Imaginary LIves Read online

  Like a king of heaven, Empedocles was robed in purple and girdled with gold, while the Pythagorians wore thin linen tunics and shoes of papyrus. He knew how to drive away rheums, they said, how to heal sores and how to draw the evil from afflicted limbs. They begged him to make the storms cease, so he conjured with tempests from a crest of the hills. At Selinus he turned two streams into the bed of a third and stemmed a flood; then the people of that place adored him, raising a temple in his honour and striking coins on which his image appeared face to face with the image of Apollo.

  Others pretended he was a wizard instructed by Persian magicians; that he possessed the power of necromancy and the science of those herbs which render men mad. One day as he dined with Anchitos, a madman rushed into the hail, sword upraised. Empedocles stretched out his arms, chanting the Homeric verse on the nepenthe of forgetfulness, and a spell descended over the madman until he stood there rigid, blade in air, forgetting his dementia as if he had drunk sweet poison mixed with sparkling wine.

  The afflicted came to Empedocles outside the cities, where he was often surrounded by a crowd of miserable folk. Women mingled in the following and kissed the hem of his precious mantle. One of those women was called Panthea, daughter of a noble of Agrigentum. She was to have been consecrated to Artemis, but she fled the cold statue of the goddess, vowing her virginity to Empedocles. No one ever witnessed their affection, for Empedocles preserved a divine detachment, speaking always in epic meter with the dialect of Jonia, while the people of Agrigentum knew only the Dorian. All his gestures were sacred; when he met with men it was to bless or cure them. Usually he remained silent. None who followed him ever saw him sleep; they knew him only as a majestic being.

  Panthea dressed in fine wool and gold, her hair arranged after the rich mode of Agrigentum, where life ran smooth. A red strophe supported her breasts and her sandals were perfumed. As for the rest of her, she was tall and fine and her colour was desirable. It is impossible to be sure that Empedocles loved her, but he pitied her. Soon a breath of Asia brought the plague to those Sicilian fields. Many were touched by the black fingers of the pest, and fallen beasts strewed the edge of the prairie where they could be seen beside the carcasses of sheep, dead with their mouths gaping toward the heavens and their ribs sticking out white and dry through their sides. Stricken by this malady, Panthea fell at Empedocles’ feet and breathed no more. Those who were near raised her stiffening limbs to bathe them with spirits and aromatics. They loosed the red strophe from her young breasts, winding a funereal band in its place.

  Her mouth, lips slightly parted, was sealed by a tight bandage. Her deep eyes no longer mirrored the light.

  Empedocles gazed down at her where she lay.

  He took the golden circlet from his forehead and he touched her with it. He placed the garland of prophetic laurel on her breast, chanting unknown verses of the soul’s migration. And three times he commanded her to rise and to walk; then the people were filled with terror. At his third command Panthea left the kingdom of shadows, life came into her body and she rose to her feet, all swathed as she was in the cloths of the tomb. And the people saw that Empedocles had power to recall the dead.

  Pysianactes, father of Panthea, now adored the new god. Long tables were spread under the trees of his estate, where a feast of wines and viands was offered. By the side of Empedocles slaves held up great torches, while heralds proclaimed him as did the solemn mystery of his own deep silence.

  Suddenly, at the third watch of the night, the torches sputtered out and darkness enveloped the worshippers. Then a strong voice called, “Empedocles!” When the lights burned once more Empedocles was gone. Men never saw him again.

  A frightened slave told how he had watched a red flare cut the night near Etna’s summit. At the first dull gleam of dawn the worshippers climbed the sterile slopes of the mountain. Jets of fire were still darting like tongues from the volcano’s crater.

  In the porous lava on the brink of the burning abyss, they found a brazen sandal writhen by the flames.

  EROSTRAT

  Incendiary

  With her two river harbours the city of Ephesus, birthplace of Herostratos, stretched across the mouth of the Cayster as far as Panorama Quay.

  From there the shores of Samos could be seen in a misty line along the dark sea horizon. Wealthy in gold, in stuffs and in roses, Ephesus prospered now, since the Magnesians with their dogs of war and their javelineers had been vanquished on the banks of the Meander, and Miletus the Magnificent destroyed by the Persians.

  Relaxed during these days of peace, Ephesus feted courtesans in the temple of Aphrodite Hetaira.

