The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“Ah, Ephesus!” cried Antipater. “Most cosmopolitan of all Greek cities — pride of Asia, jewel of the East!” He stood at the prow of the ship and gazed with glittering eyes at the city before us.

As soon as the ship left the open sea and entered the mouth of the Cayster River, Antipater had used his sharp elbows to force his way to the head of the little group of passengers, with me following in his wake; despite his wrinkles and white hair, the old poet was neither shy nor weak. Our first glimpse of Ephesus came as we rounded a little bend and saw an indistinct mass of buildings clustered against a low mountain. Moment by moment we drew nearer, until the city loomed before us.

The harbour was pierced by a long mole that projected far into the water. So many ships had moored alongside, that it seemed impossible we should find a spot, especially because other ships were arriving ahead of us, with their sails aloft and colorful pennants fluttering in the breeze. By the Roman calendar this was Aprilis, but in Ephesus this was the holy month of Artemision, marked by one festival after another in honour of the city’s patron goddess, Artemis. Antipater had told me that the celebrations drew tens of thousands of visitors from all over the Greek-speaking world, and it appeared he had not been exaggerating.

A harbour-master in a small boat sailed out to inform the captain that there was no room for our ship to dock at the mole. We would have to pitch anchor and await a ferryboat to take the passengers ashore. The ferrymen would have to be paid, of course, and Antipater grumbled at the extra expense, but I was glad for the chance to remain for a while in the harbour and take in the view.

Beyond the crowded wharves rose the famous five-mile walls of Ephesus. Where the mole met the shore these walls were pierced by an ornamental gate flanked by towers. The tall doors of the gate stood wide open, welcoming all the world into the city of Artemis — for a price, Antipater explained, for he anticipated that we would have to pay a special fee to enter the city during the festival. Beyond the walls I saw the rooftops of temples and tall apartment buildings. Further away, clustered on the slope of Mount Pion, were a great many houses. Some were like palaces, with ornate terraces and hillside gardens.

The most prominent building to be seen was the enormous theatre built into the hillside. The semicircular tiers of seats that faced the harbour were filled with tens of thousands of spectators; apparently they were watching a comedy, for every now and then I heard a burst of distant laughter. Scores of towering, brightly painted statues lined the uppermost rim of the theatre; these images of gods and heroes appeared to be gazing not at the stage below them but across the rooftops of the city, straight at me.

“I see the famous theatre,” I said, shading my eyes against the late-morning sun above Mount Pion, “but where is the great Temple of Artemis?”

Antipater snorted. “Gordianus! Have you forgotten the geography I taught you? Your head is like a sieve, boy.”

I bridled at being called a boy — I was eighteen, after all — then smiled as the lesson came back to me. “I remember now. The Temple of Artemis was built outside the city, about a mile inland, on low, marshy ground. It must be … somewhere over there.” I pointed to a spot beyond the steep northern slope of Mount Pion.

Antipater raised a bushy eyebrow. “Very good. And why did the builders chose that site for the temple?”

“Because they decided that building on marshy soil would soften the effect of earthquakes on such a massive structure.”

“Correct. To further stabilize the ground, before the cornerstone was laid, they spread a deep layer of crushed charcoal. And then what?”

“Atop the charcoal they put down many layers of fleece, taken from sheep sacrificed in honour of the goddess.”

“You are an apt pupil after all, my boy,” said Antipater, gratifying and irritating me in the same breath.

The sun was directly above our heads by the time a ferryboat arrived. Antipater again elbowed his way to the front, with me following, so that we were among the first to be ferried ashore. As soon as we alighted on the mole, a group of boys swarmed around us. Antipater chose the two who looked most honest to him and tossed them each a coin. They gathered our travelling bags and followed after us.

We strolled up the mole, which seemed like a small city itself; the crowded ships were like dwellings along a broad thoroughfare. I saw people everywhere, heard babies crying, and noticed that many of the masts were strung with laundry. A great many of the visitors to Ephesus, unable to find accommodations in the city, were apparently residing aboard ship.

“Where will we stay in Ephesus?” I asked.

“Years ago, when I lived here for a while, I had a pupil named Eutropius,” said Antipater. “I haven’t seen him since, but we’ve corresponded over the years. Eutropius is grown now, a widower with a child of his own. He inherited his father’s house, about halfway up the hill, not far from the theatre. Eutropius has done rather well for himself, so I’m sure our accommodations will be quite comfortable.”

We reached the end of the mole and arrived at the open gate, where people stood in long queues to be admitted to the city. I was unsure which queue we should get into, until one of the gatekeepers shouted, in Latin, “Roman citizens and their parties in this line! Roman citizens, queue here!”

As we stepped into the line, I noticed that some in the crowd gave us dirty looks. The line was shorter than the others, and moved more quickly. Soon we stood before a man in a ridiculously tall hat a bit like a quail’s plume — only a bureaucrat would wear such a thing — who glanced at my iron citizen’s ring as I handed him the travelling papers my father had secured for me before I left Rome.

Speaking Latin, the official read aloud: “‘Gordianus, citizen of Rome, born in the consulship of Gaius Marius and Lucius Valerius Flaccus’ — that makes you what, eighteen years old? — ‘of average height with dark hair and regular features, no distinguishing marks, speaks Latin and some Greek’ — and with an atrocious accent, I’ll wager.” The man eyed me with barely concealed contempt.

“His Greek accent is actually rather good,” said Antipater. “Certainly better than your Latin accent.”

“And who are you?”

“I am the young man’s travelling companion, formerly his tutor. Zoticus of Zeugma.” Antipater gave the name under which he was travelling incognito. “And you would not be speaking to us this way if my friend were older and wearing his toga and followed by a retinue of slaves. But Gordianus is no less a citizen than any other Roman, and you will treat him with respect — or else I shall report you to the provincial governor.”

The official took a long look at Antipater, made a sour face, then handed my documents back to me and waved us on.

“You certainly put that fellow in his place!” I said with a laugh.

“Yes, well … I fear you may encounter more than a little of that sort of thing here in Ephesus, Gordianus.”

“What do you mean?”

“Anti-Roman sentiment runs deep throughout the province of Asia — through all the Greek-speaking provinces for that matter — but especially here in Ephesus.”

“But why?”

