The Memory of Snow (4 page)

‘Go ahead, Corax,’ said the Pater. ‘I am listening.’

Marcus took a deep breath.

‘I have a good friend who wishes to join our worship of
Mithras,’ he said. ‘He would like to be considered for an initiation into the
cult.’

‘So he must go through the correct channels. As you did. Then
I shall discuss his case with my colleagues and add him to the waiting list. Is
that all?’ said the Pater, looking down at Marcus.

‘No – it’s…complicated. I don’t know if we have much…time to
do this. He was wondering…’ Marcus tailed off, suddenly deflated. It was
hopeless. He would have to tell Janus tomorrow he had been unsuccessful. It was
ridiculous to even think that he could have pushed his friend up the waiting
list, even if there was no threat of a Christian Commandant coming to
Carrawburgh. ‘I’m sorry. It was stupid of me. Forgive me,’ he said, bowing. ‘I
will advise him of the correct procedures and he shall have to adhere to them.’

‘Hmm,’ said the Pater. ‘You have me slightly intrigued now.
You say there is an urgency to this. Your friend is unwilling to wait for a
place, and is desperate to become part of us. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, Pater,’ replied Marcus.

‘I wonder – is he perhaps due a posting?’ said the Pater.
‘Good luck to him if he is. I sincerely hope he finds himself somewhere warmer
than here. Or could it be something else? I have heard a nasty rumour, Corax.
Regarding our new Commandant. Could it have something to do with him?’

Marcus did not reply. He felt himself blush. Janus had sworn
him to secrecy, yet the rumour mills had already began to grind.

‘I cannot say, Sir,’ Marcus said finally. ‘All I can say, is
that, as far as I am aware, he is not due a posting elsewhere.’

‘Leave his name with my Heliodromus,’ said the Pater. ‘I
shall not promise anything, but I shall consider what you have told me. Or what
you have not told me. This is quite an interesting development. I hope it shall
not have a detrimental effect on our worship; both here and at the shrines
nearby. Thank you, Corax. I have enjoyed our little chat this evening.
Blessings of Mithras be upon you. I shall be curious to watch how this
develops.’

‘Thank you, Pater,’ murmured Marcus. ‘I appreciate all you
have done for me. If there is anything I can do…’

The Pater raised his hand, silencing Marcus.

‘Thank you, Corax. I shall bear that in mind for the future.
For now, just live by the ethos of Mithras and fulfill your vow as one of his
worshippers.’

‘Your will and Mithras’ will shall be done,’ said Marcus. ‘I
now take my leave of you, Pater, and thank you once more from the bottom of my
heart.’

Marcus backed out of the room, and was escorted back into the
feast by the Heliodromus who had taken him to see the Pater.

‘Janus. My friend is Janus Cosconianus,’ he said to the
sun-runner. The man simply nodded at him, and disappeared into the throng

2010

Liv was sure she had felt someone touch her shoulder. She
shivered and looked around her. Ryan was way up on the hillside, jiggling from
foot to foot. He had been moaning that his feet were sore this morning, barely
even before they left home. Liv opened her mouth to call him, but again had the
feeling that she mustn’t raise her voice here. The Sacred Well had to remain a
place of calmness and peace. She looked up at the fort and scanned the horizon
for the man she had seen on the top. He had disappeared as well.

She realised she was beginning to sink into the mud and
stepped away from the Well, onto firmer grass.

‘You had enough, then?’ called Ryan from his position on the
hillside. He obviously didn’t feel the need to remain quiet in this place.

‘Did anybody pass you?’ asked Liv, knowing the answer
already. ‘Just before. When I was down here?’

‘Nope. Nobody here except us,’ replied Ryan. He turned and
half-walked, half-skidded down the dry hillside to join her. The summer grass
up on the hill was quite a contrast to the thick mud which seeped out of
Coventina’s Well. ‘Haven’t seen anyone around here at all. Why? Do you think
some other mad people are going to be wandering around an old puddle and a pile
of old stones? I mean, come on. The Roman’s have had, what, two thousand years
to re-build their stuff? You’d think they would have done something about it by
now.’

