The Sacrifice Stone (9 page)

By the time they had finished coffee, it was the middle of the afternoon; she suggested that perhaps they should set off for home.

‘Of course.’ Immediately he beckoned to the waiter, reaching for his wallet.

On an impulse she said, ‘Next time, I’ll pay.’

Predictably, the inevitable protests rang through her mind: Why assume there’s going to be a next time, that he’ll want to see you again? She scotched them.

He looked across at her, his smile deepening the lines round his grey eyes. ‘I look forward to that.’

*

He had been right about the car park; they spent some time searching for the car, and the exit took them up into a street he didn’t know.

‘Can you see Jesus?’ he asked.

She wondered if she’d heard right. ‘Where might he be?’

‘Try and look up,’ — he broke off to swerve round a truck backing out of a doorway — ‘if you can spot the statue of Christ that stands above the cathedral, I can navigate by it.’

She saw what he meant. ‘There!’ she said suddenly. ‘Up on our left and slightly ahead.’

‘Great!’ Confidently he turned left, then right, and very soon they were driving out through the thick city walls on to the ring road around the town.

They were both quiet on the journey back to Arles. She imagined he was thinking about his Russian love song, and didn’t want to interrupt; anyway, she thought, I have quite a lot to dwell on myself.

Gazing out of the window as they drove through the outskirts of Arles, she noticed a garish poster advertising pony rides across the Camargue. There was an illustration of grinning people on docile-looking white horses, pointing ecstatically towards a distant view of a little house screened by tall cypress trees. ‘Look,’ she remarked idly, ‘there’s an ad for one of those horse-riding places you mentioned.’

He glanced briefly across. She heard him gasp, and, turning to look at him, saw he’d gone white. It seemed as if he couldn’t take his eyes off the tawdry painting: in horror, she felt a bump as the car’s nearside front wheel mounted the pavement. A very sturdy lamp-post loomed straight ahead.

She screamed,
‘Adam
!’ and, just in time, he turned his head and saw what was happening. Wrenching the steering wheel, he lurched back on to the road, into the path of a bus which hooted long, loud and angrily.

I don’t suppose he’s the only one who’s pale now, she thought, feeling sweat break out across her body as she began to tremble. Christ!

He drove on without speaking, then, as they drew level with a little square where a few tables indicated a café, suddenly pulled in to the right.

Not again! she almost shouted.

He stopped the car and, without looking at her, reached for her hand. ‘I think I could do with a drink,’ he said quietly. ‘What about you?’

Several, she thought. ‘Yes.’

They went over to the café and he ordered coffee and brandy. She put two sugars in her coffee. Sugar was good for shock.

After some time sitting in silence she said, ‘What happened? Was it my fault for distracting you?’

His eyes shot to hers. ‘
Your
fault? Good God, no. I’ve been sitting here trying to think what I can possibly say to stop you deciding I’m such a headless chicken behind the wheel that you’re never going to risk your lovely self out with me again.’ He sighed. ‘I wouldn’t blame you in the least if you did.’

He looked away, dropping his head like a guilty child, then, as if he had to see her reaction, glanced sideways at her. She burst out laughing. ‘Cretin,’ she said. ‘If you promise on your great-grannie’s grave that was a one-off and you won’t do it again, I might risk it.’

‘I promise,’ he said. Then, becoming serious, ‘Beth, I ... That poster was ... Oh, hell.’ And stopped.

She put it down to embarrassment. I’d be embarrassed, she thought, if someone had innocently pointed out some innocuous poster by the road and I’d gone catatonic and almost driven them into a lamp-post.

‘Never mind.’ she said kindly. She picked up her glass. ‘Here’s to a lucky escape.’

He touched his glass against hers. ‘While you’re cheerful,’ he said carefully, ‘can I make a suggestion?’

‘Go on.’ She found herself smiling again.

‘I’m planning a trip down into the Camargue tomorrow. I was going to stay away a night or two, but that can be changed. Will you come with me?’

