Steven Saylor - Wrath of the Furies

When I had last attended a sacrifice in this spot, it had been a day of celebration, and a huge crowd of visitors from all over the world had paraded out of the city to the sound of music and laughter. Cattle, sheep, goats, and oxen too numerous to count had been consecrated to the goddess and slaughtered, after which the entire crowd was treated to the roasted remains, along with a great deal of wine.

What a starkly different experience this was. Our procession consisted only of myself and the two holy men and a troop of spear-bearers to protect us. (And Bethesda, of course, trailing behind. What did she make of this peculiar experience? This was her introduction to one of the world’s greatest marvels, the Temple of Artemis, and I feared any wonderment she felt would be forever tainted by the circumstances.)

The shallow valley surrounding the temple is a large open space with scattered trees for shade, grassy in places and trampled to bare dirt in others, suitable for accommodating the huge crowds that attend the festivals at Ephesus. On this occasion the crowd consisted of sullen-looking Roman refugees. They kept their distance as we paraded before them and congregated at the altar. They stared at us with blank expressions. I found it unnerving to look at them. I averted my eyes.

At the great altar a group of Megabyzoi awaited us. They had already washed the altar and were busy stoking the incense braziers and the roasting pyre. The lamb was in a small enclosure nearby, out of sight, but occasionally it bleated, sending a murmur of excitement through the crowd of hungry refugees.

Standing on the raised platform before the altar, I looked over the heads of the crowd to the steps that led up to the colonnaded porch of the temple. Above the porch, the soaring columns supported a triangular pediment. In all the other Greek temples I had seen, the pediment was decorated with statues that filled the entire space, but the Temple of Artemis was different. At its center, where the triangle was highest, the pediment had a circular window, and standing inside this window, as if looking down on those of us gathered at the altar, was an ancient wooden statue of the goddess. The statue was larger than life-size and brightly painted. Standing stiffly upright, the goddess wore a mural crown and a necklace of acorns. A mass of pendulous, gourd-shaped protrusions hung from her upper body, said by some to be multiple breasts and by others to be the testicles of bulls. From this circular window high above the temple porch, the goddess would be able to see everything that took place at the altar.

The hungry, watching crowd unnerved me. So did the watching Artemis. It occurred to me that I was about to be the instigator of a flagrantly impious act, fraudulently calling upon an Olympian goddess to cure a nonexistent ailment. What if the goddess took offense, and by way of revenge forced me to speak? I would be known at once for a Roman. Would I be cast into the crowd of refugees, forced to join them? Or would I face a swifter, more terrible punishment?

If I were killed on the spot, what would become of Bethesda? I looked about, wondering where she had gone, and realized she was standing at the front of the crowd before the raised platform, directly before me. The altar blocked my view; I could see only her face, peering up at me. I tried to give her a smile of reassurance, but whatever crooked semblance of a smile I manage lacked conviction. She did not smile back.

Standing beside me, the Great Megabyzus raised his arms and began an invocation to Artemis, reciting her many names and attributes and acknowledging the many blessings she had bestowed on Ephesus. As he droned on, I looked at Bethesda, and then at the faces in the crowd around her. Who were all these people? The Roman citizens were easily picked out by their togas. I presumed that most of these men were, or had been, merchants or moneymen or managers. With them were their wives and children, including teenaged sons too young to wear the toga, and household slaves. There were other men not dressed in togas, but who did not have the look of slaves. They had to be so-called Rome-lovers who had been driven out of the city along with the Romans.

My gaze wandered to one far edge of the crowd, beyond the temple grounds, where I saw a row of laborers with shovels. They appeared to be digging a very long trench, with a waist-high ridge of excavated dirt alongside it. The reason for all this digging puzzled me for a moment, until it occurred to me that the trench must be intended to give the sanctuary-seekers a place to bury their waste. That would go a long way to relieving the stench that surrounded the temple, which must surely have been offensive to the goddess herself.

The Great Megabyzus suddenly fell silent. Two priests took hold of my arms and pulled me closer to the altar. For a heart-stopping moment, I thought they were going to throw me upon it, but they only wanted me to stand closer to the sacrifice, where Artemis could see me more clearly. The Great Megabyzus was fitted with a sort of apron, to protect his yellow clothing from the blood-for in one hand he now held a slaughtering knife and in the other a small ax, the sacred tools he would use to cut the lamb’s throat, skin the creature, and then dismember it.

“Great Artemis of Ephesus!” he shouted, so loudly that I gave a start. “We pray that you will restore the voice of this mortal who has been struck mute! Let the tongue of Agathon of Alexandria speak again, so that he may utter endless paeans of thanksgiving in your honor!”

The bound lamb was brought forth and placed on the altar. At the sight of it, the crowd released a groan the likes of which I had never heard before. It seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere, hardly human but expressing endless human misery. If no smell, however noxious, could kill a man, then surely no sound could kill a man, either. But were there sounds that could drive a man mad? This one, if it continued much longer, might be one of them.

As if to counter the horrible groan, some of the Megabyzoi began to ululate and to shake rattles and tambourines. This frantic music combined with the miserable noise of the crowd to create a discord that set my teeth on edge.

With a single motion, the Great Megabyzus cut the lamb’s throat. Blood spurted from the gaping wound, but not a drop of it struck the Great Megabyzus. With sure, steady motions-clearly, he had much experience at this sort of butchery-he proceeded to skin the carcass, and then to slice it open, removing some organs and leaving others in place. The altar was tilted slightly toward him, so that the blood drained into a channel and then into drains on either side. A portion of the sacrifice was offered to Artemis-the heart, perhaps, for it was oozing with blood and still seemed to be pulsing-and was then cast onto the pyre. Smoke alone is said to be the only nourishment the gods need. The grosser, material parts of the animal-the viscera and the flesh-are suitable sustenance for mankind, but not for immortals.

Various parts of the animal were thrown on the pyre. At the smell of roasting flesh, the murmur of the crowd expressed an almost unbearable anguish. The rattles and tambourines of the ululating Megabyzoi grew louder and more frenzied.

“Is some of the meat for us?” cried one man.

“It must be!” cried another.

“But there’s only one lamb. One lamb can’t feed us all!”

“Maybe there are more animals to be sacrificed. There must be. They can’t let us starve!”

The throng before the altar became more compact and crowded, as those on the edge were drawn by the wild music and the commotion and the smell of charred flesh. Bethesda was jostled about. Suddenly I lost sight of her.

The Great Megabyzus set aside his knife and ax. His fellow priests helped him remove his apron, then held a basin of water so that he could wash his hands. He stepped toward me with open arms and startled me with an unexpected embrace.