Trowel in hand Felix bends down over the charcoal. It’s dark down here. Orange-filtered head torches are the chosen form of illumination; more authentic at replicating the flickering firelight of old and less harmful than arc lights for the delicate surfaces of excavated artefacts.
“Enough! Eight hours running! We’re off for a jar. You coming?”
“No, must dust Him off first. Catch you later”
Felix reverentially surveys the half-exposed altar statue, upper torso only, distinctive Noddy cap drooping over coiled shoulder-length hair and chiselled Roman features. The line of the upper arm hints at the hoped-for dagger at the throat of a terrified bullock. The cult has secrets yet to be divulged.
His colleagues bag up their digging paraphernalia and climb the cave’s access ladder. Alone, he works on till the dusking hour.
Felix feels a rush of air pass his cheeks and move purposefully onwards. It vortexes along the rusted iron rod attached behind the mouth and plays the cavern as a lyre re-echoing in the amphitheatre. From a roof-hole far above, the setting sun gilds the altar. Light streams from pierced eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. The God is in residence, risen again. Mithras speaks.
“Chosen One. Attend me!”
***
The others are used to Felix’s idiosyncrasy.
“It helps my hereditary condition of Pseudomonas hot-foot syndrome if I excavate barefoot wherever possible”
But to turn up at The Cross Inn both barefooted and black-footed is a new development; one that the landlord takes exception to.
“Is that charcoal or mud?”
“Charcoal. I’ve had a revelation”
Felix explains his new theory that the layers of charcoal, ash and crushed bone deposited on the cavern’s floor were not an attempt by Christians to eradicate former pagan traces by incineration. Rather they represented a ritual repeated across the centuries. Honour Him with fire and the flesh of fowl and oxen, beat the ashes with clubs, scatter the sieved remnants on the temple’s floor and tamp it down, crushing any remaining grits by repeatedly walking back and forth.
“The ingrained charcoal would be impossible to remove from the feet much like an ink tattoo is today. It would be a covert sign to others of inclusion in an exclusive society, with much the same role for insiders as a Masonic handshake” Felix concludes
***
“No trace of the kill. Probably a fox.”
Next day Farmer Seth mourns the loss of 2 prize bantams to the dig supervisor.
“Sod’s Law. Carry on”
***
“And Archaeologist of the Year goes to Felix Carruthers”
The audience of fellow practitioners, friends and acquaintances includes Farmer Seth and the landlord of The Cross Inn. Felix rises to applause and makes his way to the podium, his blackened feet hidden by the silk designer socks he now always wears when necessary, socks personalised with embroidered Mithras motifs.
Not for the first time he wonders about the significance of his Roman name. “Happy and Lucky”
