The Sacrifice Stone (19 page)

‘For being less than enthusiastic. Right now I’m tired of Romans.’

Is this the attitude you’d expect from a keen young film-maker, a seeker after truth? she wondered, smiling to herself. ‘Fair enough. Why don’t we go for a stroll along the beach, then come and have an early drink before we go back?’

He stood up. ‘Good idea, especially if we make it a short walk and a long drink.’

*

It turned into a very long drink. They shared a bottle of wine, then, deciding that they shouldn’t have any more to drink unless they ate, found an unpretentious restaurant in one of the back streets and ordered fish soup to have with the second bottle. The soup, Adam said, was a Provencal speciality: Beth, having been put off fish soup when given it at an aunt’s house as a child, was reluctant, but the dish that arrived wasn’t anything like Auntie Madge’s offering. This was more a stew than a soup, great chunks of vegetables and delicately flavoured white fish in a herb-scented broth, with croutons of bread to dip into various mustards and sauces before soaking them in the steaming liquid.

‘It’s not a starter, it’s a meal in itself,’ she commented, finally giving up on the last few pieces of fish.

‘It is. Aren’t you going to eat those?’

‘No.’

He spooned them up. ‘Waste not, want not.’

‘And you’re far too far away from home to take them back to Barty.’

‘You remembered!’ He looked pleased. ‘Actually, Barty doesn’t care for fish, he’s a thorough-going carnivore dog.’

She drained the last of her wine. ‘I could get addicted to this Vin de Pays des Sables.’

‘Me too. I wonder if it travels?’

‘Probably not. We’d better drink a lot of it while we’re here.’

‘No more tonight, though?’

It was nice of him to make it a question rather than a statement. ‘No, I’ve had quite enough.’

They had coffee, then asked for the bill and democratically split it between them. Adam suggested they have a walk round the church square before they left, and, emerging from the restaurant, the night was so beautiful that she agreed.

They strolled across the square and down to the marina, then retraced their steps and went back into the centre of the little town. This is its heart, she mused, looking up at the great walls of the church, this is where you’d feel the spell of the past, if you were going to feel it at all.

They sat down on a bench at the side of the square. There was no one about; although the night was mild, with the moon shining out of a clear sky, it was late. The last of the diners and drinkers had gone home.

Neither of them spoke — she wondered if, like her, Adam was too full of the afternoon’s impressions to want to talk.

She gazed out across the square bathed in the moonbeams. Beyond, she caught a glimpse of the sea. It seemed to be shimmering with silvery light. The low-rise modern buildings faded to mere insignificant shadows: the huge church alone stood out in dark silhouette.

It was an eerie sight, and she suppressed a shiver. It’s as if anything belonging to this century — to any century since earliest times — has melted away, she thought. With only a little imagination, I could believe I was looking out on an ancient scene.

Her mind obligingly providing the picture, the church seemed to alter, changing into a smaller building, simpler and far less imposing. The sea seemed to be nearer suddenly, for she could hear gentle waves breaking on the stony shore. The white walls of the little church —
was
it a church? It looked more like a temple — glistened luminous under the moon.

A robed woman was standing outside the temple, veil over her head. It’s Sarah, Beth thought sleepily. I’m dreaming, and she’s come out of her crypt to enjoy the night. She smiled.

The figure pushed back her veil. It wasn’t Sarah — this woman’s skin wasn’t black, and her hair was fair.

Beth leaned forward to get a better look, and the figure disappeared. The temple reverted to a church, the shops and restaurants came back into their tight formation around the square.

She blinked, then rubbed her eyes. I must be more tired than I thought — I’ve been asleep!

She hoped Adam hadn’t noticed. Not that it mattered. I feel refreshed, she thought, as if I’d had a much longer sleep. I feel ... She paused, trying to assess exactly how she did feel. I don’t know. Eager, I think. Alive, full of energy. As if I’m compelled, being pushed into something.

She glanced at Adam, sitting quietly beside her. If only I can galvanize him into action, she thought wryly, we might actually get somewhere.