  Citizens arrayed themselves in tunics of amorgine, in transparent garments of spun linen tinted violet, purple and crocodile green. They wore sarapides the colour of yellow apples or white or rose, and Egyptian fabrics in 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 W
ay 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 of the world. Alone among men, he would be king, philosopher and God in one.

  Moonless came the night of July 21 in the year 356, and the passions of Herostratos rose at that hour pitch upon pitch until they crystallized his old resolve to violate the shrine of Artemis. Up the tangled mountainside he crept, reaching the banks of the Cayster, then climbing by slow, painful degrees to the temple, where guardian priests slept beside their holy lamps. Seizing one of those lamps Herostratos strode on into the Naos. A heavy odour of spikenard rose before the glistening ebony balconies; a curtain, gold and purple threaded, hid the goddess. Passing this barrier Herostratos halted, trembling with excitement, as the light from his lamp fell upon the two erect breasts of the terrible cone... next, his two hands were around the divinity in one long feverish embrace. When he arose at last he saw the little green treasure chest shaped like a pyramid. Catching hold of the brass spikes he swung open the door of it, plunging his fingers deep in virgin gems. But he drew forth only the papyrus scroll bearing the verses of Heraclitus.

  And there, under the glow of the sacred lamps, he learned it all.

  His first eager look was enough. Before his eyes had left the ancient words his voice lifted in a shrill cry, “The fire, the fire!”

  Touched by the flame of his lamp, the sacred veils burned slowly until the red tongues reached the perfumed oils and ointments. Then they flared up blue to the ceiling while the dread cone reflected the scene.

  The fire mounted quickly to the capitals of the columns, creeping along the paneled vaulting overhead. One by one the golden plaques inscribed with attributes to the glory of Artemis fell crashing to the stones below. A crimson spout broke through the roof; the brazen tiles reflected it until the whole mountain was alight. And Herostratos stood up in the red glare, shouting his name aloud against the roar of the flames and the darkness.

  All the sacred mount became a red pile in the midst of the night. When the guards caught Herostratos they were obliged to gag him to prevent him from shrieking his name again and again.

  Bound and gagged, he was thrown into a dungeon while the fire burned on.

  Artaxerxes sent immediate orders for his trial by torture. Little was learned, for he admitted nothing save what has already been told. The twelve cities of Ionia issued a decree forbidding the pronunciation of his name through all future ages under penalty of death, but the whisper of it has persisted even to us. The story of that night when Herostratos ravaged the temple of Ephesus was handed down through Alexander, King of Macedonia.

  CRATES

  Cynic

  Born at Thebes, he was a disciple of Diogenes and he also knew Alexander. From his father, a wealthy man named Ascondas, he inherited two hundred talents. Then one day, while attending a tragedy by Euripides, he beheld a vision. He saw Telephy, King of Mysia, dressed in beggar’s rags with a basket in his hand. So Crates stood up on his feet there in the theatre, declaring he would give the two hundred talents of his inheritance to all who wanted the money. Henceforth, he said, the garb of King Telephy would suffice him. Shaking with laughter, the Thebans troop before his house where they found him laughing even louder than they. After throwing all his money and furniture out of the windows he took up a plain cloak and leather sack and went away.

  He went to Athens. In that city he spent his days walking the streets and his nights crouching against dirty walls. He put the doctrines of Diogenes into practice, all except the barrel. Crates thought even the barrel a superfluous dwelling. For a man, he contended, is neither a snail nor a Bernardine hermit.

  He lived stark naked in the filth of the streets, filling his sack with dry crusts, rancid olives, and fish bones. He called the sack his city, a city without parasites or courtesans, he said, but a fine storehouse of thyme, garlic, figs, and bread for its king. So Crates carried his kingdom on his back and it fed him.

  Though he never took part in public affairs, he never criticized them. He launched no insults nor did he approve this trait in Diogenes. Diogenes would call out, “Men, come to me!”, then rap them with his cane when they came, saying, “I called for men, not excrements!”