She thought back over the day. Managing to blot out the accident that had almost happened, she remembered laughter, good food, and endless conversation. Without thinking any more, she said, ‘Yes. I’d love to.’

9

She got home to La Maison Jaune to discover Joe in a state of high excitement.

‘Mithras!’ he shouted out to her from his desk as she came in through the front door.

‘I beg your pardon?’

He was waving a book over his head. ‘Come and look at this — I can’t think why I didn’t think of it before, it’s been staring me in the face all the time!’

It was impossible not to respond to such enthusiasm. She went into the room and stood beside him, hand on his shoulder. ‘What has?’

‘The fact that the Roman officer who murdered St Theodore was in all likelihood a worshipper of Mithras.’

‘And who’s Mithras?’

‘He was originally a Persian god of light. The Romans encountered him in the course of their empire-building in the Middle East, and for various reasons I won’t bore you with he became the favourite deity of Roman officers and merchants. Basically the legend goes that he slaughtered a bull — by sticking a knife in its throat, incidentally, the significance of which I’m sure won’t escape you — and the bull’s blood spilling on the ground gave the gift of life to mankind. Some people think that the bull symbolized Mithras himself, and that its death and rebirth represented Mithras’s own self-sacrifice.’

‘Like Christ dying for mankind.’

His face stiffened. ‘No, not at all.’

‘Yes it is, it’s —’

‘You don’t know the first thing about it!’ he interrupted.

‘Yes I do, you’ve just told me.’

He ignored her. ‘Mithraism was a mockery of Christianity. They even had some blasphemous ceremony that mimicked the Eucharist, and —’

‘Hold on.’ She’d spoken so firmly that, surprised, he stopped. Briefly she wondered why she should be defending so doggedly an ancient pagan religion she’d only just heard about. ‘You just said the Romans brought Mithraism from Persia. Well, surely they conquered the lands around there before Christ was born, so how can you say Mithraism copied Christianity if it existed first?’

‘It was a blasphemous mockery,’ he repeated stubbornly. ‘And I’m convinced this Roman officer slit St Theodore’s throat in some twisted variation of the bull-slaying ceremony that he practised in his own faith.’

Thrown on the defensive, he sounded hurt. She felt sorry for him, that her innocent questions — intended only to find out, she thought, not to put him and his theory down! — had dampened his enthusiasm. ‘Look, never mind the theological arguments,’ she said pacifically. ‘I think your idea’s fascinating, and I quite see what you mean about the throat-cutting. It could very well be some sort of adaptation of slaying the sacrificial bull.’

‘It could, couldn’t it?’ he said eagerly. ‘That’s not all — we already know that the child was killed because he refused to abandon his Christian God and worship the Roman gods, so wouldn’t it be likely it was Mithras he was refusing to bow down to?’

She thought it was assuming rather a lot, but, not wanting to antagonize him again, said, ‘I don’t see why not. So, what new lines of research is this going to lead to?’

He was thumbing through a thick guide book. ‘We could begin by looking at some temples of Mithras. There must be some in the area — they’ve been found wherever the Roman army went, even in Britain — there’s one in London, another up on Hadrian’s Wall at Carrawburgh.’

Coincidence, she thought. That’s the second time today someone’s mentioned Hadrian’s Wall. ‘Were they great big buildings?’

‘No, very small. They were built to look like caves. And they had to be near running water.’ He picked up another book. ‘There’s a photo of the Carrawburgh one in there, or the site where it stood at any rate. And there’s a mock-up of what they thought it looked like.’

She found the page. The site wasn’t much to look at — a few stones marking out a rectangle — but the reconstruction was more interesting. In a dark, windowless little temple with a vaulted roof, a central aisle and two narrow flanking aisles led to the focal point of the altar. It was made of a tall stone slab upended, and a design of the sun’s rays had been punched in it so that, lit from behind, it seemed as if fire was coming out of the rock.