“The Roman governor based at Pergamon taxes the people mercilessly. And there are a great many Romans in the city — thousands of them, all claiming special privileges, taking the best seats at the theatre, rewarding each other with places of honour at the festivals, sucking up the profits from the import and export trade, even sticking their fingers into the treasury at the Temple of Artemis — which is the great bank for all of Asia, and the lifeblood of Ephesus. I’m afraid, in the forty years since the Romans established their authority here, a great deal of resentment has been stirred up. If even a petty document-checker at the gate feels he can speak to you that way, I fear to imagine how others will behave. I think it might be best if we speak no more Latin while we’re here in Ephesus, Gordianus, even among ourselves. Others may overhear and make assumptions.”

Somewhere in the middle of this discourse, he had switched from Latin to Greek, and it took my mind a moment to catch up.

“That may be … a challenge,” I finally said, pausing to think of the Greek word.

Antipater sighed. “Your words may be Greek, but your accent is decidedly Roman.”

“You told the document-checker I had a good accent!”

“Yes, well … perhaps you should simply speak as little as possible.”

We followed the crowd and found ourselves in a market-place thronged with pilgrims and tourists, where vendors sold all sorts of foodstuffs as well as a great variety of talismans. There were miniature replicas of Artemis’s temple as well as images of the goddess herself. These images came in various sizes and were fashioned from various materials: from crudely made terra cotta and wooden trinkets, to statuettes that displayed the highest standards of craftsmanship, some advertised as being cast of solid gold.

I paused to admire a statuette of the goddess in her Ephesian guise, which seems so exotic to Roman eyes. Our Artemis — we call her Diana — is a virgin huntress; she carries a bow and wears a short, simple tunic suitable for the chase. But the manifestation of the goddess here — presumably more ancient — stood stiffly upright with her bent elbows against her body, her forearms extended and her hands open. She wore a mural crown, and outlining her head was a nimbus decorated with winged bulls. More bulls, along with other animals, adorned the stiff garment that covered her lower body, almost like a mummy casing. From her neck hung a necklace of acorns, and below this I saw the most striking feature of Artemis of Ephesus: a mass of pendulous, gourd-shaped protrusions that hung in a cluster from her upper body. I might have taken these for multiple breasts, had Antipater not explained to me that these protrusions were bulls’ testicles. Many bulls would be sacrificed to the virgin goddess during the festival.

I picked up the image to look at it more closely. The gold was quite heavy.

“Don’t touch unless you intend to buy!” snapped the vendor, a gaunt man with a long beard. He snatched the little statue from my hand.

“Sorry,” I said, lapsing into Latin. The vendor gave me a nasty look.

We moved on. “Do you think that image was really made of solid gold?” I asked Antipater.

“Yes, and therefore far beyond your means.”

“Do people really buy such expensive items for keepsakes?”

“Not for keepsakes, but to make offerings. Pilgrims purchase whichever of the images they can afford, then donate them to the Temple of Artemis as an act of propitiation to the goddess.”

“But the priests must collect thousands of talismans.”

“Megabyzoi — the priests are called Megabyzoi,” he explained. “And yes, they collect many talismans during the festivals.”

“What do the Megabyzoi do with all those images?”

“The offerings are added to the wealth of the temple treasury, of course.”

I looked at the vast number of people around us. The open-air market seemed to stretch on forever. “So the vendors make a nice profit selling the images, and the temple receives a hefty income from all those offerings.”

Antipater smiled. “Don’t forget what the pilgrims receive — participation in one of the most beloved religious festivals in the world, an open air feast, and the favour of the goddess, including her protection on their journey home. But the donation of these trinkets is only a tiny part of the temple’s income. Rich men from many cities and even foreign kings store their fortunes in the temple’s vaults and pay a handsome fee for the service; that vast reservoir of wealth allows the Megabyzoi to make loans, charging handsome interest. Artemis of Ephesus owns vineyards and quarries, pastures and salt-beds, fisheries and sacred herds of deer. The Temple of Artemis is one of the world’s great storehouses of wealth — and every Roman governor spends his tenure trying to figure out some way to get his hands on it.”

We bought some goat’s cheese on a skewer from a vendor and slowly made our way through the crowd. The crush lessened as we ascended a winding street that took us halfway up Mount Pion, where we at last arrived at the house of Eutropius.

“It’s larger than I remember it,” said Antipater, gazing at the immaculately maintained façade. “I do believe he’s added a storey since I was here.”

The slave who answered the door dismissed our baggage carriers and instructed some underlings to take our things to the guest quarters. We were shown to a garden at the centre of the house where our host reclined on a couch, apparently just waking from a nap. Eutropius was perhaps forty — with a robust physique and the first touch of frost in his golden hair — and wore a beautifully tailored robe spun from coarse silk dyed a rich saffron hue. He sprang up and approached Antipater with open arms.

“Teacher!” he exclaimed. “You haven’t aged a bit.”

“Nonsense!” Antipater gestured to his white hair, but smiled, pleased by the compliment. He introduced me to our host, and we all exchanged pleasantries.

The air above our heads resounded with the sound of a great many people laughing.

“From the theatre,” explained Eutropius.

“But why are you not there?” asked Antipater.

“Bah! Plays bore me — all those actors making terrible puns and behaving like idiots. You taught me to love poetry, Teacher, but I’m afraid you were never able to imbue me with a love of comedy.”

“Artemis herself enjoys the performances,” said Antipater.

“So they say — even when they’re as wooden as she is,” said Eutropius. Antipater cackled, but I missed the joke.

Antipater drew a sharp breath. “But who is this?”

“Anthea!” Eutropius strode to embrace the girl who had just entered the garden. She was a few years younger than I, and golden-haired like her father. She wore a knee-length purple tunic cinched with a silver chain tied below breasts just beginning to bud. The garment hung loosely over her shoulders, baring her arms, which were surprisingly tawny. (A Roman girl of the same social standing would have creamy-white limbs, and would never display them to a stranger.) She wore a necklace of gilded acorns and a fawnskin cape. Strapped across her shoulder was a quiver filled with brightly painted, miniature arrows. In one hand she carried a dainty little bow — clearly a ceremonial weapon — and in the other an equally dainty javelin.

“Is it Artemis herself I see?” whispered Antipater in a dreamy voice. I was thinking the same thing myself. The exotic Ephesian Artemis of the talismans was alien to me, but this was the Diana I knew, virgin goddess of the hunt.

