I East of Eden Once upon a time in Iran, there was a city that gave men butterflies. Centuries before the ayatollah, before the shah--before even Muhammad and Jesus Christ shook up their respective corners of the Middle East--the emperors of Persia had built one of the most magnificent capital cities the world had ever known. It was called Persepolis--literally, the "city of Persians." And such was its reputation that even the mightiest of princes, as they saw it coming slowly into view after days and weeks of trekking across the desert, could feel themselves reduced to nervous wrecks. Once a year, in ancient times--on the first day of spring--rulers of the twenty-eight great kingdoms that Persia had conquered were expected to journey to Persepolis to pay tribute to their lord and master, the "King of Kings." And they never failed to carry out this duty. From the Mediterranean city of Sardis would come the obscenely wealthy kings of Lydia, carrying all the riches of Croesus to lay at the feet of the shah. From Memphis and Alexandria came Egyptian nobles, their Nubian slaves in tow.

From the hills of Bactria, the "emperor of a thousand cities" brought his camels laden with gold. Timidly they would all climb the enormous staircase to the Apadana Palace and walk through the fabled Gate of All Nations, hoping what they had brought would prove worthy of their overlord, the Persian emperor. Hoping he would have mercy this year and not reduce their meager satrapies to weeping hillocks of rubble. At its height in the fifth century B.C., the Persian Empire ruled over 60 million of the world''s 100 million people--making Persepolis, for all intents and purposes, the capital city of all humanity. And anyone who laid eyes on this fabled city could not fail to come away in awe of its power and opulence. Great stone columns, capped by winged bulls, soared into the sky at the entrance to every ceremonial building.

Palaces and throne rooms, overflowing with jewels and sumptuous furnishings, shimmered in the midday sun. Tombs of ancient emperors, chiseled into the surrounding cliffs, loomed dramatically over the landscape below. It was the kind of place one had to see to believe--a city designed to strike reverence into the hearts of visitors and remind them of their own insignificance before the mightiest empire the world had ever known. Like so many other imperial projects, the famous "city of Persians" long ago went the way of all souls. Burned and pillaged by Alexander the Great and his army of conquering Greeks in 330 B.C. (legend has it they required three thousand camels to cart away all its gold and jewels), its columns still reach proudly into the cloudless blue sky, in one of the most remote and unpopulated corners of Iran. Today, though, it is not Sogdian princes but busloads of tourists--Japanese, Germans, occasionally even Americans--who are driven across the vast, hot, and flat Morqab Plain to pay their tribute.

As they approach the ruins of Persepolis, they marvel, just as the Elamites and the Babylonians once did, at a city that seems to rise out of nowhere--the final punctuation mark at the end of a merciless expanse of dust. And as modern visitors scramble among ancient tombs and statues, snapping pictures and admiring what is left of the palaces of Darius and Xerxes, they often notice, just off to the side, a rusting metal grandstand--rows of empty spectator seating rising like bleachers at a high school football field. These are the ruins of a much more recent emperor. In October 1971 the Shah of Iran--Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, King of Kings, Light of the Aryans, Imperial Majesty and Commander-in-Chief of four hundred thousand fearsome (if somewhat modernized) Persian warriors--chose Persepolis as the backdrop for one of the most audacious, expensive, and self-indulgent spectacles of the modern era: celebrations marking the 2,500-year anniversary of the Iranian monarchy. Attempting to replicate the rituals of Persian emperors from centuries past, he summoned the world''s most powerful leaders before the Apadana Palace and asked them to marvel at the greatness of his "empire." Only this time Iran was picking up the tab. Ten kings, twenty-one princes and princesses, nine sheikhs, two sultans, a grand duke, a cardinal, sixteen presidents, three prime ministers, and four vice presidents were flown into Shiraz and transported--some by helicopter and some in red Mercedes limousines--across the desert to Persepolis, where four full days of feasting awaited them. Princess Grace of Monaco, King Hussein of Jordan, President Nikolai Podgorny of the USSR, Vice President Spiro Agnew of the United States--all mingled among balls and banquets, parades and performances, and a light and sound show described by observers as the "world''s greatest fireworks display.

