“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
Raise us to Thee when we die
Petros was handed a tunic and, having clothed himself and wiped blood from his chin, seated himself near the altar as the Lions distributed jugs of wine and platters of bread.
A short while later, Felix, passing a wine jug to John, asked, “So you were a military man?”
“For a short time,” John admitted, “I was a mercenary.”
“Explains your prowess with the blade, for a start,” Felix said, around a mouthful of bread. “Not to mention how you handled that business with the boy. I was in the army myself before I joined the excubitors. Everyone in my company was a Mithran. That’s how I came to be an adept.” He stopped and looked at John expectantly.
“And you, John,” he asked, when his companion said nothing, “how did you find Lord Mithra?”
“It was another man who found Mithra, really.” John looked into his wine. He could not make out the bottom of his cup through the dark liquid.
“A friend of mine, a fellow mercenary, was a Mithran,” he went on. “He spoke to me about it. I was initiated. Then he died. Drowned in a swollen stream. That was in Bretania.”
John took a gulp of wine. He did not like to talk about the past and the person he had been. “There was some comfort,” he continued, “in our belief that we go on to another life after this one ends, but I really began to think about Mithra only after the young mercenary that I was had also died.”
“You have found some comfort then?”
“Comfort? Every morning, because I open my eyes again, I believe Lord Mithra has ordered me to continue living, and so I do. But as to you, Felix. Have you been long at court?”
“Not that long,” Felix replied. “It’s still a bit strange, to say the least. After years spent campaigning, guarding an emperor is quite different from chasing barbarians along the frontier. For one thing, here enemies are not hiding behind trees or in thickly wooded gullies. In Constantinople you’re far more likely to see them out in broad daylight, walking in procession and covered in silks and jewels.”
John, thinking of Theodora, agreed.
“It’s all too subtle for a simple man like me,” Felix continued. “Intrigues and plots and poisons and loyalties shifting every time the wind changes. Just think, John, in their own way, half the city wear masks of one sort or another. For most, including lowly folk like us, there are enemies everywhere.”
“Especially for a slave?” John asked.
“Especially for a slave that someone in a position of power decides knows too much or asks too many awkward questions.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
John slipped away from the Great Palace just after dawn as a bronze sun climbed through the forest of crosses covering the rooftops of the city. He left long before he was scheduled to meet Felix to discuss their next step, for he guessed that the excubitor would not approve of his desire to warn Anna of the danger in which her father was placing himself-and her.
Ironically, now that they shared the bond of Mithran brotherhood it appeared less likely than ever that John and Felix would be able to cooperate effectively. When John had related his conversations with Dominica and Fortunatus, Felix had immediately dismissed John’s theory about the work of art’s connection to Hypatius’ murder.
“As you just admitted, John,” Felix had said, “neither Dominica nor Fortunatus has suffered for their involvement. So now you have investigated the matter and that’s the end of it.”