The Memory of Snow (5 page)

2010

‘Wow!’ murmured Liv. She had made her way up the central
aisle of the Mithraeum and was leaning over the three altars. She was bending
over the altar on the left. A picture of a god was carved onto it and three
leaf shapes were punched out of the stone at the side of his head. ‘Sunbeams,’
said Liv. ‘Of course. Mithras is the sun god.’ She ran her fingers over the
stone. ‘The way that was glowing when we came in – like a candle was showing
through the beams. Brilliant. Must have been the way the sun was shining
through it.’

‘I didn’t see it,’ said Ryan. He had eventually trailed into
the ruin after her. He shivered and looked around him. ‘Where’s the sun gone,
anyway? Come on, Mithras!’ he bellowed, throwing his head upwards and his arms
outwards. ‘Let’s have some proper sunshine!’

‘Hush!’ said Liv, turning and glaring at him. ‘You shouldn’t
be shouting on like that here. They wouldn’t like it.’

Ryan gave her an odd look.

‘Who wouldn’t like it? The Romans? Like they would still be
hanging around here.’ He laughed. ‘Given the choice between here and Roma, what
would you do?’

‘You don’t know what happened. You don’t know anything,’ said
Liv. ‘Because they didn’t all come from Roma or even Italia. I told you,
they’re from all over the empire; Holland and Germany and Spain and Arabia...’

‘Wasn’t that the line up for the World Cup semi-finals?’ Ryan
quipped. ‘Joke! Joke!’ he added quickly as Liv’s face grew thunderous. ‘Aw,come
on, Liv. Lighten up. You’ve gone all weird. What’s up with you?’ He walked up
to her and tried to take her hand. She shook him off and turned her back on
him. She hunched over the altars, studying them. ‘Liv?’ he asked, but she
wouldn’t respond. Ryan sighed and sat down where the backpacker lady had been
sitting. He stared around him, slouching down and stuffing his hands in his
pockets. ‘So. Mithras,’ he said. ‘Tell me more about your people. If you say
something, she might respond. It looks like I’m all out of favour.’

‘Get out,’ a voice said. Quite clearly. And quite close to
him.

‘Woah!’ Ryan swore loudly and jumped to his feet. ‘Liv, did
you hear that? Did you say something?’ Liv turned away from the altars,
frowning at him. She had a sheaf of papers in her hand now, and was trying to
match the weathered inscriptions on the altars to the information she had
gleaned from her research.

‘Ryan, pack it in. Stop being so stupid. There’s no need to
mock me, you know. I tell you what. You go home and I’ll finish up here myself.
I can’t be bothered with you.’ She turned back to the altars and hunkered down
in front of them. She traced her fingers over the inscription and spelled it
out in her head; DEO INVICTO MITRAE M SIMPLICIVS SIMPLEX PREF VSLM

‘”To the Invincible God Mithras,”’ she whispered, translating
it from her papers. ‘”The prefect Marcus Simplicius Simplex, willingly and
deservedly fulfills his vow.” Wow. I wonder what his vow was?’ She straightened
up and looked at the other two altars. For some reason, she wasn’t that drawn to
those two. They were interesting, of course; but she wanted to linger by this
one. Marcus Simplicius Simplex. ‘Who were you, Marcus?’ Liv wondered out loud.
‘And would I have wanted to know you?’

‘It was a mistake,’ said a voice. Liv spun around, expecting
to see Ryan next to her. But he was standing on the raised grass area staring
at her in horror.

‘There was a bloke next to you,’ he said. ’Right next to you.
Looking at you. I mean it.’

Liv looked Ryan straight in the eyes.

‘That’s enough!’ she shouted.  ‘Go home, Ryan. Stop
making fun of me!’

‘I’m not!’ cried Ryan. His face was chalky white and his eyes
huge and terrified. ‘Really. I wish I was making fun of you. But I’m not. I
swear it. I’m not making fun of you.’

1650

In the days that followed Alice’s death, Meggie was terrified
at the prospect of leaving her cottage. Whenever she did manage to go out, the
whole village seemed to be pointing at her and whispering about her.
Conversations would stop as she approached and continue as she hurried away.
She had never felt so alone.