Behind it was a relief of a youthful figure in a cloak and a cap kneeling on the back of a bull, one hand holding back its head while the other dug a knife into its exposed throat.

She whispered, ‘Mithras.’

‘Found it?’ She hardly registered Joe’s voice. ‘Beth? Have you found it? Here, give me the book — oh, you’ve got it.’ Her hands suddenly feeble, his gesture knocked the book to the floor.

She jumped. ‘Sorry!’

‘What’s the matter?’ He was looking at her anxiously. ‘You’d better sit down, you’ve gone quite pale!’ He pulled up a chair for her, and she sank into it.

‘I’m fine.’ I am! ‘I didn’t damage the book, did I?’ She bent over and picked it up, giving herself a brief moment away from his worried stare. I can’t tell him what just happened, it’s too daft. Anyway, it’s gone now, and it was probably only coincidence.

She didn’t know how else to explain away the fact that the picture of Mithras had brought vividly into her head the image of the man in the toga. He’d been closer than when he’d stood before her in the amphitheatre, so close that she could see the grey in his dark hair, look right into the deep-set brown eyes. He’d looked so sad.

Briefly she pressed her hand to her head, then, straightening, leaned back in her chair.

Apparently reassured, Joe had gone back to his books. ‘There are a couple of possible sites of Mithraea,’ he said. ‘That’s what the temples are called. One’s down at a little town by the sea called Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, only another source claims the temple was to Artemis, and anyway there’s a church on the site now so there wouldn’t be anything to see. I’ve seen another one mentioned, but I can’t remember where it was and I can’t find the reference ...’

She wasn’t really listening. She still felt slightly odd, as if she were getting over a bad shock. Pushing back her chair, she got up. ‘I’m going to have a shower, then I think I’ll lie down for half an hour. I’ve got a bit of a headache.’

‘Oh, dear,’ he said automatically. ‘Anything I can get you?’

She smiled: he was poring over his books, and she wondered what he’d say if she replied, Oh, yes, could you just rush along to the pharmacy and see if they’ve got any tablets with codeine in them because they’re the only ones I find any good?

Still, it was kind of him to offer.

‘No, I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘See you later.’

‘Oh, Beth?’ He looked up.

‘Yes?’

‘Er — I was going to suggest we went out later and had a beer or two at that bar by the amphitheatre, but you’re obviously not going to feel like it so I’ll go on my own.’

She had the distinct feeling he was lying. Perhaps not exactly lying, she amended, but certainly handling the truth carelessly, as Mother would say.

But why?

It didn’t really matter — she didn’t want to go out, he was quite right. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘What about supper?’

‘I’ll fix myself something. You just rest.’

His very solicitousness made her suspicious.

‘Okay,’ she said easily, and left the room.

*

The shower was hot and relaxing, and, lying on her bed afterwards, she slipped into a light sleep.

Once again, she was awakened by the telephone.

Sitting up, she strained to listen. This time, there was no question of it being next door’s phone — the ringing went on for long enough for her to locate the sound, and it was at the end of the hall. She heard Joe hurry to answer it, but there was only a brief, quiet murmur too indistinct to make out, which told her nothing.

Wrong number, probably.

She slept again. Waking an hour later and feeling hungry, she got up and went through to the kitchen. Joe, she noticed, had gone out.

She finished her bread and cheese, then decided she would like a drink after all. The bar by the amphitheatre, Joe had said. I’ll go and find him.

The evening was warm, and there were still quite a lot of people strolling round the old town. There were also festoons of mosquitoes: she wished she’d brought some repellent.

The amphitheatre was floodlit, which somehow took away some of its aura. She glanced at it, but tonight felt no unease.

There were groups of people, most of them young, sitting at several of the bar’s tables. None of the groups contained Joe.

Surprised, she stood and stared. He
said
this was where he was going! Why isn’t he here? Unless there’s another bar by the amphitheatre.

