I had been inside the temple once before, and on that occasion had seen only a fraction of its wonders. The interior space is one of the grandest on earth, with a floor of gleaming marble in a dizzying array of patterns, equally magnificent marble walls, and, far above our heads, a ceiling of massive cedar beams, alternately painted yellow, blue, and red, outlined with gold and studded with gold ornaments. This breathtaking space is decorated with many of the most renowned statues and paintings in the world, including perhaps the most famous painting of all, the gigantic portrait of Alexander the Great by Apelles. By some astonishing illusion, the conqueror’s hand and the thunderbolt he grips appear to come out of the wall and hover above one’s head. It is an unforgettable sight.
But there were many other works of art in the temple that I had seen only briefly or not at all on my previous visit. Zeuxidemus acted as my guide, explaining where the paintings and statues had come from, or recounting the stories they portrayed. He was clearly very proud of the temple, and what he had to say was actually quite interesting. I knew already the tale of Actaeon, the young hunter who accidentally gazed upon Artemis bathing naked in a stream, but Zeuxidemus’s version was nonetheless riveting; several of the paintings depicted this event, as well as the hunter’s subsequent punishment-his transformation by Artemis into a stag, after which the hunter was torn apart by his own frenzied hounds.
I learned a great deal that day from Zeuxidemus, but since I could not ask questions and the two of us could not converse, he eventually ran out of things to say, and after that he let me wander about on my own while he maintained a polite but watchful distance.
As I moved from statue to statue, and painting to painting, I allowed myself to become lost in a sort of reverie, bemused by images of gods and heroes, and scenes from legend or history depicting love and deceit, honor and villainy, serenity and horror.
This reverie was frequently broken, however, for there were regular worshippers inside the temple, mostly women being led in various rituals by the so-called hierodules, the virgin acolytes of Artemis who serve under the Great Megabyzus. These rituals involved a great deal of incense, chanting, and ecstatic dancing. At any given moment, a ritual of some sort was always taking place in some part of the temple.
There were also a great many sanctuary-seekers inside the temple. Some slept huddled against the walls. Others sat on the floor, staring into space, or wandered about in a sort of daze. A great many were gathered in one corner of the building, where a statue of Artemis in her Roman guise of Diana stood on a high pedestal. This marble statue, painted in lifelike colors, had been a gift from the Senate and People of Rome, installed during the tenure of one of the first Roman governors at Pergamon.
How different this Artemis was from the ancient wooden statue that gazed out from the pediment! This goddess looked very young, and wore a short, sleeveless tunic, suitable for a huntress who needed bare legs for running and bare arms for wielding her bow. Fitted over her shoulders was a fawnskin cape and a quiver full of arrows. The only attribute she seemed to have in common with her Ephesian counterpart was a necklace of gilded acorns.
Before this Roman Diana a great many Roman refugees, more women than men, prostrated themselves in worship. Some prayed softly but others more loudly, wailing and begging the goddess to deliver them from their misery and uncertainty. Some worshippers came and went, praying only briefly, but others bowed over and over again, or lay prostrate on the floor.
As shadows thickened, more lamps were lit. The grand interior became even more magical. The gleaming marble floors, reflecting the light of the lamps, looked like the placid surface of a vast lake. Above our heads, the spaces between the cedar beams grew very dark, and the gold ornaments glittered like a multitude of distant suns. The paintings could be seen only dimly, which increased their mystery, and the statues, lit by flickering lamps, seemed to draw breath and come to life.
I was gazing up at just such a statue-a broad-chested Apollo who seemed to look back at me with emerald eyes, on the verge of speaking-when Zeuxidemus spoke in my ear.
“Are you ready to meet the goddess, Agathon of Alexandria?”
I dutifully nodded, and he led me to a hidden doorway behind the pedestal of one of the larger statues, not far from the temple’s entrance. We stepped into a small room and he closed the door behind us. Taking a torch from a sconce in the wall, Zeuxidemus indicated that I should ascend a broad, winding stairway while he followed. By the light of his torch the steps ahead of me were visible, but I saw only darkness above, and wondered where the stairway could possibly lead.
Up and up we went, until at last I stepped into a room that seemed to have some opening to the outside, for I faintly heard the sound of the Roman throng and felt a slight breeze on my face. Above and before me I saw a silhouette framed by a round window, and realized I was in the pediment of the temple, standing directly behind the ten-foot-tall wooden statue of Ephesian Artemis that stood at the round opening.
Even though the goddess’s back was to me-or so I thought-I felt an uncanny shiver at being so close to her. Then Zeuxidemus followed me into the room, and the light of his torch revealed that Artemis was not looking out the round window, but had somehow turned around and was facing me! The sight of her was so strange-her huge size and stiff posture, her staring eyes, the pendulous orbs clustered like multiple breasts-that I nearly cried out.
For a terrifying moment, I was convinced that Artemis had turned around just before I entered the room, as a mortal would, alerted by the sound of approaching steps and the flicker of torchlight. Then I realized that the statue might have been turned around at any time since I had seen it earlier that day, from the altar outside. Perhaps Zeuxidemus himself had done it, using some clever mechanical device such as one sees in the theater, when gods appear from the sky or out of the earth.
“Do you see, Agathon? The goddess greets you. She welcomes you to her sacred chamber. She invites you to sleep at her feet. Do you see?” He gestured to the base of the statue’s pedestal, where pillows and coverlets had been strewn on the floor. “I will sleep nearby. Shall we have a cup of wine, to help us sleep?”
Zeuxidemus fitted his torch into a sconce by the doorway. He removed his headdress and placed it on a table next to the statue’s pedestal. I had to smile at the state of his chestnut-colored hair, all mussed and tangled and sweaty-“headdress hair,” my father had once called it, noting that the authority imbued on its wearer by an ornamental helmet or headdress was inversely proportional to the look of dishevelment revealed when the headdress comes off. Such was the case with Zeuxidemus.
On the same table where he placed his headdress sat a silver pitcher and two silver cups. With his back to me, he poured a cup of wine for each of us, then stepped to one side and invited me to join him.
I was not so unnerved by the presence of the goddess, nor so amused by the state of the young Megabyzoi’s hair, that I forgot something else my father had said: When you are offered one cup, take the other. This may seem the stuff of Roman comedy-the poisoned cup and the switching thereof-but the lesson holds, nonetheless. Proof of its wisdom came in that high room, with the goddess looking on.
When I joined him at the small table, Zeuxidemus handed me one of the cups. Pretending to hear some alarming noise from outside, I put the cup down and stepped toward the round window. Just as I had intended, the young priest followed me. We stood beside the goddess for a moment, staying back from the opening so that we should not be easily seen, standing on tiptoes to peer out at the restless crowd that continued to mill about the altar, even though darkness had fallen.