A Letter from the Shadow of Mithras

A Letter from the Shadow of Mithras (English Translation)

When my legion—Legio XIV Gemina Martia Victrix—was stationed in Gallia Aquitania, the Emperor Hadrian sent me a letter. There was nothing remarkable about it; apparently, the emperor had been unable to sleep one night and had dictated this missive simply out of boredom.
Or so it seemed to me then.

Hadrian wrote of dreams. Of how, in a dream, he had stood in a cave—not the majestic one beneath the Capitoline Hill where the sacred rites of the cult of Mithras are performed, no. Some other, ancient cave, as if it had existed before time itself. Its walls were breathing, the emperor claimed, and upon them, signs were appearing—not the seven gates of initiation that every mystes passes through, ascending from the Raven to the Father, but something else. Something older. He wrote that he had seen the bull not being slain, but being born from the stone, and its blood flowed not downward, but upward, toward the stars, which were themselves droplets of that same blood, frozen in eternity.

"Marcus Valerius," he wrote to me (that was my name, though it now seems alien, belonging to someone else), "you have passed through five gates, as far as I know. You are a Lion. Tell me, Lion, what did you see when the fire touched your brow? Is it true that in that moment, a man ceases to be himself and becomes part of a great wheel that turns regardless of the will of the gods?"

Then followed reflections on the Eleusinian Mysteries—yes, he was an initiate of those as well, a rarity for a man of his rank, though Hadrian was a rarity in general. He described how he had stood on the sacred field of Demeter, how he had drunk the kykeon, and how he had seen—no, not seen, but known—that the seed cast into the earth and the body lowered into the grave are one and the same. That Persephone descends not into Hades, but into the very core of being, to a place where there is neither light nor darkness, but only waiting. A waiting as patient as the breath of the earth.

"But Mithras shows us otherwise," Hadrian continued. "He teaches that death is a battle. That the bull must be slain for the world to continue. That sacrifice is not an extinguishing, but an explosion. Whereas Demeter says: death is a sleep. A falling asleep in the arms of the mother. Which of them is right, Marcus Valerius? Or are they both right, and we are simply looking at the same truth from two sides of a mirror?"

The letter was long. Too long for an emperor. It contained not a single directive, not a single command. Only questions. Questions asked by a man who rules the world but cannot rule his own dreams.

At the end, he added a postscript: "Sometimes it seems to me that I am already dead. That all of this—my reign, my travels, even my loves—is merely the dream of a man who has long been sleeping in the earth. And I try to wake up, but I cannot. Or I do not want to. Tell me, Lion, can a dead man rule the living? And would the living notice the difference?"

While settling affairs with a Gallic tribe—the Nervii, if I am not mistaken, a fierce people who remembered Caesar better than their own grandfathers—I had quite forgotten about the letter. Or pretended to have forgotten. Sometimes, forgetting is also a decision.

And thank the gods that my lictor—old Lucius, who had lived through three campaigns with me and had learned to read my silences—reminded me of it.

"Legate," he said one evening, as I sat in my tent trying to decipher yet another report of one centurion against another, "the emperor awaits a reply. It has been three weeks."

Three weeks. A ridiculous period. Letters sometimes take months. But Lucius was right: this was Hadrian. He remembered everything. He counted the days.

That very evening, I intended to write a reply, but for some reason, the letter would not come to me this time. I would begin, and everything came out empty. Formal. Dead. "Divine Caesar, I thank you for your attention..." What next? How does one answer questions that have no answers?

How could I tell the emperor that yes, I had seen the fire? That in the cave, when the priest-Father touched my forehead with a burning brand and spoke words in a language I did not know but understood, I had truly ceased to be myself? That in that moment, I was not Marcus Valerius, not a legate, not a Roman—I was everything at once. The stone I stood upon. The smoke that rose to the vault. Mithras himself, raising the knife over the bull. And the bull, accepting death. And the scorpion, stinging the bull. And the serpent. And the dog, licking the blood.

How could I explain that after that initiation, I could not eat meat for a month? That the smell of blood provoked in me not disgust, but something else—a vague recognition, as if I were remembering something I had never experienced?

Having strictly forbidden my lictor to remind me of the letter again, I set my pen aside for several days.

The days in Aquitania flowed slowly. Rains, fogs, occasional skirmishes with local bandits—former warriors unwilling to become farmers. Rome teaches order, but order does not come at once. First comes boredom. Then, oblivion. And then, if one is lucky, peace.

I would ride around the camp. Inspect the fortifications. Listen to reports. I thought about anything and everything, except the letter. But it pursued me. At night, when I closed my eyes, I saw not dreams, but lines of text. Hadrian's handwriting—neat, slanted slightly to the left, like that of a man accustomed to writing by torchlight.

"Can a dead man rule the living?"

