Sometime before the dawn of the Bronze Age there was a sacred grove where young men wandered to meet the nymphs of legend. If he was lucky, or unlucky they would bring him to a shrine on the shore of lake Nemi, called “Diana’s Mirror.” If he could get a sacred branch from a guarded tree he could be “King for a Day”. Having his pick of one or all of the nymphs, spending his day feasting and at some point he would be surprised with a sword in the ribs.

This occasion was not a title the adept would desire. This is where the followers of the Goddess would lure men to their doom with promises of sex and wine. Many a holiday was punctuated by the ceremonial death of these chosen ones. The day would be ecstatic with dance, esoteric plays to reenact the great acts of the Goddess and end with blood to satisfy the temple once more for another year of plentiful crops, bounty of the hunt in local forests and the ability of the seers to continue their magic through the seasons.

An occasion such as this is where the mad child Mithras was turned from a normal human, to the bane of the Goddess cults existence. At least in the local tradition, farther east Mithras has an older tradition much different.

Meeting a drunken Satyr beside a ruined temple. Mithras was looking for a place to sleep. He did not know he would be asked to give up certain safety and rest for the marathon of endless pain that is being king. While every insecure fool and down on his luck beggar seeks to whip the slaves into a murderous frenzy.

The Satyr advises against making camp in this place as it is a haven for wolves and Harpies who come down from the hills in search of lone travelers. He suggests a trip to the temple of the Goddess Diana beside mirrored lake of Nemi. This was the time of the year of a fortuitous festival for the youth to attend. Needing little cajoling, Mithras follows to his doom.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Mithras enters the glade of the Golden Bough, he has been told to follow a pair of doves to guide the way by the helpful Satyr that climbing this beautiful tree and claiming the innermost branches his destiny. He welcomes the supple bodies of the nymphs and faithful women in the Temple of Diana, known as Aphrodite elsewhere along the silk road to the east from whence he came. The Goddess of love and passion, fertile honey and bountiful milk.

Watching from the shadows with tired darting eyes and heavy exhausted arms hold a sword, apprehensive and wary but called forth to fight. Mithras is quick, scrambling up the massive tree like a gazelle in mid stride. He vaguely remembers a story like this in the Aeneid. Reaching out to grasp his prize he loses his footing, tumbling down and down into the underworld. He is beset on by the former champion while he is unarmed, save for a splendid twig that will not stop a sword from piercing his eyelids.

Mithras chooses the certain path, he dashes away. Into the depths, into the sleepy arms of the underworld, through the gate of eternity to Elysian Fields. He will not have rest but constant struggle. For each kiss and embrace in the bosom of love, he will be hunted and cut down over and over again. While mortals sleep in soft beds, his bed will be decaying leaves. While you sleep with a wife at night, he sleeps with a knife ready to bound into flight. He is as the duckling afraid of the hawk, and the turtle must always guard against the hungry fish, the oryx from the lion and rabbit ever watchful for the fox.

Rex Nemorensis is a lonely watch, crippling the young mans bones brittle, drying his legs to husks, making every act of love hurried for fear of a knife in the back or a sword in the throat. He will wander the world trying to avoid this watch but every time he thinks of the Goddesses it seems like the wild hunt is just on the horizon. Sounds of ghostly laughter and perilous new rivals became his legacy. He too was considered a God, Mithras long forgot his own mysteries of the Triumphant killing of the hellish Bull, the adepts of a school devoted to his wisdom. If he advised the lone traveler on the slopes of the Alban Hills who hears about the rite to become the orgiastic “Priest of Nemi, Sacrifical King” he would say… “Run while there is still no-one to chase you.”