“…You run into Mithras yet? Red cap. Nice kid.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Well . . . I’ve never seen Mithras around here. He was an army brat. Maybe he’s back in the Middle East, taking it easy, but I expect he’s probably gone by now. It happens. One day every soldier in the empire has to shower in the blood of your sacrificial bull. The next they don’t even remember your birthday.”

Oblations of milk, oil, honey, and blood.