light that emanated from his eyes? This was Lucius’s first indication that the man who stood over him was more than an ordinary mortal.
“You’re suffering, my friend,” said the man.
“Yes.” Lucius saw no point in denying it.
“Such suffering is like a flower that blooms. It opens all at once and engages all our senses, but soon enough it fades and falls away. You will remember it always, but it will no longer be present before you. Take heart, my friend, for the time when your suffering will fade and fall away is very near.”
“Who are you?” Lucius frowned. He was still on his knees. Anyone seeing him now would assume that he was kneeling to honour the man before him, despite the fact that the man was barefoot and dressed like a beggar, wearing a threadbare, ragged tunic. Strangely, the idea did not displease Lucius. He stayed on his knees.
“My name is Apollonius. I come from Tyana. Do you know where that is?”
“In Cappadocia, I think.”
“That is correct. Have you heard of me?”
“No.”
“Good. Those who have heard of Apollonius of Tyana often have certain preconceptions about me, which I am not interested in fulfilling. What is your name, friend?”
“Lucius Pinarius. Are you some sort of wise man?” Cappadocia, with its weird desert cities carved from rock, was famous for breeding hermits and seers.
The man laughed. The sound was very pleasant. “I am whatever people choose to call me. When you know me better, Lucius Pinarius, you will decide what I am.”
“Why are you talking to me?”
“All men suffer, but no man should suffer in secret, as you do.”
“What do you know of my suffering?”
“You loved a person whom law and religion decreed you should not love, and her separation from you has caused you much pain.”
Lucius gasped. “How can you know this?”
The man smiled. There was no mockery in his smile, only gentleness. “I suppose I could put on airs of mystery and pretend that the stories about me are true – that I can read men’s minds, that I have occult means of gaining knowledge – but the truth is much simpler. I’m a visitor to Roma. Before this morning I never passed though this particular neighbourhood, but even a casual visitor will quickly be told by the locals what happened on this spot a year ago. When I observed a man standing here, clutching a rose and staring for a long time at the ground, I knew you must have had some relationship with the Vestal who was buried here. When you knelt and placed the rose so carefully, heedless of your own bleeding wound, I knew you must have loved her. Anyone with eyes could have seen this, but in such a busy spot, where everyone is passing by in such a hurry, I alone observed your suffering.”
“Who are you?” said Lucius.
“You asked me that already. I am Apollonius of Tyana.”
“No, I mean-”
“Here, why don’t you stand, my friend?” Apollonius offered his hand. “Let’s take a walk.”
Lucius said little. He listened to Apollonius, who spoke of his travels. Apollonius talked about these journeys in an offhand way, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world for a man to have gone to Egypt to learn what the priests there could teach him about the hieroglyphs on the ancient tombs, and to Ethiopia to meet the naked sages who live at the source of the Nile, and even all the way to India to consort with the fabled wise men of the Ganges.
A light rain began to fall. They had wandered into an area of fine homes on the Quirinal Hill. Lucius was looking for a tavern or eatery where they might take refuge when Apollonius noticed that the door of a nearby house was open. He cocked his head.
“Do you hear that?” he said.
“I hear nothing,” said Lucius.
“No? I distinctly hear the sound of weeping, coming from that house.” Apollonius walked towards the open door.
“What are you doing?” said Lucius.
“Going inside. Where there is weeping, there is need for comfort.”
“Do you know these people?”
“I’ve never been on this street before in my life. But all streets and all people are the same. Once a man knows that, he is a stranger nowhere.”
Apollonius stepped inside the house. Against his better judgement, Lucius followed him.
Beyond the vestibule, in the atrium, a drizzling rain fell from the open skylight into a shallow pool. Beyond the pool, on the tile floor, lay the body of a young woman. She wore a white bridal gown with a purple sash around her waist. Gathered around the body were several women, all dressed for a wedding. They looked stunned. Some quietly wept. Farther back stood a group of men who looked helpless and confused.
How had Apollonius heard the sound of the women weeping, when Lucius had not? For an old man, his hearing was very acute, thought Lucius.
Apollonius looked down at the young woman. “Is this her wedding day?” he said.
One of the kneeling women looked up. There was an expression of shock on her face. “Yes. This is my daughter’s wedding day – and the gods see fit to strike her down!”
“What happened?” said Apollonius.
The woman shook her head. “We were organizing the procession to set out for the bridegroom’s house. We were in her room and I was tying the sash around her waist, and she complained I was pulling too tight. She said she couldn’t breathe. But the sash wasn’t too tight; I slipped a finger under it to show her. Still, she couldn’t catch her breath. She said her face felt hot. A servant told us it was raining. Without a word she pulled away from me and ran here, to the pool. I thought she wanted to cool her face. I told her she mustn’t get her gown wet, and then… she collapsed. She fell, just as you see her now.”
“Perhaps she only sleeps.”
“She has no heartbeat! She isn’t breathing!”
“Alas,” whispered Apollonius. He looked intently at the girl, then at the huddled women. He waved his hands before him – to get their attention, Lucius thought, but then the old man continued to move his hands, making signs in the air. Apollonius had the full attention of everyone in the room, including the men who stood farther back. They all stared at him. The women who had been weeping were now silent.
“Stand back,” said Apollonius.
Without a word, the women drew back. Apollonius circled the pool and knelt beside the girl. He put one hand on her forehead and passed the other hand over her body, not touching her. He whispered inaudible words.
Apollonius snapped his fingers. In the quiet room, where the only other sound was the fall of drizzling raindrops on the pool, the noise echoed like the breaking of a small branch. He paused, then snapped his finger twice more.
The girl shuddered, drew a deep breath, and let out a sigh. She opened her eyes, “Where am I?” she said.
Her mother cried out. The women gasped, uttered exclamations of thanksgiving, and shed tears of relief.
Some of the men began to weep as well. One of them stepped forward.
“Stranger, you brought my daughter back to life!” The man was giddy with joy.
“Your daughter is indeed alive, but I am no stranger. I am Apollonius of Tyana.”
“How did you work such a miracle? What god did you call upon?”
Apollonius shrugged. “I merely spoke to your daughter. ‘Awake, young woman!” I said. ‘The rain is about to stop, and you shall be late for your wedding. Breathe deeply and awake!’ And then, as you saw, she woke. What girl wants to be late for her own wedding?”
“But how can I repay you? Here, you must take these.” The father fetched a pair of drinking cups. “Solid silver,” he said, “decorated with bits of lapis. And not just any lapis, but the special variety flecked with gold that comes only from Bactria.”
