The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction (7 page)

“That’s Theotimus,” whispered Eutropius to Antipater, “head priest of the Megabyzoi.” A certain edge in his voice caused me to look at Eutropius, who scowled as he gazed at the priest. So did Mnason.

The musicians ceased their playing. The girls stopped dancing. The crowd fell silent.

“People of Ephesus,” cried Theotimus, “welcomed visitors, all who have gathered here for the love and adoration of the goddess, the sacrifices are ready to begin. If our rituals in your honour are pleasing to you, great Artemis – protector of virgins, supreme huntress, patron of wild places, benefactor since its beginning of the grateful city of Ephesus – we beg you, Artemis, to step forth and witness our propitiations to you.”

The expectant crowd turned its gaze from the priest to the window set high in the temple. From within came a flicker of light, and then the goddess appeared at the window, her outstretched hands open in a gesture of acceptance. The apparition was so uncanny that it took me a moment to realize that I was seeing the statue that had been paraded in the cart. Unless Artemis had propelled herself, the priests had somehow managed to get the image all the way up to the window. Her veil had been removed and her gilded face shone brightly, reflecting the light of the torches and the roasting-pyres around the altar.

As the crowd erupted in cheers, Theotimus strode to the altar, lifted a dagger high above his head, and plunged the blade into the bull’s heart. The bound creature bellowed and thrashed, then fell limp. With a single, deft movement, the Megabyzus sliced off the bull’s testicles and held them aloft. The crowd again erupted in cheers.

“For Artemis!” shouted Theotimus, and others took up the cry: “For Artemis!”

Eutropius saw the dumbfounded expression on my face. I was used to seeing animal sacrifice, but I had never witnessed a post-mortem castration. “The sacred testes are reserved for the virgin goddess; the rest will be for us,” said my host matter-of-factly. “I’m rather partial to the meat of the flank myself, especially if it’s nicely grilled.”

One beast after another was slain, with Artemis looking on from her high window, and the process of carving and cooking the meat began. The crowd gradually broke into groups, moving forward to receive their portion according to rules of rank and seniority determined by the Megabyzoi, who moved among the crowd to keep order – especially among those who had imbibed a great deal of wine. Clouds of smoke enveloped the crowd, and the smell of roasting meat mingled with the sweet fragrance of incense.

“Unless the two of you are terribly hungry, Teacher, this would be a good time for your young Roman friend to have a look inside the temple,” suggested Eutropius. “Anthea and Chloe and the other virgins will be performing more dances.”

Antipater declared this a splendid idea, and together we followed our host and Mnason up the broad marble steps and to the porch. Amestris came with us. Did that mean she was a virgin? Then I recalled Antipater’s precise words – that no
freeborn
female could enter the temple unless she was a virgin. Perhaps this stricture did not extend to slaves …

I shook my head and put aside this train of thought. What business was it of mine, whether the slave was a virgin or not?

Striding between the towering columns, we entered the grandest space I had ever seen. The sanctuary was lit by many lamps and decorated with many statues, but was so vast that no part of it seemed cluttered. The floor was of shimmering marble in a dizzying array of patterns and colours. High above our heads was a ceiling of massive cedar beams, alternately painted red, yellow and blue, outlined with gold and decorated with gold ornaments. Adorning the marble walls were paintings of breathtaking beauty. Surely every tale ever told of Artemis was illustrated somewhere upon these vast walls, along with the images of many other gods and heroes.

Antipater drew my attention to the most famous painting in the temple, the gigantic portrait of Alexander the Great by Apelles. By some trick of colouring and perspective, the conqueror’s hand and the thunderbolt it held appeared to come out of the wall and hover in space above our heads. The effect was astounding.

The acoustics of the space were also extraordinary, amplifying and somehow enhancing the tune being played by the musicians who had taken part in the procession. They stood to one side, while in the centre of the vast space, the virgins dressed as Artemis performed another dance with a crowd looking on.

