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