Meggie took to spending more time at Coventina’s Well than
ever. She would pray and cry and ask for forgiveness over and over again. She
would even call out for Alice to come back to her; but she never did. She tried
once more to speak to Alice’s mother, to explain what had happened, but the
door was slammed in her face. She snuck into the church for Alice’s funeral; a
place she had never visited before and never would again. A group of village
men spotted her sitting at the back, and manhandled her out of the building.
One of them clamped his hand over her mouth to stop her protesting, and another
pinned her arms against her side. Meggie was small and slim; it was not
necessary for four men to force her out and to contain her struggles. Meggie
felt sullied – the men had seemed to enjoy it in some horrible way. She could
smell them on her skin for hours; feel their fingers gripping into her flesh
and taste the hand that had covered her mouth. Lizzie was sitting three rows from
the front; she put her head down and clasped her hands together in prayer as
Meggie was thrown out. Meggie noticed her, and thought bitterly that the woman
was thanking God it wasn’t her body at the front of the church, lying in the
simple pine coffin by the altar. The coffin was so small, so tiny. Was Alice
really that size? For a moment, Meggie visualized her rounder and softer than
she had ever been, with another life curled up inside her. Once outside the
church, and in fact outside the stone boundary wall of the church where the men
had dragged her to, Meggie had slid to the ground howling uncontrollably. She
realised again that it wasn’t one life she’d taken, it was two. And Charles Hay
was living in blissful denial of this. He knew Alice was dead, of course he
did. But Meggie was certain he didn’t care one way or another.

Meggie was right. On the day of Alice’s funeral, Charles was
in Newcastle on business with his father. They had met a gentleman by the name
of Cuthbert Nicholson in a local hostelry. This was the man who had become a
legend in Newcastle – twenty-seven witches had been identified by him. He was
the toast of the city. His methods were questionable, but his work thorough.
The witches had been hanged on the town moor and buried in St Andrew’s
churchyard with metal nails hammered into their knees to prevent them from
rising again. It was a necessary evil, Mr Nicholson had told them. Witches were
rife. He thought he would be asked to go to Scotland and the borders after
this; he had heard that there were some cases he needed to investigate up
there. Charles had smiled into his ale. Dear Meggie; he hoped she would steer
well clear of Mr Nicholson. He might need her services again in the future.
Although, having said that, the more he thought about Meggie, the more he
wondered what she would be like as a lover. She wasn’t the most beautiful girl
in the village, but he thought she had potential. She would be feeling rather
vulnerable after her friend’s sad demise as well. Perhaps she would welcome a
little chat with him. A little fun. It would take her mind off things, that was
certain.

Yes, Charles Hay was in a rather positive mood as he took to
his bed in the inn that night. He had paid his lady-friend well for her
services and she had melted away into the darkness of the streets. But the
whole time, he had imagined Meggie’s body beneath his; Meggie’s eyes meeting
his as they moved together. He had suppressed a smile. She had that funny
little squint when she looked at you; she put her head on one side and creased
her eyes up at the corners. It was rather attractive, in an odd sort of way.
But perhaps at such close quarters, she wouldn’t need to squint. A good wash
and some clean clothes, the girl would be as good as a Lady and quite
presentable. He lay down on the feather mattress with his hands behind his
head, staring at the drapes above him. Yes; Meggie would be very interesting.
He would have to work on fulfilling that ambition when he got back home.
Charles closed his eyes and slept with a smile on his face; confidence is a
wonderful thing and the best narcotic in the world.

AD 391

‘All hail!’ It was two months into the New Year. Saturnalia
was all but a memory, and today Marcus had commanded the auxiliaries in his
troops to stand to attention and welcome the Praefectus castrorum; the new
Commandant. As a prefect himself, Marcus was in charge of a group of men but
had no imperium- no immense power, such as this man had. Marcus stood at the
head of his troops staring straight ahead of him. Janus was opposite him, in
front of his group of men. And so it continued throughout the centre of the
fort. The gates of Carrawburgh swung open and the horse which carried the new
Commandant to his posting at the edge of the empire paraded through the entrance.
A stocky, middle aged man sat in the saddle. His hair was shorn close to his
head and peppered with silver. His eyes scanned the troops, seemingly noticing
anything and anyone that might be out of place. Titus Perpetuus had been warned
that this might be a challenging position, yet he was ready and willing to meet
it. He had not risen through the ranks by shying away from difficulty. He
followed Emperor Theodosius diligently; it was the only way. Christianity had
started to bleed into the empire a while ago, strange beliefs creeping in and
being met with suspicion from the Pagan Romans. Thanks to Emperor Constantine
and his Edict of Milan, Christianity had been tolerated in the empire since
313. Theodosius was gradually stamping out the Pagan beliefs, and this was one
of the reasons Titus had been sent here. Information had come through that
worried him – the cult of Mithras was growing in these Northern territories,
they still worshipped at the bog-spring which had been dedicated to Coventina
the water nymph; they still had a shrine to some more water nymphs by this
heathen temple. It was all wrong. Things would have to change.

