Wrath of the Furies (23 page)

The Grand Magus smiled. “There, that should throw the Roman dogs off the scent while we make our exit!”

The spear-bearers formed a cordon around the priests and began to force a path through the crowd. In their midst was Bethesda, who looked over her shoulder at me with a stricken expression.

I moved to follow, but the cordon closed behind her, shutting me out.

“Your slave will be well looked after,” said a voice in my ear. The tone was calm, almost soothing, in sharp contrast to the uproar all around me. I felt a touch on my arm, and turned to see one of the Megabyzoi—surely the youngest among them, for he looked hardly older than myself.

“My name is Zeuxidemus,” he said, again in that impossibly calm voice. “The Great Megabyzus instructed me to look after you. I think we should get inside the temple as soon as possible, don't you?”

Walking slowly and with measured steps, he escorted me away from the altar, off the platform, and into the crowd, which seemed to fall back from us, as if his very presence acted as a shield. He even made a joke of it, gesturing to his clothing and mine and whispering in my ear, “You'd think these Romans had an aversion to the color yellow!”

We walked toward the temple and up the steps. The sheer magnificence of the towering columns and the elaborately ornamented pediment above us overwhelmed me for a moment, making me oblivious of the surging crowd behind us.

“I hope you had enough of the lamb,” said Zeuxidemus, with a smile. “As you may have gathered, there is no food to be had, inside the temple or out. But no matter. It's customary for a suppliant to fast once he enters the temple. All the better to prepare you for the visitation of the goddess tonight.”

 

XIX

Sleep was far off, for there were several hours of daylight left. But I had no trouble occupying myself. The Temple of Artemis is a World Wonder not only for what is outside, but also for the splendors it holds within.

Ephesus has long been one of the richest cities in the world, and the Temple of Artemis is its treasure house. Not only does every Ephesian, rich and poor, contribute to the temple's upkeep, but people come from all over the world to worship Ephesian Artemis and ask for her blessing, and they leave behind whatever donations they can afford. This worship, with an annual cycle of massive festivals and celebrations, has been going on for hundreds of years, during which time the Temple of Artemis has become a repository of fabulous wealth.

I had been inside the temple once before, and on that occasion had seen only a fraction of its wonders. The interior space is one of the grandest on earth, with a floor of gleaming marble in a dizzying array of patterns, equally magnificent marble walls, and, far above our heads, a ceiling of massive cedar beams, alternately painted yellow, blue, and red, outlined with gold and studded with gold ornaments. This breathtaking space is decorated with many of the most renowned statues and paintings in the world, including perhaps the most famous painting of all, the gigantic portrait of Alexander the Great by Apelles. By some astonishing illusion, the conqueror's hand and the thunderbolt he grips appear to come out of the wall and hover above one's head. It is an unforgettable sight.

But there were many other works of art in the temple that I had seen only briefly or not at all on my previous visit. Zeuxidemus acted as my guide, explaining where the paintings and statues had come from, or recounting the stories they portrayed. He was clearly very proud of the temple, and what he had to say was actually quite interesting. I knew already the tale of Actaeon, the young hunter who accidentally gazed upon Artemis bathing naked in a stream, but Zeuxidemus's version was nonetheless riveting; several of the paintings depicted this event, as well as the hunter's subsequent punishment—his transformation by Artemis into a stag, after which the hunter was torn apart by his own frenzied hounds.

I learned a great deal that day from Zeuxidemus, but since I could not ask questions and the two of us could not converse, he eventually ran out of things to say, and after that he let me wander about on my own while he maintained a polite but watchful distance.

As I moved from statue to statue, and painting to painting, I allowed myself to become lost in a sort of reverie, bemused by images of gods and heroes, and scenes from legend or history depicting love and deceit, honor and villainy, serenity and horror.

This reverie was frequently broken, however, for there were regular worshippers inside the temple, mostly women being led in various rituals by the so-called hierodules, the virgin acolytes of Artemis who serve under the Great Megabyzus. These rituals involved a great deal of incense, chanting, and ecstatic dancing. At any given moment, a ritual of some sort was always taking place in some part of the temple.