‘You’re so funny,’ said Liv. She was sharper than she meant
to be with him. She felt a little unsettled and couldn’t resist having another
look around her. She saw someone pass by the entrance to the temple and
pointed. ‘Look. There’s someone else ‘mad enough’ to be here. Do you want to go
and tell her you think she’s mad?’

‘Well, maybe she isn’t mad,’ said Ryan, watching a
middle-aged woman with frizzy hair and a backpack enter the temple from the
opposite hillside. ‘She’s all togged up for it, anyway. She probably meant to
come here. She’s probably doing that Hadrian’s Walk thing. I just meant that we
were a bit mad. Coming to see a puddle. Well, OK, it’s a special puddle. It’s
Coventina’s Puddle. But...’

‘Keep digging yourself in deeper,’ growled Liv. She marched
off towards the Mithraic temple, ignoring Ryan’s attempts at appeasement.

Once back in the valley to the south-west of Carrawburgh, Liv
began to calm down a little. She stood and looked at the Mithraic temple
properly, whilst she waited for Ryan to catch her up. He’d slipped and stumbled
into a hole, presumably dug by a rabbit, and was moaning about that now,
instead of the other stuff.

A paved walkway led through a gap in the walls, and ended at
three altars. A raised grassy area flanked the path on each side, dotted with
short, stone columns. The backpacker lady was sitting on one of the raised
areas, noisily unwrapping greaseproof paper from her sandwiches. She looked up
at Liv and started.

‘Oh! I’m sorry. I just thought I’d have my lunch here, where
it’s nice and quiet. I’ll get out of your way, so you can see the place without
any twenty-first century people spoiling it for you... I spotted you in here
earlier. I thought you’d finished.’

‘No, it wasn’t me,’ said Liv, shaking her head.  ‘But
please. It’s fine. You stay where you are. I’m waiting for him anyway,’ said
Liv, jerking her had behind her. Ryan was now bending over, fastening his
shoelace. He had discarded his backpack and it was balanced on the edge of the
hill. Liv just knew that the backpack would end up down the gully, and probably
roll into Meggie’s Dene Burn.

‘And there it goes,’ she muttered as Ryan looked in the
direction of the tumbling backpack and swore loudly. He stumbled off down the
bank of the stream and disappeared from view. Liv sighed. She made her way to
the other side of the temple, following the wire fence that surrounded the
monument. The entrance to the temple was through a kissing-gate, and she pushed
it open, wincing as a loud creak echoed around the valley. She read the
information board, and traced her fingers around the drawing which showed the
temple in its heyday. It was difficult to equate the colourful, mystical place
of fiction with the stone walls which remained in reality. It had been revealed
in 1949, she read, during a long, hot summer. The water from Coventina’s Well
had kept the ground moist, which was why everything had been preserved. She
allowed herself a little smile. The ancient gods and goddesses of the area were
looking out for one another, as if they were guardians of the area. It was a
shame nothing remained of the shrine to the Water Nymphs. She would have liked
to have seen that as well. It was incredible what secrets the ground had kept
over the centuries.

‘Have you seen Coventina’s Well?’ asked the backpacker lady,
standing up and crumpling up her sandwich wrappers. ‘It’s supposed to be around
here somewhere.’ She looked around her. ‘I’m not sure where I can find it.’

‘It’s over there,’ said Liv, indicating the area across the
field. ‘At least I think it is. There’s a spring over there, anyway. I’d have
loved to have seen it when it was in use.’ The backpacker lady nodded, her
curls bouncing wildly around her face.

‘Me too. Such a lot of history. It’s fascinating. I don’t
know whether I believe it was destroyed deliberately or just fell into
disrepair. So many questions. I don’t suppose we’ll ever get the answer to
them.’ She shrugged. ‘Some people think the offerings they found were placed
there for safekeeping. Others think it was a slightly more exciting reason. Enjoy
your day, anyway. I’m going to head up there and see what I can find.’

