A Voice in the Wind (58 page)

“‘Temple sweeper,’” Sertes said. “The term once referred to the most menial of laborers, who was devoted to the care of the sacred temple. A term of humility that has become a title of honor.” Sertes took a coin from a pouch at his waist and turned it over for Atretes to see. “Neocoros,” he said, thumbing the writing on it. “Our city is thus exalted.”

Atretes raised his head and looked at Sertes with cold eyes. “The idol was in the cell in Capua when I arrived.”

Sertes’ smile became sardonic. “And you think that was by accident? Nothing happens by accident, Barbarian. However you came by her image doesn’t matter. The gods of your father deserted you in the forests of Germania, but Artemis has kept you alive. Pay homage to her as she deserves and she will continue to protect you. Disdain her, and she’ll turn on you and watch as you are destroyed.”

He waved his hand again. “Artemis is not the virgin huntress Diana, as the Romans think she is. Artemis is the sister of Apollo, daughter of Leto and Zeus. She is a mother-goddess of the earth who blesses man, beast, and our land with fertility. The stag, the wild boar, the hare, the wolf, and the bear all are sacred to her. Unlike Diana, who is a goddess of chastity, Artemis is sensuous and orgiastic, not prudish and purely athletic.“

Atretes looked across the harbor at the great temple. All the beasts Sertes mentioned were plentiful in the Black Forests of his homeland. The temple—a magnificent structure, more magnificent than even the most glorious temples of Rome—glistened in the sunlight. Atretes felt it was almost beckoning him.

“The marble came from Mount Prion,” Sertes told him. “All the Greek cities of Asia sent offerings to help build the temple honoring our goddess. There are 127 columns, each 60 feet high, each the gift of a king.” Sertes’ dark eyes glowed with pride. “Embellishments are added continually by the greatest artists of our time. What other goddess can make such a claim?”

Atretes wondered if Artemis was related to Tiwaz, for she shared some of his attributes. “Will I be allowed to worship her?” he asked, wondering what form celebrating the goddess might take.

Sertes nodded, pleased. “Of course. As is proper,” he said magnanimously. “Go below. Water and a clean tunic will be brought to you. Prepare yourself. I will take you to the temple myself so that you may bow down before the sacred idol before you are taken to the ludus.”

As soon as the ship docked, Sertes sent two guards for Atretes. Two more waited above decks. The colonnade that led to the Artemision, as the temple was called, was paved with marble and interspersed with shaded porticoes. People turned to stare and whisper as Atretes walked the course. Sertes was obviously well known, and his presence, as well as that of four armed guards, made it clear that the blond giant was a gladiator of importance. Atretes ignored the awed stares he received while wishing Sertes hadn’t chosen to march him down the main thoroughfare of the city during the busiest time of day. Clearly, the merchant had done it to create a stir among the populace.

The number of shops that sold wood, silver, and gold shrines increased as they came closer to the Artemision. Small replicas of the temple were everywhere to be seen, and it appeared that every visitor wanted to buy a memorial of Artemis and a model of her temple to take home as a reminder of his or her pilgrimage.

Atretes noted that small idols were in the hands of almost everyone who passed by him.

He stared up at the edifice ahead of him, awed by its immensity and grandeur. Columns of green jasper and white marble rose to the horizontal entablatures, which were intricately carved in every manner of scene. Many of the columns were painted in vivid colors and pictures, some explicitly erotic.

Huge folding doors of cypress stood open and, as Atretes passed through them to enter the holy shrine, he saw that sections of the cedar roof were open to the sky. The gladiator looked around slowly, his trained eye missing little.

“I see you have noticed the guards,” Sertes said. “The temple houses the treasury; the lion’s share of wealth for all of western Asia is stored here and in the surrounding buildings.”

The inner temple was swarming with priests and priestesses, all humming like worker bees around their queen. Sertes inclined his head toward them. “The
megabuzoi
are the priests who conduct the ceremonies within the interior of the temple. They are all eunuchs and in subjection to the high priest.”

“And what of the women?” Atretes asked, his mouth tipping at the sight of so many beautiful girls.

“Virgins, all of them. The
melissai
are priestesses consecrated to service of the goddess. They are divided into three classes, all of which are subject to one head priestess. There are also temple prostitutes who await your later pleasure… but first, the Most High Goddess.”