“They’re enacting the story of Actaeon,” whispered Eutropius, leading us closer. I saw that one of the girls had put on a Phrygian cap and wrapped a cloak around herself to play the part of the young hunter; from her red hair, I realized it was Chloe. Other girls, with dog pelts over their heads and shoulders, played the part of Actaeon’s hounds. Others, holding bits of foliage, acted as trees. Actaeon, thirsty and eager to reach a pool hidden by the trees, pushed aside the leafy branches – at his touch the dancers yielded and twirled away – until, suddenly, the goddess Artemis was revealed, bathing in the imaginary pool.

Beside me, Antipater drew a sharp breath. I stifled a gasp and glanced at Eutropius, who smiled proudly. It was Anthea who played the startled goddess, and there was nothing imaginary about her nakedness. The milky white perfection of her small breasts and pale nipples seemed to glow in the soft interior light of the temple, radiating an almost supernatural beauty.

The music rose to a shrill crescendo. The hunter looked as startled as the goddess. Artemis reached for her tunic to cover herself, and Actaeon moved to avert his eyes, but too late. Anthea threw her tunic into the air and raised her arms; the garment seemed to float down and cover her nakedness of its own volition. She whirled about, waving her arms wildly and mimicking a furious expression. Suddenly her whirling stopped and she froze in an attitude of accusation, pointing at Actaeon, who drew back in terror.

As Chloe darted this way and that, the forest closed around her, concealing her. The music abruptly stopped, then resumed with a new, menacing theme. The dancers playing trees drew back, revealing Actaeon transformed into a stag. Chloe now wore a deerskin, and completely covering her head was a mask of a young stag with small antlers.

The dancers playing the forest dispersed; those playing the hounds converged. To a cacophony of yelping pipes and agitated rattles, the hounds pursued the leaping stag until they surrounded it. Around and around they whirled, tormenting the stag who had once been their master. Chloe was completely hidden from sight, except for the stag’s-head mask with antlers, which whirled around and around with the hounds.

The frenzied music changed. The hounds drew back. The stag’s head fell to the floor, trailing blood-red streamers. Of Actaeon – torn to pieces in the story – nothing more remained to be seen.

Amid the whirling crush of the dancing hounds, Chloe must have removed the stag’s head, pulled a dog’s hide over her costume, and disappeared among the hounds. It was a simple trick, but the effect was uncanny. It seemed as if the hounds had literally devoured their prey.

Nearby, Anthea looked on with a suitably stern expression. Artemis had exacted a terrible vengeance on the mortal who had dared, however inadvertently, to gaze upon her nakedness.

Suddenly, one of the dancers screamed. Other girls cried out. The company began to scatter.

The music trailed off and fell silent. In the middle of the temple, one of the dancers lay crumpled on the floor. By her red hair, I knew it was Chloe.

Mnason rushed to his daughter. Eutropius hurried after him. I began to follow, but Antipater held me back.

“Let’s not get in the way, Gordianus. Probably the poor girl merely fainted – from excitement, perhaps …” His words lacked conviction. Antipater could see as clearly as could I that there was something unnatural in the way Chloe was lying, with her limbs twisted and her head thrown back. Mnason reached her and crouched over the motionless body for a moment, then threw back his head and let out a cry of anguish.

“She’s dead!” someone shouted. “Chloe is dead!”

There were cries of dismay, followed by murmurs and whispers.

“Dead, did someone say?”

“Surely not!”

“But see how her father weeps?”

“What happened? Did anyone see anything?”

“Look – someone must have alerted the Megabyzoi, for here comes Theotimus.”

Striding into the sanctuary, the head Megabyzus passed directly by me. He reeked of the smell of burning flesh and his yellow robes were spattered with blood.

“What’s going on here?” His booming voice reverberated through the temple, silencing the crowd, which parted before him. Even Mnason drew back. The Megabyzus strode to the girl’s body and knelt beside it.

Amid the hubbub and confusion, I noticed that the stag’s-head mask was still lying on the floor. Chloe was the focus of all attention; no one seemed interested in the mask. I walked over to it, knelt down, and picked it up. What instinct led me to do so? Antipater would later say it was the hand of Artemis that guided me, but I think I was acting on something my father had taught me:
When everyone else is looking at a certain thing, turn your attention to the thing at which they are
not
looking. You may see what no one else sees
.