A curse upon it. I am a Lion. I have passed through the fire. I should not fear questions.

But I was afraid. Not of the questions. Of the answers.

Because once, during that very ceremony when I was being initiated as a Lion, I saw something one does not speak of. After the fire, after the words, after all the mystes began to sing the hymn to the unconquered Sun, I was left alone in the cave. The priest had departed. The torches were burning down. And in the half-light, in that very twilight that exists between brightness and gloom, I saw him.

Mithras.

No, not a statue. Not a vision. Him.

He stood over me—young, beautiful, in his Phrygian cap, with a knife in his hand. And he looked at me. And his gaze was empty. Not evil. Not kind. Empty. As if he were looking through me, through the world, through eternity itself—and seeing nothing.

And I understood.

He does not save us. He does not lead us. He simply does what he must. Over and over. Forever and ever. He slays the bull not because he wants to. Not because it is right. But because if he does not slay it, the world will stop. And that stop would be worse than any sacrifice.

This is not a religion. It is the mechanics of the cosmos.

That is what I was afraid to tell Hadrian.

On the seventh day, I woke before dawn. The camp was still asleep. A dog was barking somewhere. A sentry paced rhythmically along the rampart. I took a quill, a clean sheet of papyrus, and began to write. And the words came on their own—effortlessly, as if I were not writing them, but transcribing something that already existed.

Now I cannot even recall what I wrote to the emperor in my letter, which was composed with such unusual ease. That much I remember for certain.

I only remember writing that the dead always rule the living. That everything we live by—the laws, the gods, the very words we speak—was created by the dead. That Rome is built on bones. That the legions march on roads paved with forgotten names. That I, Marcus Valerius, command men in the name of a Republic that has long ceased to exist.

I wrote that Mithras and Demeter are both right. That death is both a battle and a sleep. That sacrifice is both an explosion and an extinguishing. That we live in the space between the inhale and exhale of some enormous being, and we call this interval life.

I wrote that the emperor is not dead. But that he is right to fear it. Because to rule is to be in-between. Between gods and men. Between law and mercy. Between life and what awaits after.

And that the only thing that distinguishes the dead from the living is questions.

The dead do not ask questions.

But Hadrian was asking. Which meant he was still alive.

I sealed the letter. Gave it to a courier. And forgot about it.

There was no reply for a long time. Almost a year. I was already thinking that the emperor had taken offense. Or had died. Or had simply lost interest—Hadrian was famous for being fascinated by everything and nothing.

But one day, a new letter arrived. A short one.

"Thank you, Lion. You answered the question I did not ask. That is the mark of a true mystagogue. When you return to Rome, I would have you pass through the final gates. I need Fathers who remember that they are still asking questions.
Yours in darkness and in light, Hadrian."

I never returned to Rome during his lifetime. The legion was sent to Britannia, then to Dacia. When Hadrian died, I was standing on the bank of the Danube, watching the river carry leaves—slowly, impassively, eternally.

The dead rule the living.

But the living remember the dead.

And as long as we remember—as long as we ask—the border between us is as thin as the blade of the knife, poised above the bull.

I never became a Father. I remained a Lion.

The fire is all I need.

The rest is but shadows on a cave wall.


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Commentary on the Translation

This translation aims to capture the specific tone of the original: a stoic, contemplative, and deeply intelligent voice. The challenges were more about style and atmosphere than vocabulary.

The "Roman" Voice: The protagonist is a high-ranking Roman officer. His prose should be clear, dignified, and without excessive ornamentation. I used a slightly formal but direct style, avoiding modern idioms. The goal was to create a voice that feels authentic to a man of action who is also a deep thinker.

Philosophical and Mystical Language: The letter from Hadrian and Marcus's internal monologues are the heart of the story. I focused on translating these passages with precision and gravity. The key contrast between Mithras ("death is a battle... an explosion") and Demeter ("death is a sleep... an extinguishing") needed to be sharp and memorable.

The Climax in the Cave: The description of seeing the "real" Mithras is the story's terrifying climax. The key word here is "empty" (пуст). The translation needed to convey that this emptiness is not malevolence, but a chilling, cosmic indifference. The final realization—"This is not a religion. It is the mechanics of the cosmos"—is the philosophical punchline, and it was translated to be as stark and powerful as possible.

Rhythm and Pacing: The story has a deliberate, meditative pace. The short paragraphs in the latter half, as Marcus wrestles with his reply, create a sense of fragmented thought and rising tension. The translation attempts to mirror this pacing to guide the reader through Marcus's internal journey.

This translation serves as a solid foundation. An ideal next step would be to have it reviewed by a native English-speaking editor with a good sense of literary and historical prose to polish the rhythm and word choices until they perfectly reflect the quiet, profound authority of the original.