The Memory of Snow (2 page)

2010

The two teenagers stepped off the bus and looked around at
the rolling green hills, which stretched across the countryside towards Hexham.
The car park at Brocolitia was practically empty; there was just a small van
which seemed to sell drinks situated next to the pay and display machine and a
camper van which was parked in the top corner. Some family had set out a picnic
table between the van and the wall, but it seemed as if they had deserted it in
favour of a trek across the countryside.

‘Where’s this temple, then?’ asked Ryan.

‘Down there – through those fields,’ said Liv. ‘It’s
dedicated to Mithras. I think they found it in 1949 or something.’ She shuffled
her papers around and studied them. It was a warm day and she had a sticky,
sweaty face. Her sunglasses slid down towards the end of her nose as she
flicked through the pages of printouts. The internet was a marvellous resource,
even if she had managed to bring too much information and had difficulty
stuffing everything into her rucksack for the day trip. ‘It says here that they
also had a Shrine to the Water Nymphs, and a Sacred Well, dedicated to the
goddess Coventina. It’s the spring where Meggie’s Dene Burn starts. Legend has
it, that they threw a witch’s ashes into the stream, which is how it got its
name. Oh look – that must be the fort there. Carrawburgh.’

Liv wandered over to a stile, which invited tourists to
clamber over it and explore the site of Carrawburgh Fort. There wasn’t much to
see, just a huge, green mound and a few rocks sticking out of the ground.

‘I think it’s really sad,’ said Liv. ‘Imagine all those
people who lived and worked here. It got destroyed somewhere around the fourth
century and then a chap called Clayton dug it up again in the 1800’s.’ She
flicked through the papers again. ‘Yes. He found a military bath house in 1873,
over there, I think.’ She gestured to the west. ‘And in1876 he discovered the
“south-west interval tower of the fort itself.” Are you listening, Ryan? This
is really interesting.’

Ryan shuddered.

‘A witch. Marvellous. You lost me at “witch”. Jeez, this
place gives me the creeps.’ He looked around him, a hunted expression on his
face as if some wild woman with warts and a broomstick was going to fly out of
nowhere and attack him.

‘Don’t be so pathetic,’ snapped Liv. ‘Come on. Let’s have a
look around.’ She scrambled over the stile and stood on the grassy mound which
had been Carrawburgh fort. ‘It’s such a shame there’s nothing left here,’ she
said. ‘You can feel it buzzing with energy, can’t you?’ Luckily, she didn’t
wait for a response because Ryan wasn’t going to give one. He didn’t understand
Liv’s obsession with the Romans. As far as he was concerned, he’d abandoned
them in year nine when he’d opted out of a GCSE in history. Liv, however, had
done the whole thing. An ‘A*’ at GCSE and now a predicted ‘A’ at A-level. She
was even talking about studying history at University. He sauntered up to where
Liv was standing, looking out over the B6318 road. She raised her mobile phone
up and took a picture. The ‘click’ sounded incongruous against the silence of
the countryside. It seemed as if there was nobody around them for miles.

 ‘It’s supposed to be a really spiritual area around
here,’ Liv said. ‘I need to see it for my project. Come on.’ She started off
across the fort. ‘Look!’ She walked right up to the perimeter of the grassy mound
and placed her toes squarely on the edge of it. A sheer drop reminded her she
was standing on an ancient monument, built on a hillside. ‘There’s the temple.’
She indicated a grey, rectangular structure, about five blocks of stone high,
in the valley below her.

‘Mmm,’ said Ryan wandering over to join her. ‘Not much of it
left, is there? Ouch!’ He leaned down to rub his leg as a stray nettle attacked
him. ‘They could clear this place up a bit, couldn’t they?’

Liv sighed and pushed her sunglasses up onto the top of her
head.

‘Yes, it would be great if they could re-excavate it, but I
guess it’s just not practical. The Shrine to the Water Nymphs was just next to
the temple. There’s nothing left of that either, though. I think the altars
they found are at Chesters museum. We could go there after this?’ she said
hopefully. ‘I was reading up on the inscriptions before – someone dedicated an
altar to the “Nymphs and the Genius of this place.” The soldiers were from
Holland and Germany you know. The First Cohort of Batavians. Some of the
bravest soldiers in the empire. They are the ones who introduced Mithraism here
and built that temple.’

‘Enough of the history lesson, Liv!’ howled Ryan in mock
despair. ‘I know you’re all excited but it means nothing to me!’ Liv stuck her
tongue out at him and walked away, further along the perimeter.

‘Coventina’s Well,’ she muttered. She squinted into the
sunlight, narrowing her eyes against the brightness. ‘Should be about...there.
Of course. That must be it.’ Ryan followed her gaze and shaded his eyes with
his hands.

‘A pond,’ he stated. ‘Nothing but a muddy pond.’

Liv shook her head. ‘No, you’re looking in the wrong place.
It’s there – that square bit with the wall around it. See? There’s someone
looking at it.’

