Empire

AD 93

Reclining in the shade of his garden on a hot afternoon in the month of Augustus, Lucius reflected on the unexpected path his life had taken over the last two years.

The punishment of Cornelia had marked a low point in his life. Existence had lost all meaning. His taste for life had vanished. Nothing brought him pleasure. Was he in pain? If so, his pain was not a sharp agony – a reminder that he was alive – but a dull, hollow sensation, like a foretaste of death. He was stripped of all emotion. He did not loathe the world or hate the people in it; he felt nothing.

Now, all that had changed. His time of utmost despair was in the past. Once again he was able to take enjoyment from simple pleasures – the bright colours and sweet fragrances of flowers in his garden, the cheerful songs of birds, the humming of bees, the warm sunshine on his face, the cooling breeze on his fingertips. He was alive again – fully alive, not merely existing, experiencing each moment as it occurred. He was conscious of himself and accepting of the world in which he lived. He had attained a state of contentment that he had never before thought possible.

His newfound peace was due to one man: the Teacher.

What had his life been like before he met the Teacher? Lucius recalled his frequent visits to the house of Epaphroditus over the years. Friendship had been the main reason for those visits, but he had also been seeking wisdom. But after the death of Cornelia, Martial’s wit no longer amused him, and Lucius found the poet’s ties to the emperor intolerable. The philosophy of Epictetus seemed bland and insubstantial. Nor did the letters Lucius received from Dio convey any sense of enlightenment. Lucius’s visits to the house of Epaphroditus grew less and less frequent. The unanswered letters from Dio piled up on the table in his study.

Yet, even at the deepest point of his despair, Lucius had continued to seek comfort and enlightenment. Turning away from his circle of friends, for a while he had studied the more esoteric modes of belief available to a curious man in Roma. Of these, there were a great many; every cult in the empire eventually found adherents and proselytizers in Roma. As Epaphroditus had once told him, people were capable of believing anything; the startling array of religions practised in the city was proof of that. Lucius even investigated the much-despised cult of the Christians, of which his uncle Kaeso had been a member, but found it no more interesting than any of the other cults.

He had also made a study of astrology, since so many people held such store by it. But the fatalistic nature of it had only made him more despondent. The astrologers taught that every aspect of a man’s life was determined in advance by powers unimaginably larger than himself; within that predestined fate a man had very little leeway to affect the course of his life. What was the point of knowing that a certain day was ill-omened if one could do nothing to reverse the tide of events? A man could hope to propitiate a temperamental god, but nothing could be done to alter the influence of the stars – if indeed such an influence existed. For although wiser men than himself considered astrology a science and devoted great study to it, Lucius was unimpressed by all the charts derived from ancient texts and the endless tables full of esoteric symbols. He had a uneasy suspicion that astrology was a fraud. Certainly, astrologers had carefully observed the heavens and had learned to predict the movements of the celestial bodies with considerable accuracy, but the rest of the so-called science – determining precisely how those celestial bodies affected human existence – seemed a mere invention to Lucius, a compendium of nonsense contrived by men who understood no more about the secret workings of the universe than did anyone else.

Philosophy, exotic religions, astrology – Lucius had been open to them all, but none had provided him with any sense of purpose or enlightenment. None had relieved the emptiness he felt at the core of his being.

Then, he met the Teacher, and everything changed.

It happened on the first anniversary of the day Cornelia was buried alive.

For a long time Lucius had been dreading that day, knowing that when it arrived he would be able to think of nothing else. That morning he woke early. He had no appetite. He put on a plain tunic and left his house. For hours he walked aimlessly all over the city, lost in memories. Eventually he found himself standing before the house on the Esquiline where he had met with Cornelia so many times over the years. He had sold the house, quickly and for less than its value, only a few days after her interment, thinking that he would never want to step inside it again. Now he stood before it in the street, longing to go in, to stand in the vestibule and remember the sight of her face across the room, to smell again the jasmine in the small garden where they had made love.

The door of the house opened. A mother and her young daughter stepped out, followed by a slave carrying a basket for a trip to the markets. The spell was broken, and Lucius moved on.

Inevitably, he found himself at the Colline Gate, standing exactly where he had stood when he saw her last, before the entrance to the sealed underground chamber. In his hand he held a single rose, the symbol of love, and also of secrecy. He could not remember where he had gotten it; he must have bought it from a vendor. He clutched it so carelessly that a thorn had pricked his palm; he did not feel the wound, but saw a trickle of blood run down his fingers.

The moment felt unreal, dream-like. He found himself kneeling at the very spot where the stone had been covered over. As one might place a garland on a sepulchre, he placed the rose on the beaten earth. Blood dripped from his fingers.

A shadow fell across him. He imagined that he had been observed by some disapproving magistrate and that a lictor stood over him. But the outline of the shadow was not that of a soldier. He looked up to see a small man with a long white beard. The sun was directly behind the man’s head, making his unruly hair into a wispy halo. His features were surprisingly youthful for a man with snow-white hair, and deeply tanned – the sunburned face of a traveller, or a man without a home. His eyes were bright blue and appeared to sparkle; later, Lucius would realized this was impossible, since the sun was behind the man’s head and his face was in shadow. From whence came the 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.”

“The workmanship is exquisite,” said Apollonius.

“They were to be a gift to my daughter and her new husband. But here, I want you to have them.”

Apollonius laughed. “What use have I for cups, when I never drink wine?”

“Drink water from them, then!” The man grinned. “Or sell them. Buy yourself a tunic with no holes in it!”

Apollonius shrugged. “A few more holes in this garment, and I shall be as splendidly arrayed as the naked sages of Ethiopia.”

The man looked puzzled but was so happy that he burst out laughing.

“I see that your daughter is on her feet again,” said Apollonius. “Go to her. She won’t be yours for much longer. You should enjoy every precious moment.”

“Precious, indeed!” said the man. “How precious I never knew until this day. Thank you, Apollonius of Tyana! May the gods bless you!” The man joined his wife, who was making a great fuss over their daughter.

Amid the hubbub, Apollonius discreetly withdrew. Lucius followed. On the way out, they passed a young Vestal who was just arriving to take her place in the procession. The sight of her sent a chill through Lucius. In the street he had to pause to collect himself. Apollonius stood by, observing him with a sympathetic smile.

“I don’t understand what happened in there,” Lucius finally said. “Was the girl dead or not?”

“Ah, wedding days! They bring out a great deal of emotion in people.”

“Are you saying they only imagined she was dead?”

