by Laura Powell
For my Reagan cousins:
Robbie, John, Jane and Will,
and all their wonderful family
‘Goddess of Woods, tremendous in the chase
To the mountain boars and all the savage race!
Look upon us on earth! Unfold our fate,
And say what region is our destined seat?
Where shall we next thy lasting temples raise?
And choirs of virgins celebrate thy praise?’
The prayer of Brutus, Prince of Troy and first king of Britain, to the goddess Artemis.
From Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain, c.1136
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Prologue
When I was a little girl, I tried to imagine what it would be like if the gods spoke to us as they did in ancient times. I imagined it would sound like the rush of wind in trees, or a ripple of silver bells.
The call of the goddess was different. Hounds howled in my head and snapped at my heels; I felt their teeth as my own voice was torn from me.
I woke to the taste of blood.
Chapter 1
The night my life was fated to change forever began with flowers, and ended with snakes.
The flowers were a bunch of carnations thrown at my feet. ‘Goddess save you, dearie!’ cried the fat old woman who’d tossed them. ‘May Holy Artemis bless your sweet face!’
Not that she could actually see it, of course. Handmaidens and priestesses of the Cult of Artemis are veiled in public. Today, in honour of the festival, we were in full ancient Greek costume – silk robes, fur pelts and floral garlands. The spectators who’d lined the streets of London to watch the procession would expect nothing less.
‘Make the most of it,’ said Callisto as she walked beside me. ‘You need all the blessings you can get.’
I decided to keep my dignity and not rise to the bait. I could tell Cally was wearing her best holy expression beneath the veil and was annoyed that no one could see it. She was probably imagining how good it would have looked on the giant TV screens outside the temple, which would broadcast the ceremony to the waiting crowd.
Britain is officially a secular country but Artemis’s image is stamped on every pound coin, and her crescent moon shines from the top right-hand corner of the Union Jack. Once a month, and on festival days, our High Priestess gives an oracle from the goddess. The words of the prophecies are always riddling, but trying to make sense of the predictions gives people comfort, especially in difficult times. That Festival Day the future felt particularly uncertain. The country was still reeling from the financial crash and the disaster of foreign wars, and months of strikes and rioting. The hope in people’s faces was more like hunger as they watched us climb the temple steps.
The Temple of Artemis sits at the top of Ludgate Hill, the highest point of the City of London. Nowadays it’s hemmed in by skyscrapers and tower blocks, and it doesn’t dominate the skyline as it once did. But it’s still an icon. The best view is from the Southbank, looking across the Thames to where the dome rises up from the city like a pale moon.
The temple was rebuilt in the seventeenth century and is beginning to show its age. The marble is chipped, the bronze is dented and the gold leaf is wearing thin. But the Sacred Hall is still a kaleidoscope of gilded arches and glittering mosaics, and the ten-foot statue of the goddess still makes tourists gawp.
That is the public temple. The private temple is underneath, and was just a bare stone room in the crypt. All it contains is King Brutus’s altar stone. Very few people are allowed in here, and only priestesses may draw back the curtain across the threshold to see what lay behind, the Chamber of the Oracle. It holds a statue of Artemis that is said to have been saved from the ruins of Troy. In under two weeks’ time, when I turned sixteen and was initiated as a priestess, I would pass through the curtain and see the image for the first time. There was a shiver in the pit of my stomach whenever I thought of it.
Today was my sixteenth Festival of the Goddess. My first was at just six months old, a baby left on the temple steps. It’s always felt special: the long hushed day of fasting and prayer leading to the moment when the temple doors swing open to welcome us, their bronze panels gleaming in the last of the evening light.
Inside, the air was scented with lilies and incense. Candlelight glimmered on jewel-coloured glass and gold, and you could hardly see the altar for the wilderness of flowers heaped around it. Opis, our High Priestess, was standing on the dais. She’s a small woman, but slim and upright, with a moonstone headdress crowning her long black hair. She doesn’t wear a veil because she is the oracle, and therefore the goddess’s human face.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve dreamed of standing in Opis’s place, feeling the weight of the diadem on my head and the breath of the goddess on my skin. It’s Cally’s dream too. But for now the two of us took our places beside the altar with the rest of the cult. Seven handmaidens and eight priestesses joined together in the choral song:
‘Hail to thee, maiden blest,
Proudest and holiest:
God’s daughter, great in bliss,
Leto-born, Artemis . . .’
To the clash of cymbals, Opis lifted up her arms, and a huge beaten-silver disc rose from behind the altar, dappling the temple with reflected light. At the same time, the blue-painted ceiling of the dome burst into a bright scatter of stars. The congregation joined the hymn, hailing the goddess by her two titles: Artemis Theron, Queen of Beasts, and Artemis Selene, Lady of the Moon.
This was the cue for Opis to narrate our founding story. Brutus, Prince of Troy, is wandering in exile after his city’s downfall. He finds a ruined temple to Artemis, where the goddess appears to him in a dream. She tells him to lead his followers to the island of Albion, which Brutus is to rename after himself. There he and his men battle the monstrous Gogmagoc and win the land of Britain for their own.
