“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