Apollonius shrugged. “I suspect they were less observant than they might have been. People often are. Did you notice, for example, how the women near the misty drizzle exuded a faint but visible vapour with each exhalation?”

“Are you saying you observed such a vapour coming from the girl’s nostrils?”

“I saw what there was to see. My eyes see no more and no less than those of other men.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow. “You did something with your hands. They all watched. Did you bewitch them somehow?”

“I made them take notice of me, and when I asked them to move aside, they did so. Does that sound like magic to you?”

Lucius crossed his arms. “Those cups he offered you were quite beautiful. Quite valuable, too, I imagine.”

“I had no use for them.”

“Nonsense! As the man said, you could have sold them. Those cups would have paid for three months’ lodging in a nice apartment on the Aventine.”

“But I never pay for lodging.”

“No?”

“I always stay with friends.”

“Who are you staying with now?”

“With you, of course!” Apollonius laughed.

His laughter was infectious. Lucius felt his suspicions of the man fade away. He began to laugh, too, and realized that it was the first time he had done so in more than a year.

So began his relationship with the Teacher.

Apollonius did not ask Lucius to call him the Teacher; that was Lucius’s decision. As Apollonius told him at their first meeting, “I am whatever people choose to call me… you will decide what I am.”

Apollonius was not a teacher in any traditional way. He did not cite authorities and recite from texts, as Lucius’s boyhood tutors had done. He did not construct edifices of logic leading to rational conclusions, like Epictetus did. He did not tell stories that led to some moral or theological conclusion, like the man-god of the Christians did. He did not create charts and diagrams or write long treatises, like the astrologers did. And he certainly claimed no special status for himself or any special connection to the gods, as did the priests of the state religion. Apollonius simply rose from his bed each morning and went about his day. He visited old friends and made new ones. By the example of his behaviour, he showed that a man could move through the world without vanity or fear, never showing anger or despair, envious of no one, wanting for nothing.

When asked, Apollonius would state his opinions and preferences, but he never expounded on these to offer proof, and he never insisted that others should agree with him. He professed to believe in the gods, but only as shadowy manifestations of a higher, all-encompassing principle, and he claimed no special relationship with this principle beyond that which belonged to all living things, which were equally a part of the Divine Unity and had equal access to the blessings that radiated, like sunshine, from that being. “I am to that deity as I am to the sun, and so are you,” he would say. “I am no closer than you; it warms me no more than it warms you; it sheds no more light before me. Its blessing are for all, equally and in endless abundance.”

Often, it seemed to Lucius that Apollonius behaved in ways contradictory to what other men called common sense. When Lucius would question these seemingly perverse actions, Apollonius would patiently explain himself; even so, Lucius could not always understand the Teacher’s words. But Lucius was ceaselessly amazed by the Teacher’s unfailing equanimity, and he came to trust the man implicitly. Even when Lucius could not follow Apollonius’s reasoning, he strove to emulate the Teacher as best he could, and to accept on faith that a fuller understanding might someday come to him.

Apollonius did not drink wine. Intoxication did not bring a man closer to the deity, he said, but interposed a veil of illusion. Lucius followed his example.

Apollonius did not eat meat, saying that all life was sacred, including that of animals. Nor did he wear anything made from an animal; there were no scraps of leather, bones, or ivory on his person. Lucius followed this example as well, and, like Apollonius, he came to see the slaying of animals as no different from the slaying of men. Men did not kill other men for food or for hides; nor should they kill animals. And just as civilized men had long ago given up the religious practice of human sacrifice, so it was time for men to give up animal sacrifice; the slaying of a beast could be no more pleasing to the gods than the slaying of a child. As for the killing of animals in the arena for sport, that was sheer cruelty and, if anything, was worse than the killing of humans for sport, for the animals did not possess speech and could not beg for mercy. Lucius, who had enjoyed hunting all his life, gave it up.

Apollonius did not engage in sexual intimacy with others, which he called an illusion and a trap; fleeting moments of pleasure led only to endless agitation and suffering. Lucius asked him if copulation was not a virtue, since it was necessary for procreation. Apollonius, who believed in reincarnation, replied, “What is the virtue of creating more human beings, and thus more mortal life, and thus more suffering? If there were to be no more human beings, eventually the population would vanish, and would that be a bad thing? If we possess spirits, those spirits will still exist; they will simply be freed from the onerous process of transmigrating from body to body, wearing out one after another, endlessly suffering the pains of mortal decay. With or without humanity as we know it, the Divine Unity will continue to exist. This sentimental attachment to creating endless replicas of ourselves is yet another illusion, another trap. Procreation only perpetuates the cycle of suffering. There is no virtue in it. It is a vice.”

As far as Lucius could determine, no other wise man, whether philosopher or religious savant, had ever declared universal chastity to be a virtue. At first, Lucius was dubious of following this example, but in fact he was already practising it. Since the death of Cornelia, he had withdrawn from seeking intimacy with anyone else. It required no real change on his part to emulate Apollonius, and once he made a conscious decision to do so, he felt a great sense of freedom and relief.

Apollonius held the great and powerful in no special esteem. Nor did he fear them. During his first visit to Roma, in the reign of Nero, he had attracted the attention of the emperor’s henchman Tigellinus, who had put a watch on him. Apollonius gave the informers no cause to arrest him, until he happened to hear Nero sing one day in a common tavern. The emperor was incognito, wearing a mask, but there was no doubt that it was him. Tigellinus was in the audience, also in disguise, wearing a hooded cloak and an eyepatch. After Nero’s performance, he asked Apollonius’s opinion.

“Was it not fit for the gods?”

“If the gods like it, we must strive not to think less of them,” said Apollonius.

Tigellinus was incensed. “Do you realize who that was? You’ve just heard Caesar sing one of his own compositions. Was it not divine?”

“Now that it is over, I do feel closer to the gods.”

“Stop speaking in riddles and say what you mean! I say the singing was wonderful. What do you say?”

“I say I have a higher opinion of the emperor than you do.”

“How is that?”

“You think it is wonderful if he sings. I think it is wonderful if he simply remains silent.”

Tigellinus charged Apollonius with impugning the dignity of the emperor and arrested him. As the trial approached, he realized that he needed stronger evidence than the ambiguous statements made by Apollonius. He put an informer up to writing a series of charges against Apollonius and had the charges notarized, so that when they were produced in court they would appear to come from an outside witness. All sorts of false statements were imputed to Apollonius, of a nature seditious enough to have him put to death.