Eutropius gazed proudly at his daughter. “Anthea turned fourteen just last month. This is her first year to take part in the procession.”

“No one in the crowd will look at anyone else,” declared Antipater, at which the girl lowered her eyes and blushed.

As lovely as Anthea was, my attention was suddenly claimed by the slave girl who followed her into the garden. She was older than her mistress, perhaps my own age, with lustrous black hair, dark eyes and a long, straight nose. She wore a dark blue tunic with sleeves that came to her elbows, cinched with a thin leather belt. Her figure was more womanly than Anthea’s and her demeanour less girlish. She smiled, apparently pleased at the fuss we were making over her mistress, and when she saw me looking at her, she stared back at me and raised an eyebrow. My cheeks turned hot and I looked away.

“Look at you, blushing back at Anthea!” whispered Antipater, mistaking the cause of my reaction.

Another burst of laughter resounded above us, followed by long, sustained applause.

“I do believe that means the play is over,” said Eutropius. “Teacher, if you and Gordianus would like to wash up a bit and change your clothes before the procession begins, you’d better do it quickly.”

I looked up at the sky, which was beginning to fade as twilight approached. “A procession? But it’ll be dark soon.”

“Exactly,” said Antipater. “The procession of Artemis takes place after sundown.”

“Roman festivals happen in daylight,” I muttered, lapsing into my native tongue.

“Well, you are not in Rome anymore,” said Antipater. “So stop speaking Latin!”

“I’ll call for the porter to show you to your quarters,” said Eutropius. But, before he could clap his hands, the slave girl stepped forward.

“I’ll do it, master,” she said. She stood directly in front of me and trained her gaze on me. I realized, with some discomfort, that to meet her eyes I had to look up a bit. She was slightly taller than I.

“Very well, Amestris,” said Eutropius, with a vague wave.

We followed Amestris down a short hallway and up a flight of stairs. Her shapely hips swayed as she ascended the steps ahead of us.

She showed Antipater to his room, then led me to the one next to it. It was small but opulently appointed. A balcony offered a view of the harbour. On a little table I saw a basin of water and a sponge.

“Will you require help to bathe yourself?” said Amestris, standing in the doorway.

I stared at her for a long moment. “No,” I finally managed to say, in Latin — for at that moment, even the simplest Greek deserted me. Amestris made an elegant bow that caused her breasts to dangle voluptuously for a moment, then backed away.

“Amestris — that’s a Persian name, isn’t it?” I blurted, finally thinking of something to say.

For an answer, she merely nodded, then withdrew. I could have sworn I heard her laughing quietly.

After we had refreshed ourselves and changed into our most colourful tunics, Antipater and I rejoined our host in the garden. Eutropius had been joined by another man about his own age and of his own class, to judge by the newcomer’s expensive-looking garments. Anthea had also been joined by a friend, a girl attired exactly as she was, in the guise of Artemis the huntress, but with flowing red hair and plainer features.

“This is my friend and business partner, Mnason,” said Eutropius, “and this is his daughter, Chloe, who will also be taking part in the procession for the first time.” Under his breath he added, to Antipater, “The two of us are both widowers, sadly, so quite often we take part in festivals and civic celebrations together with our daughters.”

The six of us set out. Amestris came along as well, apparently to make sure that all was perfect for Anthea and Chloe’s appearance in the procession. I deliberately kept my eyes off her, determined to take in the sights and sounds of the festive city.

A short walk brought us to the main entrance of the theatre. There were a great many people in the square, and the crowd was still issuing out. Everyone looked quite cheerful, and, for those who needed more cheering up, vendors were selling wine. Some in the crowd had brought their own cups, but the vendors were also selling ornamental cups made of copper, or silver, or even gold set with stones; like the talismans for sale in the market, these precious objects were destined to be offered to Artemis at the end of the procession.

As darkness fell, lamps were lit all around the square, casting a flickering orange glow across the sea of smiling faces. The crowd suddenly grew hushed. A way was cleared in front of the theatre entrance. I assumed some dignitary, perhaps the Roman governor, was about to make his exit. Instead, a statue of Artemis emerged, carried aloft by a small group of priests wearing bright yellow robes and tall yellow headdresses.

Antipater spoke in my ear. “Those are the Megabyzoi, and that statue is the Artemis of Ephesus, the model for all the replicas we saw in the market-place.”

The statue was made not of stone or bronze, but of wood, probably ebony to judge by the few areas that were not adorned with bright paint. Her face and hands were gilded. An elaborately embroidered robe with broad sleeves had been fitted over her body, and a veil covered her face. A wagon festooned with wreaths and strings of beads approached, drawn by bulls decorated with ribbons and garlands. The Megabyzoi carrying the statue gently placed it upright in the wagon.

Suddenly I understood Eutropius’s pun about the wooden statue watching a wooden performance. Artemis herself, brought from her temple and specially dressed for the occasion, had been the guest of honour at the play.

The wagon rolled forward. With Artemis leading the way, others began to take their place in the procession. Musicians with flutes, horns, lyres, and tambourines appeared. Eutropius gave his daughter a kiss on the forehead, and Mnason did likewise, then Anthea and Chloe ran to join a group of similarly dressed girls who took a place in the procession behind the musicians. The girls performed a curious dance, leaping in the air and then crouching down, looking this way and that, mimicking the movements of birds. Then the hunted became hunters, as in unison the girls raised their little bows, notched miniature arrows, and shot them in the air. Women in the crowd laughed and rushed forward, trying to catch the harmless arrows as they fell.

“The arrows are tokens of childbirth,” Antipater explained. “The women who catch them hope to enjoy a quick conception and an easy delivery.”

“But how is it that a virgin goddess is also a fertility goddess?” I asked.

Antipater’s sigh made me feel quite the ignorant Roman. “So it has always been. Because she herself does not conceive, Artemis is able to act as helpmate to those who do.”

The dancers put their bows over their shoulders, pulled the little javelins from their belts, and began a new dance, forming a circle and rhythmically tapping their javelins against the ground inside the circle and then outside. Even among so many young and lovely girls, Anthea stood out. From others in the crowd I overheard many comments about her beauty, and more than one observer echoed Antipater’s observation that she appeared to personify the goddess herself.