The mask was a thing of beauty, superbly crafted, made from the pelt of a deer and real antlers. The eyes were of some flashing green stone; the shiny black nose was made of obsidian. The mask showed signs of wear; probably it had been handed down and used year after year in the same dance, performed by many different virgins at many different festivals. I examined it inside and out – and noticed a curious thing …

“Put that down!” shouted the Megabyzus.

I dropped the mask at once.

Theotimus turned from his examination of Chloe, rose to his feet and strode towards me. The look on his face sent a shiver up my spine. There is a reason men like Theotimus rise to become the head of whatever calling they follow. Everything about the man was intimidating; his tall stature and commanding demeanour, his broad shoulders and his booming voice, and, most of all, his flashing eyes – which seemed to bore directly into mine.

“Who are you, to touch an object sacred to the worship of Artemis?”

I opened my mouth, but not a word would come out. Latin and Greek alike deserted me.

Antipater came to my rescue. “The boy is a visitor, Megabyzus. He made an innocent mistake.”

“A visitor?”

“From Rome,” I managed to blurt out.

“Rome?” Theotimus raised an eyebrow.

Antipater groaned – had he not warned me to be discreet about my origins? – but after giving me a last, hard look, the Megabyzus snatched up the stag mask and seemed to lose interest in me. He turned to the crowd that had gathered around the corpse.

“The girl is dead,” he announced. There were cries and groans from the spectators.

“But Megabyzus, what happened to her?” shouted someone.

“There are no marks upon the girl’s body. She seems to have died suddenly and without warning. Because her death occurred here in the temple, we must assume that Artemis herself played a role in it.”

“No!” cried Mnason. “Chloe was as devoted to Artemis as all the other virgins.”

“I am not accusing your daughter of impurity, Mnason. But if Artemis struck her down, we must conclude that the goddess was sorely displeased with some aspect of the sacred ritual.” He glanced at the mask in his hands. “I take it the dance of Actaeon was being performed. Who was dancing the part of Artemis?”

The dancers had drawn to one side, where they huddled together, clutching and comforting each other. From their midst, Anthea stepped forward.

The Megabyzus approached her. Eutropius moved to join his daughter, but the priest raised a hand to order him back.

Theotimus towered over the girl, staring down at her. Anthea quailed under his gaze, trembled, and bit her lip. She began to weep.

The Megabyzus turned to address the spectators. “The girl is impure,” he announced.

“No!” shouted Eutropius. “That’s a lie!”

There were gasps from the crowd.

“You dare to accuse the head of the Megabyzoi of lying?” said Theotimus. “Here in the very sanctuary of Artemis?”

Eutropius was flummoxed. He clenched his fists and his face turned bright red. “No, Megabyzus, of course not,” he finally muttered. “But my daughter is innocent, I tell you. She is a virgin. There must be a test—”

“Of course there will be a test,” said Theotimus, “just as Artemis decrees in such a terrible circumstance as this. My fellow Megabyzoi, remove this girl from the temple at once, before her presence can pollute it further.”

Priests moved forward to seize Anthea, who shivered and cried out for her father. Eutropius followed after them, ashen-faced. More Megabyzoi picked up the body of Chloe and bore it away, followed by her distraught father. The dancers dispersed, looking for their families. The musicians stared at one another, dumbfounded.

I turned to Antipater, and saw tears in his eyes. He shook his head. “How I looked forward to this day, when I might stand once again in the Temple of Artemis. And how I looked forward to showing it to you, Gordianus. But not like this. What a terrible day! What a disaster!”

I felt someone’s eyes on me and turned to see, some distance away, amid the dwindling, dazed crowd that remained in the sanctuary, the slave girl, Amestris. Her gaze was so intense, it seemed to me that she must have something she wanted to tell me, or to ask. But for the first time that day, it was she who looked away first, as she turned and hurriedly left the temple.

The atmosphere was gloomy in the house of Eutropius that night. I imagine the mood was little better in all the other households of Ephesus, for the death in the temple and the accusation against Anthea had put an end to the feasting and celebration. The Megabyzoi had instructed the people to return to their homes and to pray for the guidance of Artemis.

In the garden, Amestris served a frugal meal to Eutropius, Mnason, Antipater and me – though I was the only one who seemed to have any appetite.