In the court, before Nero and the magistrates, Apollonius was called forth. Tigellinus produced the sealed scroll upon which the accusations were written and brandished it like a dagger. But when he unrolled the scroll, his jaw dropped and he stood speechless.

Nero demanded to see the scroll for himself. “Is this a joke?” he asked Tigellinus. The parchment was completely blank. Nero ordered Tigellinus to set Apollonius free, with the stipulation that he should leave Italy at once.

“Nero thought I was a magician,” explained Apollonius. “He feared that I would exact a supernatural revenge if I were to be imprisoned or executed.”

“But, Teacher,” asked Lucius, “how did it happen that the scroll Tigellinus produced was blank? Had the original scroll been taken and another substituted? Had the scribe been given a special ink, which faded away? Or did you call upon some supernatural power to make the lies on the parchment vanish?”

“I can think of another possibility,” said Apollonius. “What if those who looked at the scroll simply did not see the writing that was there?”

“But, Teacher, how could that happen?”

“Very often, when a thing is inexplicable, it is simply a matter of seeing or not seeing. Just as it is possible to open a man’s eyes to what is before him, simply by directing his attention, so there are ways to make a man blind to what is before him.” That was as clear an explanation as Apollonius would give.

Apollonius had also met Vespasian. This was when Vitellius was emperor. Legions supporting Vespasian were marching on Roma, but Vespasian himself was in Alexandria. Uncertain about the future and eager for advice, Vespasian had solicited the counsel of the most prestigious astrologers and philosophers in a city renowned for its learning. In his first meeting with Vespasian, Apollonius described a vision in which he beheld the final days of Vitellius, including the burning of the Temple of Jupiter and the narrow escape of Domitian. Vespasian was dubious, but a messenger brought news of these events to Alexandria the very next day. Vespasian was greatly impressed. “Either this fellow truly has visions of far-off events,” he remarked, “or else he has information-gathering capabilities superior to my own. Either way, I want his advice!”

“I took advantage of that the opportunity to encourage Vespasian in his ambitions,” Apollonius told Lucius. “I could see he was a man of equable temperament, and the most likely candidate to restore peace and order to the chaotic state of the empire. But later, when he wrote me letters beseeching me to come to Roma to advise him, I refused.”

“Why, Teacher?”

“Because of his treatment of the Greeks. Nero had many faults, but he loved Greece and Greek culture; he bestowed many privileges on the Greek cities, allowing them a degree of dignity and freedom no emperor had granted them before. But Vespasian saw fit to revoke every one of those privileges. He deliberately and systematically returned the Greeks to their subservient state. He was a great disappointment to me. Whenever he wrote to me, I wrote a scolding letter back to him.”

“No!”

“Oh yes.”

“What did you say in these letters?”

“This was my final letter to him. ‘Apollonius to the Emperor Vespasian: A bad man redeemed himself by freeing the Greeks. A good man tarnished himself by enslaving them. Why should any man desire the company of a counsellor to whom he will not listen? Farewell.’”

Given a letter of introduction by Vespasian, Apollonius had also met Titus. This was in Tarsus, after Vespasian returned to Roma as emperor and entrusted affairs in the East to his son.

“I liked Titus,” said Apollonius. “He was surprisingly modest and had a wonderful sense of humour. And at thirty, when many fighting men let themselves go, he kept himself very fit. Titus had a very stout neck, like an athlete in training. Once I grabbed him by the back of the neck and said, ‘Who could ever force such a sturdy bull neck as this under a yoke?’ And Titus laughed and said, ‘Only the man who reared me from a calf!’ His deference to his father was endearing, yet he had the makings of a better ruler than his father. Alas, we had the father for ten years and the son for only two.”

“Is it true that you foretold Titus’s early death?” said Lucius.

Apollonius smiled. “Sometimes, I know, I seem to speak in riddles. But about this I shall be as clear as I can. Imagine that you enter a dark cave. You strike a spark, and for just an instant you see the extent of the place. The details are uncertain, and the shape of the cavern is vague, but you grasp at once if the cave is large or small. So it is, sometimes, when I first meet a person. In a flash I sense whether their time on this earth will be long or short. I knew from the moment I met him that Titus would not live to be as old as his father. He was like a lamp that burns more brightly than others but for a shorter time.”

“And his brother?”

“I haven’t met Domitian. But to me it seems he is not like a lamp at all. He is an extinguisher of lamps. He brings darkness, not light.”

“I wonder how much longer his reign of darkness will last.”

Apollonius shrugged. “The man is only forty-two.”

“That was the age at which Titus died.”

“Yes, but Vespasian lived to be sixty-two.”

“Twenty more years of Domitian!” exclaimed Lucius.

“Perhaps,” said Apollonius. “Or perhaps not.”

Lucius reclined on his couch in the garden, his eyes shut, smelling the flowers, thinking of how his life had changed in the year since he had met the Teacher.

He felt the warmth of the sun on his bare feet. Apollonius had taught him to go barefoot. What need had a man for shoes in his own house? Sometimes Lucius even went to the Forum barefoot. Others stared at him as if he were mad.

“Are you dreaming?” said Apollonius. He had excused himself for a moment to empty his bladder in the small latrina off the garden. The Teacher had a body just like those of other men, and was subject to the same needs to ingest and expel as dictated by the endlessly repeating cycles of mortal flesh.

“The others will arrive soon,” said Lucius, wishing it were not so. He treasured time alone with the Teacher, listening to his stories, asking him questions, simply enjoying his tranquil presence. But Apollonius had many friends, and it sometimes fell to Lucius to play host to the others in his home. He was expecting perhaps fifty men and women. They would be of all social ranks, from freedmen to patricians like himself. There would probably be a few senators among them, but also shopkeepers and artisans and bricklayers. No one who wished to hear Apollonius speak was turned away.

Lucius looked at the Teacher and smiled. To a careless observer, Apollonius might appear to be nothing more than a doddering old man. But such were the illusions of the material world: appearances meant nothing. Emulating Apollonius, Lucius had begun to eschew the services of his barber. His hair had never been so long, and never before had he sported a beard. At the age of forty-six, Lucius had only a few touches of silver in his hair, but someday he might hope to have a beard as fleece-white as that of the Teacher.

“What story will you tell the gathering today?” asked Lucius.

“I was thinking I might talk about my time in Ethiopia.”

Lucius nodded. The Teacher’s stories about Ethiopia were among Lucius’s favourites.

