Account of a Mithraic autumnal equinox rite

 The Pater, his brow crowned with the peaked cap of the Persian seers, emerged from the deeper shadows of the Mithraeum, his voice a resonant whisper that stirred the soul. “Behold,” he intoned, “the hour of turning, when the Scorpion’s breath chills summer’s ardor, and the Serpent coils for its slumber!” The initiates—Corax, Nymphus, and Miles—knelt in serried ranks, their faces half-veiled, their breaths a synchronized tide of introspection. Before them, the sacred fire glowed in its bronze thurible, a relic of the undying flame borne from the legions of Aquileia.

With hands ancient as the Delphic prophecies, the Pater kindled a taper from the eternal pyre, its flame a captured fragment of the sun’s fading glory. “Cautopates, Psychopomp of the Mithraic dusk,” he cried, “thou who guidest the soul through twilight’s embrace, accept this somber tribute!” The taper touched the effigy’s downturned torch, and a deepening glow spread forth, bathing the cavern in autumnal hues. The brethren murmured incantations—Nama, Cautopates, Nama—their syllables weaving a lattice of sound as the procession commenced.

“O Cautopates! Immutable Sentinel of Dusk’s descent, whose shadowed flame draws closed the vibrant shroud of day and bids the stirring earth to rest! Behold, the wheeling vault of heaven bows to thy thoughtful vigil, and the ascendant stars emerge, emboldened by thy torch’s umbral tongue. Thy breath is the sigh that rustles the ripened harvest, thy gaze the argent gleam that summons the seed to earth’s embrace. Lo, the scales of Phoebus are balanced now—equal realms to light and shadow granted—yet thou, steadfast, dost tilt the fulcrum with thy fire. The Serpent of Summer recoils, its verdant scales now touched with russet, its sun-fed vigor yielding to thy sway. The Bull, celestial and eternal, lows a lament from the fading pastures of the firmament, its horns adorned with withering wreaths, its hoofbeats the drum of introspection. Pensive and profound, thou walkest the threshold where day and night conjoin as brethren. Thy torch, lowered in wisdom, is the harbinger of Sol’s descent, whose chariot thou dost follow, gathering the lingering glories of the sun-kissed day. The rivers, girded by approaching frost, sing thy name in muted hymns; the owl, ascending on wings dipped in twilight’s ink, trills thy mysteries to the darkening azure. We, initiates of the Mysteries, custodians of the subterranean sanctuaries, lift our voices through the incense’s coiled veil. Grant us, O Keeper of the Western Gate, the resilience of the ancient yew, the clarity of the starlit ether. Let thy flame temper our spiracle essence, that we may descend—as the leaf doth fall to nourish roots—into the wisdom of mortal introspection. As Persephone returns to tread the shadowed halls, so let thy light, O Cautopates, guide the soul’s descent through the sevenfold spheres. May the symbology of thy crossed legs and downturned brand be ever etched upon our hearts: sigil of dusk’s victory, covenant of life’s sacred pause. Hail, Cautopates! Whose torch is both solace and solemnity—the enduring ember in the heart of understanding. To thee, we pour libations of dark, spiced wine; to thee, we offer the last fruits of the vine, plucked from sun-weary fields. As the wheel of the year turns, balanced on the knife-edge of equinox, may thy wisdom endure—unfading, unconquered, divine.”

They circled the tauroctony thrice, their footfalls echoing the celestial turning, while the Pater bore the flame low, a miniature ember reflecting the subterranean quiet. Libations followed: dark wine, poured as a sable stream into a chalice shaped like the bull’s horn; grains of rye, scattered like twilight stars upon the altar; and cedarwood, its fragrance a sacrament of enduring life. The air grew dense with reflection, each ritual gesture a cipher to truths held deep, each hymn a thread in the loom of cosmic acceptance.

Then, as the third hour waned, a youth—an initiate of the Perses grade—was brought forth, his tunic the deep blue of the evening sky. The Pater traced the sigil of the scythe upon his brow with ash, and the glow of Cautopates’ torch was made to caress his eyelids. “As the flame consumes yet transforms,” proclaimed the Pater, “so too shall the soul, by Mithras’ grace, descend unscorched through life’s mysteries.” The brethren, now contemplative, lowered their heads in understanding, their shadows immense and steady upon the walls, as though the very earth held its breath in sympathy.

At last, as the first stars of deepest night pricked the heavens above, the ritual ebbed. The brethren partook of the sacred feast—bread stamped with the scorpion’s image, wine mingled with late-harvest honey—their communion a mirror of the god’s own introspective council. The Pater extinguished the torch, yet in its place, a subtler light endured: the promise of Sol Invictus, though descending, holding the seed of his return, his chariot wheels guided by the rites of men.

They emerged, then, into the crisp night, their souls tempered by the mysteries, their eyes bright with the reflected wisdom of Cautopates’ flame. And though the world above knew naught of their nocturnal vigil, the balance had been acknowledged, summer’s vibrant cloak exchanged for the contemplative mantle of autumn.

*Alternative Cautopates invocation: 

Hail, solemn Cautopates, thou herald of shadows, whose torch, inverted, spills its sanguine glow over fields now shorn of Ceres’ gold. Thy flame, a smoldering ember, doth preside o’er the equipoise of day and night, as Helios’ chariot flees the vault, and dusky veils ascend. O custodian of waning flames, whose gaze bends ever earthward, guide us through twilight’s threshold, where the Bull’s last breath mingles with mists of gathering gloom.

Behold, the scales of heaven tilt; thy hand, austere, doth lower the argent blade, severing summer’s opulent thread. The serpent of eternity, coiled around the celestial pole, stirs—its scales, a mirror to the falling leaf, its hiss, the sigh of soils relinquishing their verdant pride. Thou, who walks the western arch, where Mithras’ steeds descend to drink the Stygian tide, ordain our passage through this cryptic hour.

The furrows, stripped of plenty, crave thy benediction. Let thy torch, though dimmed, illume the crypts where initiates, hushed and cowled, trace sigils of the spheres. Grant us, O steward of descent, the fortitude of roots that clutch the dark, wherein the seed, entombed, dreams of the Unconquered Sun’s return.

As the Hornéd One retreats to his cavernous bourne, and winds, like Furies, scour the skeletal grove, we raise this chant—a murmur between decay and hope—to thee, whose shadowy splendor guards the gate where light, in dying, begets the germ of resurrection’s flame.