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 a stag. Chloe now wore a deerskin. Completely covering her head was a mask of a young stag with small antlers.
The dancers playing the forest dispersed. The dancers playing hounds converged. To a cacophony of yelping pipes and agitated rattles, the hounds pursued the leaping stag until they surrounded it. Around and around they whirled, tormenting the stag who had once been their master. Chloe was completely hidden from sight, except for the stag’s-head mask with antlers, which whirled around and around with the hounds.
The frenzied music changed. The hounds drew back. The stag’s head fell to the floor, not far from where I stood, trailing bloodred streamers. Of Actaeon—torn to pieces in the story—nothing more remained to be seen.
Amid the whirling crush of the dancing hounds, Chloe must have removed the stag’s head, pulled a dog’s hide over her costume, and disappeared among the hounds. It was a simple trick, but the effect was uncanny. It seemed as if the hounds had literally devoured their prey.
Nearby, Anthea looked on with a suitably stern expression. Artemis had exacted a terrible vengeance on the mortal who had dared, however inadvertently, to gaze upon her nakedness.
Suddenly, one of the dancers screamed. Other girls cried out. The company began to scatter.
The music trailed off and fell silent. In the middle of the temple, one of the dancers lay crumpled on the floor. By her red hair, I knew it was Chloe.
Mnason rushed to his daughter. Eutropius hurried after him. I began to follow, but Antipater held me back.
“Let’s not get in the way, Gordianus. Probably the poor girl merely fainted—from excitement, perhaps.…” His words lacked conviction. Antipater could see as clearly as could I that there was something unnatural in the way Chloe was lying, with her limbs twisted and her head thrown back. Mnason reached her and crouched over the motionless body for a moment, then threw back his head and let out a cry of anguish.
“She’s dead!” someone shouted. “Chloe is dead!”
There were cries of dismay, followed by murmurs and whispers.
“Dead, did someone say?”
“Surely not!”
“But see how her father weeps?”
“What happened? Did anyone see anything?”
“Look—someone must have alerted the Megabyzoi, for here comes Theotimus.”
Striding into the sanctuary, the head Megabyzus passed directly by me. He reeked of the smell of burning flesh and his yellow robes were spattered with blood.
“What’s going on here?” His booming voice reverberated through the temple, silencing the crowd, which parted before him. Even Mnason drew back. The Megabyzus strode to the girl’s body and knelt beside it.
Amid the hubbub and confusion, I noticed that the stag’s-head mask was still lying on the floor. Chloe was the focus of all attention; no one seemed interested in the mask. I walked over to it, knelt down, and picked it up. What instinct led me to do so? Antipater would later say it was the hand of Artemis that guided me, but I think I was acting on something my father had taught me:
The mask was a thing of beauty, superbly crafted from the pelt of a deer and real antlers. The eyes were of some flashing green stone; the shiny black nose was made of obsidian. The mask showed signs of wear; probably it had been handed down and used year after year in the same dance, worn by many virgins at many festivals. I examined it inside and out—and noticed a curious thing.…
“Put that down!” shouted the Megabyzus.
I dropped the mask at once.
Theotimus turned from his examination of Chloe, rose to his feet, and strode toward me. The look on his face sent a shiver up my spine. There is a reason men like Theotimus rise to become the head of whatever calling they follow. Everything about the man was intimidating—his tall stature and commanding demeanor, his broad shoulders and his booming voice, and most of all his flashing eyes, which seemed to bore directly into mine.
“Who are you, to touch an object sacred to the worship of Artemis?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Latin and Greek alike deserted me.
Antipater came to my rescue. “The boy is a visitor, Megabyzus. He made an innocent mistake.”
“A visitor?”
“From Rome,” I managed to blurt out.
“Rome?” Theotimus raised an eyebrow.
Antipater groaned—had he not warned me to be discreet about my origins?—but after giving me a last, hard look, the Megabyzus snatched up the stag mask and seemed to lose interest in me. He turned to the crowd that had gathered around the corpse.
“The girl is dead,” he announced. There were cries and groans from the spectators.
“But Megabyzus, what happened to her?” shouted someone.
“There are no marks upon the girl’s body. She seems to have died suddenly and without warning. Because her death occurred here in the temple, we must assume that Artemis herself played a role in it.”