“I thought in particular I might tell the story of my encounter with the satyr, since most people nowadays have never seen a satyr and have various misconceptions about the creatures.”

Lucius sat upright. “You met a satyr in Ethiopia? I’ve never heard that story.”

“Could it be that I never told you?”

“Never! I’m sure I would have remembered.”

“Well, then. It was during my journey to the see the great lake from whence the Nile originates. On its shores one finds a colony of the naked sages, who are wiser than Greek philosophers but not quite so wise as the sages of India, to whom they are kin. They welcomed me heartily, but I could see they were in distress, and I asked the cause.

“Nightly, they were plagued by the visitations of a wild creature, a being that was goat-like from the waist down, with shaggy hind legs and hooves, and man-like from the waist up, but with goat horns and pointed ears. From their description I deduced it was a satyr, a being previously unknown in those parts. This satyr interrupted the sleep of the sages, tramping outside their huts and bleating in the middle of the night. When they confronted the satyr and complained, the creature made rude noises and obscene gestures. When they attempted to apprehend him, he proved to be swifter than even the swiftest among them, leaping and careening and causing them to trip over one another and make fools of themselves.

“The sages took me to a nearby village, where the elders informed me that the satyr’s incursions there were far more serious. At least once a month, always by night, he intruded upon the comeliest and most nubile of the women, muttering incantations in their ears while they slept, putting them under a spell and luring them into the woods. A few of the women had awakened from this spell and dared to resist him, whereupon the creature physically attacked them, strangling them and trampling them with his hooves. Two women had been killed in this way, and others had been seriously injured. The villagers were terrified of the satyr.”

“What did you do to help those people, Teacher?”

“I recalled my studies of a rare book left to us by King Midas, who was known to have a bit of satyr blood in his own veins, as could be seen by the shape of his ears. Occasionally his satyr relatives imposed on Midas’s hospitality, making chaos of his court with their wild behaviour. But as a child Midas had been told by his mother of a way to deal with satyrs, which he put to the test. Wine has a peculiar effect on them. When a satyr imbibes, he becomes intoxicated, as men do, and eventually he falls fast asleep, snoring loudly, as men do. But when the satyr awakens from this drunken stupor, his animal nature has departed from him and he is as harmless as a child. Such a tame satyr is capable of being taught to speak and even to reason. The widespread reformation of satyrs is no doubt one reason they are so very rarely seen nowadays, since such satyrs are more afraid of humans than are humans of them.

“But a wild satyr has a great aversion to wine, so the challenge is to trick him into drinking it. The villagers had reason to think this satyr drank at night from a particular cattle trough. The chief of the village had a jar of Egyptian wine left over from a recent festival. At my instruction, every drop of wine was emptied into the trough one night. In the morning it could be seen that a substantial part of the mixture of water and wine had been drunk.

“The satyr was asleep in his lair, no doubt, but where was that? I traversed the area all around the village, pricking up my ears, listening for the sound of snoring. At last I heard a faint noise. I followed it to a place the locals called the Grotto of the Nymphs. There, lying on a mossy stone amid the reeds, snoring loudly, lay the satyr, fast asleep and stinking of wine.

“The villagers were eager to awaken him, but I thought it best that he should be allowed to come to his senses in his own time. An hour later, quite abruptly, he ceased snoring, rubbed his eyes, and stood upright. The villagers were of a mind to stone him, and even began to gather up suitable rocks, but I shielded him with my own body and told the villagers they must do no harm to the creature, for now he was a changed satyr and his days of mischief were behind him. That night, at a blessedly sober festival – for all the wine was gone – the naked sages danced for the villagers, and the satyr joined them, leaping and somersaulting in the air.”

Lucius smiled. The scent of jasmine under the hot sun was intoxicating. “If I heard such a tale from any other man, I wouldn’t believe it for a moment,” he said. “But from you, Teacher-”

Hilarion rushed into the garden. From his look of alarm, he was not there to announce the arrival of the guests.

“Praetorian Guards!” he said. “They refused to wait in the vestibule-”

Armed men entered the garden.

“You must be Apollonius of Tyana,” said an officer. “I’d think this hairy fellow was your son, if I didn’t know better,” he said, smirking at Lucius. “I should think a well-born patrician could find a better teacher to model himself on, or at least one who was better groomed. But don’t worry, we’ll relieve you both of those ridiculous beards soon enough.”

Lucius was snatched up by the guards and dragged from his house. He and Apollonius were marched barefoot through the streets, towards the imperial palace, while his neighbours, alerted by the commotion, looked on. Some were aghast, but others looked smugly pleased. Lucius’s disdain for social functions, his eccentric new appearance, and his disreputable-looking visitors had caused a scandal among his well-connected neighbours on the Palatine.

They approached the same entrance to the palace at which Lucius had arrived for his dinner in the black room. He felt a surge of panic and looked to Apollonius for guidance. The Teacher did not appear to be impressed by the grand entryway, or fearful of what might lie beyond.

“Teacher, do you understand what’s happening?”

“I think so. At long last, I am to meet the emperor.”

“Forgive me, Teacher. If I had been on my guard, if Hilarion had given us more warning-”

“Then what? Would you expect me to avoid the opportunity to meet Domitian? This is why I came to Roma.”

“But, Teacher-”

“Let us be grateful that these men arrived when they did. Had they come later, they might have arrested all those visitors you were expecting, and that would have been most inconvenient for everyone concerned. Imagine such a crowd, being herded into the House of the Flavians. This way, we may hope to have the emperor’s undivided attention.”

They were taken through a maze of corridors, arriving at last in a small but opulently decorated reception room. In an ornate chair atop a dais, Domitian sat with his chin cupped in one hand, looking bored. A eunuch secretary was reading aloud to him from a scroll. When Apollonius entered the room, Domitian waved aside the secretary, who put down the scroll and took up a wax tablet and stylus to take notes.

“I’ve been listening to the charges against you, magician,” said Domitian.

Apollonius looked at him blankly.

“Have you nothing to say?”

“Are you addressing me?” said Apollonius. “I thought you were speaking to some magician, though I see no such person among us.”

“Do you deny that you practice magic, Apollonius of Tyana?”

“Does magic exist? Our ancestors believed that there were two means of obtaining favours from the gods. The first is by propitiation, whereby a mortal sacrifices an animal and begs the gods for their blessing. The second is by magic, whereby a mortal casts a spell and compels the gods to do his will. Now, the traditional method of propitiation is surely a mistake, since the gods cannot be expected to delight in the destruction of a creature they themselves imbued with life. As for magic, can it be possible to force the gods to act against their will? Such a thing would violate the order of nature.”

