring face like that of a rather strong-featured Apollo, his eyes upturned towards the heavens, a pointed Phrygian cap upon his head. Before the statue was a modest stone altar upon which the offerings were made. It had a dip in the top, to receive the blood.

Slowly the temple filled. When the last member of the lodge had arrived, the doors were closed and bolted. Then everyone sat quietly. A minute passed; then another. Julius wondered what came next. At last, a lamp flickered at the far end; he became aware that something was moving, and with a faint rustle, two figures emerged from the shadows of the aisles. They were strange indeed.

Both wore headdresses that entirely hid their faces. The first wore a lion’s head with a mane that hung around his shoulders. The second was altogether more eerie, and as he gazed, Julius felt a tiny shiver go down his spine.

This man was taller. What he wore was more than a headdress, for it reached almost to his knees. Made of hundreds of large feathers that faintly rustled and creaked, it was in the shape of a huge black bird with folded wings and a huge beak. This was the Raven. “Is he a priest?” Julius whispered to his father.

“No. He is one of our number. But he’s leading the ceremony tonight.”

From the far end, the Raven now began to move down the nave between the seats. He walked slowly, his great tail brushing the knees of the men he passed. Every few feet he would pause and address a question to one of the members in what was obviously a ritual of some kind.

“Who is the master of the light?”

“Mithras.”

“Whose blood enriches the earth?”

“That of the bull, slain by Mithras.”

“What is your name?”

“Servant.”

“Are you of our number?”

“Beyond death.”

As the Raven moved slowly down the nave and back again, it seemed to Julius that the eyes looking out of the sockets above the beak were paying particular attention to him. He suddenly became afraid that the Raven might ask him a question, to which, of course, he would have no reply. He was glad when, having given him, it seemed, a parting glance, the Raven returned to the sanctuary again.

So it did nothing to make him feel more comfortable when, leaning over so that he could speak directly into his ear, his father whispered: “That’s one of the men you’re going to meet tonight.”

The rest of the ceremony was not long. The Raven said a few invocations, the Lion made some brief announcements concerning the membership, and then the meeting broke up into an informal gathering, with small groups collecting in the nave.

Julius and his father remained near the back. Around them, Julius observed, were other relatively humble members, obviously like his father rather pleased to be there, but he could also see several prominent and influential citizens. “The lodge can fix almost anything in this city,” Rufus whispered proudly.

They continued to wait quietly, chatting to those close by. Several minutes passed. Then Julius felt his father nudge him. “Here he comes,” he muttered. “You’ll do fine,” he added nervously. Julius gazed towards the west end.

The man who had been the Raven was a large, imposing figure. He had taken off his costume and was making his way down the nave, nodding to members here and there with an air of friendly authority. In the soft light, Julius could see that his head was grizzled, but it was only as he came closer that Julius saw, with a sudden, cold panic, the scar running from the top to the bottom of his cheek.

The eyes of the centurion were fixed on him. Their stare was harsh. Julius felt himself go white. No wonder the Raven had seemed to be observing him so closely. He’s recognized me, Julius thought, and I’m done for. He could scarcely look up as his father, with a nervous little laugh, introduced him.

At first Julius did not hear anything. He was conscious of nothing except the centurion’s eyes upon him. Only after several moments did he realize that the soldier was quietly speaking to him. He was talking about the river trade, of the need for a bright young fellow to bring pottery from the interior of the island to the port. The pay for such a fellow would be good. A chance to trade on his own account. Was it possible that the centurion had not recognized him after all? He looked up.

There was something strange about the centurion. Julius noticed it now, though he could not say exactly what it was. As the large man stared down at him, Julius was aware only that behind those hard eyes lay something else, something hidden. Not that it was unusual for such a man to have business interests. The legionaries were well paid and no doubt the centurion intended to become a substantial merchant, even a landowner, after he retired. In the meantime, his duties in the capital were mainly ceremonial, together with some light police work. He had time to make investments. As he talked, however, Julius found that his first impression grew even stronger: there was more to the centurion than first appeared. The bluff soldier was a man of secrets. Perhaps they concerned the Mithraic lodge; maybe something else. Julius could only wonder what.

