‘—Nothing had changed. The dumpy god with Phrygian cap, icing-sugar ringlets, broken arms and phallus rose from his matrix of stony female breasts. A rather plebeian god one might have said, but in his presence fat little Simon’s ears heaved with the soundless roar of a sacrificial bull, his throat and the back of his nose were stung by blood that nineteen centuries ago had boiled over white-hot stone, and his eyes watered in the reek of burning entrails. He trembled and was immeasurably gratified.’

The reading continued in jerks to the end of the appropriate passage. Grant shut the book with a clap, passed it like a hot potato to the Baroness and hitched his shoulders against obligatory murmurs from his audience. These evaporated into an uneasy silence.

Sophy felt oppressed. For the first time claustrophobia threatened her. The roof seemed lower, the walls closer, the regions beyond them very much quieter as if the group had been deserted, imprisoned almost so many fathoms deep in the ground. For tuppence, she thought, I could do a bolt like Lady Braceley.

Grant repeated his suggestion that the others might like to explore and that he himself would remain for ten minutes in the Mithraeum in case anyone preferred to rejoin him there before returning to the upper world. He reminded them that there were side openings and an end one, leading into surrounding passages, and the insula.

Kenneth Dorne said he would go up and take a look at his aunt. He seemed to be more relaxed and showed a tendency to laugh at nothing in particular. ‘Your reading was m-a-a-r-vellous,’ he said to Grant and smiled from ear to ear. ‘I adore your Simon.’ He laughed immoderately and left by the main entrance. Major Sweet said he would take a look-see round and rejoin them above. ‘I have,’ he threatened ‘a bone to pick with Mailer. Extraordinary behaviour.’ He stared at Sophy. ‘Thinking of looking round at all?’ he invited.

‘I think I’ll stay put for a moment,’ she said. She did not at all fancy roaming in a Mithraic gloaming with the Major.

Alleyn said he, too, would find his own way back and the Van der Veghels who had been photographing each other against the sacrificial altar decided to join him, not, Sophy thought, entirely to his delight.

Major Sweet left by one of the side doors. Alleyn disappeared behind the god, enthusiastically followed by the Van der Veghels. They could be heard ejaculating in some distant region. Their voices died and there was no more sound except, Sophy fancied, the cold babble of that subterranean stream.

‘Come and sit down,’ Grant said.

She joined him on one of the stone benches.

‘Are you feeling a bit oppressed?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Shall I take you up? There’s no need to stay. That lot are all right under their own steam. Say the word.’