They entered the smoky chamber that held the sacred image of Artemis. She stood in a haze of incense, hands extended outward, a surprisingly rude and rigid image of gold and ebony. Her upper body was festooned with sagging breasts with extended nipples, her hips and legs covered with carved reliefs of sacred beasts and bees. Her base was shapeless black stone, probably the one Sertes said had fallen from heaven.

As Atretes studied the goddess’s image, he saw the engraved symbols upon her headdress, girdle, and base. Suddenly he drew in his breath—the symbol crowning Artemis’ headpiece was the rune for Tiwaz! With a hoarse cry, Atretes prostrated himself before the image of Artemis and gave thanks to her for her protection through four years of bloody games.

Incantations of the megabuzoi and the melodious chanting of the melissai surrounded him and pressed down upon him. The scent of incense had become so overpowering that he felt sick. Gagging, he rose and half stumbled from the cloistered chamber. Leaning heavily against one of the massive columns, he dragged in a deep breath of air, his heart pounding in beat with the drums and cymbals behind him.

After a moment, his head cleared, but the heaviness within his spirit remained, dark and suffocating.

“She called to you,” Sertes said, eyes glowing with satisfaction.

“She bears the rune for Tiwaz,” Atretes said in amazement.

“The ‘Ephesian Letters,’” Sertes said. “Pronounced aloud they will be a charm for you. The Letters have great power and, if worn as an amulet, will ward off evil spirits. The building you see over there houses an archive of books about the Letters. The men who write them are the most brilliant minds of the Empire. Which Letter was of special significance to you?”

Atretes told him.

“You can purchase an amulet when we finish our devotions,” Sertes said and nodded toward several beautiful, richly garbed young women who moved in the cool shadows of the columned corridor. “Take your pick,” Sertes said. “The women are beautiful and skilled, the young men strong and vigorous. There’s no faster or better way to achieve connection with Artemis than by enjoying the many erotic pleasures she gives us.”

Four years of brutality and being treated like a pampered animal had crushed the gentler side of Atretes. Without embarrassment, he looked over those soliciting and stared at a voluptuous girl dressed in veilings of red, black, and gold.

“I’ll take her,” Atretes said, and Sertes gestured to her. She walked toward them, every step a movement of provocation. Her voice was low and husky. Two denarü, she said. Atretes handed her the coins and she took him down the steps, across the white marbled plain, and into the cool shadows of a brothel.

He had found his goddess. And yet, long after he came back out into the sunlight, darkness lay heavy upon his soul.

Hadassah thought the Valerians’ new home was even more beautiful than the villa in Rome. It was built on a slope facing out onto Kuretes Street, the most privileged section near the heart of Ephesus on the declivity of Mount Bulbul. Each house served as a covered terrace for the one next to it, offering a view of the beautiful city.

The villa had three floors, each opening around a columned central peristyle that allowed sun and moonlight into the inner rooms. A well was in the center of the peristyle, paved round in white marble and decorated by mosaics. The inner chambers also had mosaic floors, and walls covered with appallingly erotic frescoes.

Julia’s spirits rose the moment she saw them. Laughing, she spread her arms and turned about in her chamber. “Eros wearing a crown!” she said in delight. In the western corner was a statue of a man, naked except for a wreath of laurel leaves on his head. In one hand he held a bunch of grapes, in the other a goblet. Julia went to it and ran her hands over it. “Perhaps the gods will be kind to me after all,” she said, laughing as Hadassah turned her head away in embarrassment. “Jews are so prudish, it’s a wonder they beget so many children,” Julia said, taking pleasure in teasing her.

The family gathered in the triclinium. Hadassah served the meal, all too aware of the licentious frescoes covering the three walls—Greek gods and goddesses in various amorous escapades.

During the first weeks in Ephesus, Decimus seemed much improved in health. He even took Phoebe and Julia for carriage rides along the western slopes of Mount Panayir Dagi. Marcus went to the Valerian offices near the harbor to make certain that all of the arranged transfers of money had been conducted according to his specifications.