‘. . . coming to the river Thames, Brutus walked along the shore, and at last pitched upon a place very fit for his purpose. Here, therefore, he built a city, which he called New Troy, under which name it continued a long time after . . .’
Lulled by the familiar words, I sat back and studied the audience. Tonight’s ceremony was attended by the usual mix of politicians, B-list celebrities and minor royals. Most of the front rows were taken by the Trinovantum Council. It’s an all-male organisation, which claims to originate with the knights King Brutus appointed to protect the temple. Their leader is the Lord Herne. His job is to witness and interpret the High Priestess’s oracles; the other members raise funds and campaign for the cult.
When it came to the ritual thanksgiving, I did my best to feel grateful for the council’s good works. Still, looking out at all those well-fed faces and self-important smiles, I couldn’t help feeling that our real supporters were the ones waiting outside in the damp and the dark.
It was soon time to join them. We lit our torches at the altar fire and marched outside to the beat of a drum, the clash of cymbals and a storm of camera flashes from the crowd. The solemnity of the ceremony gav
e way to something of a party atmosphere as everyone took their places for the parade.
The order of the procession hadn’t changed for centuries. The first float always carries the image of the goddess, accompanied by Opis in her golden chariot and followed by the cult. Behind us was the Lord Herne, dressed as a huntsman with a green cloak and a crown of antlers on his head (in the Greek myths, Artemis’s companion is Orion; Herne is his Celtic counterpart). Then came a man on horseback playing the part of King Brutus, a statue of the giant Gogmagoc and a marching band. Afterwards, we’d have fireworks and a roast venison dinner. I’d been looking forward to it for weeks. We all had.
Before we could set off, however, we had to get through the Lord Herne’s speech. It seemed to go on for even longer than usual. Our torches sputtered and smoked, the firelight flickering eerily on Gogmagoc’s crazed eyes. I stood among the other handmaidens and tried to hide my shivers.
The veils weren’t much of a disguise if you knew the personalities under them. I could tell from the tilt of her head that Cally was looking down her nose. Twitchy Iphigenia kept fiddling with her sleeve. The little twins, Niobe and Chione, were standing as close together as possible. Arethusa’s veil was fixed crooked and her hem was grubby. Phoebe’s eyes kept sliding over to the boys in the crowd. At thirteen, she was the oldest after Cally and me, and I didn’t reckon she’d make it as far as initi-ation.
The person Phoebe was eyeing the most was the man acting the part of Brutus. He was young, and looked uncannily like the depiction of the king in the temple mosaics: thick bronze hair, a square pale face, broad shoulders. He must have been recently elected to the Trinovantum Council, for I hadn’t seen him before.
Phoebe adjusted her veil, accidently-on-purpose flashing a smile in his direction. Cally kicked her in the ankle with the stealth and efficiency born of long practice. I hoped people would think Phoebe’s squeal was one of excitement at the Lord Herne’s speech.
‘In times of darkness,’ he was saying, ‘we look for the light of faith –’
‘Shame!’
It took a few moments before people realised what was happening. There was a disturbance at the back of the crowd, and more shouting. ‘For shame!’ the voice bellowed again. ‘Liars and frauds!’ Tuts of disapproval turned into a babble of dismay.
A man wrestled his way towards the assembled dignitaries. He was tall and lean, with rolling dark eyes and a shock of curls. He carried a small wicker hamper in one hand, and pointed at the High Priestess with the other. ‘The Holy One sees your crimes! You have silenced her voice! Stolen the oracle!’
I flinched at the words. This, surely, would undo all the good of our prayers and fasting. I wanted to cover my eyes and ears, to shut out the blasphemy before it could infect me too.
Then the man tipped the hamper over. A knot of black ropes spilled on to the ground in front of Opis. They hissed and writhed.
Not ropes . . . snakes. A seething, slithering tangle of shiny black serpents.
Several people started screaming. The twins began to cry. Those nearest the snakes pushed and shoved each other in a panicked effort to move back. I, however, was rooted to the spot. One of the serpents had reared its head and seemed to be looking straight at me, its eyes like two drops of shining black blood. Its forked tongue licked the air; my breath choked, as if the snake’s coils were already tightening round my throat. Artemis, save us . . .
My prayer was answered. A resourceful councillor dragged over a plastic waste bin and threw it over the snakes. At the same time, the King Brutus impersonator jumped down from his horse and rugby-tackled the interloper to the ground. The man flailed about wildly, and managed to tear himself free, just for a moment. He flung himself towards Opis. I was nearest to her, and amid the shouting and panic and general confusion I was unsure whether anyone else heard him.
‘I’m warning you, Bella,’ he said. ‘You can’t go on –’
King Brutus slammed into him again and he came crashing down for a second time. Two policemen came to help and the man was dragged away, still ranting, with a bloodied nose. The crowd broke into applause.
I wanted to clap too. I felt a rush of pride in our High Priestess, so calm and so dignified.
But after the snakes were removed, the speeches finished, and we moved into line for the procession, I saw Brutus’s gold laurel wreath lying discarded on the ground. There was blood on it, from where the man had been dragged away.
