He walked on the imaginary lines that many millennia later would be perfectly delineated so that men would have a remote idea of the awe-inspiring beauty of the temple of Artemis, one of the seven wonders of the ancient world.
He could not bear the thought of being one of the crowd. He had the misfortune to be born among great geniuses, to see great works, famous builders erect sublime marbles that filled everyone with admiration, prize-winning poets sweep the prizes to the applause of the citizens.
He was part of a world in which the names of the incomparable gods were rescued and their images decorated vases and walls. He lived in a grandiose world where the legends of early times were told and written as if they were happening in the present.
He only thinks that one day he will conceive a great idea. An idea that will put him at the centre of everyone's conversations. But he doesn't just think it. He tells everyone that one day he will be famous, that his name will be heard in the rich cities and that after his death his name will be on everyone's lips.
"Centuries will pass and my name will be eternal." He said to everyone.
He began to notice that his interlocutors were hanging on his words as if waiting for more. These people were very sensitive to words, people of faith. These were times of poets, of bards who made whoever was near them weep, or laugh.
He came down from the steps of the amphitheatres, from the temples, with the haste of one who has within his soul a treasure that no one has ever seen. He feels the need to show that wealth, to show himself as the one who deserves the glory.
He is not a theatre actor, he is not a writer, he does not have the art of music, sculpture or painting. He has no idea what to do to be famous, nor was he noble. He no longer wants to converse with his contemporaries. He has seen the incredulous smiles of his friends appear when he speaks of his future glory. In his mind he rants against everyone, he feels he is living in an unjust world.
He walks, he soliloquises, he looks at the great buildings and begins to find fault with them.
"Not so precious is the temple of Artemis." He says aloud. People no longer argue with him. She just looks at him, smiles and breaks away from him.
"The sun will send me a sign. The heavens know who I am," he tells others.
He has begun to think that the gods will take pity on him, so deserving of fame and so lonely.
People are no longer surprised to see him walking, gazing perennially at the sky. It was he who sounded the alarm on that June day in 365 BC.
"It's my sign!" he shouted, excitedly.
At his voices people looked up to observe the strange phenomenon, the sun was circumscribed by an iridescent halo. Immediately the murmurs began.
"Something was not right in the abode of the gods when the sun was marked in this way." The citizens seemed to say. The city was gradually left alone. In a tacit agreement, one after another, all activities were suspended.
He stared up at the sky until the last gleam of sunlight was gone. The atmosphere was filled with the smell of the oil lamps that gave some light to the dwellings on that moonless night. He was alone, like a genius deciphering an enigma. In the distance, perched on the hill, he could see the outline of the most beautiful building in the world.
He knew it well. He had followed the retinues of kings and visitors who came to contemplate the unheard-of beauty of that goddess, sculpted in wood, covered in gold and silver. At her feet by sigloss, real treasures were left. The spaces of the temple shone with the majestic threads of precious fabrics. There are the oils in beautiful vessels born of the genius of the best goldsmiths, There are the stupendous sculptures of Polyclitus and Phidias. There are indescribable jewels and valuable manuscripts.
Then, gazing at the richest and most revered temple in the clouds, he knew how he would achieve fame. Incompetent to compete for fame by building beauty, he would go through history destroying. Who would not mention him, once he had burned the temple, after all the wealth accumulated over centuries had been lost? Who would not speak his name?
He needed no light to break through the forest of pillars, to climb like an expert thief the temple steps, nor to silently overturn the jars of oils. The night watchmen could never have imagined that an inhabitant of Ephesus would desecrate the heavenly abode to turn to ashes this spiritual bond which united them with heaven. He himself was in awe of the enormity of the act he was committing.
There he is. Watching the first flame rise. As it climbs up the stretched fabrics, towards the ceiling. There he is, feeling the temperature rise, the way the flames crackle the venerable dry woods. He knows by now that someone must have raised the alarm and he imagines the people of the city gathering to lament the ferocious spectacle of the burning temple of Artemis.
He too wants to watch it burn from the outside and goes out.
"I did it!" he thinks, enraptured.
That's how the guards seize him. That's how they take him away tied up. And so, amidst the general stupor, he steps onto the soil of his homeland. Thus, amidst the general indignation, he confesses.
His name is uttered again and again in fury and astonishment. He knows it.
What he did not know was that after confessing his motive for burning the temple all the cities of Asia Minor forbade the utterance of his name, either orally or in writing. Whoever did so faced the death penalty.
And he, who was called Erostratus, died without ever hearing his name again.
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