“That is why we call it magic, and make it a crime,” said Domitian.

Apollonius shrugged. “As I said, I see no magician here.”

“Then what do you call yourself? You dress like a beggar. You put on airs and wear long hair and a beard, like a philosopher.”

“I call myself Apollonius, which is the name I was given at birth.”

“And you, Lucius Pinarius. You would be a dead man today, but for my mercy. What excuse can you make for consorting with this magician?”

Lucius summoned his courage. “I see no magician, Dominus.”

Domitian scowled. “I see the magician has turned you into his puppet. Did he cast a spell over you, or are you such a fool that you follow him by your own choice? Never mind. Shave off their beards.”

The Praetorians converged on them with shears and blades. Apollonius did not resist. Lucius followed his example. Their hair was roughly shorn and their beards were cut. They were stripped of their tunics but allowed to keep their loincloths. Lucius was wearing the fascinum on a thin chain around his neck. He was touching it when one of the guards seized his hands and pulled them before him. Shackles were fastened around his wrists; the metal was so heavy that Lucius could barely lift his arms. More shackles were fitted around his ankles. Lucius saw that the same thing was being done to Apollonius, who in his unclothed state looked very thin and frail.

“Now this is a curious thing,” said Apollonius. “If you think me a magician, what makes you think you can fetter me? And if you can fetter me, what makes you think I practice magic?”

Domitian was not listening. A fly had landed on an arm of his chair. The emperor motioned to the secretary to hand him his stylus. Domitian touched a fingertip to the point of the sharp instrument, held it poised above the fly for several heartbeats, then struck, transfixing the fly. He held up the skewered insect and smiled. “I learned to do that as a boy. Instead of using my stylus to copy Cicero, I spent whole afternoons hunting down the little pests and impaling them. It requires considerable skill.”

Apollonius shook his head. “When I met your brother in Tarsus, a fly landed on his finger. Do you know what he did? He blew the fly away, and we both laughed. Any man can end a life with a weapon, but not every man can spare a life with a puff of breath. Which man is more powerful?”

Domitian gritted his teeth. “Lucius Pinarius – you must appreciate the skillful use of a weapon. You’re a huntsman, aren’t you?”

“Not any longer, Dominus,” said Lucius. “All life is sacred. I kill nothing if I can help it.”

Domitian shook his head in disgust. He called to the Praetorians. “You, bring me a bow and a quiver of arrows. And you, go stand against that far wall, facing it. Extend your arm parallel with the floor. Press your hand against the wall with your fingers spread wide apart.”

Domitian tested the string of the bow, then notched an arrow. “This is another skill I taught myself. Observe, huntsman. I shall fire four arrows. Watch the spaces between the fingers.”

Domitian took aim. Lucius saw that neither the Praetorians nor the emperor’s secretary appeared apprehensive. This was a feat Domitian had performed many times before.

In sudden quiet, Lucius heard a low murmur. He could not make out the words, or where the sound came from. The murmur faded away. No one else seemed to have noticed. Lucius wondered if he had imagined it.

Domitian let fly four arrows in rapid succession. Each made a sharp sound like the buzzing of a wasp. With a grin of satisfaction, he lowered the bow.

“What do you think of that?” he said. “One arrow in each of the spaces between the man’s fingers. Titus could never have done such a thing-”

With a loud groan, the Praetorian collapsed against the wall, slid down, and lay crumpled on the floor. The secretary shrieked and dropped his wax tablet.

All four arrows had landed squarely in the Praetorian’s back, shot with such force that they had pierced his armour. Some of his comrades cried out and ran to help him.

“What is this?” shouted Domitian. His voice quavered. “This is your doing, magician!”

“I shot no arrows.” Apollonius held forth his shackled wrists to show that his hands were empty.

“Get the magician away from me! Lock them both away!”

“But what is the charge against me?” asked Apollonius.

“The secretary has written down everything you’ve said. Your own words will condemn you. You blasphemed the gods by ridiculing the practice of animal sacrifice. And you repeatedly offended my majesty by failing to address me as Dominus.”

“So a man can now be condemned for what he does not say, as well as for what he says? Your brother punished no man for speaking freely; you would punish a man for saying nothing.”

Domitian threw the bow against the floor, so hard that it broke and the string went flying.

Apollonius was unfazed. “And what are the charges against Lucius Pinarius?”

“Is he not your accomplice?”

“I would prefer to call him my friend. I have many friends. Will you arrest them all?”

“Wait and see, magician!”

Apollonius sighed and shook his head as the Praetorians attached chains to their manacles and pulled them from the room. The heavy shackles bit into Lucius’s ankles and wrists. The polished marble floor was cold against his bare feet.

They were taken to a subterranean cell lit only by grated openings in the ceiling. The stone walls seemed to sweat. Heaps of straw provided the only bedding. The place had a foul smell. For the disposal of wastes, there was a single bucket attached to a rope that could be pulled upwards through one of the openings.

They were not alone. It took Lucius’s eyes a long time to adjust to the dimness of the place, but gradually he counted more than fifty fellow prisoners, most of them huddled against the walls. Occasionally, Lucius heard something rustle in the straw and heard the squeak of a mouse.

Lucius felt faint. He steadied himself against a wall. He touched his forehead and found that it was as clammy as the stones against which he was leaning.

“Are you unwell?” said Apollonius.

“This place…”

“You’re thinking of her, and imagining the hole underground in which they confined her.”

“Yes.”

“Push all such imaginings from your mind, Lucius. Think only of this moment, and the place in which you find yourself. See it for what it is, nothing more and nothing less.”

“It’s horrible!”

“It’s certainly not as comfortable as your garden. And yet, we are able to breathe, and to move about. We have enough light by which to see each other, and more importantly, we are together, sharing each other’s company, and the company of these new friends with whom we find ourselves. I’m guessing they have many stories to tell. As long we possess curiosity, we shall not be bored.”

Lucius managed a rueful laugh. “Teacher, this is a prison.”

“Lucius, we mortals are in a prison every moment we live. The soul is bound inside a perishable body, enslaved by all the cravings which visit humanity. The man who built the first dwelling merely surrounded himself with yet another prison, and made himself a slave to it, for any dwelling must be maintained, just like the human body. I think that the man who lives in a palace is more surely a prisoner than the men he puts in chains. As for the place where we now find ourselves, we must reflect that we are not the first to be confined in this way. Many a wise man, despised by the mob or hated by a despot, has had to endure such a fate, and the best have done so with serene resignation. Let us strive to do the same, so that we may not be inferior to those who set an example before us.”