Though I didn’t realise it at the time, it had been a night of omens. Sometimes the gods speak to us and we just don’t recognise the signs.
Chapter 2
The morning after the festival was shopping day. Once a month, representatives from the smart department stores are ushered into the priestesses’ sitting room to display their merchandise. There’s cooing and squealing, the rustle of tissue paper, and a tropical-scented mist from the competing perfumes sprayed in the air.
‘Girls, girls,’ scolded one of the older priestesses, as Phoebe and Iphigenia squabbled over a pair of designer sunglasses. ‘We are pagans, not savages. Only real ladies may serve the goddess.’
This was a bit of an exaggeration. Admittedly, it used to be a big deal to get accepted as a handmaiden. Deserving charity cases were occasionally taken in, but for the most part, only the crème de la crème could boast of having a priestess of Artemis in the family. These days, however, we were more of a mixed bag. Because Artemis is a virgin goddess, so are her attendants, and that kind of commitment didn’t hold much appeal in the modern age.
It was true that Phoebe’s parents were seriously posh and that Callisto’s mother was once an It Girl. But Arethusa was left here by her father, one of the bankers embroiled in the banking collapse. Last we heard, he was living off his ill-gotten gains in Brazil. Iphigenia’s dad is terminally ill; her mother asked the cult to take her in because she couldn’t cope with looking after five children on her own. The twins were orphaned in the Brighton terror attacks.
I assumed there was a similar story in my own family’s background. Bankruptcy, bereavement, breakdown. It was probably better not to know. Our pasts were wiped clean once we came here. We were given a new identity with our new names. The same names that Artemis’s priestesses had always been given, taken from her mythology and passed down through the centuries. I was the latest Aura among the hundreds, perhaps thousands, who had gone before.
And it was the name thing that was bothering me. I was thinking about it even as I was trying to decide which shade of nail polish would go best with my new turquoise sandals.
The man with the snakes hadn’t just called our High Priestess a liar and a fraud. He’d called her Bella. Her Christian name, not her pagan one. I’d heard her sister call her by it once, years ago, when she came to visit. Did that mean the madman knew Opis from her life before the cult?
Leto hobbled in as we were wrapping up our purchases. She was the oldest priestess here, wrinkled like a prune, with little wet blue eyes and a pinch as sly as Cally’s. She didn’t bother with shopping days, preferring an interchangeable selection of black velour tracksuits when she was off duty. ‘You’re wanted,’ she told me in her sourest voice. ‘Over in the palace.’
An impromptu chat with Opis wasn’t an everyday occurrence. I saw Callisto look at me, eyes narrowed.
The two of us have more or less grown up together, and the older we got, the more our rivalry had sharpened. The reason was that in three or four years’ time, Opis would retire. After she’d served her time, a High Priestess could leave the cult and would be given her own home and living allowance. Opis had had enough cosmetic procedures to look considerably younger than her real age, but after twenty years of service she’d be thinking about an election to find her successor.
The Trinovantum Council and the cult all had a vote and Cally, like me, had been sizing up the competition. Seven handmaidens, eight priestesses. The handmaidens below us would be too young; six of the priestesses were already too old. That left Atala
nta, who was fat and a giggler, and Cynthia, who’d tried to run away twice, though each time she was back within a week.
So it was between the two of us. I was the quiet and reliable one, clever at my studies, dutiful at my chores. Cally, though, had charisma. She’d tell the little girls that they were stupid and ugly and deserved to be thrown out on the streets. Later, she would relent – allow them to brush her hair or share a cookie – and they’d be giddy with joy. As for the priestesses, the younger ones were charmed in spite of themselves; the older ones thought her flighty. Old Leto screwed up her face whenever she saw her. But Leto hated everyone.
The cult was all I had ever known. My home and my identity. My family, my career. That was why I wanted to become High Priestess. I wanted to tell the stories and lead the prayers. I wanted to know the workings of the oracle and to take my place on the Trinovantum Council’s board. I wanted to retire, when I was forty or so, and have the choice of a new life . . .
Impressing the council and winning over the cult was important. But in the event of a tie Opis would cast the deciding vote. In any case, I was sure she could influence the outcome if she wanted to. That was why every meeting with her felt like an audition.
I nervously smoothed my clothes and set off across the wide lawn that separated our building, Artemisia House, from the High Priestess’s Residence. It wasn’t actually a palace, but a late-eighteenth-century town house of dark brown brick. The maid answered the bell. While she went to announce my arrival, I waited in the main reception room.
The room was lined with silver-grey silk and had little in the way of decoration. It didn’t need it. As soon as you saw the painting on the wall it was hard to notice anything else. The Death of Actaeon, by Titian.
The story goes that the hunter Actaeon surprised the goddess bathing, and in revenge she turned him into a stag so that his hounds would kill him. Titian set the scene in an autumnal wood of golden leaves and dark storm clouds. The pursuing goddess is both stern and radiant, her flesh rounded, a copper burnish in her hair. Actaeon is caught in the moment of transformation from man to beast. His body twists backwards as his own dogs tear at his flesh.