‘Let’s go home,’ he said.

‘Right.’

He held her hand as they walked back to the car. ‘The earlier we get to bed, the sooner we’ll feel like starting tomorrow.’

‘Starting ... ? Yes! Okay.’

It looks, she reflected as they drove away, as if the compulsion got through to him, too.

It didn’t occur to her till long after he’d dropped her off that there might be something sinister in two near-strangers being affected by the same quiet force.

19

It was nearly eleven when she and Adam said goodnight in the Place de la Redoute. Feeling very tired — she’d fallen asleep in the car — all she wanted to do was drop into bed.

But La Maison Jaune was jumping and bouncing to heavy rock music.

‘Christ
!’ she muttered as she banged the front door behind her; the noise had been bad enough out on the steps, and it was deafening inside.
‘JOE
!’

Someone had put a portable stereo the size of a suitcase and a stack of tapes in the kitchen. Two couples were standing fondling each other; all four of them looked up at her expressionlessly as she pushed her way between them and turned the sound down.

‘Thank you,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Any idea where Joe is? If he
is
here, that is, and hasn’t given you the run of the house while he’s off somewhere else!’

‘He’s in his room,’ one of the girls said. ‘With Gemma.’

‘Ah.’ In the double sleeping bag? she wondered. Not sleeping, if they are, not with that racket going on.

She strode out across the hall and along the corridor towards Joe’s room. Noticing on the way that the door to her room was ajar, she glanced inside. A couple were in her bed.

She threw Joe’s door open with such force that it ricochet-ted off the wall and almost smacked her in the face. Standing in the doorway, only just resisting the temptation to stride over to the bed and fling the duvet off them, she glared down at Joe and Gemma.

‘Well?’ she said icily.

Joe frowned. ‘You could have knocked!’

‘I don’t think so. I’ve come home from a long day, tired out, and not only do I find enough noise coming from my house to keep the whole of Arles awake, in addition there are two people in my bed.’ She moved closer. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

‘Oh. I thought they said they were going.’

‘How could you possibly think they’d gone? Didn’t you
hear
the music?’

‘I meant Nick and Trish. The couple in your room.’

‘Perhaps you’d be so kind as to tell them to go now.’ She was finding it increasingly difficult to hold on to what remained of her control. ‘And you can change the sheets, too.’

The girl — it was the same one who had come for the brandy — gave him a push. ‘Go on, then.’

‘I can’t,’ he hissed, ‘not with my sister watching.’

‘I’m not.’ Beth turned her back.

‘I’ll do the bed,’ Gemma said. She sounded perfectly cheerful about being disturbed in the middle of whatever they’d been doing. ‘Give us my T-shirt, Joe.’

There were rustling sounds from the bed, and then Joe disappeared into Beth’s room. She heard a muttered conversation, quite a lot of cursing in a sleepy male voice, and soon afterwards the sound of the front door banging. The noise from the kitchen seemed to have stopped: she went to see if the quartet were still there, but they’d gone too.

She wandered into Joe’s workroom. His desk was exactly as it had been earlier: clearly he hadn’t done any work. But then, to be fair, neither have I, she thought.

After a while Gemma came in. ‘Your room’s ready,’ she said.

‘Thank you.’

‘S’all right.’

Beth looked at her. The long hair looked even more unkempt, but she had a nice smile. Tonight her T-shirt said ‘Levellers’, with a logo of a stylized face. ‘I’m Beth,’ Beth said.

‘I know. Look, I’m sorry about this. I’m going back to my place now — I’ve left your room tidy, and I’ve told Joe he’s got to do the rest of the house.’

Good Lord, she thought, what have they been up to? And fancy this slim leggy girl
telling
Joe to do anything! ‘Have you far to go?’ she asked, more for something to say than from any great desire to know.

‘No, we’re in a place just outside the walls.’

‘Did you know Joe at home?’ I shouldn’t be asking her, she thought, I should ask him.

