The Covenant Of The Flame

'You bullshitter.'

'My dear. Tsk, tsk. And in front of company.'

Priscilla Harding scrunched her wrinkled eyes in amusement.

'Her name is Tess Drake,' the professor said, 'and she has a favor to ask. She needs to make use of your scholarly abilities.'

Priscilla Harding's eyes rose, much less vapid. 'My scholarly…?'

'Yes, it's a bit of a mystery we hope you can solve,' the professor said. 'I tried to assist my former student, but I'm afraid her questions are beyond me. They're not at all related to my field of expertise.'

Her eyes gaining brightness, Priscilla ate another section of orange.

'The sliced beef is very good. Try it,' the professor said.

'What kind of favor?" Priscilla asked and continued eating, her eyes even more alert. 'What sort of questions?'

'She'd like you to examine a photograph. The photograph shows… or so I believe… a modern reproduction of an ancient bas-relief statue. A rather brutal one, I should add. So prepare yourself. But when you feel your strength coming back, if you'd…'

'Richard, the older you get, the more you avoid the point. A photograph? A modern replica of an ancient sculpture? Sounds fascinating. By all means, I'll be happy to look at it.'

Tess felt tense from the pressure of speeding time. 'Mrs Harding, thank you.'

'Please, there's no need to be formal. I'm Priscilla.' She munched on a piece of bread, wiped her hands on a napkin, and reached toward Tess. 'The photograph?'

Tess took it from her purse and slid it across the table.

Mrs Harding pulled glasses from a pocket in her dress and put them on, peering down at the photograph.

She kept chewing the bread.

Stopped chewing.

And swallowed hard. Her jaws assumed a grim expression.

She didn't speak for several moments.

What is it? Tess thought.

Hurry!

Priscilla nodded grimly. 'I've seen something like this, a very similar image, several times before.'

Muscles rigid, Tess leaned forward. 'But why do you look so troubled? The knife, the blood, the serpent, the dog. I know they're repulsive but…'

'And the scorpion. Don't forget the scorpion,' Priscilla said. 'Attacking the testicles of the dying bull. And don't forget the flame bearers, flanking the victim, one torch pointing upward, the other down.' The old woman shook her wrinkled face. 'And the raven.'

'I thought it was an owl.'

'My God, no. An owl? Don't be absurd. It's a raven.'

'But what do they mean?' Tess feared her control was about to collapse.

Priscilla trembled. Ignoring Tess, she directed her attention toward her husband. 'Richard, do you remember our summer in Spain in seventy three?'

'Of course,' the professor said with fondness. 'Our twenty-fifth anniversary.'

'Now don't get maudlin on me, Richard. The nature of that occasion – however much I enjoyed it – is irrelevant. What is, what's important, is that while you stayed in Madrid and haunted the Prado museum…"

'Yes, Velazquez, Goya, and…'

'But not Picasso. I don't believe Picasso's Guernica was exhibited then.'

'Please,' Tess leaned farther forward, her voice urgent. 'The statue.'

'I'd seen the Prado many times,' Priscilla said. 'And I'm a classicist, not an art historian. So I sent Richard on his merry way while I went on my own way. After all, I like to believe I'm a liberated woman.'

'You are, dear. How often you've proven that.' The professor shrugged with good nature and nibbled on some cheese.

'So I went to ancient Spanish sites whose artifacts intrigued me.' Priscilla's eyes became misted with favorite memories. 'Merida. Pamplona.'

'Pamplona? Isn't that where Hemingway…?'

'With apologies, Tess, pretend you're in my husband's classroom. Be polite, and don't interrupt.'

'I'm sorry, Mrs…'

'And don't make polite noises. I told you I'm not "Mrs". Not when you're my guest.' Priscilla concentrated. 'How I loved those… In ruins outside each village, I found etchings, engravings, and in a small museum outside Pamplona, I found a statue, like this. Weathered. Broken. Not clean, with perfect engravings. Not distinct in its outline. But it was the same as this photograph. And later, in my fascinating travels, while I waited for Richard to exhaust his compulsion for Velazquez and Goya… Apparently I'm like Richard. I'm so old I fail to get to the point.'

'But what did you find?' Tess tried not to raise her voice.

'More statues.' Priscilla shrugged. 'Further engravings.'

'Of?'

'The same image as this. Not frequent. In situ, they were always hidden. Always in caves or grottoes.'

'Images of-?'

'Mithras.'

Tess jerked her head up. 'What or who the hell is…?'

'Mithras?' Priscilla mustered energy. 'Are you religious, Tess?'

'Sort of. I was raised a Roman Catholic. In my youth, I believed. In college, I lapsed. But lately…? Yes, I suppose you could say I'm religious.'

'Roman Catholic? Ah.' Priscilla bit her lip, her tone despondent. 'Then I'm afraid your religion has…'

'What?'

'Competition.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Ancient competition. Stronger than you can imagine. It comes from the start of everything, the origins of civilization, the roots of history.'

'What the hell…?'

'Yes, hell.' Priscilla's face drooped, at once haggard again. 'Heaven and hell. That's what Mithras is all about.'

'Look, I can't take much more of this,' Tess said. 'You don't know what I've been through! My mother's dead! People are dying all around me! I'm supposed to be at National Airport to meet someone in an hour! And I'm scared. No, that's an understatement! I'm terrified.'

'About Mithras? I sympathize.' Priscilla clutched Tess's hand. 'If this photograph… if this statue's related to your problems… you have reason to be terrified.'

'Why?'

'Mithras,' Priscilla said, 'is the oldest god I know of, and his counterpart's the most evil and unforgiving.'

'This is…' Tess shuddered. 'Crazy. What are you…?' She clenched her fists, her fingernails gouging her palms.

'Talking about?' Priscilla stood with difficulty. 'Stop glancing at your watch. There's a great deal to teach you… and warn you about… and prayers to be said.'

A SERPENT, A SCORPION, AND A DOG

ONE

Western Germany. South of Cologne. The Rhine.

Headlights glimmered through fog along a seldom traveled lane. Years earlier, between the Great Wars, it had often been used by fishermen who'd laid their bicycles behind bushes, removed tackle kits from baskets on the front of their bikes, assembled fishing rods, and followed well-worn paths down the thickly treed slope to favorite spots on the river. Children once had scampered along the bank. On warm summer days, mothers had spread blankets on sweet lush grass and opened picnic baskets, the aroma of sausage, cheese, and freshly baked bread drifting out. Bottles of wine had cooled in shallows.

But that had been long ago, and in western Germany, while at the same time in Washington Tess listened with horror to what Professor Harding's wife explained to her, this wasn't day, and even if it had been, no one came to fish here anymore. Few people came here for any reason and certainly not to picnic, for the stench from the river would have fouled the aroma of freshly baked bread, and the poison in the water had long since been absorbed into the soil, blighting the grass and trees, and the sludge that choked the current had long since killed the fish.

On this evening, however, the passengers in the car that jolted along the lane did think about picnics and fishing, although their thoughts were bitter, making the men frown with anger at glimpses of leafless trees and stunted bushes in the fog.