And all the places covered by night -
Make unto us, your servants,
Visible what is dark,
Showing what is now,
And what once was,
And what is yet to become.
This offering we make to you,
That you may give to us.
Accept, accept, O God Immortal,
And give unto us in return.
As the chanting died away, the hooded priest cried three times for silence. ‘ Procul, O procul, este profani ’ he added. ‘Away, away, be all unclean.’
Lucius moved to face the stone altar with the east before him, his arms stretched out. His lips moved in silent prayer. I strained to hear what he might be asking, but his lips moved without a voice.
As he finished and his arms came down beside him, what I now saw was a goat with a perfectly black hide was brought forward. Water was dribbled on its head, as in a baptism.
‘See,’ the hooded priest intoned, ‘the beast is unafraid. All is ready according to ancient custom.’
Lucius covered his head with a fold of his cloak. He took the goat by its chain. Slaves lifted it with practised ease onto the altar before him. The hooded man uncovered a knife that had been carried by one of the others. He held it up in the moonlight. It had no glint. Lucius took the knife in his right hand. Holding the goat with his left hand, he drew the knife with a single motion, and stepped quickly back as the animal sank twitching onto the block. I saw no blood, but heard it gushing onto the altar.
‘The Lord has given a clean death,’ the hooded priest spoke again. ‘The beast has moved without sense of motion into the realms of darkness. It is as ancient custom requires.’ He took out another knife and slit open the goat’s belly, drawing out its entrails. He examined these by the light of a small lantern.
‘O Noble Basilius, great seed of ancient greatness,’ he intoned, ‘you have asked for what you would have, and the God has granted all that you ask. Behold, the liver is unspotted. The entrails are pure throughout. Your sacrifice is accepted. Let the God give all that you ask in the manner of His choosing. His will shall prevail!’
Lucius placed his hands on the now-still goat and drew them away, black in the moonlight. He prayed silently again for a short while, then nodded.
The animal was skinned, its hide and entrails thrown on the fire, which now burned black. There was a sprinkling of oil and wine on the altar. Wine was spilled onto the ground with another brief invocation. The rest of the goat was cut into strips and roasted on the clear part of the coals. We all sat together round the table, now set with bread and wine, and waited for our share to be cooked. Slaves and free sat mingled together, drinking the same wine.
And that was it. I had attended my first pagan sacrifice.
It was obvious at the time we had done something illegal. If this sort of thing got the priests in Kent in a regular sweat, there seemed no saying what they would think of seeing it done in Rome, barely a mile from the Lateran. I later learnt that it carried the same penalties as treason – that is, the punishment could be really unpleasant. I once saw a high government official in Constantinople ripped apart by hyenas in the Circus – and he had only consulted an old oracle outside the city gates. We had performed a nocturnal sacrifice in full, if undiscriminating, semblance of the ancient custom. No wonder it had all been so furtive.
‘Surely, the Ancient Gods have no power in the modern age?’ I asked the priest diplomatically. He sat beside me at the table, now unhooded. His narrow face and thin white beard went strangely with his deep voice. I could have questioned their existence, but thought that might not be in the best taste, given the circumstances.
‘The Ancient Gods are not dead,’ he answered. ‘They merely sleep in stones and in the quiet places, ready to be called forth by sacrifice of blood.’
‘And the Almighty God of the Churches,’ I asked, ‘whose priests have conquered the world – what of Him?’
The priest frowned, pouring out more wine for himself. ‘The Galileans worship nothing more than the tribal God of the Jews. They have raised him above his proper status, and in his triumph the world has grown old.
‘In former ages, the smoke of sacrifice rose above every temple. Every God and every Goddess would have its proper worship. Then, the beasts of sacrifice were brought in full daylight, with sound of flutes and cymbals. Women and little children would join the joyous procession. There would be games and readings of poetry. Beautiful works of art would be raised in celebration of the gifts showered upon us by the Gods. In those days, the arms of Rome were triumphant everywhere, from the furthermost limits of the world to the shores of the Indian Ocean. Then the Galilean worship took hold – first among the slaves and the rabble of every city, then among the women of the higher classes, then at last on the emperor himself. Since Constantine disestablished the ancient worship, all has gone ill. Our cities are empty. Barbarians have taken our lands. The Persian is upon the East.
‘The Galileans cannot even agree among themselves. The Ancient Gods were never jealous. Each had his proper place, and never complained if another had finer temples or a more numerous worship. Now, the supposed One God has many cults, and the various devotees hate each other more than they hate the barbarians and the Persians, with whom they make common cause as the mood takes them.’ The priest finished and turned back for a second helping of meat.
‘And the Gods are with us yet.’ One of the priest’s deputies now spoke, a fanatical gleam in his eye. ‘Did you not feel the God’s presence as we called Him forth?’
Of course I hadn’t. Before, during and after the sacrifice, all around had been the same so far as I was concerned. It was a fine spring night – but just like any other. Nevertheless, I’d had enough experience of Church miracles not to go stating the obvious. So I slightly changed the subject, asking which of the Gods had been invoked.
‘His name is not to be mentioned,’ the priest replied. ‘There are words and names that are only to be whispered, even among the initiated.’
‘But, my dear boy,’ Lucius broke in, ‘did your priests ever serve such an excellent meal after one of their interminable, corpse-worshipping services? I think not.’ He grinned, all solemnity gone, and began a scandalous story about some deacon who had been found dead of a stroke in a brothel, dressed in nothing but a slave collar and a bag over his head. To keep the story even reasonably quiet, the dispensator had been required to buy all the whores out of slavery and then get them forgiveness for all the sins they had committed and might again in future commit. I nearly choked on a piece of bread as he pranced around doing a perfect imitation of the dispensator’s pompous manner – the dispensator turned out, by the way, to be yet another of his relatives.
Good food, excellent wine, the moon high overhead, the air still, the slight chill of the night banished by the coals of the brazier, and excellent conversation from Lucius, and much of interest from the other diners – this was everything the other dinner hadn’t been.
Afterwards, Lucius took me on a tour of the Colosseum. The gates to the upper reaches were locked and rusted shut, so the imperial box and the better seats were off limits. I was told there was a network of tunnels underneath the arena, where the animals and human victims had waited their turn in the open. This too was barred to us. But we had free run of the lower galleries and arcades, where there had once been shops and brothels and offices and rooms for private entertainment.
By one of the main processional gates to the arena, Lucius stopped and pointed to a slab of stone fixed to the wall. It commemorated the charity of one Decius Marius Venantius Basilius, ‘ Praefectus Urbanus, Patricius, Consul Ordinarius ’. After some earthquake had damaged the arena and podium, he had paid for repairs out of his own pocket. To this benefactor of the public – if not, perhaps, of the performers – Lucius was great-great- grandson.
‘My family had money in those days,’ he said. ‘We could pay for repairs to this place as easily as I now pay the bill in a wine shop. We had estates in Italy and Sicily and Africa, as well as in the East.’
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘All we had in Italy was taken by the Lombards. In Africa, the desert took everything more slowly, but just as surely. My grandfather left what we had in Sicily to the Church – he was a regular Galilean, you see. As for the East, my mother’s family lost that just recently to that lowlife bastard Phocas. I am left with a house in Rome I can’t