There were also a great many sanctuary-seekers inside the temple. Some slept huddled against the walls. Others sat on the floor, staring into space, or wandered about in a sort of daze. A great many were gathered in one corner of the building, where a statue of Artemis in her Roman guise of Diana stood on a high pedestal. This marble statue, painted in lifelike colors, had been a gift from the Senate and People of Rome, installed during the tenure of one of the first Roman governors at Pergamon.

How different this Artemis was from the ancient wooden statue that gazed out from the pediment! This goddess looked very young, and wore a short, sleeveless tunic, suitable for a huntress who needed bare legs for running and bare arms for wielding her bow. Fitted over her shoulders was a fawnskin cape and a quiver full of arrows. The only attribute she seemed to have in common with her Ephesian counterpart was a necklace of gilded acorns.

Before this Roman Diana a great many Roman refugees, more women than men, prostrated themselves in worship. Some prayed softly but others more loudly, wailing and begging the goddess to deliver them from their misery and uncertainty. Some worshippers came and went, praying only briefly, but others bowed over and over again, or lay prostrate on the floor.

As shadows thickened, more lamps were lit. The grand interior became even more magical. The gleaming marble floors, reflecting the light of the lamps, looked like the placid surface of a vast lake. Above our heads, the spaces between the cedar beams grew very dark, and the gold ornaments glittered like a multitude of distant suns. The paintings could be seen only dimly, which increased their mystery, and the statues, lit by flickering lamps, seemed to draw breath and come to life.

I was gazing up at just such a statue—a broad-chested Apollo who seemed to look back at me with emerald eyes, on the verge of speaking—when Zeuxidemus spoke in my ear.

“Are you ready to meet the goddess, Agathon of Alexandria?”

I dutifully nodded, and he led me to a hidden doorway behind the pedestal of one of the larger statues, not far from the temple's entrance. We stepped into a small room and he closed the door behind us. Taking a torch from a sconce in the wall, Zeuxidemus indicated that I should ascend a broad, winding stairway while he followed. By the light of his torch the steps ahead of me were visible, but I saw only darkness above, and wondered where the stairway could possibly lead.

Up and up we went, until at last I stepped into a room that seemed to have some opening to the outside, for I faintly heard the sound of the Roman throng and felt a slight breeze on my face. Above and before me I saw a silhouette framed by a round window, and realized I was in the pediment of the temple, standing directly behind the ten-foot-tall wooden statue of Ephesian Artemis that stood at the round opening.

Even though the goddess's back was to me—or so I thought—I felt an uncanny shiver at being so close to her. Then Zeuxidemus followed me into the room, and the light of his torch revealed that Artemis was not looking out the round window, but had somehow turned around and was facing me! The sight of her was so strange—her huge size and stiff posture, her staring eyes, the pendulous orbs clustered like multiple breasts—that I nearly cried out.

For a terrifying moment, I was convinced that Artemis had turned around just before I entered the room, as a mortal would, alerted by the sound of approaching steps and the flicker of torchlight. Then I realized that the statue might have been turned around at any time since I had seen it earlier that day, from the altar outside. Perhaps Zeuxidemus himself had done it, using some clever mechanical device such as one sees in the theater, when gods appear from the sky or out of the earth.

“Do you see, Agathon? The goddess greets you. She welcomes you to her sacred chamber. She invites you to sleep at her feet. Do you see?” He gestured to the base of the statue's pedestal, where pillows and coverlets had been strewn on the floor. “I will sleep nearby. Shall we have a cup of wine, to help us sleep?”

Zeuxidemus fitted his torch into a sconce by the doorway. He removed his headdress and placed it on a table next to the statue's pedestal. I had to smile at the state of his chestnut-colored hair, all mussed and tangled and sweaty—“headdress hair,” my father had once called it, noting that the authority imbued on its wearer by an ornamental helmet or headdress was inversely proportional to the look of dishevelment revealed when the headdress comes off. Such was the case with Zeuxidemus.

