The disciples move up away from the sea unsure of exact destination other than to enter the city proper. Danil leads. Behind him the thin, remarkable figure of the Apostle on Papias's arm, the others behind, the mute at the last. They are a ragged parade in clothing and manner, and all but vanish in the throngs.
Nonetheless they are seen. The one who sees them is himself unnoticed. He stands in against a white wall in his white garments. He watches some moments to be certain. He counts their number, then hurries away with the news.
Ephesus, great and ancient, lies at the mouth of the Cayster River. Its coinage as old as any, it has already been a city for twelve hundred years. To here come the merchants from up and down the coast of Asia, from Miletus, Pergamum, Smyrna, and beyond. Here was born Heraclitus, who said from water the soul wins life, then proclaimed that fire was the central element of all the world. Here, too, were born the philosopher Hermodorus, the poet Hipponax, the painter Parrhasius, and these among a full galaxy of artists and artisans, geographers, astrologers, goldsmiths. The city has a history of the gifted, but the arts alone do not account for its greatness. Almost two hundred years ago it was in Ephesus that Mithradates signed the decree ordering all the Romans in Asia to be put to death. One hundred thousand are said to have perished. But in four years Sulla again took control and slaughtered in Ephesus the leaders of the rebellion, returning it to Roman rule. It is territory soaked in blood, but traversed by pilgrims, too. It is here, on the marshy banks of the River Selinus, that Chersiphron built the wonder of the world that is the Temple of Artemis, that which was burnt down and then rebuilt for a hundred and twenty years to the plans of the architect Dinocrates. The route to it is packed hard with the feet of petitioners. It is to the glory of the female, and brings to the goddess bountiful offerings from all parts. It is a city so, suited to the supernatural, its citizens acknowledging the higher world. To many it is considered almost a portal, a place where the gods might hear more easily the myriad of entreaties and respond with favour. Here, too, now decades since, a first Christian community had been established under Apollo, a disciple of John the Baptist, and Paul had come there and for a time worked to establish a new church in Ephesus. He had taught in the schola of the rhetorician Tyrannus before being forced to leave because a goldsmith, Demetrius, preached against him and rose a public outcry. 'Great is Artemis of Ephesus!' the goldsmith cried, because he feared Paul weakened his business in the selling of golden statues and tokens of the goddess. Paul's disciple, Timothy, had remained, and been in time martyred.
John has not been there in fifty years. When he left Ephesus, it was to go to the first council in Jerusalem in the time before his travels. When he left, it was in the belief that the Word was about to be spread in the world entire, that churches would be formed everywhere, that they, the apostles of the Lord, would form them. When he left, he could see.
Now, returned, such history is in his mind. The world is not as he thought it would be. Time and again he must accept the mystery of what is. He must press on, though time seems soft sand beneath his feet. Papias leans to tell him where they are.
'There is a terrace of streets with high frescoes, three stories high,' he says.
'Yes.' John nods.
'A mosaic of Hercules and Acheloos.'
Two small boys run up to them; in chasing each other bump against the old man, who staggers in surprise, turned about in his blindness.
Papias calls out to them. 'Get off, go!'
But John's hand stills him. 'Leave be, Papias,' he says. Then, as if it has come to him only now that he has lived so long in their absence, he says, 'They are children.'
There is in his manner some import, and Papias looks at the blind face. The old apostle's head is half turned to where the boys have run in the street, as if his thought follows them.
'Children,' he says again, as if the word is a key he discovers in his hand.
They continue past the temple to the emperor, where a statue four times his size in life gazes down. Below it is inscribed 'Ruler and God.' The Christians go in the crowds following the natural progression of streets toward the State Agora, a vast public square that opens into the sunlight. Lemuel stops at the edge of it in the busy thoroughfare. Before them are all manner of stalls, tenting, barrels, tables, coloured awnings beneath which sellers ply for trade. Dogs sniff. Cats curious idle and rub against the ankles. There in a line are goldsmiths with coins of various size that bear the image of Artemis. She is everywhere. She can be found on copper, too, for those less able to afford or for minor offerings. There are draperies of spun cloth, wool traders, weavers, a loom being worked and orange and purple threads crossing the air to become a handsome waistband. There are fruit sellers, fortune-tellers, traders in all that might be imagined. No need is unmet.
And to the disciples it is both wonderful and terrifying. For Ephesus seems a place of great significance, it is fit theatre for the new beginning, its excitements, its life, pulsing all about them, and yet in it they realise they are as nothing. None pays them attention. If they stand out in the square and call out for followers of our Lord Jesus Christ, who will pause to listen?
How, here, are they to begin?
Standing in the middle of the narrow passageway with stalls on either side, they are jostled, knocked, passed brief quizzical looks. A trader in skins calls out.
'Come, come closer. Good prices, good bargains! Come! Feel the skins, soft.'
His call alerts his neighbour, a fat seller of figs, who extends a palm. 'Here, travellers, good figs. Figs sweet as honey!'
Sensing easy prey, the other traders thereabouts join the clamour. Fish, olives, bread, brooches, votive tokens of gold, the disciples cannot hear one offer for the other. Two hands draw Meletios forward, his kind, long face puzzled; there are three men about the short figure of Danil urging to him the merits of various merchandises. Another holds a slab of herbed cheese to Eli and Lemuel. 'Taste, good flavour.' In the bustle Papias keeps the Apostle close. They are caught in the stream and can go neither forwards nor back. Stench of sweat and oil and endeavour are about them. It is a sensual assault, the world, volume, smells, sights, the pressing of the physical. The disciples are not prepared. Nothing in the life they have led on the island can have readied them. Their heads spin. Bewildered, meek Meletios is across the way at a stall of stuffed olives. Danil has embroidered cloth in his hands. He turns to look back for the others and cannot see them.
'No,' he says. 'No, I do not want it,' and puts the cloth aside, only for the trader to lift another at a lesser price, press it into his hands.
'Feel. Feel it.'
'No!' Danil drops the cloth, and in hot agitation says loudly, 'We are Christians. We have nothing. We do not want your wares.'
'Christians?'
'We are followers of our Lord Jesus Christ, come to bring the Word.'
The trader pulls the cloth back.
'You have nothing?'
'We have the good news of our Lord Almighty.'
The trader spits a yellow-veined globule that lands on Danil's cheek an olive stain. He calls to his rival neighbour, who is urging on Meletios the merits of garlic stuffing. Then he, too, as if stung, pulls the merchandise away, calls something down the stall-way.
Danil and Meletios step backwards, an air of menace descending. Lemuel and Eli are next to them. Of them, Danil is most likely to go forwards and strike, but Lemuel presses his shoulder. They turn quickly to find Papias and the Apostle and the mute boy, still in the middle of the passageway pressed about with sellers and buyers. 'We must go,' Lemuel says, 'we must go, quickly.'