The Birkenhead Drill and Other Stories

Father Saturn

The shattered shells of the eggs, like shards of broken basalt, lay abandoned in the lightless alcoves of the Hatchery. The vast, underground amphitheatre of the Hatchery stretched for half a mile, its oval arena illuminated by a myriad of evertorches hovering under the dome of raw granite. In the middle, glistening, black, coiling wyrms writhed ceaselessly, snarling and biting at each other, agitated by boredom, irritated with each other’s presence. Hellish roaring, screeching and hundredfold growling of countless throats reverberated throughout the cavern.

Once in a while one of the beasts stood on its hind legs and spread its leathery wings and neck frill as wide as it could, menacingly. Then another did the same and they loomed upon each other for a time, until one of the two either gave up and dropped back to the ground, or started spewing fire and lightning from its maw. A fight broke out that soon spread throughout the Hatchery floor as other dragons joined into the fray, and it lasted for a minute or two until the beasts tired out or get bored with it. Sometimes, one or two of the monsters remained unmoving on the rocky floor, staining the stones with thick, yellow blood. But not for long – the dragons were rarely fed.

A celebrant in grey tunic with long sleeves and grey hooded cloak stood on a balcony high above this chaos, supporting himself on a crooked shepherd’s staff, observing the dragons through slits cut in a mask of bronze.

They called him Father Saturn, but this was merely a ceremonial name. None of his acolytes, the Initiated, knew his real identity, abandoned on the doorstep of the Grand Mithraeum. None could guess that by day he was the most powerful man in the land, the Archon Basileus, ruling with the iron hand from an underground throne room in New Rome. Here, he was nobody, a man with no name and no past. Such was the law of the Mysteries.

An apprentice in red tunic came up to him, holding a silver platter in one hand and torch in the other.

            "We are ready, father Saturn."

            "So are they, brother Sun."

The Basileus took the silver platter from the apprentice and the two came up to the stone altar overhanging the cavern’s floor where three other Brothers and two Sisters were already standing, waiting. They were all disguised, each of them differently, with masks, hoods and veils. He did not wonder who they were; it was not the way. If he was too curious he might start recognizing some of them by the way they walked, spoke, gestured. And that would break the Mystery. Ruin the ritual.

He cast down the hood of his robe, put on the red Phrygian cloth cap and took a deep breath.

            "Bring in the Bull!" he cried in a strong voice.

The dragons below heard his cry. They knew what was going to happen now, having heard these words a hundred times before, and now they fell quiet in patient anticipation. A white bull was brought in front of the altar, an imposing beast, the sacrificial race bred in the temple barns, larger and fatter than the farm bullocks, with long, sharp horns curving over its head almost in a full circle. It was tranquilized, half-dozing, barely standing on its massive legs.

            "As the Unconquered Sun, beloved Mithras, had slain the Cosmic Bull," the Basileus intoned, "and brought life to the barren world, so do we bring the life of this bull to its end, to renew our bond with the Sun. Blessed be the Bull."

            "Blessed be the Bull," chanted the others in unison.

            "Sister Venus, Brother Jupiter," Father Saturn spoke, "adorn the bull."

One of the priestesses, a young girl, donning a thin black veil over her face, approached the animal. Only her eyes, bright and blue, were visible above the veil and Basileus could see fear and fascination in them as she reached out and put a circlet of silver thread and bells between the horns of the great bull. She had never done this before, he realized and quickly admonished himself – they were all equal in the mithraeum, regardless of their station.