The wagon bearing Artemis rolled out of sight around a corner. The musicians and dancing girls followed. Close behind the girls came a large contingent of boys and youths wearing colourful finery; these were athletes who would be taking part in various competitions in the days to come. Cattle, sheep, goats, and oxen destined for sacrifice were herded into the procession by the representatives of various trade guilds and other organizations who carried aloft their symbols and implements. Antipater explained to me how all these diverse groups figured in the long and fabled history of the city, but most of what he said went in one ear and out the other. I was distracted by the presence of Amestris, who followed our party, keeping a discreet distance. Every so often our eyes met. Invariably, it was I who looked away first.

At the very end of the official procession came the Megabyzoi, a great many of them, all wearing bright yellow robes and headdresses. Some carried sacred objects, including knives and axes for sacrifice, while others waved burning bundles of incense. The scented smoke wafted over the vast crowd of Ephesians and pilgrims that moved forward to follow the procession.

“Aren’t the Megabyzoi eunuchs?” I said, recalling something I’d once heard and trying to get a better look at the priests over the heads of the crowd.

Eutropius and Mnason both laughed, and Antipater gave me an indulgent smile. “Once upon a time, that was indeed the case,” he said. “But your information is a few centuries out of date, Gordianus. The ritual castration of the priests of Artemis ended many generations ago. Even so, the goddess still demands that those in her service, both male and female, be sexually pure. Though his manhood remains intact, each Megabyzus takes a vow to remain unmarried and celibate for as long as he serves in the priesthood of Artemis.”

“That seems practical,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“With all the wealth that flows into the temple coffers, it’s probably a good thing that the priests aren’t married men. Otherwise, they might be tempted to put their own children ahead of their sacred service.”

“Gordianus is wise for his years,” said Eutropius. “What father doesn’t do all he can for his child? The chastity of the Megabyzoi should, in theory, make them less greedy. But sometimes I think it only makes them more grumpy. And it certainly doesn’t keep them from meddling in politics.”

Mnason raised an eyebrow, glanced at me, then gestured to his friend to be quiet. Did he feel the need to be discreet because I was Roman?

Antipater ignored them. “How can I explain this to you, Gordianus? Think of the Roman goddess Vesta, and how vital it is for the well-being of Rome that the Vestals maintain their virginity. So it is with Ephesian Artemis. Chastity is absolutely essential for those who serve her, and not just her priests, or the women who work in the temple, called hierodules. All the girls who dance in the procession today must be virgins. Indeed, no freeborn female who is not a virgin may so much as step foot inside the Temple of Artemis, upon pain of death.”

We followed the procession out of the square and down a broad, paved street called the Sacred Way, lit all long its length with torches. After we passed though a broad gate in the city’s northern wall, these torches were set farther apart and in the intervening patches of deep shadow I could see the starry sky above our heads.

The Sacred Way took us gradually downhill. In the valley ahead, at the end of the winding line of torches, I saw our destination — the great Temple of Artemis. A huge crowd of pilgrims, many carrying torches, had already gathered at the temple to welcome the procession. The structure had the unearthly appearance of a vast, rectangular forest of glowing columns, afloat in a pool of light. Though it was still almost a mile away, the temple already looked enormous. Antipater had told me it was the largest temple ever built by the Greeks — four times the size of the famous Parthenon atop the Acropolis in Athens.

The temple loomed larger with each step I took, and the closer I drew to it, the more astonished I was by the perfect beauty of the place. Gleaming marble steps led up to the broad porch. The massive walls of the sanctuary were surrounded by a double row of columns at least sixty feet high. White marble predominated, but many of the sculptural details had been highlighted with red, blue, or yellow paint, as well as touches of gleaming gold.

Even to my untrained and untravelled eye, the elegance of the columns was breathtaking. The bases were decorated with elaborate carvings, and each of the capitals ended in a graceful spiral curve to either side.

“It was here that the order of columns called Ionic originated,” said Antipater, following my gaze. “The architects deliberately imbued the columns with feminine attributes. Thus you see that the stacked marble drums ascend not to a plain, unadorned capital, but to those elegant whorls on either side, which mimic a woman’s curls. The whole length of each column is fluted with shallow channels, in imitation of the pleats of a woman’s gown. The proportion of the height to the circumference and the way each column gently tapers is also meant to give them a feminine delicacy.”

My eyes followed the columns to the pediment high above the porch, where I saw something I was not used to seeing in a temple — a tall, open window with an elaborate frame around it. I assumed it was there to admit light in the daytime, but, as I was about to discover, this window had a far more important purpose.

In front of the temple, some distance from the steps, a low wall enclosed an elegantly carved altar for sacrificing animals. As the procession arrived before the temple, some of the yellow-robed Megabyzoi broke away from the larger contingent and took up places at this altar, producing ceremonial daggers, ropes for holding down the animals, butchering knives and axes, and other implements for the sacrifices. Other Megabyzoi stoked the pyres upon which the carved and spitted meat would be roasted. Others unloaded the statue of Artemis from the cart, carried her up the steps and into the temple. Yet another group of priests unyoked the garlanded bulls that had pulled the cart and led them towards the altar. A great many other animals, including sheep, goats, and oxen, were already being held in pens in the enclosure. They were to be sacrificed and roasted in the course of the evening, to satiate the appetite of the vast crowd.

The first of the bulls was led up a short ramp on to the altar, pushed to its side, and securely trussed. Megabyzoi intoned prayers to Artemis and walked among the crowd, carrying bowls of smoking incense. One of the priests — apparently the foremost among them to judge by the special embroidery on his robe and the height of his headdress — mounted a platform beside the altar where everyone in the crowd could see him. He raised his arms aloft.

“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.

“A youth of your age will eat, no matter what the circumstances,” said Antipater with a sigh. He passed his untouched bowl of millet and lentils to me.

“No one will ever convince me that it was the will of Artemis that Chloe should die,” muttered Mnason, staring into space with a blank expression. “Our enemies are behind this, Eutropius. You know whom I mean.”

Eutropius looked not at his friend, but at me. I felt like an intruder.

“If the rest of you don’t mind, I’ll finish this in my room,” I said, picking up my bowl.

“I’ll go with you,” said Antipater.

“No, Teacher — stay. We could use your advice,” said Eutropius. He issued no such request to me, and avoided meeting my eyes. I took my leave.

Alone in my room, once the bowl was empty, I found it impossible to simply sit on the bed. I paced for a while, then took off my shoes and walked quietly down the hallway to the top of the stairs; the conversation from the garden carried quite well to that spot. I stood and listened.

