Free A Fragile Peace by Paul Bannister Page B

lowered his head, unable to respond. He jerked his horse’s head around and spurred out of the gates, not wanting others to see his grief. Grabelius sighed and rode after him, the troopers clattering along behind him. He at least would not have to be a messenger of death, for the young man under his care had that awful duty. Three days later, the duo parted company. Milo went on to the court of Kinadius, to give him the dreadful news of his daughter, while Grabelius turned east to find a pilgrims’ destination and a canny clergyman.

 
    XII - Temple
     
    Not many bishops wear a breastplate made from the dragon-hide of a crocodile, but Bishop Candless did, and Grabelius suppressed a smile as he viewed the warrior-cleric. The chest armour topped a surplice and wide leather belt from which hung the gladius sword of a long-gone legionary, and the cavalryman knew that the Pict kept a punching knife discreetly hidden in his sleeve
    “Expecting trouble, Your Grace?” he enquired, leaning down from his mount to shake hands wit h the bishop.
    “Oh, this?” said Candless, “old habits and so forth. I’ve just ridden in from the coast and you can’t be too careful, bandits, you know.”
    Grabelius did know. It was not much of a secret that Candless could be the target of robbers, for he was wealthy. He had turned a handful of nails, a bit of wood and a painted cloth into the holiest of relics, and had attracted a constant stream of pilgrims with donations to the cathedral he was building. Every pilgrim wanted a blessing or an indulgence, every pilgrim wanted a memento of the time he had viewed the Nails of the Crucifixion, the splinter from the True Cross and the miraculous Holy Face in the linen that had wiped Christ’s blood and sweat away, although this last posed something of a test of faith.
    The actual image had washed off on a rainy battlefield as the paint Candless used to create it had failed to withstand the weather. Candless said that pilgrims had to understand that the miracle of the face that had appeared was doubly valuable: another miracle had removed it. The cheery bishop urged the faithful: ”This is the miracle, that the Lord lent his image to us when we needed it. Now, by the miracle of your belief, you can see how strong is your faith in His powers. In fact, on some holy days, the image is still there to be seen by the pure in heart.” And, as the shrewd bishop knew, many would claim to have seen that image and would both reinforce the belief and increase the attendance.
    Grabelius handed his horse’s reins to a servant and followed Candless, stout in his surplice and breastplate, through piles of building materials and into his small church. This was a construct of stone walls 12 feet high, with timber and thatch above. “I’m building the cathedral around this, I want it on this exact site,” said the bishop, glancing around to see they were not overheard. Several acolytes, whom Grabelius noticed with surprise were armed, stood around the altar area and kept the reverent queue of pilgrims from handling the relics on display there.
    “This way,” said Candless, unlocking an unobtrusive door by the baptistery. He bolted it from the inside and led Grabelius down two flights of steps. A rush torch guttered in the draught as the pair entered the chamber and Candless took it down from its bracket and used it to light a fat candle, which he handed to Grabelius. “Over here,” he led the way to a small, iron-bound door that blocked off a stone alcove. He ducked through the door, carefully bolting it too from the inside and stooping, moved forward. Then he straightened up and Grabelius found himself in a good-sized rock chamber with some familiar features.
    “This is why the old pagans worshipped here,” said Candless with satisfaction at Grabelius’ surprise.
    “It’s a temple of Mithras,” exclaimed the horse soldier, viewing the central aisle and the raised podium on either side. He heard the