In the cart behind the Commandant a small, sharp-featured
woman looked out over the men; the Commandant’s wife. Her eyes darted back and
forth across the troops, noticing a lot of the men were lighter skinned and
fairer haired than she was used to. The Batavians. Of course; they were a
Germanic people. One or two were dark haired like herself and her daughter.

Aemelia sat by her mother, warmly encased in animal skins and
looking around her curiously. Carrawburgh was the same as any other fort,
really. Aemelia knew her family would have a villa on the site, she knew mostly
what the days would consist of. It was always interesting coming to a new
posting with her family, though. She had spent her whole life travelling from
one fort to another with them. Things had changed a little over those eighteen
years; but not too much. But she had never been to anywhere as remote as this place.
The fields stretched out endlessly beyond Carrawburgh. Somewhere to the North
were the wild Pictish people. Aemelia had heard tales about these tribes. They
covered themselves in blue woad, believing it would defend them from the Roman
attacks; and what they lacked in battle strategy, or even weapons, they made up
for in bravery. Or stupidity, depending on how you viewed it. She put her head
down and smiled to herself, imagining the Picts running up to this fort, ready
to attack the wall. She imagined them stopping dead at the vallum, wondering
what they could do next to negotiate the great ditch which was hollowed out
before the wall. She guessed they would shout a lot and jump around a lot. They
would stand no chance against these soldiers.

Aemelia raised her deep brown eyes and stared around at the
men as the cart rumbled past them. Her gaze alighted on one of the Prefects, a
tall, fair man, standing to attention. For a moment, his expression wavered as
he caught her eye.

Marcus was a trained soldier, a professional man. But even he
couldn’t control the little flip his stomach made when the girl drove past him.

Titus Perpetuus missed nothing. His eyes narrowed slightly
and he mentally noted the tall, fair Prefect.

Janus allowed himself a small smile as the cart passed his
men. He missed nothing, either.

1650

‘Cuthbert Nicholson. Are you willing to assist us further
afield?’ The row of magistrates sat on a long wooden bench, staring at the man
in front of them. Cuthbert Nicholson was a tall, imposing man. He favoured
black clothing and stood like an immense bird of prey before the city
dignitaries. He tapped his wooden staff on the floor thoughtfully, then raised
it up and weighed it between his hands.

‘How much?’ he asked. His voice was deep and throaty. The
measured tones had driven fear into the heart of Newcastle’s under-classes.
Twenty-seven citizens had met their fate, albeit indirectly, by his word.

‘Twenty shillings per witch,’ replied the chief dignitary.

‘And where would I be travelling to?’ asked Nicholson.

‘Scotland.’

Nicholson laughed and shook his head.

‘No. I shall not travel through those border lands
unprotected. You must find yourself another man. I refuse to do that for such a
paltry sum of money.’ He turned and made to leave the room.

‘Wait! Mr Nicholson. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement?
There is a like-minded gentleman we would be interested to meet, a Mr John
Kincaid. We have had word from our fellows in Dalkeith that he has done a great
deal of good these last few years. We want you to bring him to us. He shares
your concerns and Christian values.’ The magistrate leaned forward and
interwove his fingers. ‘What would persuade you to travel north for our
purposes?’

Nicholson paused, tapping his fingers with the filthy, bitten
nails off the door frame.

‘Safe passage to Scotland and back would be a pre-requisite,
of course,’ he said thoughtfully.  Then he turned and fixed the magistrate
with his heavy, hooded eyes. ‘And a payment of three pounds, per head, of each
and every witch I convict. I shall travel north through all your market towns
and small villages. I shall flush them out for you on my way. But it must be
worth my while. It is what God wills. These wenches are well-documented in
country villages.’

The magistrate nodded, and conferred with his colleagues.
They men bent their heads close together, their grey, curled wigs nodding like
sheep in unison at muttered comments. Finally, they broke apart. Nicholson
remained by the door, waiting politely for the response.

‘We agree to your terms, Mr Nicholson. This evil is
widespread. If you are willing to bring trials to these villages, three pounds
per head is a reasonable sum to pay.’

‘You will not be disappointed,’ said Nicholson. He nodded at
the magistrates and took his leave. ‘Good day, gentlemen. I trust you will
arrange my escorts forthwith?’

‘Leave it with us, Sir. Good day. And may God go with you.’

Nicholson made the sign of the cross and bowed to the
magistrates. Then he turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind
him.