Mary Reed - Four for a Boy

John looked at Felix, bemusement in his expression.

“Then I suggest you curse people in Egyptian henceforth, at least in public. It might be safer for you. For now, come with me.”

***

The shadowy mithraeum the two men entered was familiar to John, even though he had never set boot into this hidden underground temple situated on the palace grounds. He had seen several mithraea in his time, the first one in far-off, misty Bretania. This place of worship could have been any of them.

To reach it, he and Felix had passed through a doorway set deep inside the armory behind the excubitors’ barracks and then progressed through a series of subterranean corridors that reminded John uncomfortably of the path he had taken from the imperial dungeons to light and air only a few days before.

Finally they reached a stout door. An armed excubitor swung it open and they stepped into the mithraeum.

Felix kept his hand on his sword and a close watch on John. Passing between the statues of Mithra’s twin torchbearers, Cautes and Cautopates, flanking the entrance, John bowed his head to the bas-relief set at the far end of the low-ceilinged room. It was illuminated by the shifting light of a small fire on the altar before it.

A man wearing the dark mask of a raven stepped forward to greet them.

“Welcome, brothers in Mithra,” he said.

“This is John, a fellow adept,” Felix replied.

“I am accepted as such?”

Felix grinned. “Had you not given homage to Lord Mithra, you would not have lived long enough to tell anyone about it,” he said. Turning to their raven-headed companion, he added, “The ceremony will begin soon?”

“As soon as the Father and the initiate arrive.”

John glanced around the narrow space. A dozen or so men, some wearing the masks of their Mithraic rank, stood talking. Torchlight threw strange shadows across the walls, flickering across the sacred scene behind the altar where Mithra, cloak flying in an eternal wind, had plunged His dagger into the Great Bull, releasing its blood to gush forth to create animals and vegetation.

The new arrivals sat down at the end of the low bench running along the right-hand wall as their fellow worshippers took their seats both beside them and on the bench against the opposite wall. A hush settled over the cave-like temple, the only sounds the crackling of the sacred fire and the torches set in brackets.

John gazed at the holy figure of Lord Mithra. He had found praying to his god calmed his mind when it persisted in twisting and turning in on itself, the Furies raging back and forth inside his head until he felt it would split open.

The familiar scene depicted Mithra, Lord of Light, and to him he prayed nightly for acceptance of the terrible fate his rashness had brought upon him.

There was a clash of cymbals and those assembled stood as the Father entered the mithraeum. Behind him walked the man to be initiated, naked, his eyes covered in a red cloth tied tightly at the back of his head, his hands bound around with entrails and stout rope. His two burly escorts, wearing masks whose flowing manes identified them as adepts holding the rank of Lion, guided him to the altar where the Father waited.

The Lions pushed the initiate down on his knees and stepped a few paces back as the Father raised his hands in prayer.

“Lord of Light,” he intoned, “we assemble tonight to admit a new follower, Petros, to Thy service and to honor Thee, Slayer of the Bull and Guardian of all who serve Thee.”

One of the Lions who had escorted the initiate to the altar stepped forward, drawing his sword with a whisper of oiled metal. The blindfolded man turned his head toward the sound and then back toward the altar, coughing in smoke drifting from its fire.

Looking down, the Father addressed the kneeling initiate.

“You are a soldier and have fought for the empire and seen the aftermath of battle, when Mithra’s ravens come to cleanse the field and escort the souls of the faithful up His seven-runged ladder. Those who know not the mysteries of Mithra call His sacred bird carrion, but if you complete the ordeal then you will become a member of the first rank, a Corax, named for that very bird.”

Petros nodded silently.

“It is difficult indeed to live the life that Lord Mithra demands of His followers,” the Father went on, “for He demands all those He accepts to be honorable, chaste and obedient. Therefore, the adept guards his honor, does not defile himself or others, and never refuses aid to another follower. Above all, he loves the Lord of Light.”

The Father paused and turned his head in the direction of the Lion with the drawn sword as he continued sternly, “Acceptance is not easily gained. First, you must die.”

As he spoke, the Lion’s sword sliced down and laid open the initiate’s shoulder. The man swayed, but remained kneeling. He made no sound although his fists clenched the slippery entrails tied around them more firmly, their dark drippings running down onto his bare knees. A second sweep down of the sword and blood was running down his back.

Still he made no sound.

“It is well done,” the Father said approvingly. “But mark this well, Petros. If you betray your brothers in Mithra, your end will bring only oblivion, for you will be forever barred from climbing Mithra’s ladder to live with Him in heaven.”

Turning to the altar, he picked up a small bowl set beside the sacred fire.

“Remember too that in all things a Mithran is discreet and speaks not of his knowledge to anyone but Mithrans,” he instructed Petros.

The Lion bent forward and forced open the initiate’s mouth with the bloodstained point of his sword, cutting Petros’ tongue.

“And as the blood flowing from you symbolizes both the death of your old life and your rebirth, not of woman but into the care of the Lord of Light, then so too this…” The Father dipped a spoon of honey from the bowl and placed into the man’s mouth. Most of it dribbled out, mixed with bloody saliva. Sufficient remained for Petros to swallow as the Father completed the initiation ritual, by pouring another spoonful of honey onto Petros’ head as he continued, “…anoints you to silence and sweetens your soul, purifying it so that it is acceptable to Lord Mithra.”

John, as all the adepts present, recalled the salty-sweet taste of honey and blood when he, too, had undergone the ordeal of initiation.

“Take off the blindfold!” the Father ordered.

Blinking rapidly, Petros looked around when the blindfold was removed. After a quick glance down at his shoulder, he looked up at the Father, who now displayed the bloodied sword to him.

“This was the instrument of your death,” the Father said, “and now you cast off your old life-” a quick, dexterous slice of the sword removed entrails and rope from the new Raven’s hands “- along with these, the entanglements of the old life. You are now reborn to serve Lord Mithra in the rank of Raven.”

The new Mithran stood and was embraced by the Father. A cheer rang out as Petros was formally presented to the assembly, who now began to sing exultantly, praise rising to mingle with the smell of smoke in a heady mixture that intoxicated without wine.

John raised his voice with the rest, joyous to be able to worship his god in proper fashion for the first time in several years.

Lord of Light, we worship Thee

Thou art our strength, our life, our god

Protect us on the battlefield

Take us to Thee when we die

Lord of Light, we honor Thee

Thou art our hope, our shield, our sun

May we serve Thee long and well

Bring us to Thee when we die

Lord of Light, we follow Thee

Thou art our father, ruler, friend

And when our earthly race is o’er