Some of the other prisoners, hearing him speak, drew closer.

“You’re Apollonius of Tyana, aren’t you?” said one of the men.

“I am.”

“I heard you speak once. I recognized your voice. But I’d never have known you otherwise. Your hair’s been cut, and so has your beard.” The man shook his head. “I never thought to see those snow-white tresses be shorn like fleece from a lamb! Who would have thought that Apollonius of Tyana could be put in chains?”

“The person who put me in chains thought of it, for otherwise he wouldn’t have done it,” said Apollonius.

The man laughed. “Truly, you are Apollonius. But those fetters must be causing you great pain. Look how the rough iron chafes the skin.”

“I hadn’t noticed. My thoughts are on more important things.”

“But how can you be in pain and not think about it? A man can’t ignore pain.”

“Not so,” said Apollonius. “The mind attends to what the self deems important. If there is injury, a man may choose not to feel pain, or order the pain to stop.”

The man pursed his lips. “But why are you still here? You’re a magician. Why don’t you just walk out?”

Apollonius laughed. “Like the man who me put me here, you accuse me of being a magician. Well, let us suppose that it’s true. In that case, it must be that I am here among you because I wish to be.”

“Why would any man wish to be here?” said another man, stepping forward and crossing his arms.

“Perhaps I can serve a purpose. Perhaps my words can give comfort or courage. How did you come to be here, friend?”

“The plain truth? I have too much wealth.”

Lucius saw that the speaker was dressed in a fine tunic and cloak, though his clothes were filthy from long confinement in the dank cell. His face was haggard, but folds of flesh hung from his chin, as if he had once been fat but had lost weight very quickly.

“Who put you here?” said Apollonius.

“Who do you think? The same man who put us all here.”

“He covets your wealth?”

“He told me to my face, before he sent me here, that an excess of wealth is dangerous for a common citizen. Money makes a man insolent and prideful, he said. As if trumping up charges against me, throwing me in this hole, and trying to extort my money was all for my own good!”

“Did he offer you a way out?”

“As soon as I’ll admit to false charges of evading taxes and hand over my fortune, I shall be released.”

“Then why are you still here? The money is doing you no good. Its only value is to buy your way out of this place.”

“I won’t give it up!”

“Your wealth landed you here, my friend, and your wealth will purchase your release. More importantly, paying the ransom will free you from the money itself, for wealth is also a prison. The man who takes it from you will only increase his bondage.”

“This is nonsense!” The man mumbled an obscenity and turned away.

Apollonius spoke in a low voice to Lucius. “I think that fellow is not quite ready to receive my message.”

“What about me?” said another man, stepping forward. He was tall and solidly built but his hands trembled. “I could use some courage. They’re taking me to face the emperor this very afternoon. I think I shall die from fear before that happens.”

“Take heart, my friend. I myself just came from the emperor’s presence, yet you can see that I emerged unscathed.”

“But everyone knows you’re fearless. How do you do it?”

“I thought of an example I would not be ashamed to follow. You can do the same.”

“But what example did you think of?”

“I remembered Odysseus and the peril he faced when he entered the cave of Polyphemus. The Cyclops was gigantic, and far too strong for even a hundred men to overmaster. With its single eye, the creature was almost too hideous to look at, and its booming voice was like thunder. Strewn all around were human bones, the remains of past meals, for the Cyclops was an eater of human flesh. But did Odysseus take fright? No. He considered his situation and asked himself how to get the better of an opponent too powerful to be overcome by force and too vicious to be reasoned with. Yet, Odysseus left the lair of the Cyclops alive, and with most of his companions alive.”

The first man who had spoken, who had asked Apollonius about the shearing of his hair and the pain caused by his shackles, spoke up again. “Are you comparing our emperor to the Cyclops? Are you saying he should be blinded?”

Apollonius whispered in Lucius’s ear, “I suspect this fellow is an informer. His previous comments were not to commiserate with me, but to goad me into speaking ill of Domitian.” Apollonius answered the man, “What do you think, my friend, of the man who put you here among us?”

The man shrugged. “I have nothing good to say about him.”

“Would that every man could have such a mild temperament! Have you no harsh words for the man who confines other men to such a foul place, who cuts their hair and puts them in shackles, who extorts their wealth, whose famous cruelty causes them to tremble when they’re called before him?”

“Naturally, I feel as the others here must feel.”

“And how is that? By all means, speak freely,” said Apollonius. “You can say whatever you like in front of me, for I am the last man in the world to inform against another. No? You have nothing to say? As for myself, what I have to say to the emperor, I’ll say to his face.”

“That’s telling him!” said the man who had been fearful of meeting the emperor. There were nods and grunts of agreement. Clearly, many in the cell already suspected the informer.

Apollonius stepped back, as if he were done speaking, but the other prisoners implored him to keep talking. “Tell us more,” said one of them. “The worst thing about this place is the boredom. Tell us about your travels. You’ve been all over the world.”

Apollonius sat on the floor. The prisoners gathered around him. He described rivers and mountains and deserts he had seen. He talked about the people he had met and their exotic customs. The men listened with rapt expressions, some closing their eyes, transported by the Teacher’s narrative to faraway places, freed from their prison cell by the pictures he painted in their imaginations. Lucius closed his eyes and listened with them.

Apollonius spoke of finding the spot, high in the icy mountains of the Caucasus Indicus, where even Alexander the Great had not ventured, where the gods had chained Prometheus for his crime of giving fire to mortals.

“I discovered the very manacles which had held the Titan. Gigantic they were, so big that a man could stand inside one with his arms outstretched and barely touch the sides. The manacles were set into either side of a narrow gorge – thus, one could see just how enormous Prometheus must have been. The Titan himself was long gone. The locals told me that Hercules, on one of his many journeys, came upon Prometheus even as Jupiter’s eagle arrived to perform the daily torment of tearing out the Titan’s entrails. Hercules took pity on Prometheus and shot the eagle out of the sky. In the ravine below, I found the bones of an enormous bird, larger than any other bones I had ever seen. Hercules broke the manacles and set Prometheus free. Indeed, I could see that the metal was severed and twisted, but strangely it was not covered with rust. Vulcan must have forged those manacles of some alloy unknown to mortal men.”