On the same table where he placed his headdress sat a silver pitcher and two silver cups. With his back to me, he poured a cup of wine for each of us, then stepped to one side and invited me to join him.

I was not so unnerved by the presence of the goddess, nor so amused by the state of the young Megabyzoi's hair, that I forgot something else my father had said:
When you are offered one cup, take the other.
This may seem the stuff of Roman comedy—the poisoned cup and the switching thereof—but the lesson holds, nonetheless. Proof of its wisdom came in that high room, with the goddess looking on.

When I joined him at the small table, Zeuxidemus handed me one of the cups. Pretending to hear some alarming noise from outside, I put the cup down and stepped toward the round window. Just as I had intended, the young priest followed me. We stood beside the goddess for a moment, staying back from the opening so that we should not be easily seen, standing on tiptoes to peer out at the restless crowd that continued to mill about the altar, even though darkness had fallen.

“What did you hear?” asked Zeuxidemus.

I bit my lip and feigned concern, then finally shrugged and shook my head. I returned to the table. Zeuxidemus did not follow at once, but lingered for a moment at the window, peering out and wondering what I might have heard. When he joined me at the table, the pitcher and the cups were just where we had left them—or so it appeared. I picked up the nearest cup—presumably the one I had recently put down—and politely waited for my host to pick up the other. As he did so, the faintest shadow of doubt creased his forehead. He scrutinized me for a moment, detected no guile on my face, and raised his cup.

“May Artemis bring you the gift you most desire. Happy dreams, Agathon of Alexandria.”

I nodded to acknowledge his blessing, and brought the cup to my lips. Zeuxidemus did likewise. We drank.

I had switched the cups, and Zeuxidemus was none the wiser. My pantomime had been flawless, and the switching of the cups had been executed quickly and without a sound. My father would have been proud of me.

The wine was much finer than the cheap stuff I was used to. The Megabyzoi owned their own vineyards—yet another source of revenue for the Temple of Artemis—and they reserved the very finest of their vintages for those who most deserved such pleasure, including themselves. After all the many smells I had endured that day, the bouquet of that wine was the best possible tonic. I would have been satisfied just to swirl it in the cup and relish the smell. But even finer than the bouquet was the taste, very refined and complex, quite unlike any other wine I had ever tasted. After I swallowed, almost at once I felt a sweet sense of euphoria. Had I been drugged, after all? No, it was only that I had eaten nothing for hours. My empty, growling stomach eagerly absorbed the wine, and almost at once I felt the glow of inebriation.

So did Zeuxidemus, apparently, for his cheeks turned red and the smile on his face was quite giddy. I decided he must be even younger than me, so boyish did he look with his hopelessly unruly hair. He put down his empty cup and reached for the pitcher.

“Shall we drink the rest? A pity I have no food to offer you. The wine is risky enough. If those Romans knew we had it, they'd break down the door and run up those stairs to take it.”

As he spoke, his speech became more and more slurred, until I could hardly understand him. He swayed a bit as he poured the wine, then offered the brimming cup to me.

I showed him that I already had a cup.

“But Agathon, you haven't even finished yours! You must. Drink up! It's very, very good for dreaming. They all say so … the next morning.”

He put down the brimming cup and staggered toward the pile of pillows at the feet of the goddess.

“I must lie down … for just a moment,” he said, clutching the pillows and closing his eyes.

He lay very still. His breathing grew slow and steady. He began to quietly snore.

I took a deep breath. I experienced an odd exhilaration. At first I attributed it to the wine, then realized that it was something else. For the first time in many days, I was
alone
—not by myself, strictly speaking, but with the only other person present completely unconscious. Alone! How luxurious that suddenly felt—to be unseen, unheard, unwatched by anyone. I could stop pretending to be something I was not. I could even speak out loud if I wanted to, and in Latin, not Greek. What would I have said?

I am not mute! I am not Agathon of Alexandria! I am Gordianus, a citizen of Rome, son of the Finder, pupil of Antipater of Sidon.…

I very nearly spoke these thoughts aloud, simply to hear my own voice, but something held me back.