Liv smiled at the lady and stood back to let her past. Why
couldn’t Ryan be as excited or as interested in it? It was a Boy Thing. It had
to be. And speak of the Devil; here he came, stumping up to her. He grinned at
her, silently seeking absolution and hoping she was in a forgiving mood.

‘So. This is the Mithraic Temple,’ he said, trying to sound
enthusiastic and knowledgeable. Liv nodded, looking at the backpack which was
now dripping water onto the ground. Ryan had the grace to blush.

‘Yes, this is the Mithraeum. This was where the Roman
soldiers worshipped,’ Liv said. She headed through the gap at the entrance to
the temple, and walked up the central aisle to approach the altars. Ryan stood
outside and looked around him. He gave a cursory glance to the information
board.

‘It’s a bit like a sheep pen, isn’t it?’ he said, dumping the
backpack onto the ground; where it rolled over again and settled itself in a
pile of dirt.

AD 390

Marcus had returned Aelia’s purple dress to her and been
thanked most delightfully for doing so. The festivities of Saturnalia were over
for another year, and Marcus fingered the small bone gaming pieces Janus had
given him as his token gift. He had them in a leather pouch slung around his
waist, carrying them with him in case he was overcome with an urge to gamble in
the vicus. As promised, Milenius had pulled rank on him for the comments he had
made about his wine.

‘I know you are more used to working with weapons, Marcus,
but I believe my standard needs attending to. There is a small tear on the edge
of it. Do you think you could mend it for me, perhaps?’ Milenius had said.
Marcus had taken the task on with a smile, and returned the repaired standard
to his superior with good grace. Longinius had been less than forgiving with
poor Janus. Janus had been tasked with polishing Longinius’ bugle until it
shone. Every tiny fingerprint had to be removed and the bugle had been returned
to Janus three times already. Marcus found his friend mooching around the fort,
his eyebrows drawn together and a dark, glowering expression on his face.

‘I really do not know if it was worth being Saturnalicius
princeps,’ Janus grumbled, holding the bugle between thumb and forefinger
distastefully. ‘Remind me, if we are allowed to celebrate Saturnalia next year
and I am fortunate to be elected again, to choose different slaves.’

‘The choice may be slender next year,’ laughed Marcus. ‘You
may be promoted and therefore have less superiors available to you. Or,’ he
shrugged, ‘you could always ask the Commandant to participate,’ said Marcus,
his eyes sparkling with mischief.

‘Merciful Jupiter!’ howled Janus. ‘No, please do not send
that thought out into the world. I cannot imagine anything worse!’

‘Then take comfort in the fact that I managed to speak to the
Pater about your initiation. I cannot promise you anything, but he is willing
to look at your case and decide the outcome.’

‘Truly? You are a good friend, Marcus. I do not deserve you.’
Janus hugged Marcus and then drew away from him, a grin splitting his face.
‘Thank you. From the bottom of my heart.’

‘You are most welcome, my friend,’ smiled Marcus. ‘As I say,
he cannot promise you a quick initiation, but he is aware of your name and your
interest and is willing to consider it.’

‘You did not tell him anything about the new Commandant, did
you?’ asked Janus. ‘Just…’

‘No! No. I did not mention that to him,’ said Marcus. He
spoke the truth, although he felt uncomfortable that he had implied as much to
the Pater. Still – what Janus did not know would not hurt him.

‘One more thing,’ said Janus, curiously. ‘Who is the Pater?
Do you know his identity? I am intrigued as to this secrecy that surrounds our
Mithraic Temple.’

Marcus shook his head.

‘I am sorry. I do not know who he is. If I did, I would go up
to him and ask him to favour you directly. I somehow think that seeing his face
would make me less intimidated. But I suspect his identity will remain a
secret. Annoying though that is.’

Janus nodded thoughtfully.