“Everyone knows that Theotimus is completely in the grip of the Roman governor,” Mnason was saying. “He’s determined to bring down all who oppose him — those of us who believe that Ephesus should be free of the Romans.”

“But surely you’re not saying the Megabyzus had something to do with Chloe’s death,” said Antipater.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying!” cried Mnason, with a sob in his voice.

After a long silence, Eutropius spoke. “It does seem to me that his accusation against Anthea was too well-timed to have been spontaneous. As unthinkable as it sounds, I have to wonder if Theotimus played some part in your daughter’s death, and then used it as an excuse to make his foul accusation against Anthea — an accusation that will destroy me as well, if the test goes against her.”

“This test — I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never witnessed it,” said Antipater.

“It’s seldom used, Teacher. I can count on the fingers of one hand the occasions it’s been performed in my lifetime.”

“I seem to recall it involves a cave in the sacred grove of Ortygia,” said Antipater.

“Yes. Until the test takes place, the accused girl is kept by the hierodules, the female acolytes who serve under the Megabyzoi. On the day of the test, they escort the girl to the grove of Ortygia, which is full of wonders and manifestations of divine will. One of the most sacred spots is a cave near the stream where Leto gave birth to Artemis and her twin brother, Apollo. In that cave, hanging by a chain from the ceiling, are some Pan pipes; there’s a story that explains how they came to be there, but I won’t recount it now. Long ago, an iron door was put in place across the opening of the cave, and only the Megabyzoi have the key. This is the test: if a maiden is accused of having lost her virginity, the truth of the matter can be determined by shutting her up in the cave, alone. If she is truly a virgin, the Pan pipes play a melody — whether Pan himself performs on the pipes, or a divine wind blows through them, no one knows — and the door opens of its accord, allowing the virgin to emerge with her reputation for purity intact.”

“And if the girl is not a virgin?”

“Then the pipes are silent, and the girl is never seen again.”

“She dies in the cave?” said Antipater with gasp.

“The door is opened the next day, and the Megabyzoi enter, but no body is ever found. As I said, the girl is simply … never seen again.” Eutropius spoke with a quaver in his voice.

“So the sacred cave is exclusively in the keeping of the Megabyzoi?” said Antipater.

“Of course, as are all the sacred places of Artemis.”

“But if you suspect Theotimus to be capable of murder — indeed, of profaning the very Temple of Artemis with such a crime — then might he not contrive to somehow falsify the virgin test, as well? You must protest, Eutropius. You must come forward with your suspicions.”

“Without proof? With no evidence at all, except for Theotimus’s animus towards Mnason and myself, because we hate the Romans? The Roman governor certainly won’t help us, and if we dare to impugn the validity of the virgin test, the people will turn against us as well. We’ll be accused of sacrilege and put on trial ourselves.”

“And subjected to some other supernatural test equally under the control of Theotimus, no doubt.” Antipater sighed. “You find yourselves in a terrible situation.”

“It’s the Romans who’ve turned the priests against their own people,” muttered Mnason. “The Megabyzoi should be the champions of the people, not their enemy.”

“To be fair,” said Eutropius, “there are divisions within the Megabyzoi. Most are as loyal to Ephesus and to the Greek way of life as you and I, Mnason. Theotimus is the exception, but he also happens to be the head priest. He always takes the side of the Romans, and he does all he can to silence those of us who oppose them. That sorry state of affairs will all change when Mithridates comes.”

Mithridates! No wonder they dared not speak openly in front of me, a Roman. Mithridates was the King of Pontus, which bordered Rome’s territories in the East. For years he had been positioning himself as the rival of Rome, offering his rule to the Greek-speaking peoples of Asia Minor as an alternative to the Romans. Everyone in Rome said that an all-out war with Mithridates was inevitable. It was clear which side Eutropius and his friends would take. Perhaps they were even agents for the king.

“Mithridates may indeed drive the Romans out of Ephesus someday,” said Antipater quietly, “but that is of no use to us here and now. What can we do to save Anthea?”

“We must pray that Artemis is more powerful than the corrupt priest who speaks in her name,” said Eutropius quietly. “I must pray that the virgin test will give a true answer, and that Anthea will be vindicated.”

There followed a long silence from the garden. I suddenly felt that I was being watched, and turned to see Amestris behind me.

“Did you need something, Roman?” she said.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“About as long as you have.” She flashed a crooked smile.

I swallowed hard. “Then you heard everything that I heard.”

“Yes.”

“This grove called Ortygia — where is it?”

“Not far from the city. You take the Sacred Way, but you go in the opposite direction from the Temple of Artemis, to the south. Outside the city walls, the road turns west and goes up a steep hill, where a cliff overlooks the harbour. Go a little further, and you arrive at the sacred grove.”

“And this cave they spoke of?”

“The Sacred Way leads directly to it.”

“I see.”

“Why do you ask, Roman?”

I shrugged. “Antipater says I should learn the geography of all the places we visit.”

“You’ll see where the cave is, soon enough. The whole city will march out there tomorrow, to see the test performed.” There was a catch in her voice, and she lowered her eyes. “Poor Anthea!”

“Do you not believe that she’s a virgin?”

“I know she is. My mistress and I have no secrets from each other. But I fear the test, even so.”

“Yes, so do I,” I said quietly. There was more talk from the garden, too low to make out, and the rustle of men rising from their chairs. “I should go back to my room now.”

“And I should see if my master requires anything else.”

I watched her walk down the stairs, then returned to my room. A little later I heard Antipater enter the room next to mine. The old fellow must have been completely exhausted, for only moments later I heard the sound of his snoring through the wall.

I rose from my bed, slipped into my shoes, and pulled a light cloak over my tunic. The front door would be barred, with a slave sleeping beside it; might there be some way to descend from the balcony outside my bedroom? By the bright moonlight, I saw a good spot to land, should I jump. I had no idea if I could climb back up again, but I decided not to worry about that.

The jump and the landing were easier than I had hoped. I found my way to the front of the house, and from there retraced the route we had taken to the theatre, where I had no trouble locating the Sacred Way. The torches that had lit the street so brightly earlier had gone out. According to Amestris, my goal lay in the direction opposite to the one we had taken to the temple, so I turned about and headed south. Bathed by moonlight, the unfamiliar precinct seemed at once beautiful and eerie. I passed the elegant façades of grand houses, gymnasia, temples, and shopping porticoes, but saw not a single person. The goddess had been gravely offended on her feast day, and the people of Ephesus were keeping to their houses.

