The Mephisto Club

Mithras slaying the bull. Here, still, the gentle rush of water whispered from the shadows.

“When Christ was born,” said Lily, “the cult of Mithras was already ancient; he was worshipped for centuries by the Persians. Now, let’s consider the life story of Mithras, what the Persians believed about him. He was God’s messenger of truth. He was born in a cave at the winter solstice. His mother, Anahita, was a virgin, and his birth was attended by shepherds bearing gifts. He had twelve disciples who accompanied him as he traveled. He was buried in a tomb, and later rose from the dead. And every year, his rising is celebrated as a rebirth.” She paused for dramatic effect, looking around at their faces. “Does any of this sound familiar?”

“That’s Christian gospel,” said the American woman.

“Yet centuries before Christ, this was already part of Persian lore.”

“I’ve never heard of this.” The tourist looked at her husband. “Have you?”

“Nope.”

“Then perhaps you should visit the temples at Ostia,” said the Englishman. “Or the Louvre. Or the Frankfurt Archaeological Museum. You might find it educational.”

The American woman turned to him. “You don’t need to be patronizing.”

“Trust me, madam. Nothing our delightful guide here has told us is either shocking or untrue.”

“Now you know as well as I do that Christ was not some Persian guy in a funny hat who kills bulls.”

Lily said, “I only wanted to point out the interesting parallels in the iconography.”

“What?”

“Look, it’s not that important, really,” said Lily, hoping, desperately, that the woman would just let it go, realizing, too, that any hope she had of a generous tip from the American couple had long since vanished. “It’s just mythology.”

“The Bible isn’t mythology.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“What does anyone really know about the Persians, anyway? I mean, where’s their holy book?” The other tourists said nothing, just stood around looking uncomfortable.

Let it go. It’s not worth an argument.

But the woman wasn’t finished yet. Since stepping aboard the tour van that morning, she had complained about everything to do with Italy and Italians. Rome traffic was chaotic, not like in America. The hotels were too expensive, not like in America. The bathrooms were so small, not like in America. And now, this final irritation. She had walked into the Basilica di San Clemente to view one of the earliest Christian meeting places, and instead was getting an earful of pagan propaganda.

“How do we know what the Mithrans really believed?” she asked. “Where are they now?”

“Exterminated,” said the Englishman. “Their temples were destroyed long ago. What do you think happened after the church claimed that Mithras was the spawn of Satan?”

“That sounds like rewritten history to me.”

“Who do you suppose did all the rewriting?”

Lily cut in. “This is where our tour ends. Thank you all very much for your attention. Feel free to linger here if you’d like. The driver will be waiting for you in the van when you’re ready to leave. He’ll take you all back to your hotels. If you have any other questions, I’d be happy to answer them.”

“I think you should let tourists know ahead of time,” the American woman said.

“Ahead of time?”

“This tour was called ‘The Dawn of Christianity.’ But it’s not history. It’s pure mythology.”

“Actually,” sighed Lily, “it is history. But history isn’t always what we’ve been told.”

“And you’re an expert?”

“I have a degree in”-Lily paused. Careful-“I’ve studied history.”

“And that’s it?”

“I’ve also worked in museums around the world,” Lily answered, too annoyed now to be cautious. “In Florence. Paris.”

“And now you’re a tour guide.”

Even in that chilly subterranean room, Lily felt her face go hot. “Yes,” she said, after a long silence. “I’m just a tour guide. Nothing else. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go check on our driver.” She turned and headed back into the labyrinth of tunnels. She certainly would not be getting any tips today, so they could damn well find their own way back upstairs.

She climbed from the Mithraeum, with each step moving forward in time, ascending to the Byzantine foundations. Here, beneath the current Basilica di San Clemente, were the abandoned hallways of a fourth-century church that had lain hidden for eight centuries, buried beneath the medieval church that later replaced it. She heard voices approaching, speaking French. It was another tour group, on their descent to the Mithraeum. They came through the narrow corridor, and Lily moved aside to let the three tourists and their guide pass. As their voices faded, she paused beneath crumbling frescoes, suddenly feeling guilty that she had abandoned her own group. Why had she let the comments of one ignorant tourist so upset her? What was she thinking?

She turned, and froze as she confronted the silhouette of a man standing at the far end of the corridor.

“I hope she did not upset you too much,” he said. She recognized the voice of the German tourist and released a breath, all her tension instantly gone.

“Oh, it’s all right. I’ve had worse things said to me.”

“You did not deserve it. You were only explaining the history.”

“Some people prefer their own version of history.”

“If they don’t like to be challenged, then they should not come to Rome.”

She smiled, a smile he probably could not see from the far end of the murky tunnel. “Yes, Rome has a way of challenging us all.”

He moved toward her, stepping slowly, as though approaching a skittish deer. “May I offer a suggestion?”

Her heart sank. So he had his criticisms, too. And what would his be? Couldn’t she satisfy anyone today?

“An idea,” he said, “for a different sort of tour, something that would almost certainly draw a different group of visitors.”

“What would the theme be?”

“You are familiar with biblical history.”

“I’m not an expert, but I have studied it.”

“Every travel agency offers tours of the holy sites, for tourists like our American friends, people who wish to walk in the footsteps of the saints. But some of us aren’t interested in saints or holy sites.” He had moved close beside her in the tunnel, so close that she could smell the scent of pipe tobacco on his clothes. “Some of us,” he said softly, “seek the unholy.”

She went absolutely still.

“You have read the Book of Revelation?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“You know of the Beast.”

She swallowed. Yes.

“And who is the Beast?” he asked.

Slowly she backed away. “Not a he, but an it. It’s…a representation of Rome.”

“Ah. You know the scholarly interpretation.”

“The Beast was the Roman Empire,” she said, still backing away. “The number 666 was a symbol for the emperor Nero.”

“Do you really believe that?”

She glanced over her shoulder, toward the exit, and saw no one barring her escape.

“Or do you believe he’s real?” he pressed. “Flesh and blood? Some say the Beast lies here, in this city. That he’s biding his time, waiting. Watching.”

“That-that’s for philosophers to decide.”

“You tell me, Lily Saul. What do you believe?”

He knows my name.