'What?' Tess set down the teacup and blinked in surprise. 'But how can there be so many parallels? You said that Mithraism came long before Christianity.'
'Think about it.' Priscilla lowered and peered over her glasses. 'I'm sure the answer will occur to you.'
'The only explanation I can… It doesn't seem possible. Christianity borrowed from Mithraism?'
'So it appears,' Priscilla said. 'For the first three centuries after Christ, while Christianity struggled to survive, Mithraism was a major force in the Roman Empire. Several Roman emperors not only endorsed it but were members. Mithras is sometimes called the sun god, and because of him, Sunday assumed sacred importance for the Romans and eventually for Western culture. Mithras is often pictured with a sun behind his head, and that sun became the halo around the heads of major figures in Christian art. The cross, by the way, is an ancient symbol that represents the sun. Thus believers in Mithras made the Sign of the Cross when they entered their church to worship the sun god.'
Priscilla turned the book and slid it toward Tess. 'Here's a photograph of an ancient bas-relief depicting a Mithraic communion service. Notice that the pieces of communion bread have a cross etched into them.'
'Before Christianity?' Tess felt off-balance. 'But this is… All my religious training, everything I took for granted about Catholicism… I feel like I'm sinking.'
'I warned you.' Priscilla raised her swollen fingers. 'I told you that what I had to say might undermine your faith. I tried to prepare you when I said it might be terrifying. In more ways than one. But I'll get to that.'
Professor Harding sipped from his teacup, sighed in appreciation of the taste, swallowed with pleasure, and interrupted. 'My dear…'
'Yes, Richard?'
'When I came in, you said it was only by chance that… What was only by chance?'
'That's what I want to know,' Tess said.
'I meant…' Priscilla narrowed her gaze. 'It was only by chance that Mithraism didn't assume the dominance in Western culture that Christianity now has. As I mentioned, in the first three centuries after Christ, several Roman emperors pledged themselves to Mithras. But all of that changed with Constantine. In the year three-twelve, just before Constantine was about to send his army against his major enemy in the famous battle at the Milvian Bridge, Constantine had what he later described as a vision.'
'Vision?'
'Perhaps it's another myth. Constantine peered toward the sky and claimed that he saw a cross of light imposed on the sun. He interpreted this as a message from God and ordered his soldiers to paint similar crosses on their shields. They entered and won the battle – under the Sign of the Cross. Considering that the cross is an ancient symbol for the sun and that Mithraism favored that symbol as a reference to its sun god, historians aren't clear why Constantine seemed arbitrarily to decide that this cross referred to the crucifix, the cross upon which Christ had died.' Priscilla settled back. 'In any event, Constantine converted to Christianity and eventually made it the primary Roman religion. Christians, who until then had been tolerated at best – when not spurned or thrown to the lions – were quick to take advantage of their sudden influence. Their urgent priority was to stamp out the sect that rivaled them. Mithraic chapels were sought out and destroyed. Mithraic priests were killed, their corpses chained to their altars… to so desecrate the Mithraic chapels that they'd never be used again. The balance of history tilted, and Mithraism abruptly declined. Persecuted as heretics, its few remaining followers went into hiding. In small groups, they performed their rites in secret. But no matter how stringently they were hunted, they managed to survive. In fact, to this day, Mithraism is practised in India.'
Priscilla sipped her tea, gaining strength. 'But in Europe, the last vestige of Mithraism was eradicated during the Middle Ages. In the thirteenth century, the concept of two opposing, equal gods – one good and one evil – surfaced again in a town in southwestern France called Albi. The Catholic Church referred to the name of the town and declared that this unexpected reappearance of Mithraism was the Albigensian Heresy. After all, there could only be one God. The papally authorized crusaders, thousands of them, converged on southwestern France and massacred anyone – multitudes!-whom they suspected of being a heretic. Eventually they forced the supposed disbelievers onto a mountain fortress. Montsegur. There, the crusaders waited until the heretics surrendered due to starvation and thirst. The crusaders then herded the heretics into a wooden stockade, set fire to it, and watched while the heretics burned. That was the last time, more than seven hundred years ago, that a version of Mithraism raised its head in the Western world.'
'But you don't look convinced,' Tess said.
'Well.' Priscilla debated. 'A rumor persists that the night before the massacre, a small group of determined heretics used ropes to descend from the mountain fortress, taking with them a mysterious treasure. I've sometimes wondered if pockets of the heretics might have survived, remaining in hiding to the present day. And the photograph of that sculpture makes me suspect I'm right. It's not as if you can walk into an art gallery that specializes in ancient artifacts and simply buy one of these objects off the shelf. If any were available, the price would be outrageous because, as I told you, most of the bas-relief statues were destroyed after Constantine converted to Christianity. The few that survived are museum pieces. The best two I know of are in the Louvre and in the British National Museum.'
'But you saw similar statues in Spain in nineteen seventy-three,' Tess said.
'Yes, weathered engravings in grottoes outside Merida. And a badly broken bas-relief in a small museum outside Pamplona. Then, to my great surprise, a few sculptures hidden in isolated caves in the area. That's what made me wonder if the heresy continued to survive. Surely the local villagers had explored those caves and knew about the statues. They'd been left there, hidden, for a reason, I thought, and I took care to leave them exactly where I'd found them, out of respect, not to mention fear. After all, I didn't want to anger the local villagers by stealing a sacred part of their tradition, and I did have the sense I was being watched as I left the caves.'
'You never told me that, dear,' Professor Harding said.
'Well, I haven't always told you everything, Richard. I didn't want to concern you. I've had many adventures on my determined solitary journeys, and if you'd known, you might have tried to stop me from going on other journeys. But that's a separate matter. My point is, Tess, your photograph doesn't show an ancient statue. It's a painstaking modern recreation. In marble. Someone went to a great deal of trouble and expense to have it made. The question is, Why?'
'And,' Tess insisted, 'what the hell does it mean? Why would the ancients have considered it religious? Why is Mithras slicing the throat of the bull?'
FOUR
Washington National Airport. Craig waited tensely for the jet to reach the docking platform. He unsnapped his seatbelt and lunged to his feet the instant the seatbelt-warning light was extinguished. In a rush, he squirmed past other passengers in the aisle, anxious to leave the plane.
Past the exit gate, he hurried through the crowded terminal, checking warily around him, apprehensive about anyone who might show an interest in him. Outside the terminal, he fidgeted, forced to stand in a line with other travelers wanting taxis. Finally it was Craig's turn. As an empty cab stopped at the curb, he scrambled into the back, telling the driver, 'The Marriott hotel in Crystal City.' Sweating, Craig glanced repeatedly at his watch.