I had worried that I might encounter a locked gate in the city wall, but the high doors stood wide open, and a group of officials, including some Megabyzoi — the first people I had seen — were conversing in a huddle to one side of the Sacred Way, discussing preparations for the trial that would take place the next day, when thousands of people would pass through this gate.

I stole through the opening and kept to the shadows, following the Sacred Way through a region of gravesites and then up a hill, where the road became more winding and narrow, and the paving more uneven. Now and again, beyond the rocks and trees to my right, I caught glimpses of the harbour. The woods became thicker; cypresses towered above me, and the smell of cedars scented the cool night air. I heard the splashing of a stream nearby, and gasped to think that I might be standing on the very place where Artemis and Apollo had been born.

I came at last to an opening in the woods. Across a meadow bright with moonlight, in the centre of a rocky outcrop, I saw the door of the cave. The polished iron glinted in the light.

I circled the meadow, keeping in shadow, until I reached the door. From my tunic I took out a small bag my father had given me before I left on my travels. In it were some tools he had taught me to use; some were quite old, veritable antiques, while others he had invented himself. While other fathers were teaching their sons to barter in the market, or build a wall, or speak in the Forum, my father had taught me everything he knew about picking locks.

I was happily surprised to discover that no guard of any sort had been set on the door; the whole meadow and the grove all around appeared to be deserted. Perhaps the place was considered too sacred for any mortal to inhabit except on ritual occasions.

Still, I dared not strike a flame, and so I had to work by moonlight. The lock was of a sort I had never encountered before. I tried one tool, then another. At last I found an implement that seemed to fit the keyhole, and yet I could not make the lock yield, no matter how I twisted or turned the tool — until suddenly I heard a bolt drop, and the door gave way.

The fact that I might be committing a crime against the goddess gave me pause. I was poised to enter the cave — but would I ever step foot outside it? I took heart from something my father had told me: The threat of divine punishment is often invoked by mortals for the sake of their own self-interest. You should always evaluate such claims using your own judgement. I myself have made a lifelong habit of violating so-called divine laws, and yet here I stand before you, alive and well, and at peace with the gods.

I stepped inside the cave, leaving the door open behind me as my eyes adjusted to the greater darkness. The cave was not completely black; here and there, from narrow fissures above my head, shafts of moonlight pierced the darkness. I began to perceive the general shape of the chamber around me, and saw that it opened on to a larger one beyond. That chamber was illuminated by even brighter shafts of moonlight. Dangling from a rocky roof three or four times the height of a man, suspended from a silver chain, I saw the Pan pipes. They were in the very centre of the chamber and I could see no way to reach them.

A third chamber lay beyond. It was the smallest and the darkest. Only by feeling my way around the walls did I discover a small door, hardly big enough to admit a stooping man. I attempted to pick the lock, but I dropped my tools, and in the darkness despaired of retrieving them. As I was searched about, my hands chanced upon several objects, including a knife and an axe of the sort the Megabyzoi used to sacrifice animals, and a sack of some strong material, large enough to accommodate a small body.

Then I touched something bony and pointed, like a horn, which seemed to be attached to an animal’s hide.

I gave a cry and started back, hitting my head on a outcrop of stone. By the dim light, I saw the glinting eyes of some beast, very close to the ground, staring up at me. My heart pounded. What was this creature? Why did it make no noise? Was this the guardian of the cave, some horned monster set here by Artemis to gore to death an impious intruder like myself?

Gradually, I perceived the true shape of the thing that seemed to gaze up at me. It was the stag’s-head mask that had been worn by Chloe in the dance of Actaeon.

I picked it up and carried it into the larger chamber, where I could examine it by a better light.

Suddenly I realized that I had never shut the door by which I had entered. I returned to the antechamber, pulled the door shut, and heard the bolt drop into place inside.

Taking my time, I retrieved the tools I had dropped and eventually managed to open the door in the third chamber. Fresh air blew against my face. I ventured a few paces outside and found myself in a rocky defile overgrown by thickets. No apparent path led away from it. Clearly, this was a secret rear entrance to the cave.

I stepped back inside the cave and locked the small door behind me. I returned to the large chamber and tried to find a comfortable spot. I had no worries that I would fall asleep — I kept imagining that the stag’s-head mask was staring at me. Also, from time to time I imagined I heard someone else in the cave, breathing softly and making slight noises. I remembered another of my father’s lessons — His own imagination is a man’s most fearsome enemy — and assured myself that I was completely alone.

Eventually I must have dozed off, for suddenly I awoke to the muffled sound of women lamenting, and the discordant music of rattles and tambourines from beyond the iron door.

A ceremony was taking place outside the cave. The words were too indistinct for me to make them out, but I was certain I recognized the stern voice of Theotimus, the head Megabyzus.

At length, I heard the iron door open, and then slam shut.

The music outside ceased. The crowd grew silent.

The sound of a girl sobbing echoed through the cave. The sobbing eventually quietened, then drew nearer, then ended in a gasp as Anthea, dressed in a simple white tunic, stepped into the large chamber and perceived me standing there.

The light was too dim for her not-yet-adjusted eyes to recognize me. She started back in fear.

“Anthea!” I whispered. “You know me. We met yesterday in your father’s house. I’m Gordianus — the Roman, travelling with Antipater.”

Her panic was replaced by confusion. “What are you doing here? How did you come to be here?”

“Never mind that,” I said. “The question is: how can we get those pipes to play?” I gestured to the Pan pipes dangling above our heads.

“They really exist,” muttered Anthea. “When the hierodules explained the test to me, I didn’t know what to think — pipes that would play a tune by themselves if I were truly a virgin. But there they are! And I am a virgin — that’s a fact, as the goddess herself surely knows. These pipes will play, then. They must!”

Together we gazed up at the pipes. No divine wind blew through the cave — there was no wind of any sort. The pipes hung motionless, and produced no music.

“Perhaps you’re the problem,” said Anthea, staring at me accusingly.

“What do you mean?”

“They say the pipes refuse to play in the presence of one who is not a virgin.”

“So?”

“Are you a virgin, Gordianus of Rome?”

My face grow hot. “I’m not even sure the term ‘virgin’ can be applied to a male,” I said evasively.