‘No!’ The girl laughed. ‘We met in a caff down on that big road.’

‘Ah.’ That accounts for him doing what he’s told, she thought, he’s in the first flush of sexual desire and would probably stand on his head and whistle the National Anthem if she asked him to.

‘See you, then,’ Gemma said. Then she left.

After a few minutes, Joe came into the room. He went over to his desk and sat down behind it. Beth wondered if he’d placed himself there on purpose — really, she thought, he does seem to be assuming the air of a headmaster about to give out a grade-one bollocking.

But I’m not going to give him the chance.

‘This is really a bit much, Joe,’ she said firmly.

Instantly he was on the attack. ‘I had no idea you were coming back! You didn’t bother to leave a note, so how was I to know?’

‘You didn’t either!’

‘I —’

She was determined not to let him beat her down. ‘You set the trend for going off without any explanation,’ she interrupted, ‘so don’t you dare lay that one on me. And when
you
came in today, it was to a clean and tidy house, with food in the fridge and fresh bread in the cupboard.
You
didn’t walk in on a party, with couples necking in the kitchen and four people already gone to bed. Two of them in mine!’

‘You ought to lighten up a bit,’ he countered. ‘Get a life!’

She’d never heard him use that expression before — he must have picked it up from his new friends. Then the injustice of it struck her. ‘That’s the exact opposite of what you said the other day! You were acting like a virgin vicar at the thought of me going off with a man I hardly knew!’

‘That’s different, it’s —’

‘It’s bloody well not different! You’ve not only gone off with a girl you hardly know, you’ve quite clearly slept with her!’

There was a pause. Then he said coldly, ‘So?’

‘So don’t be such a hypocrite! You’ve no right to accuse me of something I haven’t even done, especially when you have!’

‘It’s different for a man.’

She could hardly believe he’d said it.
‘What
? And just how does Gemma feel about that particular bit of male propaganda?’

He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter what she thinks. She’s not a great thinker, actually.’

‘But that doesn’t matter since she’s a wonderful screw?’

He frowned at her choice of words, but rallied and said, ‘That’s about it, yes.’

She got up and walked over to him. ‘Joe, if you’re going to come out of your closet of self-righteous innocence, you’d better know a couple of things. One is that we’re no longer living according to Father’s rules — women have a say nowadays, they’ve actually passed a law to give us equal opportunities, although sometimes you wouldn’t credit it. The other is that, even if men like you still subscribe to the old attitudes, it’s no longer considered correct to admit to it.’

She paused. He was staring up at her, still managing to look condescending. Before he could say anything and make her even angrier, she said, ‘I’m going to bed.’

As she left the room she heard him say, in exactly their father’s tone, ‘Women!’

*

She slept deeply until six, when she woke and couldn’t get to sleep again. She got up, made herself some tea, and went to sit at Joe’s desk. To take her mind off the nastiness of the previous night, she pulled a few of Joe’s books towards her and started leafing disconsolately through them.

In the third one was a bookmark. Opening it at the marked place, she found herself looking at a photograph of the church at Les Saintes-Maries. A paragraph beneath the illustration said the church was reputed to have been built over a pagan temple, possibly dedicated to Mithras. A small figure 1 at the end of the paragraph denoted a footnote: at the bottom of the page was a list of the sites of other putative Mithraea.

Running quickly through the list, she only recognized one as definitely being in the immediate area: it was near Glanum. She went through the list again, wishing her knowledge of local geography were better. Then, glancing at Joe’s paper bookmark, she saw that under a heading ‘Mithraea’ he’d written the one word: ‘Glanum’.

He should know, she acknowledged. Adam and I were on the lookout for other Mithraea to visit — Glanum it is, then.

She looked at her watch. It was still only just after seven, ages till she might expect Adam to collect her; he’d said he’d try to get along soon after nine, but that it was highly likely he’d sleep through his alarm. Anyway, she thought, I’ve got at least two hours — I’ll shower and dress, then fill in the time by reading up on this Glanum place.

