So, with these dark and violent stories rampant in camp, a fear of the Earth Mother has seized the timber marking crews. The fear in the barracks is so thick you can almost cut it with a pugio. It has the legionaries in its grip and has moved me also to contemplate this potential threat. Could I also be under the cloud of the Goddess's wrath?
If her wrath was loosed on them would it also reach me as one who has had some very small part of this bridge planning? Surely not! I had only been involved in this bridge project for a short time in only a minor way, serving as scriba / libraii for the engineer Titus Otho Atticus.
I looked behind me and pulled my bench a little closer to the brazier.
The draft from under the heavy door curtain slid an icy hand across my shoulders and I shivered in spite of myself. I wondered if that chill draft might not be Her cold fingers reaching for my male spirit. I was in a quandary and the fear of the unknown crept over me, alone in this darkened hall--and then I rose, determined not to let this fear take charge of my heart and mind.

Without thinking clearly, I reached for my penula hanging nearby on a peg, and slipped it on as I quietly pushed the heavy winter door curtain to one side and moved quickly out of the warm room and into a cold hallway.
From there it was but a few moments across the parade to the Shrine of Mithras just outside the fortress walls. The muffled guards wrapped in their red cloaks and fur leggings, at the great Eastern Gate, were
standing in the corner of the wall, seeking what wind-shelter they could.

Diskobolus, roman marble statue. Museo Nazionale Romano, Rome.

Seeing who I was, they waved me through impatiently. But as I walked hurriedly past, the younger guard called out, "Say one for me, lad!" The older guard just grunted and again buried his nose in his cloak. I waved
my assent to the younger man and directed my footsteps towards the shrine.

[to be continued]