‘I agree. But still!’ He smiled at Marcus and hugged him
again. ‘Thank you. I appreciate it. Now. I must go and polish Longinius’ bugle
once more.’ He picked the bugle up and scowled at it. ‘Do you think Coventina
would accept this bugle as an offering? It would make her position stronger, no
doubt. And hopefully encourage a thaw of this dreadful snow.’ Janus shivered.
‘How I long for a posting somewhere else in this empire,’ he groaned.
‘Somewhere; anywhere, where Mithras smiles upon us all and covers our world in
sunlight and warmth!’

1650

Meggie wandered along the banks of the burn, making her way
to the Sacred Well. Her Grandmother had told her that Coventina was a Roman
water nymph, as well as a river goddess. The place had such a magical sense,
that Meggie felt at one with the earth and the water and knew that she belonged
there. Coventina had helped Meggie’s people; she had melted the snow and ice
and made the rivers flow again every year. Sometimes, in a long, hard winter,
Meggie would make her way through snowdrifts and ice to plead with Coventina;
the goddess always ended Scota, the goddess of winter’s, hold and brought
Spring to the countryside. Occasionally, Meggie had felt a presence at the
Well. She knew it was Coventina herself, coming to bless her and keep her safe.
Coventina was thankful that someone still remembered her. She would be there
for Meggie, so long as Meggie did not forsake her.

Meggie had heard the women speaking in the village, and now
their comments twisted around her mind like yarn on a spinning wheel. What did
they mean, the man ‘had flushed them out of Newcastle’? Someone had mentioned
witchcraft last week in the market, and she shuddered to think about that. The
dark arts. Animal sacrifice. Wishing ill on fellow human-beings. It was all so
wrong. Meggie knew how to heal people and how to help people. She knew how to
harness the forces of nature. She knew how to use herbs and plants to make
things better. She shook her head. How could people be so unkind to others?
Everything she did, was for the good of her fellow human beings. At least
nobody would suspect her of being a witch. Everyone knew that she was good and
only had good intentions. An image of Charles Hay flashed in her mind and Meggie
felt unsettled. He was the only person she didn’t trust. Yet he paid her well
for her services. She had no way of refusing Charles Hay’s demands. How could
she? His father was the most influential man in the village and his son could
do no wrong. So long as Charles’ reputation remained unsullied, everyone was
happy.

Meggie said a quick prayer for the souls she had prevented
from being born, and sped up as she hurried to Coventina’s Well.

‘Blessed Coventina and the Water Nymphs – forgive me. I know
what I do is wrong. Yet I have no choice.’

Another image of Charles Hay slipped into her mind; and she
quickly blotted it out as she squinted towards the Well, trying to make out the
shape she saw by it – she thought it was human, but whether it was male or
female, she could not tell. Part of her felt annoyed at the intrusion. Part of
her felt intrigued that someone else should be kneeling by the Well, as this
figure seemed to be doing. Were they worshipping Coventina as well? She hurried
up a little, and stumbled on the uneven ground. She picked herself up again and
ran to the Well.

Meggie arrived by the stone structure and looked around the
area. Nobody was there. She wondered if it was the same person who had been on
the old fort a little while ago. Perhaps they had wandered off into the dip of
the valley and disappeared from sight. Ah, well. If they were important, they
would come back to her. Instead of worrying about it, she knelt down by the
Well and bowed her head in prayer. After a little while, someone spoke to her.

‘I thought I would find you here,’ The voice was soft and
round, full of the rolling nuances of the true Northumbrian. Meggie looked up
and smiled.