Exhausted by the day’s events and lulled by the Teacher’s voice, Lucius was almost dozing. He chanced to open his eyes, just enough to peer through the lashes, and saw that Apollonius was using each hand to rub the wrist of the other, stretching the tendons and massaging the soreness caused by the manacles – which were gone.

Lucius’s eyes shot open and he uttered an exclamation of amazement. The others, most of whom also seemed to be half dozing, bolted upright and followed his gaze.

“His shackles!” said one of the men. “He’s taken off his shackles.”

“Have I?” Apollonius looked around absentmindedly, as if he had misplaced something. “So I have. Ah, but it would never do for the guards to see me this way. They’d be terribly upset.” He turned his back on them for a moment and engaged in a series of peculiar movements, hunching over and twisting from side to side. When he turned back, the shackles were again around his wrists.

“There, that’s better,” said Apollonius, shaking his manacles so that they made a dull clang. He began a new story, this one about the time he had spent in Babylon in his younger days, where he met the Parthian king, Vardanes, and his Chaldean astrologers.

Lucius looked down at his own manacles. He turned his hands this way and that and tugged against the shackles. There was no way he could possibly take them off. And yet it seemed that the Teacher had slipped out of his manacles without even thinking, as a man might shuffle off a pair of loose shoes. Or had Apollonius only created the illusion of doing so? Or had he never been placed in the manacles at all?

They passed many days in the cell. The accommodations were foul and the food was poor, but the regimen was not harsh; they were not physically harmed or made to do labour. Lucius received a visit from Hilarion, who assured Lucius that everything was running smoothly in his absence. It occurred to Lucius not for the first time that he was an incidental part of his own household, which was entirely capable of running itself without him.

Apollonius also received visitors, including a delegation of distinguished men headed by Marcus Nerva, an elder statesman of the Senate. Nerva looked the part, with his narrow, ascetic face, his high, broad forehead, and his neatly groomed white hair. Lucius knew the senator to be a friend and correspondent of Dio of Prusa.

Nerva asked after the prisoner’s health; Apollonius responded by asking after the senator’s health, since Nerva looked considerably more frail than he did. From their easy manner with each other, Lucius realized that the two were old acquaintances. Lucius never ceased to be surprised at the great number and variety of people Apollonius knew. To know Apollonius, it seemed, was to be only a step or two removed from almost anyone in the world.

Nerva and Apollonius conversed about inconsequential matters – prison food, the weather, and which of them had whiter hair. Apollonius asked Nerva about his hometown, the village of Narnia, which was said to be in the exact center of Italy and was one of the few places Apollonius had never visited; Nerva assured him that it was a charming town. It seemed to Lucius that Apollonius must have given Nerva a sign early on that an informer was present, and that their conversation should be guarded. Or were they conversing in code?

After the visitors left, Lucius expressed surprise that Nerva and the others had dared to pay a call on Apollonius. Domitian was always seeing conspiracies among the senators. Did these men not risk arousing the emperor’s suspicion by visiting a man arrested for disrespecting the emperor’s majesty?

“Not so,” said Apollonius. “By coming to see me so openly, those fellows protect themselves from suspicion. If I were indeed seditious, and if they were colluding with me, would they come to chat with me about the weather? They came here as Roman statesmen, to pay a courtesy call on a man who once counselled the Divine Vespasian and the Divine Titus. Conspirators would not come to see me at all, but would lurk in the shadows. Thus, by their boldness they disarm Domitian’s fear.”

“I see. Nerva didn’t look that clever to me.”

“Don’t let his manner fool you. Nerva is a very canny fellow. I have high hopes for him.”

“High hopes for a frail old senator?”

“To all appearances, there was never a more robust man than Titus, yet those who put their hopes for the future in Titus saw those hopes dashed. So why not look to a frail old man to deliver a brighter tomorrow?”

One day passed into another, until one morning a Praetorian arrived and told them they were to be taken before the emperor, who was ready to try them and pronounce judgement.

Lucius had done his best to prepare for this moment, striving to emulate the Teacher’s equanimity. Still, he felt a thrill of panic.

“Teacher, what will become of us?”

“Lucius, what do you fear? That we shall be tortured and killed? Every living thing must die, and there are things far worse than the suffering of physical pain. How much more terrible if we should comport ourselves disgracefully and lose our self-respect; then we should truly be damaged, and the harm would have been inflicted by ourselves.”

Lucius breathed deeply. “I shall look to you, Teacher. I shall follow your example.”

“And I shall do my best to make that example a good one, Lucius. To know that your eyes are on me will give me strength.”

They were taken first to an antechamber adjoining the reception room. Their shackles were removed. A group of slaves appeared, charged with making them presentable for the trial. Basins of water were brought. Their faces and hands were scrubbed clean. They were dressed in clean tunics. They were also given shoes, but because these were made of leather, Apollonius would not wear them. Lucius followed the Teacher’s example and remained barefoot.

When the attendants were finished cleaning and dressing them, they were put in shackles again.

A figure in the sumptuous robes of an imperial courtier entered the room and approached them. To Lucius’s surprise, it was his old friend and protector Epaphroditus. Lucius had seen him very little since the death of Cornelia. His old friend had aged a great deal.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to visit you in prison, Lucius,” said Epaphroditus. He kept his distance and maintained a dignified posture, but his voice was thick with emotion. “It wasn’t possible, given my new position. To see you like this, in shackles-”

“You serve Domitian now?”

Epaphroditus flashed a crooked smile. “The emperor called me out of retirement. He insisted that the state required my services. I saw no way to decline his request.”

“You should be flattered, I suppose,” said Lucius. “The emperor could use the help of the man who ran the Golden House.” It seemed that Domitian – who refused to have among his courtiers anyone who had been close to his father or to his brother, and in his fits of suspicion had eliminated many members of his own imperial staff – was now being forced to reach back to the days of Nero to find men of sufficient experience to run the state.

“I would gladly have remained as I was, a retired observer of events,” said Epaphroditus. “Still, there are advantages to my new position. I was able, for example, to persuade the emperor to give me the role of preparing you and your friend for your trial.”

Epaphroditus turned to Apollonius. “Are you aware of the rules of procedure? The trial will take place before a select audience of senators, magistrates, and imperial dignitaries. The charges against you will be read by a prosecutor. You will have a chance to respond to those charges. Then Caesar will render judgement.”

“Caesar will judge me?” said Apollonius.

“Yes.”

“But who will judge Caesar?”