“Nonsense! Are you sexually pure, or not? Have you known a woman?”

“This is all beside the point,” I said. “I’m here to save you, if I can.”

“And how will you do that, Roman?”

“By playing those pipes.”

“Do you even know how to play them?”

“Well …”

“And how on earth do you propose to reach them?”

“Perhaps you could play them, Anthea. If you were to stand on my shoulders — ”

“I’m a dancer. I have no skill at music — and even if I did, standing on your shoulders wouldn’t raise me high enough to reach those pipes.”

“We could try.”

We did. Anthea had a fine sense of balance, not surprising in a dancer, and stood steadily on my shoulders.

“Try to grab the pipes and pull them free,” I said, grunting under her weight. She was heavier than she looked.

She groaned with frustration. “Impossible! I can’t reach them. Even if I could, the chain holding them looks very strong.”

From out of the dim shadows came a voice: “Perhaps I could reach them.”

Recognizing the voice, Anthea cried out with joy and jumped from my shoulders. Amestris stepped from the shadows to embrace her mistress, and both wept with emotion.

I realized Amestris must have followed me to the cave, had slipped inside while the door was still open, then concealed herself in the shadows. It was her breathing I had heard in the still darkness.

Amestris drew back. “Mistress, if you were to stand on the Roman’s shoulder, and I were to stand on yours — ”

“I’m not sure I can hold both of you,” I said.

“Of course you can, you brawny Roman,” said Amestris. Her words made me blush, but they also gave me confidence. “And I can play the pipes,” she added. “You’ve said yourself, mistress, that I play like a songbird.”

From outside, after a long silence, the sound of lamenting had gradually resumed. Women wailed and shrieked. Hearing no music from the cave, the crowd assumed the worst.

Anthea put her hands on her hips and gazed up at the pipes, as if giving them one last chance to play by themselves. “I suppose it’s worth a try,” she finally said.

She climbed on to my shoulders. While I held fast to her ankles, she extended her arms to steady herself against the rock wall. Amestris climbed up after her. I thought my shoulders would surely collapse, but I gritted my teeth and said nothing. I rolled up my eyes, but was unable to lift my head enough to see what was going on above me.

Suddenly I heard a long, low note from the Pan pipes, followed by a higher note. There was a pause, and then, filling the cave, echoing from the walls, came one of the most haunting melodies I had ever heard.

The wailing from outside ceased, replaced by cries of wonderment — and did I hear the voice of Theotimus, uttering a howl of confusion and disbelief?

The strange, beautiful tune came to an end — and just in time, for I could not have supported them a moment longer. Amestris scrambled down, and Anthea leaped to the ground. I staggered against the wall and rubbed my aching shoulders.

“What now?” whispered Anthea.

“Supposedly, the door should open of its own accord,” I said.

“If it doesn’t, the Megabyzoi have the key,” said Amestris. “Perhaps they’ll unlock it.”

I shook my head. “I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for that to happen. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Theotimus joins us soon.”

“What do you mean, Gordianus?” said Anthea.

I hurriedly explained that there was a secret entrance in the chamber beyond — and told them what I wanted them to do.

Only moments later, there was a sound from the rear entrance, and a flash of light as it was opened and then shut. I heard a stifled curse and an exclamation — “By Hades. The axe, the knife, the mask; where are they?” — and then Theotimus stepped into the main chamber. In one hand he held his priest’s headdress, which he must have removed in order to duck through the small doorway. He stopped short at the sight of Anthea and Amestris standing side by side, then gazed up at the dangling Pan pipes.

“How did the slave girl get in here?” he said in a snarling whisper. “And how in Hades did you manage to play those pipes?”

He was unaware of my presence. I stood behind him, my back pressed against the wall, hidden in a patch of shadow. At my feet were the knife and the axe — the deadly implements with which he no doubt had intended to kill Anthea.

I had moved the weapons deliberately, so that he could not pick them up when he entered — and also so that I could use them myself, if the need arose. Theotimus was a large, strongly muscled man — he had a butcher’s build, after all — and if we were to come to blows, I would need all the advantages I could muster. But, before resorting to the weapons, first I wanted to try another means of dealing with him. In my hands I held the stag’s-head mask.

While the sight of the two girls continued to distract the Megabyzus, I stole up behind him, reached high, and placed the mask over his head. His head was larger than Chloe’s, and it was a tight fit. I shoved downward with all my might, and through the palms of my hands, I imagined I could feel the impact of the short, needle-sharp spike fixed inside the top of the mask as it penetrated his scalp.

I had glimpsed the spike the day before, in the temple, when I looked inside the mask. If my guess was correct, the spike had been covered with a poison which had caused the death of Chloe; her motions of panic and dismay had not been acting or dancing, but death-throes, as the poison entered her skull and worked its evil on her. After the mask was removed, the puncture mark and any traces of blood amid her lustrous red hair would not have been visible to anyone unless they closely examined her scalp, and there had been neither time nor reason to do so before Theotimus arrived and took control of the situation. No wonder the Megabyzus had expressed alarm and moved so quickly to take the mask from me after I picked it up; and he then had afterwards brought it to this hiding place — along with the implements with which he intended to put an end to Anthea, and the sack for the disposal of her corpse.

No doubt it had been his intention to wait until the grieving crowd dispersed, and then, at his leisure, to return to the cave, come in by the secret entrance, and deal with Anthea. Before killing her, what other atrocities had he planned to commit on her virgin body? A man who would commit murder against one of Artemis’s virgins in the goddess’s temple certainly would not stop at committing some terrible sacrilege in the sacred cave of Ortygia.

Theotimus was a monster. It seemed fitting that his own murder weapon should be used against him.

But did enough poison remain on the spike to work its evil on him? The puncture certainly caused him pain; he gave a cry and reached up frantically. Clutching the antlers, trying desperately to remove the mask, he lurched this way and that, looking like a dancer playing the role of Actaeon. He ran blindly against one wall, butting it with the antlers, and then against another. Convulsing, he fell to the ground, kicked out his legs — and then was utterly still.

The three of us stared down at his lifeless body for a long moment, hardly able to believe what had just happened. I had never before caused a man’s death. I had done so deliberately and without compunction — or so I thought. Nonetheless, I was gripped by a succession of confusing emotions. I became even more confused when Anthea grabbed my shoulders and kissed me full on the mouth.