‘Alice!’ she said. ‘I was just thinking about you.’ This was
not far from the truth. Alice was the latest girl to suffer at the hands of
Charles Hay. She was Meggie’s closest friend. It had broken Meggie’s heart when
she had been approached this time. Alice had asked her first, as soon as she
realised. In truth, the brew Meggie had prepared was already working, when
Charles had demanded an audience with her. Yet she could not tell Charles this.
Alice had sworn her to secrecy and Meggie was loyal to her friends and enemies
alike – everything that needed to be secret, remained a secret. Alice smiled back
at her and sat down by her friend, hugging her knees to her chest. Her dark
hair was pulled back into a messy braid, accentuating her pretty face and dark
blue eyes. Meggie cast an appraising gaze over her friend. She looked older
than her seventeen years today.  It wasn’t surprising, considering what
had happened to her recently. Despite her prettiness, her face was pale and
there was a sadness about her eyes that hadn’t been there last week.

‘Are you well, my love?’ Meggie asked, sitting back on her heels.
‘Mr Hay asked me to check anyway, but I need to know for my own sake. Alice
shrugged her shoulders but didn’t answer. She looked out over the countryside
and the remains of the fort.

‘I’ve always loved it out here,’ said Alice, evading the
question. ‘I’m not surprised you do as well. But it is a strange place.’

Meggie nodded, shredding some flower heads into tiny
trumpets, ready to throw into the Well.

‘It is strange for those folk who do not understand it. For
those who do, it is magical.’

Alice laughed, but there was a bitter note to the sound.

‘Magical. Aye. Things happen out here. Things mortals do not
understand. But you are different. You understand the place. You believe in its
guardians and its spirits, don’t you? Anyway. I came out here to say goodbye to
you. I’m leaving, and didn’t want to go without telling you.’

‘Alice! Where are you going? Are you leaving because
of...what’s happened?’ cried Meggie. Alice nodded, still staring out at the
countryside.

‘It can’t be helped. I’m sorry to do this to you. I hope you
understand,’ she said.

‘But where will you go?’ asked Meggie. ‘Is there anything I
can do to stop you? Is it him – Charles Hay? Is he making you do this?’ Her
voice rose hysterically and she felt tears springing to her eyes. She brushed
them away angrily. Alice was the only one who truly knew her, who she felt
truly comfortable with. What would she do without her? Her Grandmother had died
last year, her parents long before that. If Alice left, she would be alone.

‘Dear Meggie,’ sighed Alice. ‘If there was another way, I
would seize it.’ As if to underline her point, she unfolded her arms from
around her knees and leaned towards Meggie. She took Meggie’s hands in hers.
‘Thank you, Meggie. Know that you did what you could. I’m sorry this had to
happen.’ Alice raised Meggie’s hands to her face. She brought them to her lips
and kissed them. Gently, she replaced them on Meggie’s knee and smiled at her
friend. A tear rolled down Alice’s cheek as well. ‘I’ll see you again, though.
Don’t be afraid,’ she said and stood up. She brushed her dress down and looked
at Meggie, who remained kneeling on the grass.

‘Alice!’ she cried. ‘Please...’

Alice shook her head and turned away. She walked off across
the valley and over the old fort. Meggie watched her until she disappeared from
sight.

‘No,’ Meggie whispered, suddenly understanding. ‘Oh no!’ She
jumped to her feet and ran as fast as she could back to the village. ‘No!’ she
cried as she left Coventina’s Well behind. The flower heads lay scattered across
the grass, until a breeze blew up and lifted them off the ground to dance away
across the valley.

Meggie arrived back at the village, gasping for breath and
red in the face.

‘Alice!’ she cried as she ran through the dirty track which
was the main street of the village. ‘Alice!’ She pushed her way past a crowd of
farmers who were arguing about something and wove her way through the buildings
until she came to Alice’s house. Before she even reached the door, she heard
howls and crying coming from the building and she began to panic.

‘My daughter!’ cried a woman’s voice. ‘My only child. My
little Alice!’ Meggie burst into the small living quarters and ran towards a
bed in the corner of the room.

Alice lay on the bed white and cold, her black hair fanned out
around her pale face. Her eyes were closed and her lips were bloodless. Dark
smudges stained the skin beneath her eyes, as if thumbs had been pressed into
the hollows and dragged out ugly marks.

