And then the appraisal was over. It turned its head, and Mariana was dismissed – forgotten. She watched it disappear under the bridge.

‘Tell me,’ she said, glancing at Zoe. ‘You don’t like him, do you?’

‘Professor Fosca? I never said that.’

‘It’s just an impression I have. Do you?’

Zoe shrugged. ‘I don’t know … The professor – he dazzles me, I suppose.’

Mariana was surprised by this, and not entirely clear what she meant. ‘And you don’t like being dazzled?’

‘Of course not.’ Zoe shook her head. ‘I like to see where I’m going. And there’s something about him – I don’t know how to describe it – it’s like he’s acting – like he’s not who he pretends to be. Like he doesn’t want you to see who he really is. But maybe I’m wrong … Everyone else thinks he’s amazing.’

‘Yes, Clarissa said he’s very popular.’

‘You’ve no idea. It’s like a cult. The girls, especially.’

Mariana suddenly thought of the girls in white, gathered around Fosca at the service for Tara. ‘You mean Tara’s friends? That group of girls? Aren’t they your friends too?’

Zoe shook her head forcefully. ‘No way. I avoid them like the plague.’

‘I see. They don’t seem very popular.’

Zoe gave her a pointed look. ‘Depends on who you ask.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Well, they’re Professor Fosca’s favourites … His fan club.’

‘What do you mean, fan club?’

Zoe shrugged. ‘They’re in his private study group. A secret society.’

‘Why secret?’

‘It’s only for them – his “special” students.’ Zoe rolled her eyes. ‘He calls them the Maidens. Isn’t that the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard?’

‘The Maidens?’ Mariana frowned. ‘Are they all girls?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I see.’

And Mariana did see – or was beginning to, at least, have an inkling where all this might be leading, and why Zoe had been so reticent.

‘And was Tara one of the Maidens?’

‘Yeah.’ Zoe nodded. ‘She was.’

‘I see. And the others? Can I meet them?’

Zoe pulled a face. ‘Do you want to? They’re not exactly friendly.’

‘Where are they now?’

‘Now?’ Zoe looked at her watch. ‘Well, Professor Fosca is lecturing in a half an hour. Everyone will be there.’

Mariana nodded. ‘Then so will we.’

10

Mariana and Zoe arrived at the English Faculty with only a few moments to spare.

They looked at the board outside the lecture-theatre building and consulted the schedule for the day. The afternoon lecture by Professor Fosca was in the biggest room upstairs. They made their way up there.

The lecture theatre was a large, well-lit space, with rows of dark wooden desks descending to the stage at the bottom, where there was a podium and a microphone.

Clarissa was right about the popularity of Fosca’s lectures – the auditorium was packed. They found a couple of remaining seats high up at the back. There was a palpable sense of anticipation as the audience waited, more akin to a concert or theatre performance than a lecture on Greek tragedy, Mariana thought.

And then, Professor Fosca entered.

He was dressed in a smart black suit, and his hair was pulled back and tied in a tight knot. He was holding a folder of notes, and walked across the stage, up to the podium. He adjusted the microphone, surveyed the room for a moment, then bowed his head.

There was a ripple of excitement in the audience. All talking faded to a hush. Mariana couldn’t help but feel a little sceptical – her background in group theory told her, as a rule, to be suspicious of any group in love with a teacher; those situations rarely ended well. To Mariana, Fosca looked more like a brooding pop star than a lecturer, and she half expected him to burst into song. But when he looked up, he didn’t sing. To her surprise, his eyes were full of tears.

‘Today,’ Fosca said, ‘I want to talk about Tara.’

Mariana heard whispering around her and saw heads turning, looks being exchanged; this was what the students had been hoping for. She even noticed a couple of them starting to cry.

Fosca’s own tears spilled out of his eyes and fell down his cheeks, without him brushing them away. He refused to react to them, and his voice remained calm and steady. He projected so well, Mariana thought, he didn’t really need the mike.

