Authors: Laura Powell
Goddess
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
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.
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 gave 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.