(no subject)

sealie:

Somewhat mischievously the orb ambled up to brush past his cheek. A whisper away it hovered before his nose effectively excluding his view of the snooty boffin and most of the room. Jim huffed nosily through his nose blowing it back a hairsbreadth.
“I believe that we should inform the police that we have a *potential* suspect,” Appleworst said.
“i… I … I’m a student for God’s sake. I’ve got papers, this was all arranged. “If I was a criminal do you think that I would be stupid enough to announce my presence and fly over here with my own passport in Cattle Class?”
The orb drifted purposely to the back of the chamber where it bobbed up and down. Jim sensed mocking, but couldn’t place who or what was being mocked.
He swallowed convulsively. Emotions? Now he was picking up emotions?
The orb sort of rolled and then passed right through the dork, who remained completely and totally oblivious. Arrowing forwards it bisected Blair.
“I…!”
Blair shivered convulsively as if someone had walked over his grave.
“Oooh.” Blair looked around.
The orb darted up the spiral staircase. Jim shot after it. Corridor after corridor, grey stone stair case. He pounded after the chortling ball and it always stayed just in sight.
Jim skidded to a halt on a smooth marble floor, realising, belatedly, that it was leading him. At the far end of the display lined hall the orb stopped realising that the chase was over. It bobbed to the left and then back, pointing the way.
They hadn’t explored this chamber before. It was an annex to the museum section. Jim slid forwards, senses extended, trying to discern why the orb had led him here.
Angling around the orb, he viewed the display or to be more accurate the entrance to the mock up of a Temple of Mithras. The orb winked out.
Jim stepped slowly into the dark Mithraeum.
It was dark, and warm. Stone benches, piled high with white furs were set along the walls to his left and right. Before him stood a chest high pillar. A top of it sat a guttering torch – a mock up of a low watt bulb and red tissue paper, surrounded by a cone of brown cardboard.
Jim smiled.
He slipped around the guardian pillar into the temple. The torch might not be real but the rest of the temple was filled with ancient stones that resonated.
At the back of the temple, three small columns sat before a large mosaic that dominated the whole room. The picture was brutal: a swarthy, black haired man exposed the throat of a giant white bull, knife poised.
Jim drifted forward drawn, stooping he looked at the commemorative inscription at the bottom of the middle pillar. The stone was etched with Latin, the trials of wind and weather rendered them almost invisible.
A translation had been provided.
“Altar to Mithras, of the Prefect of the first cohort of Batatavians, Carvorans Own. Lucius Simplicus Proculus.”
Not of his own volition, Jim reached out and touched.

~*~

He strode over the damp dew wet grass, hands handing loosely at his side, ready to pull free his short sword at the slightest provocation. The region of the most Northerly Wall of the Empire was a barren place of rolling moors, twisted banks of copses- heather, oaks, willow and beech. It had its own austere beauty. The lush land of home was more green and verdant. Each had their own special magic.
His tour would be up soon, and then he would return home, or perhaps go with Marcus to Syria.
“Sir.” His adjutant saluted as he strode through the main gate.