“My hero!” she cried. “My champion!”

Beyond her, I saw Amestris gazing at me. Strangely, her smile meant even more to me than Anthea’s kiss.

“Come, Anthea,” I said, stepping back from her embrace, “there’s no reason for you to remain a moment longer in this terrible place. I can open the iron door from the inside, using the same instruments I used to get in. The door will open, you will step into the daylight, and the door will shut behind you. The trial shall end just as it should.”

“What about you and Amestris? What about — him?” She looked at the corpse of Theotimus.

“Amestris and I will leave by the back way. And later, after we’ve talked with your father, we’ll figure out what to do about Theotimus.”

So it happened. Staying out of sight, I opened the iron door for Anthea and then shut it behind her. Through the door, I heard a loud cry of joy from Eutropius, and the cheering of the crowd.

Amestris and I headed towards the back of the cave. Under the pipes of Pan, Amestris grabbed me and pressed her mouth to mine. Her kiss was very different from the one Anthea had given me.

It was she who broke the kiss, with a laugh. “Gordianus, you look as if you’ve never been kissed that way before.”

“Well, I — ”

She gazed up at the pipes and frowned “What do you think? Would the pipes have played if I hadn’t come along?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did the presence of one who was not a virgin prevent the pipes from playing? I worried about that when I decided to follow you inside. But a voice in my head said, ‘Do it!’ And so I did. And surely it was the right thing to do, for only with the three of us working together were we able to save my mistress.”

“I’m sure we both did the right thing, Amestris. But are you saying that you’re not …”

She cocked her head, then smiled. “Certainly not! No more than you are, I’m sure.” She laughed, then saw my face. Her smile faded. “Gordianus, don’t tell me that you have never …”

I lowered my eyes. “I don’t know how these things are done in Ephesus, but it is not uncommon for a Roman citizen to wait until a year or so after he puts on his manly toga before he … experiences the pleasures of Venus.”

“Venus? Ah, yes, that’s the name you Romans give to Aphrodite. And when did you put on your manly toga?”

“A year ago, when I turned seventeen.”

“I see. Then I suppose you must be due to experience the pleasures of Venus any day now.”

I didn’t know what to say. Was she making fun of me?

Feeling suddenly awkward, I led her to the rear door and we made our exit from the cave unseen.

That night, after the initial joy of his daughter’s salvation subsided a bit, Eutropius conferred with Antipater and Mnason and myself. The others were at first shocked at my impious behaviour in breaching the entrance of the cave of Ortygia — “Crazy Roman!” muttered Mnason under his breath — but Antipater suggested that perhaps Artemis herself, driven to extreme measures to rid her temple of such a wicked priest, had led both Amestris and myself to the cave, and to Anthea’s rescue.

“The gods often achieve their ends by means that appear mysterious and even contradictory to us mortals,” said Antipater. “Yes, in this matter I see the guiding hand of Artemis. Who else but Gordianus — a ‘crazy Roman,’ as you call him, Mnason — would have even thought of breaking into the cave and entering ahead of Anthea? Theotimus was counting on our very piety to doom the girl, knowing we would do nothing to stop or affect the trial. Yes, I believe that Gordianus and the slave girl were nothing more or less than the agents of Artemis,” he declared, and that seemed to settle the matter.

As for the body of Theotimus, Antipater said that we should do nothing and simply leave it where it was. Either the Megabyzoi would soon find it — especially if some were in league with Theotimus, in which case they might or might not perceive the cause of his death, and either way would be unable to implicate Anthea or anyone else, and would almost certainly conceal the fact of his death — or his body would not be found for a very long time. In either case, it would seem that the head of the Megabyzoi, after making a foul and false accusation against Anthea, had vanished from the face of the earth. The people of Ephesus would draw their own conclusions.

“Everyone knows Theotimus was a puppet of the Romans,” said Mnason. “People will see his downfall and disappearance as a divine punishment, and a sign that the rule of the Romans and the traitors who support them is coming to an end. Perhaps … perhaps the death of my dear Chloe will serve a greater purpose after all, if it brings her beloved city closer to freedom.”

Antipater laid a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. “I think you speak wisely, Mnason. Your daughter was a faithful servant of Artemis, and she will not have died in vain.” He turned to Eutropius. “I had hoped to stay longer in Ephesus, old friend, but the situation here makes me uneasy. With all that’s happened, I fear that anti-Roman sentiments are likely to turn violent. The faction that favours Mithridates will be emboldened; the Roman governor will feel obliged to react — and who knows what may happen? For my own sake, and for that of my young Roman companion, I think we should move on, and sooner rather than later.”

Eutropius nodded. “I, too, had hoped for a longer visit. But you’re right, Teacher — neither of you may be safe here. Tomorrow, let us all go together to the Temple of Artemis to make a special sacrifice of thanksgiving, and another sacrifice to ask the goddess to bless your travels, and then I shall see about booking passage for you and Gordianus to sail to your next destination.”

We all retired to our separate rooms for the night.

I was unable to sleep. The room was too bright. I drew the heavy drapes to shut out the moonlight and went back to bed. I tossed and turned. I stared at the ceiling. I buried my face in my pillow and tried to think of anything except Amestris.

I heard the door open quietly, then click shut. Soft footsteps crossed the room.

I looked up from the pillow. All was dark until she drew back the drapes and I saw her naked silhouette framed by moonlight. Before I could say her name, she was beside me in the bed.

I ran my hands over her naked body and held her close. “Blessed Artemis!” I whispered.

“Artemis has nothing to do with this,” said Amestris, with a soft laugh and a touch that sent a quiver of ecstasy through me. “Tonight, we worship Venus.”

And so, in the city most famously devoted to the virgin goddess of the hunt, I killed my first man, and I knew my first woman.

After our visit to the temple the next morning, Antipater and I set sail. Amestris stood with the others on the wharf. We waved farewell. Gazing at her beauty, remembering her touch, I felt a stab of longing and wondered if I would ever see her again.

As I watched the city recede, I made a silent vow. Never in my travels would I pass a temple of Artemis without going inside to light a bit of incense and utter a prayer, asking the goddess to bestow her blessings upon Amestris.

“Gordianus — what is that strange tune you’re humming?” said Antipater.

“Don’t you recognize it? It’s the melody Amestris played on the Pan pipes.”

It haunts me still.