Текст книги "The Seven Wonders: A Novel of the Ancient World (Novels of Ancient Rome)"

Автор книги: Steven Saylor

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“On the promontory of Issus by the wild Cilician shore,

Lie the bones of many Persians, slain in days of yore.

The deed was Alexander’s. So states the poet’s lore.”

My father continued to fret. “But are you not toofamous, Antipater, to travel incognito? You saw how many people attended your funeral today. The name of Antipater of Sidon is familiar to anyone who knows even a smattering of Greek—”

“The nameis known—exactly so,” said Antipater. “And a few of my more famous verses are known as well, I should like to think. But my face is not known, nor the sound of my voice. People read Antipater; people have heard of Antipater; but they have no idea what he looks like. Once the news of my death spreads, no one will be expecting to see me in some city far from Rome. With my face clean-shaven, even the rare acquaintance who might recognize me won’t give me a second look. No one will connect the late, lamented Antipater of Sidon with the humble tutor, Zzzzoticus of Zzzzeugma.”

Antipater seemed to take great pleasure in drawing out the buzzing sound of the initial letters. Later I would realize another reason that “Zoticus of Zeugma” pleased him so much: no name could be more Greek, or less Roman, since neither word could even be properly rendered in Latin, the letter Zhaving been eradicated from our alphabet two centuries ago by Appius Claudius Caecus, who complained that it produced an abhorrent sound, and the physical act of pronouncing it made a man look like a grinning skull. This tidbit of knowledge I had learned from Antipater, of course.

*   *   *

That night, at an hour when all the reputable citizens who might recognize Antipater were presumably indoors, we stole across the city—a young Roman suitably dressed for a journey, his father, his white-haired traveling companion, and the old slave who tended to our baggage cart. Poor Damon! Once Antipater and I were finally gone, he could look forward to getting some rest.

At the dock, my father assumed the role of Roman paterfamilias—which is to say, he did his best to show no emotion, even though an old friend was setting out on a journey from which, at Antipater’s age, it was unlikely he might ever return, and even though the son who had been at his side from birth was about to be parted from him, for the first time and for a duration neither of us could foresee.

What did I feel, as I embraced my father and gazed into his eyes? I think I was too excited at the prospect of finally setting out to realize the gravity of the moment. I was only eighteen, after all, and knew very little of the world.

“You have her eyes,” he whispered, and I knew he meant my mother, who had died so long ago I barely remembered her. He almost never spoke of her. That he should do so now caused me to blush and lower my eyes.

Damon embraced me as well, and I was taken aback when he burst into tears. I thought he must be exhausted from working so hard. I did not understand that a slave who moved in the background of my world could form attachments and experience the pangs of parting as acutely as anyone else.

*   *   *

As it turned out, Antipater and I were the only passengers on the little boat. As we glided down the Tiber under starlight, nestled amid our baggage, I was too excited to sleep. Antipater, too, seemed wakeful. I decided to ask him about something that had been puzzling me.

“Teacher, the Tiber will take us overnight to Ostia, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And at Ostia, we’ll book passage on a ship to take us to our first destination: the city of Ephesus, on the coast of Asia.”

“That is the plan.”

“Ephesus, because there you have a trusted friend with whom we can stay—but also because Ephesus is home to the great Temple of Artemis, one of the Seven Wonders of the World.”

“That is correct.”

“Because it is your intention that on our journey we shall visit all seven of the Wonders.”

“Yes!” Even by starlight, I could see that he smiled and that his eyes sparkled.

“Teacher, I’ve been thinking about something I overheard you say to my father, earlier today. You said to him: ‘People are always saying, “Before I die, I want to see the Seven Wonders.” Well, now that I’m dead, I shall finally have time to see them all!’”

“And what of it?”

I cleared my throat. “Teacher, did you not compose these verses?

“I have seen the walls of Babylon, so lofty and so wide,

And the Gardens of that city, which flower in the skies.

I have seen the ivory Zeus, great Olympia’s pride,

And the towering Mausoleum where Artemisia’s husband lies.

I have seen the huge Colossus, which lifts its head to heaven,

And taller still, the Pyramids, whose secrets none can tell.

But the house of Artemis at Ephesus, of all the Wonders Seven,

Must surely be the grandest, where a god may rightly dwell.”

I paused for a moment. The Tiber, reflecting starlight, glided past us. Frogs croaked along the riverbank. “So, in the poem, you declare the Temple of Artemis to be the greatest. But if you haven’t actually seen all the Wonders, with your own eyes, then how could you—”

“First of all, my name is Zoticus, and I never wrote that poem; a famous fellow named Antipater did.” Antipater spoke in a low voice, and even by starlight I could see that he scowled. “Second, your accent is atrocious. I pity that Antipater fellow, that anyone should declaim his verses in such a manner. You murder its music! We must drill you on the finer points of Greek pronunciation daily between now and our arrival in Ephesus, or else you shall cause laughter every time you open your mouth.”

“Teacher—Zoticus—please forgive me. I only wondered—”

“Third, a young Roman does not ask his Greek tutor for forgiveness, at least not where anyone might overhear. And finally, have you never heard of poetic license?” Antipater sighed. “As a well-traveled Greek, I’ve seen mostof the Wonders, of course—at least the ones in the Greek part of the world.”