What had Zoe said? He was always performing? If so, the performance was so good that Mariana – like the rest of the audience – couldn’t help being affected.

‘As many of you know,’ Fosca said, ‘Tara was one of my students. And I’m standing here in a state of – heartbreak. I nearly said “despair”. I wanted to cancel today’s lecture. But what I loved most about Tara was her strength, her fearlessness – and she wouldn’t want us to give in to despair, and be defeated by hate. We must go on. That is our only defence against evil … and the best way to honour our friend. I’m here today for Tara. And so are you.’

There was thunderous applause, and cheers from the audience. He acknowledged it with a bow of the head. He collected his notes and looked up again. ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen – to work.’

Professor Fosca was an impressive speaker. He rarely consulted his notes – and gave the impression of improvising the entire lecture. He was animated, engaging, witty, impassioned – and, most importantly, present; he seemed to be communicating directly with each member of his audience.

‘Today,’ he said, ‘I thought it would be a good idea to talk about, among other things, the liminal in Greek tragedy. What does that mean? Well, think of Antigone, pushed to a choice between death and dishonour; or Iphigenia, preparing herself to die for Greece; or Oedipus, deciding to blind himself and wander the highways. The liminal is between two worlds – on the very edge of what it means to be human – where everything is stripped away from you; where you transcend this life, and experience something beyond it. And when the tragedies are working, they give us a glimpse of what that feels like.’

Then, Fosca showed a slide, projected onto the large screen behind him. It was a marble relief of two women, standing on either side of a nude male youth, each with her right hand extended towards him.

‘Anyone recognise these two ladies?’

A sea of shaking heads. Mariana had a slight inkling of who they might be, and she very much hoped she was wrong.

‘These two goddesses,’ he said, ‘are about to initiate a young man into the secret cult of Eleusis. They are, of course, Demeter and her daughter, Persephone.’

Mariana caught her breath. She did her best not to be distracted. She tried to focus.

‘This is the Eleusinian cult,’ Fosca said. ‘The secret rite of Eleusis – that gives you exactly that liminal experience of being between life and death – and of transcending death. What was this cult? Well, Eleusis is the story of Persephone – the Maiden, as she was known – the goddess of death, queen of the Underworld …’

As Fosca was speaking, for a second he caught Mariana’s eye. He smiled, ever so slightly.

He knows, she thought. He knows what happened to Sebastian – and that’s why he’s doing this. To torment me.

But how – how could he know? He couldn’t know. It wasn’t possible. She had told no one, not even Zoe. It was just a coincidence – that’s all; it meant nothing. She forced herself to calm down, and concentrate on what he was saying.

‘When she lost her daughter at Eleusis, Demeter plunged the world into wintry darkness, until Zeus was forced to intervene. He allowed Persephone to return from the dead, every year, for six months, which is our spring and summer. And then, for the six months she resides in the Underworld, we have fall and winter. Light and dark – life and death. This journey Persephone goes on – from life to death and back again – gave birth to the cult of Eleusis. And there, at Eleusis, at the entry point to the Underworld, you too could take part in this secret rite – that gives you the same experience as the goddess.’

He lowered his voice, and Mariana could see heads leaning forward, necks craning to catch every word. He had them in the palm of his hand.

‘The exact nature of the rites at Eleusis have remained secret for thousands of years,’ he said. ‘The rites, the mysteries, they were “unspeakable” – because they were an attempt to initiate us into something beyond words. People who experienced them were never the same again. There were stories of visions and ghostly visitations and journeys to the afterlife. As the rites were open to everyone – men, women, slaves, or children – you didn’t even have to be Greek. The only requirement was that you understood Greek, so you could understand what was being said to you. In preparation, you had a drink called kykeon – which was made of barley. And on this particular barley there was a black fungus called ergot, which had hallucinogenic properties; thousands of years later, LSD would be made from it. Whether the Greeks knew it or not, they were all tripping slightly. Which might account for some of the visions.’