Imaginary LIves Read Free Page B

hyacinth shades, shot with flame hues and the changing tints of the sea. Their Persian calasiris were of finest crinkled tissues besprinkled with clusters of tiny golden beads.
    On the banks of the Cayster between Mount Prion and another lofty cliff, stood the great temple of Artemis, built after one hundred and twenty years of labor. The porches were of ebony and cypress, the heavy supporting columns were red, and tall paintings ornamented the inner walls. The shrine room of the goddess was little and oval; in the centre, graven with lunar symbols in gold, rose a huge black cone hewn out of solid rock. The triangular altar was of this same material as were several tables, these last being pierced with holes at regular spaces to drain the blood of sacrificial victims. Beside the tables hung broad golden hilted blades of steel for slitting human throats, and the floor was strewn with bloody cloths. The black idol was carved in the form of two great breasts, hard and pointed. Such was Diana of Ephesus, her ancient divinity lost in the darkness of Egyptian tombs and Persian ritual. The treasure of the temple was secreted in a small coffer shaped like a miniature pyramid with brass-studded doors.
    There, among precious rings, coins and rubies, lay the manuscript of Heraclitus, prophet of the reign of fire. With his own hands the old philosopher had deposited the scroll at the base of the pyramid while the mason builders were still at work.
    The mother of Herostratos was a proud, harsh woman. His father’s identity never became known, and Herostratos finally declared he had been sired by the fire. The crescent birth mark under his left breast seemed certainly to blaze like a living flame on the night he was tortured. Those who assisted at his birth predicted his devotion to Artemis. Dark, swarthy, his face strangely lined, from childhood days he loved to walk along the towering cliffs beneath the temple. He was ineligible for the priesthood, being of uncertain race, and several times the sacerdotal college warned him away from the Naos where he lurked, watching his chance to draw back the heavy sacred veils and behold the forbidden deity. He grew to hate her. He made a secret vow to violate her shrine.
    To him his own name seemed comparable with no other, while his very physical being must be superior, he thought, to the rest of humanity. He wanted fame. At first he joined a group of philosophers who professed to teach the doctrines of Heraclitus, but the secret was not theirs, he knew.
    While it remained locked in the little pyramid with the temple treasure, Herostratos could only guess at the words of the master. He hardened himself to scorn the luxurious life of the city; courtesans and their loves disgusted him. It was said that he preserved his purity for the goddess, but Artemis had no pity. In time he began to appear dangerous to the College of Gerousia, guardians of the temple, so with the satrap’s permission they banished him beyond the city gates, where he took up his abode on the slopes of Koressos, in an old cave hollowed out by the ancient people. Some authorities have believed that Persian initiates came to him while he sat there through the nights, watching the far-off flare of the sacred lamps on the temple of Artemis, but his destiny was more probably revealed to him in a blazing vision. During his trial by torture he told how the meaning of the word Heraclitus ( The Way To Above ) had flashed full and sudden upon his understanding, and how philosophy had taught him that the finest quality of the spirit is quickest tinder to the fire. His own spirit, he said, was in that sense perfect, therefore he had wished to proclaim it. For his action he gave no other reason than desire for fame and the joy of hearing his own name. His reign and his alone, he declared, would remain absolute.
    Herostratos had been crowned by Herostratos. None knew his father... he was the son of his own labour and his labour was the essence