‘Nope. Just a pond,’ repeated Ryan. ‘Seriously. A pond. With
about two metres of mud surrounding it.’

Liv pulled her sunglasses down onto her nose and stared out
again.

 ‘Oh! Yes. You’re right. It’s the sun in my eyes! Again,
what a shame. The history of that place...’

‘Olivia!’

‘Sorry!’ she said, laughing.

1650

‘Meggie!’ a voice hissed from the gap between two cottages.
Meggie turned, unsure of the voice’s owner. A few villagers were suspicious of
her gifts; some were openly mocking, yet others, maybe even this person, wanted
to believe and wanted her help. But they didn’t always want other people to
know.

‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Who’s there?’

‘It is I, Charles Hay,’ replied the voice. Meggie closed her
eyes briefly and her heart sank. Charles Hay; a young man so privileged and
spoiled, that he swaggered around believing he only had to ask for something
and it would be his. Meggie had been summoned by him or his father on more than
one occasion.

‘Mr Hay, sir,’ she said, moving towards the alleyway. ‘And
how are you today?’ She didn’t really care how he was. In her mind, he could be
writhing in agony from a fever and she wouldn’t hurry to bring him a tincture
to cure him. Charles moved closer to her so his face was half in the sunlight
and he smiled. His fair, wavy hair was pulled back loosely and tied with a blue
velvet ribbon. Charles was, at twenty, only a year or so older than Meggie; but
at times he acted like a petulant child. At others, he acted like a man of the
world. Today, he seemed relaxed and cheerful, leaning against a wall and
tapping a riding whip against his thigh.

‘I’m extraordinarily well, thank you,’ he replied. He pushed
himself off the wall and stood facing the girl. In one seamless movement, he
brought out his arm and pulled Meggie into the alleyway. He pushed her against
the wall and planted one hand either side of her head. Meggie could smell some
sort of lavender perfume emanating from his crisp, white shirt and pressed
riding breeches. It made her horribly conscious of how she must look and smell
to him at such close quarters. ‘Ah Meggie. You are glorious. And so pretty. I’d
never noticed before.’ He laughed as Meggie blushed and turned her face away
from him. She pressed herself backwards into the wall, feeling the cold stone
through her shabby dress. Then he pushed himself away from the wall and stood
looking down at her, smirking.

‘It worked then,’ she stated. Charles nodded.

‘It did indeed. Thank you. Once again. Now would you please
just call in on the poor girl and make sure she isn’t suffering any ill
effects. I would be most grateful.’

Meggie nodded mutely. How many children would Charles Hay
have spawned by now if Meggie had not been called upon to intervene? She hated
it. But what option did she have? She hated to see a pathetically grateful
village girl kneeling before her and crying with relief. That was worse, in a
way, than being asked to deal with the problem in the first place.

‘Tell me, Meggie,’ asked Hay curiously. ‘What is it that you
give them?’

Meggie shook her head. She would not share her secrets with
him. The mugwort she used was dangerous if you miscalculated the dosage. Picked
at midnight, on the Summer Solstice, it had never failed Meggie yet.

‘What does it matter to you, Mr Hay?’ she asked. ‘So long as
it does its job.’

Hay sighed.

‘You are right, my dear Miss Meg,’ he said. ‘Later. I’ll send
someone with the payment later.’

‘Thank you, Mr Hay,’ she said.
        

‘No. Thank you,’ he replied. He bent his head down and kissed
her on the cheek. Meggie fought the urge to cringe. She didn’t want him to see
how scared she was of him. Hay laughed, and turned on his heel. He headed back
down the alley whistling to himself, tapping the shaft of his whip in tune.

Meggie watched him go, then she sent a quick prayer to Mother
Earth and Brigantia, the ancient fertility goddess. She made a mental note to
offer something back to them, in exchange for the life she had taken from them.

AD 390

Marcus lay naked and blindfolded on the floor of the temple.
His face was pressed against the stone flags, his arms and legs were
spreadeagled as he emulated the rays of the Sun God. The Pater raised his staff
and intoned the words of initiation.

‘As the sun spirals its longest dance, cleanse your servant.
As nature shows bounty and fertility, bless your servant. Let your servant live
with the true intent of Mithras and enable him to fulfil his destiny. Marcus
Simplicius Simplex, arise from the rock as our god Mithras was born from the
rock. Let us witness the Water Miracle.’

Marcus raised himself up, his limbs stiff and sore from the
position he had been forced to assume for so long. He stumbled as he stood up,
disorientated by the low chanting which filled the temple. He felt two men
grasp his wrists and roughly bind them together, so they were fettered before
him.

‘The Heliodromus, my Sun Runners, have bound you with their
whips,’ said the Pater. ‘You must take this lance from my soldiers and strike
the stone before you, releasing water from the stone as Mithras released it.’