‘Oh no. Oh no. What happened? What happened to her?’ sobbed
Meggie, throwing herself onto her knees by the bed. She grasped hold of Alice’s
hand and tried uselessly to rub some life into it. Alice’s mother cried out and
pulled Meggie away from her.

‘It’s your fault. You did this to her!’ she cried. ‘You and
your potions. I found it. I found the stuff you’d given her. I knew all about
it. I could tell. She was different. I guessed what had happened. I knew it was
that Hay lad. But we could have done something. Anything would have been better
than this! You killed her.’

Meggie stared at her, terrified. Two more women appeared from
somewhere in the shadow alcoves by the fireplace and stood glaring at her, arms
folded and heads shaking.

‘I didn’t! She asked me to help her. I did what she
wanted...’ Meggie looked at all three women. She raised her arms before her and
turned her hands palm upwards in the age-old gesture of pleading for one’s
innocence.

‘You killed her!’ cried Alice’s mother. ‘Look at her. Look at
her and tell me you weren’t responsible...’ she howled pitifully and crumpled
onto a stool, sobbing pathetically. ‘My baby is dead, and it’s all your fault,’
she said. ‘She’s dead.’

Meggie ran back to the bed and hung over her friend,
searching for some hope, some faint breath or heartbeat that would tell her all
this was a mistake. It couldn’t be happening. Not to Alice. Not because of what
she had done. But it was. Her spirit had come to tell Meggie as much when she
had been at the Sacred Well. But she’d also told her she didn’t blame her. It
had to be the mugwort; Alice had been too weak to take the full strength
potion. Why hadn’t Meggie thought ahead? Alice was being violently sick, and
that was how she had guessed. But Meggie hadn’t been sensible, had she? She
only wanted to rush in and help her friend. Not only could the mugwort do what
Meggie had prepared it for, but it could make you fall asleep. Too much of it-
or if the person taking it was too weak - and the drug would numb your senses.
It might even lead you into a sleep from which you would never wake. Alice was
dead.

‘No!’ Meggie shouted. ‘Alice told me. She doesn’t blame me.
It’s not my fault. She came to me, I was on the moors by the old fort and
she...’

‘Enough!’ screamed Alice’s mother. ‘Enough of your evil. It
is your fault and I blame you.’ She pointed at Meggie. ‘Get her out of here.
Get her and her evil ways out of my house. She killed my daughter. She killed
her!’ Alice’s mother broke into a fresh onslaught of sobbing. One of the women
in the house pushed Meggie roughly out into the street. She was, Meggie
realised, the widow of a farm labourer, killed in an accident last year. She
had a son and two daughters of her own. Three children, all under five years
old.

‘Don’t you dare come back,’ the girl hissed. She was barely
twenty two. ‘Don’t you dare turn up at the funeral, you hear me? You’ve done
enough damage as it is.’ She looked terrified. And with good reason. Meggie’s
eyes widened in disbelief. This girl had received the same service from Meggie
only three months ago.

‘You!’ cried Meggie. ‘You. How can you do this, Lizzie? How
can you believe all this?’

‘Just go away,’ said Lizzie. ‘Just go away.’

Lizzie slammed the wooden door in Meggie’s face. Meggie was
left standing in the street, scared, lonely and very, very bewildered.

Hidden away in the alley across the street, Charles Hay
watched the proceedings with no particular emotion. It wasn’t his fault. The
girl, Alice, had obviously been weak and sickly anyway. He turned his back on
the cottage and mounted his horse. Flicking his crop against its flanks, he
trotted away from the village towards the old pack horse route across the
moors. It was annoying, but he felt sure he would be protected. Nobody except
Meggie and himself knew the truth of the matter. To anybody else, it would just
be one of these tragic incidents that happened every now again. He didn’t need
to worry about it all.

Once clear of the village, he whipped the horse harder and he
felt its muscles contract beneath him. He clung on tight as it cantered away,
and the fresh Northumbrian air blew all thoughts of Alice from his mind.