A little nervously he answered the questions the centurion put to him. He tried to give a good account of himself, even if he felt awkward. It was impossible to tell what impression he was making. Finally, however, the centurion nodded to his father. “He seems all right,” he remarked, and gave the older man a smile. “You’ll bring him to the lodge again, I hope.” Rufus blushed with pleasure. “As far as this river business is concerned, I’m satisfied. But he’ll have to work with my agent.” He glanced about with a hint of impatience. “Where is he? Ah yes.” He gave a smile. “Stay there. I’ll bring him over.” And he moved away to where some figures were standing in the shadows.

Rufus was beaming at his son. “Well done, boy. You’re in,” he whispered. It seemed to the older man that this evening was bringing everything he could wish.

He was surprised and a little confused, therefore, to observe that the expression on Julius’s face, far from showing joy, had just changed to one of amazement and horror. Whatever could be the matter?

For as the centurion returned, Julius had got his first sight of the agent. And though, for a moment, he had told himself it was impossible, as they drew closer there was no doubt. There before him, in the soft light of the temple, his blue face forming into a smile, stood the mariner.

A quarter-moon had risen as father and son returned home through the streets that night. Rufus was in a merry mood. Nothing was better, he thought, than a father’s pride. He had long ago given up with his daughter, but now, with his son, he could truly feel that he had done a good job.

The centurion had taken the boy on. The mariner had said that he liked him. “You could be set up for life,” he told Julius contentedly. If his son seemed a little thoughtful, he supposed there was no harm in that.

In fact, Julius’s mind was in a whirl. The centurion had not recognized him; he must thank the gods for that. But what about the mariner? He had the impression he had only just got back, but he had not dared to ask. Had he been home yet? Could he have seen the letter? Should he warn Martina, to make sure she destroyed it? It was too late for that, he thought. The mariner was probably halfway home by now.

As for their affair, even if the mariner remained in the dark, could he really think of a relationship with the wife of the man on whom his business career now depended? The idea was absurd.

And yet. He thought of that body; he thought of that rhythmic walk. He went on thinking as he went along.

The house was dark when they arrived back. His mother and sister had gone to bed. His father bade him an affectionate goodnight and retired. For a time Julius sat and thought about the day’s events, but came to no conclusion. Realizing that he was tired, he too decided to go to bed.

Carrying a small oil lamp he went into his room and sat on the bed. He took off his clothes. Before lying down, he reached under the bed to feel the precious bag, yawning as he did so. Then he frowned.

Vaguely irritated, he hauled himself off the bed and knelt on the floor. He put his arm under the bed and pushed the boxes aside. Then he put the lamp on the floor, and stared in disbelief.

The bag had gone.

The figure moved quietly in the darkness. There were few lights here, on the south bank of the river. Crossing by the wooden bridge, he had continued southwards a little way past the big tavern for arriving travellers, and past the baths, before striking off into a lane on the right. Unlike the streets of Londinium across the river, only the main street here was metalled. Walking on the dirt, therefore, his sandalled feet made no sound. His cape was pulled over his head.

When he came to the familiar little house, he paused. The whitewashed walls glimmered in the pale moonlight. The front door, he knew, would be bolted. The windows were shuttered. There was a courtyard at the back, though, into which he slipped.

From its kennel, the dog came swiftly out and barked, but then, recognizing its master, quietened. Standing in the shadows, man and dog waited for a while to make sure that no one was stirring. Then the hooded figure climbed on to a water butt and, with surprising agility, got on to the tiled wall running along the side of the courtyard to the corner of the house. The slanting moonlight cast shadow lines beside the ridges of the terracotta tiles that covered the roof, making a strangely geometric pattern as the hooded figure walked skilfully along the top of the wall to the square, dark space of a window whose wooden shutters were open.

The mariner entered his house quietly and made his way to the door of the room where Martina was sleeping.

He had been suspicious for about a month. It was hard to say why: something in his young wife’s manner; a preoccupied look; a tiny hesitation in their lovemaking. Certainly nothing much. Another man might have ignored it. But the mariner’s mother had been Greek and from her he had imbibed, in childhood, a sense of fierce, proud possession that lay under the surface of all his dealings with men and women alike. “He’s patient as can be when he sails,” those who voyaged with him would say, “but if someone cheats him, he must have blood.”