“But if you’ve never been to Babylon and Egypt—”

“Well, now I shall rectify that omission, and you shall come with me, and together we will see all seven of the Wonders, and you may judge for yourself which is the greatest.”

I nodded. “And what if I find the Great Pyramid to be more impressive than the Temple of Artemis?”

“Then you can write your own poem, young man—if you think you have the Greek for it!”

And that was the end of that discussion. For an hour longer, perhaps, I listened to the croaking of frogs passing by, but eventually I must have slept, for when I opened my eyes, the world was light again. I smelled the salt of the sea. We were in Ostia.

*   *   *

Among the ships preparing to set out, we looked for one that would take us to Ephesus. Antipater—now Zoticus—haggled over the price, pretending to do so on my behalf, and before noon we had settled on a ship that was taking a load of premium-quality garum from Rome to Ephesus.

As the ship cast off, Antipater and I stood at the stern and gazed back at the docks of Ostia, where a number of women—some possibly wives, some certainly whores—stood and waved farewell to the departing sailors.

Antipater breathed deeply of the sea air, spread his arms wide, and loudly recited one of his verses.

“’Tis the season, men, to travel forth, thrusting through the spume.

No longer does Poseidon froth and Boreas blow his gale.

Swallows build their cozy nests; dancing maidens leave the loom.

Sailors—weigh anchor, coil hawsers, hoist sail!

So bids Priapus, god of the harbor.”

As Antipater lowered his arms, the captain, who was Greek, sidled up alongside him. “Antipater of Sidon, is it not?” he said.

Antipater gave a start, and then realized the captain had identified the poem, not the poet. “So it is,” he said.

“A pity the old fellow’s dead. I heard the news only yesterday.”

Antipater nodded. “A pity indeed. Yet the best parts of him live on, I like to think.”

“Ah yes, his verses.” The captain smiled “That one in particular I’ve always liked, being a sailing man. It’s a bit suggestive, don’t you think? All that talk of thrusting, and cozy nests, and dancing maidens. And Priapus is the god of rut, not harbors. The occasion may be the return of the sailing season in the spring, but I think perhaps the poet was also speaking of the randiness of sailors in springtime, when they leave their winter lovers to go plowing through the waves, looking to drop anchor in unfamiliar harbors.”

Antipater looked dumbfounded for a moment, so pleased was he by the captain’s insight, then he caught himself and managed to look merely impressed. “Captain, you are a man of considerable discernment.”

“Merely a Greek, and what Greek is not stirred by the beauty of his mother tongue?” He gave Antipater a friendly slap on the back. “You’ll have to recite more poems, old fellow, to keep us entertained during the voyage. Do you know any others by Antipater?”

“I daresay I can recite the whole body of his work,” said my traveling companion Zoticus, with a smile.

II

SOMETHING TO DO WITH DIANA

(The Temple of Artemis at Ephesus)

“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. Our first glimpse of Ephesus came as we rounded a 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 harbor was pierced by a long pier 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 honor 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 harbor master in a small boat sailed out to inform the captain that there was no room for our ship to dock at the pier. 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 harbor and take in the view.

Beyond the crowded wharves rose the famous five-mile walls of Ephesus. Where the pier 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. Farther 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 theater built into the hillside. The semicircular tiers of seats that faced the harbor were filled with thousands of spectators, apparently watching a comedy; every now and then I heard a burst of distant laughter. Scores of towering, brightly painted statues lined the uppermost rim of the theater; 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 theater,” 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.”

I 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 choose 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 honor of the goddess.”

“You are an apt pupil after all,” said Antipater.

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 pier, a group of boys swarmed around us. Antipater chose the two who looked most honest to him and tossed each of them a coin. They gathered our bags and followed us.

We strolled up the pier, 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 theater. Eutropius has done rather well for himself, so I’m sure our accommodations will be quite comfortable.”

We reached the end of the pier 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 traveling 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 Spurius Postumius Albinus and Marcus Minucius Rufus—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 traveling companion, formerly his tutor—Zoticus of Zeugma. 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 theater, rewarding each other with places of honor 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. 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 marketplace thronged with pilgrims and tourists, where vendors sold all sorts of foodstuffs and 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 many sizes and were fashioned from various materials, from crudely made terra-cotta or 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 this manifestation of the goddess—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 to honor 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 favor 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 find 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 facade. “I do believe he’s added a story 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 center 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. He 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.

I heard a muffled roar as the air above our heads resounded with the sound of a great many people laughing.

“From the theater,” 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 the actors are 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 fawn-skin 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. 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 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 demeanor 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 want 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 harbor. 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 colorful tunics, Antipater and I returned to 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, to make sure that all was perfect for Anthea’s and Chloe’s appearance in the procession. I tried to keep 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 theater. There were a great many people in the square, and the crowd was still letting 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 theater 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 theArtemis of Ephesus, the model for all the replicas we saw in the marketplace.”

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 gently placed the statue 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 honor at the play.

The wagon rolled forward. With Artemis leading the way, others took 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 gathered 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.”