Even a quick look in the index of the first book gave a promising number of entries for Glanum: she began to wonder if she’d have long enough to do the job thoroughly.

*

Nine o’clock passed. So did ten o’clock, but she was so absorbed she scarcely noticed. She’d gleaned the basic details about Glanum quite quickly — it had developed into a large and prosperous place, by the standards of Roman times, because of its location on the conjunction of two major routes and because of the beauty of its situation, in a sheltered valley in the foothills of the Alpilles.

She read of the public buildings and the temples, of the busy forum and the sacred well, of the private houses and the great curving theatre on the hillside behind the town. In a rapid trip through two hundred years of Glanum’s history she read of the worship of Jupiter and Mercury, Mars and Aphrodite; of Mithras, the god of soldiers and merchants; of the coming of Christianity, which, intolerant of rivals, swept away all that had gone before so that temples were defaced and razed to the ground, the sacred places used as the sites for the new Christian churches.

All the time she was reading, some small chord of memory was sounding. She pressed on, thinking that whatever it was would become clear; with any luck, she’d come across some reference which would bring it to the forefront of her mind.

Suddenly she remembered that it had been something she’d read, but that it hadn’t been in a book. What else could it have been? In a notebook — that’s it, in one of Joe’s notebooks!

His main notebook was alongside the books. She opened it, raced through the pages and found the place, the memory rapidly becoming crystal-clear: no wonder Glanum rang a bell, she thought, it was where Joe’s Little Saint Theodore was killed.

She read swiftly through Joe’s precis of the ancient writings of Lucius Sextus, refreshing herself on the details. The child found tied to the altar, his throat cut, the body left exposed yet miraculously untouched by wild beasts. The subsequent judgement of the magistrate at Fréjus, who had apparently condemned some Christians to the lions because they insisted on elevating little Theodore to the status of saint.

Whereas, if it was true he’d offended Roman sensibilities by refusing to participate in sacrifices to the state gods, then in official eyes he was nothing but a nuisance, guilty of a criminal act and so, despite his youth, best dealt with by permanent removal.

She closed the notebook, slowly putting it and the textbooks back in their places.

She felt that she was on the edge of a momentous discovery. If it’s true, if the hunch is right, she thought, then surely it means —

No. She made herself stop. I don’t know yet. And I’m not going to jump to any conclusions, no matter how seductive they may be, until I’ve got more in the way of proof. It won’t be much, not to a sceptic, anyway — she smiled ruefully — but it’ll be the best we can do.

She went out on the balcony so that she could look out for Adam.

*

But the next arrival wasn’t Adam, it was Gemma. She let herself in, called out a greeting to Beth, who had gone into the hall to see who it was, then strolled into the kitchen.

‘I’ve brought the stuff for the wash,’ she announced, spilling the contents of three bulging Monoprix bags on to the floor: her dirty washing all seemed to be the colour of old tennis socks.

‘But —’ Beth began.

‘It’s okay, I’ll do your things too,’ Gemma said.

‘No!’ She’d just seen a shirt with a filthy black rim round the collar go in, its sleeves lovingly wrapped round a greyish pair of underpants — Joe’s? — and there was an increasing aroma of stale sweat. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do mine later.’

She felt very awkward; it must be perfectly plain to Gemma that she didn’t want their things to share a machine, and surely Gemma’s feelings would be hurt.

Then she thought, damn Gemma’s feelings! She may have a nice smile and been decent about making up my bed last night, but that doesn’t give her the right to come pushing into my kitchen with three bags of laundry!

‘Doesn’t your place have washing facilities?’ she asked. God, I sound like some prissy old spinster!

‘Yes, but the spin-dryer’s bust.’ Gemma was trying to get a pair of jeans into the already crowded drum.

It’s now or never, Beth thought. If I don’t say something, she’ll be asking next if I can do her surplus in with my load. ‘I’m sorry, Gemma,’ she said firmly. ‘I don’t know what Joe has said, and you can do the load you’ve just put in. But I’m afraid that’s the last, I really can’t —’