“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