Hadassah remained in the house with the other slaves, unpacking and tidying Julia’s possessions. When her duties were complete, she went out to explore the city an hour at a time; Julia wanted to know where jewelry and cloth shops were located. As Hadassah walked along the marble-paved streets, she passed one fane after another, all dedicated to one god or another. She saw baths, public buildings, a medical school, a library. She turned a corner, and there ahead of her, on a street lined by idol vendors, loomed the Artemision. Despite its amazing beauty, Hadassah felt her spirit recoil.

Yet, curious, she approached and sat in a shady portico to watch people mill about the temple. Many who passed her carried small shrines and idols they had purchased. Hadassah shook her head in disbelief. Hundreds of people were going up and down the steps to worship a stone idol that was without life or power.

The young Jewess felt an aching sadness and loneliness. She looked up at the beauty and immensity of the Artemision and felt small and helpless by comparison. She looked at the hundreds of worshipers and was afraid. Rome had been frightening enough, but something about Ephesus oppressed her spirit.

Closing her eyes, she prayed.
God, are you here in this place that is teeming with pagan worshipers? I need to feel your presence, but I don’t. I feel so alone. Help me find friends like Asyncritus and Trophimus and the others
.

She opened her eyes again, gazing at the crowds without really seeing them. She knew she should return to the villa, but the quiet voice within her bade her stay a few minutes longer. So she obeyed and waited. Her eyes casually scanned the milling people… then she frowned. She had glimpsed someone among a group of men—someone familiar—and her heart leaped. She rose and stood on tiptoe, peering intently. She had not been mistaken! Filled with joy, Hadassah ran, pressing her way through the crowd with a boldness she had never shown before. When she broke through the last followers, she cried out his name and he turned, his face alight with surprise and joy.

“Hadassah!” cried John, the apostle, and opened his arms.

Hadassah went into them weeping. “Praise be to God!” she said, clinging to him and feeling she was home for the first time since she had left Galilee five years before.

Marcus returned early from meeting with solicitors and merchants. The house was cool and quiet. Brooding, he stood outside his bedchamber on the second floor and leaned against a column, staring down into the peristyle. A maid was at work scrubbing the tiles of the mosaic depicting a satyr in pursuit of a naked maiden. The girl looked up at him and smiled. She was new to the household, one of his father’s purchases upon their arrival. Marcus suspected his father had bought the girl in the hopes that her dusky beauty and full curves would distract him from his obsession with Hadassah.

His father might as well have saved his money.

Straightening, Marcus went back into his chamber to pour himself some wine. Taking a drink, he went out onto the terrace, looking below at the people thronging the street. With an uncanny sense of swift recognition, Marcus saw Hadassah weaving her way up Kuretes Street. Her hair was covered with the striped shawl she habitually wore, and she carried a basket of peaches and grapes on her hip; fruit to satisfy Julia’s whim while his own needs went unanswered. Hadassah lifted her head slightly, but if she saw him watching her, she gave no outward sign.

Marcus frowned. She’d seemed different over the past few days. Elated. Full of joy. A few nights ago, he’d come in late and heard her singing to his father and mother, and her sweet voice had been so rich and pure it had made his heart ache. When he went in to sit with them, she’d been more beautiful to him than ever before.

Leaning against the wall, Marcus watched Hadassah come up the street to the house. She glanced up once and then not again. She disappeared below him as she reached the entryway.

His mood darkening, he went back inside the villa and stood in the coolness of the corridor on the second floor, listening for the door to open. Quiet voices murmured in the lower hall, then one of the kitchen servants crossed the peristyle with a basket of fruit. He waited.

Hadassah came into the stream of sunlight below him. She removed the shawl that covered her hair, leaving it draped loosely back over her shoulders. Dipping her hands slowly into the basin of water, she pressed the moisture to her face. Odd how such an ordinary act could show her grace and simple dignity.

The house was so quiet, Marcus heard her sigh.

“Hadassah,” he said, and she stilled. His hand clenched the iron railing. “I want to talk to you,” he said rigidly. “Come upstairs to my chambers. Now.”

He waited for her in the doorway of his chambers, sensing her reluctance to enter. When she did, he closed the door firmly behind her. She stood subservient, her back to him, waiting for him to speak. For all her seeming calm, he felt her tension like the cut of a knife. It hurt his pride that he had had to command her to come into his presence. He walked past her and stood between the columns to his terrace. He wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the words.