" At least six hundred journalists were also flown in, together with their satellite trucks and cameras, so that no corner of the globe would be deprived of its chance to witness the historic occasion. The shah did not cut corners. The legendary French hotelier Max Blouet was persuaded to come out of retirement to coordinate the event. Catering was provided by Maxim''s of Paris, which closed its doors two weeks early to prepare for the feast. Thirty cooks, 150 waiters, twenty-two tons of provisions--including such precious cargo as freshly picked raspberries--were all flown in from Paris on a fleet of jumbo jets. Five thousand bottles of wine and champagne were sent to Iran a month early, to give them time to settle and adjust to the climate. At the gala banquet, the menu, Maxim''s finest, included quail eggs stuffed with caviar, crayfish mousse, and rack of lamb with truffles--all washed down with a 1945 Ch'teau Lafitte Rothschild. The main course, "imperial peacock," was roasted and stuffed with foie gras and served "surrounded by its court" of jellied quail.

Ninety-two of the regal birds were arranged along the banquet table, their tail feathers fully spread, to symbolize the magnificence of the Peacock Throne (the traditional seat of Iranian monarchs since 1739). The five-and-a-half-hour feast went down in the Guinness Book of Records as the longest and most lavish in modern history. And this wasn''t the half of it. To ensure the comfort of the shah''s guests, they were housed in what were modestly described as "tents"--luxury air-conditioned apartments covered in blue and gold cloth, designed by Jansen of Paris (famous for its renovations of Buckingham Palace and the White House). Each "tent" boasted two bedrooms, two marble bathrooms, servants'' quarters, a kitchenette, and three telephone lines. The main banquet tent, meanwhile, was stuffed with Louis XV furniture, crystal chandeliers, and a 235-foot mahogany dining table. Special tents with casino and gaming tables were set up, along with sixteen hair salons staffed by beauticians from Elizabeth Arden and other leading Paris houses--all flown in to help guests look their best for each night''s festivities. No one ever found out how much all this feasting and festoonery ended up costing Iran.

The shah''s defenders suggested impossibly low figures around $4 million and claimed most of it came from "private business contributions," while his detractors threw around equally outlandish figures in the hundreds of millions (close to $2 billion in today''s money). But whatever the exact figure, it did not look good. As French waiters poured liters of claret into the goblets of kings, in the eastern province of Sistan-Baluchistan, severe food shortages were driving villagers to the brink of famine. Even in Fars Province, where Persepolis was located, there had been reports of malnutrition, and the shah found himself facing awkward questions from the international press corps. At a Tehran news conference, a Swedish journalist asked him pointedly if he knew how much all the festivities were going to cost. "Do you know how much a kilo of meat and a kilo of bread cost?" the shah replied, just as pointedly. The journalist shook his head. "So why are you asking me?" the shah sniffed.

American journalists were a little gentler with the shah. In the United States, where the appetite for imperial pomp and pageantry was limitless, the Persepolis celebrations were met with squeals of delight. The Los Angeles Times reported that "there isn''t likely to be [a celebration] to match it for another 25 centuries." The normally sedate New York Times marveled that "some of the emeralds in [Empress Farah''s] crown were the size of golf balls. Her diamonds were only slightly smaller." The entire event was broadcast via satellite, and hosted by a young Barbara Walters on NBC, to an estimated audience of 10 million Americans. Orson Welles narrated the official documentary, Flames of Persia. And the U.

S. chargé d''affaires in Tehran congratulated the event''s organizer, telling him it was "the best exercise in public relations" he had ever seen. The shah lapped it all up. Prideful, insecure, plagued by demons few around him fully understood, and constantly concerned with demonstrating the prestige of his ancient throne, the fifty-two-year-old monarch was never more at home than when he was basking in the praise of his American friends. And at Persepolis in 1971, he was in his element. Surveying the grounds majestically, like a schoolmaster peering through his spectacles with his famously stern and piercing eyes, puffed up with pride like the peacocks on the banquet tables as he welcomed one king after another to his desert encampment, the shah glowed with satisfaction. This was his roost. He ruled it--with a degree of absolute, unquestioned power that few of his predecessors had ever managed to summon.

And he was happy to let the world know it. Ten years later he was dead. A.