She looked about her. There were one or two other bars, and she walked round the perimeter to see if Joe was in any of them.

He wasn’t.

I’ve probably missed him, she thought. I’ll go back — I can have a beer at home.

With a vague sense of anticlimax, she turned and headed back for the Place de la Redoute.

*

He was still out when she got home. She had a solitary bottle of beer, then, as he hadn’t returned, decided to go to bed.

I really wanted to tell him about tomorrow, she thought worriedly as she lay in the darkness. He’s got every right to expect me to help him, since that’s what I’m here for, and now tomorrow morning I’m going to have to dump in his lap the fact that I’m going out for the day, with no opportunity for leading up to it gently.

Damn!

She was too tense to sleep. Half an hour later, she heard voices on the steps leading up to the front door: one of them sounded like Joe’s. Curious as to who he was talking to — there were at least two others, a girl and a man — she got out of bed.

‘Joe?’ she called. ‘Is that you?’

He came in, swiftly closing the door behind him and leaning against it.

‘Oh, hi, Beth!’ He grinned at her, and she thought perhaps he might have had quite a few beers. ‘How’s your head?’

‘It’s fine, thanks. I came along to the bar, in fact, but couldn’t find you.’

‘Oh, I went on to the Place du Forum. I wanted to sit in Van Gogh’s café.’

The explanation came out so quickly that either it was the truth or a prepared lie. But why, she asked herself, do I keep thinking he’s lying?

‘Like a coffee?’ he asked, heading for the kitchen. ‘I’m going to have one.’

‘No thanks. But I’ll come and keep you company — I wasn’t asleep.’

‘Good. I was about to apologize for waking you up. Again!’ He glanced at her over his shoulder.

‘Who was that with you?’ She tried not to make it sound like an accusation, more a friendly enquiry.

‘With me? No one.’

Now that, she thought, is definitely a lie.

But there seemed little point in saying so.

‘I’ve been thinking about tomorrow,’ he went on — changing the subject very efficiently, she thought — ‘and the best thing we can do is pack up food and drink for the day and head off to this place I mentioned, where there was a temple of Mithras. I found the reference I was looking for, it’s —’

Now or never. ‘I’ve made other plans, I’m afraid.’

There was silence in the kitchen.

Then: ‘What other plans?’

‘Adam asked if I’d like to go down into the Camargue with him tomorrow, and I said yes.’

‘Well, you’ll have to cancel it.’

If you’d asked nicely, she thought, left some room for negotiation or compromise, I might have been prepared to change my arrangements. Perhaps ask Adam if we could go a day later.

But just to assume I’ll do what you say!

A hundred childhood altercations flooded back into her mind. And how many did I ever win?

She breathed in and out a couple of times, slowly and deeply. Then she said calmly, ‘No, Joe, I won’t. I’m sorry, you have every right to expect my help, but why does our trip have to be tomorrow? I’ll come with you when we get back. I’ll only be away a day or two.’

Instantly she wished she hadn’t said it. Two days meant a night away, and Joe would jump to the conclusion that —

‘What do you mean, a day or two? You mean you’re going off overnight with this man, don’t you?’

Yes, he’d jumped to exactly that conclusion. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘We’ll probably be away overnight, but you assume too much if you automatically think that means we’re going to sleep together.’ Suddenly she was furious, the benefits of the deep breaths flown out of the window. ‘Joe, you’re a crude sod, you’ve no
right
to imply such things!’

He said infuriatingly, ‘I didn’t say anything about you sleeping with him, that’s your guilty conscience!’

‘It’s not! I haven’t got a guilty conscience, I’ve done absolutely nothing to feel guilty about, and even if I had, it’s none of your bloody business!’

‘Don’t swear, Beth. I’ve told you before.’

‘Bloody, bugger, sod, bastard, fuck!’

‘Beth
!’

For one absurd moment she thought he was going to say, Go to your room!

But even he drew the line at that.