Marcus felt the wooden shaft of a spear be forced into his
clasped hands. He knew that the Miles, or the Soldiers of Mithras, were the
third ranking up in the cult. Today, Marcus hoped to become a Corax; a Raven.
This was the first level and equated with the protection of Mercury. He shifted
the spear so he had a better grip on it and squared his feet. The chanting was
becoming louder. He felt his heart banging against his chest. He was a soldier
of the First Batavian Cohort. He could do this. The chanting reached a
crescendo, and he yelled out as he charged blindly forward.

Marcus felt the point of the spear strike something hard.
There was a crack and a crumbling sound and he pitched forward, the object
giving way as the lance dug into it. He fell to his knees. There was a gushing
sound as water burst forth from something and soaked him. He threw the spear
down and the chanting stopped abruptly.

‘Marcus Simplicius Simplex. You have released water from the
rock. We shall not sacrifice today – the Corax does not sacrifice. Instead, let
us feast as Mithras feasted on the bull, and bow down to our god.’

Someone ripped the blindfold off him and Marcus blinked as
his eyes became accustomed to the darkness in the temple. There were no windows
in these temples to Mithras, no light except that of candlelight. He found he
was staring at the shattered remains of a clay vessel, which still dripped with
water. Shadows flickered weirdly across it, and a cult member appeared
soundlessly beside him and swept the pieces of the vessel away. Several men
were ranged around the altar area where Marcus knelt. They stood silently, arms
behind their backs, their faces covered with masks. There was no way of knowing
who was behind the masks and Marcus suppressed a shudder. Although he worked
with these men daily, the cult decreed secrecy and until he rose through the
ranks, he would remain ignorant of the soldiers who carried out the rituals.

The Pater, or Father, of the cult was the highest ranking
member there. He wore a head-dress that mirrored the rays of the sun and
extended down to cover his face. He was wearing vibrantly coloured robes of
ruby red and citrine yellow and was carrying a staff decorated with flowing
ribbons of red and yellow material. Marcus stared up at him in awe. The Pater
was reclining on a stone plinth, watching him.

‘I submit to you, Pater, as Sol submitted to Mithras,’
whispered Marcus and bowed his head to the Pater.

‘Welcome, Corax Marcus,’ said the Pater. ‘Arise and be
clothed in deference to our god.’ Marcus stood up and another man brought a
simple sacking loin cloth over to him. Marcus allowed the man to dress him and
bowed once more to the Pater.

The Pater held his hand out to Marcus.

‘Let us shake hands as Mithras shook hands with Sol,’ he
said. ‘We are now united with a handshake. You are welcomed, not only as a
Corax, but as a syndexioi; an initiate.’

‘Thank you, Pater. I shall carry out my duty as you decree,’
he said.

‘You shall, Corax Marcus. It is part of our cult,’ said the
Pater.

Marcus knew that he was serious.

2010

Liv clambered back over the stile and adjusted her backpack.

‘This way now, Ryan,’ she called. ‘We have to go down this
path and through the field. If we skirt around the edge of the fort, we’ll get
to the temple. Ooh. I wonder where the cemetery was...it was...’ she referred
to her notes again. ‘It was..west. Again. West of here. They found some
tombstones in the bath house, you know. Trumpeters and standard bearers.
Trumpeters were held in really high regard. They were exempt from the normal soldier
duties, you know. And standard bearers. Well! Talk about the best men in the
legion...’

 Ryan thought it was best not to answer her or encourage
her in any way. That way, she couldn’t strike up a conversation about any sort
of Roman remains – be them bodily remains or shrine-like remains or fort-like
remains. He kind of thought that he might be a little bit in love with Liv; but
at times like this, he wondered whether they actually had any basis whatsoever
for a long-term relationship. He imagined conversations about history around
the dinner table, or Liv taking off for months on end to dig around some old
Roman ruin they had hardly discovered yet. Archaeology. That was another thing
she was banging on about. She fancied archaeology as well as history at Uni.
Would it work? He didn’t know. He was glad in some ways that he hadn’t pushed
the subject of a relationship with her, just in case.

‘There are cows here,’ he muttered. ‘And sheep. Look. Living
things. There’s crap everywhere. Why are we heading through a field of crap?’

Liv was stomping ahead, throwing facts and figures over her
shoulder at Ryan. He sent up a small prayer of thanks to whichever gods were
listening, that the history lesson was getting whipped away by the summer
breeze.

‘Shall we do the Well first or the temple?’ Liv called out.

‘Does my opinion really matter?’ moaned Ryan.

‘No, not really,’ replied Liv. ‘So let’s do...the Well.’ She
circumvented the temple area and began to march across the field, following a
pathway made of flattened, dried grass. She didn’t really know where she was
going; but, and she couldn’t explain this to Ryan for fear of him thinking she
was completely crazy, she felt a strange sort of pull to Coventina’s Well. She
didn’t know why. But she knew she wanted to go there.