  Crates was kind to men. He reproached them with nothing. Sores and wounds he knew, and his greatest regret was that his body were not supple like a dog’s so that he might lick them. He also deplored the necessity of nourishing himself with food and drink, for man, he thought, should be sufficient unto himself, asking no aid from the world. At any rate, he never hunted for water to wash in, being content to scratch himself against the walls after seeing how the asses did it. He seldom spoke of gods or questioned them. What difference did it make, said he, if there were gods or none, knowing as he did how little they could do for him. At first he reproached these divinities with having turned men’s faces toward heaven, thus depriving them of the faculties enjoyed by animals on all fours. Since these gods have decided that we must eat to live, thought Crates, they might better have turned our faces to the earth where food is, instead of twisting them up in the air to graze on the stars.

  Life was not kind to Crates. His eyes grew bleary, exposed as they continually were to the acrid dusts of Attica, and an unknown skin plague covered his body with sores. While he scratched himself with his uncut nails he observed the twofold profit, as he called it, of wearing down these nails to their proper length while relieving his itch at the same time. He let his hair grow in a neglected mat on his head to protect him from the rain and sun.

  When Alexander came to see him he flung no sharp gibes at the conqueror whom he considered merely as one with the spectators, acknowledging no difference between king and crowd. Crates no longer formed opinions about the great. Only men interested him, men and the problems of living his life as simply as possible. Diogenes with his chiding made Crates laugh no less than the pretensions of moral reformers. Holding himself infinitely above such sordid cares, he transcribed the maxim from the Delphian temple to read, “See Thyself”, and the idea of any knowledge whatsoever he thought absurd. He studied his bodily necessities, nothing more, striving always to reduce them to their simplest terms. Dog-like, Diogenes snapped at life, but Crates lived as the dogs lived.

  He had a disciple named Metrocles, a wealthy young man from Marona. Hipparchia, sister of Metrocles, fell in love with Crates. Beautiful and aristocratic as she was, she was certainly the smitten one for she sought the cynic out. It seemed impossible but it was true, and nothing could turn her from him, neither his filthiness, nor his poverty, nor the horror of his public life. He warned her how he lived in the streets like a dog, scrambling for bones in the stench of gutters. He warned her further. If she came to him, he said, nothing of their life together should be hidden. He would want her publicly whenever desire prompted, as the dogs do among dogs. Hipparchia heard all. She declared she would end her own life if her parents interfered, so they let her go. She left the village of Marona with her hair unbound, a single ragged garment covering her nakedness. From that day she lived with Crates and dressed as he dressed. It has been said that she bore him one child, and that the child was named Pasicles, though nothing authentic can be found of that incident.

  Hipparchia was kind to the poor. Compassionate, she soothed the sick with her hands, cleansing their bloody wounds without repugnance. To her men became as sheep are to sheep or dogs to dogs. When nights were cold she and Crates slept close to other poor folk, sharing the warmth of their bodies. From the beasts they learned the wordless kindnesses of beasts. When men approached they held no
preferences... they were men and that sufficed.

  We know nothing more of Crates’ wife; we are not told when she died or how. Metrocles, her brother, admired the cynic and imitated him, but Metrocles lacked tranquillity. Troubled continually by a flatulency he could not control, he resolved upon suicide. Learning of his ailment Crates went to him after first eating a quantity of lupine. When Metrocles confessed himself no longer able to support the disgrace of his infirmity, the cynic showed his disciple how all men are submitted by nature to the same evil. Upbraiding him because he had dared to be ashamed of others, Crates led Metrocles away and they lived long together in the streets of Athens, Hipparchia undoubtedly beside them. They talked little but were ashamed of nothing. When they lapped water from a puddle with the dogs the dogs respected them. They must have fought together over scraps of food, though the biographers fail to mention it. Crates died old, we know. We know he ended his days squatting among bales of goods in a shed belonging to a shopkeeper from Pirus, and that he finally refused to move from that spot even to pick up scraps of meat. We know he was found there one day starved to death.

  SEPTIMA

  Enchantress

  Septima was a slave under the African sun in the city of Hadrumetum. Her mother, Amna, was a slave, and the mother of her mother all had been slaves, beautiful and unknown, to whom the dark gods had revealed the spells of love and of death.

  Hadrumetum was a city of white houses, though the one where Septima lived was built of pink stones, the trembling tint of roses, while the garden paths were set with shells from Egypt, washed away by the tepid sea, where the seven deltas of the Nile spread out forming seven vases of different colours.