Epaphroditus raised an eyebrow. “Caesar is not on trial.”

“No? I think he has committed many offenses contrary to the teachings of philosophy.”

Epaphroditus sighed. “Caesar is not concerned with philosophy.”

“Ah, but philosophy is very much concerned with Caesar, that he should govern as a wise man.”

Epaphroditus sighed and exchanged looks with Apollonius that left Lucius perplexed. He had presumed that Epaphroditus and Apollonius were strangers – or did they know each other?

Epaphroditus continued. “You’ll have only a short time to give your answers. Look to the water clock. When the water level drops and the lever rises, that means your time is growing short. Finish what you have to say. You won’t be allowed to speak longer than the clock permits.”

“Then I hope that the Tiber itself is connected to this water clock, for every drop of its water will be needed for me to say all I have to say to the emperor.”

“I’m afraid your time will be considerably shorter than that,” said Epaphroditus. “Also, you are not allowed to bring anything with you into the chamber from which you might read or with which you might cast a magical spell. So you may not have on your person any scroll or scrap of parchment or anything at all with writing on it, or any amulet or other magical device.”

“As we were stripped naked and then dressed by servants of the emperor himself, I think that will not be a problem,” said Apollonius.

“Still, it is my duty to make sure there is nothing concealed in your tunics. Raise your arms as high as you can.”

Epaphroditus ran his hands over Apollonius, then did the same thing to Lucius.

Lucius stiffened, for he realized that he was wearing the fascinum beneath the thin tunic. He suppressed an urge to touch it. Epaphroditus ran his hands over Lucius’s chest. He must have felt the talisman, yet he said nothing and stepped back.

Epaphroditus led them into the judgement chamber, a somber but magnificent room decorated with dark marbles and blood-red curtains. Before a towering statue of Minerva sat Domitian. Seated cross-legged on the dais beside him was his small-headed companion. Epaphroditus joined a group of other courtiers who stood to one side. Next to him was the water clock he had mentioned. The inner workings of the device were hidden behind an ornate bronze covering that depicted images of the sun, moon, and stars.

Among the senators in the room, Lucius saw the white-haired Nerva and several others who had visited Apollonius. There were also some faces he recognized from gatherings of Apollonius’s followers – magistrates and even a few imperial courtiers who had dared to attend meetings in private homes where the Teacher spoke. Lucius felt heartened by the sight of these familiar faces, even though not one of them dared to look him in the eye or show any sign of sympathy.

The prosecutor stepped forward. Lucius’s heart sank. It was Catullus. The blind man carried a staff and was assisted by a secretary who frequently whispered in his ear.

“Dominus, the magician Apollonius and his accomplice Lucius Pinarius have entered your divine presence,” said Catullus, “The time has come for them to submit to your judgement. The magician will be tried first. Step forward, Apollonius of Tyana. Look upon our Master and God, address him as Dominus, and beseech him to be just and merciful to you.”

Apollonius stepped forward, but he did not look at Domitian. Instead, he seemed to look everywhere else. He looked at the emperor’s small- headed companion and made a whimsical face, as one might at a child, at which the creature seemed to take fright and started back. He gazed curiously at the water clock next to Epaphroditus. He looked over his shoulder at the spectators and smiled.

Catullus’s assistant whispered furiously in his ear. Catullus struck his staff against the marble floor. “Magician! You will face and address our Master and God!”

“Very well,” said Apollonius with a shrug. He lifted his head and gazed upwards, and raised his shackled hands as high as he could. “Divine Singularity, emanation of perfection whom the Romans call Jupiter, greatest of gods!” he cried. “Reveal your wisdom to us. Render your judgement. Make known to us your will. Tell us, we beseech you, who displeases you more – the man who utters profane flattery, or the man who receives it?”

There were gasps from the onlookers.

Catullus struck his staff against the marble floor, demanding silence. “We can dispense with your formal response to the first charge against you, since, by your actions, magician, you have just given us ample reply.”

“And what was that charge?”

“That you refuse to show proper respect to Caesar and address him as Dominus.”

“You told me to look upon our Master and God, and I did. I looked upward to the Divine Singularity.”

“Don’t try to throw dust in our eyes with a pretense of piety, magician. Is it not true that you believe yourself to be a god? Is it not true that others have called you a god, and that you accepted their worship without objection?”

“Prosecutor, I am impressed,” said Apollonius. “You have done your research. I believe you must be referring to my days in India, when I sought wisdom among the sages of the Ganges. They refer to themselves as gods. When I asked them why, they answered: ‘Because we are good men.’ All creatures, despite their mortal forms, possess divinity, and to be truly good is to be godly. Before I left them, the Indian sages addressed me as ‘god,’ and I was honoured.”

“So a man can become a god simply by being good?”

“To be good is not as simple as you seem to think.”

“But if you meet a good man, you gladly call him ‘god’?”

“I do. If the man you want me to address as a god were a good man, I would gladly do so.”

Again there were gasps from the spectators. Catullus banged his staff repeatedly against the floor.

The small-headed creature was heard to mumble, in a high voice, “He isn’t even wearing shoes!”

“What’s that?” said Apollonius. “Speak up, little one.”

The creature hissed and spat, like a cat with its back up. “You come here barefoot!” he cried. “You show contempt to Caesar!”

“If I had put on the shoes I was offered, I would have shown contempt to the poor animal who provided the hide. I would no more kill a cow, a godly creature, and carve it up, simply to cover my feet, than I would kill and carve you up, my little friend, to make a pair of shoes out of you. The bounty of the soil provides all that I require to eat and clothe myself. If I must protect my feet, I wear shoes made of cloth and bark. I need not resort to the killing of fellow creatures.”

The small-headed creature pressed himself against Domitian’s leg and covered his face.

Catullus smirked. “Is it true, magician, that in your youth you took a vow of silence and did not speak for five years?”

“That is so. Silence is a language unto itself. There is much to be learned by not speaking.”

“Yet it seems that ever since then, you can’t keep your mouth shut. You may regret not keeping silent today, magician. The words you spoke just now lead nicely to the second charge against you: that you have profaned against the gods and imperiled the state by preaching against the institution of animal sacrifice. Do you deny this charge?”

Catullus signaled to Epaphroditus, who touched a switch on the water clock. Water gurgled as it flowed from one chamber to another and the lever that indicated the passage of time began to move.

Apollonius cleared his throat. “Have I said that animal sacrifice is unnecessary? Yes. Have I offended the gods and imperilled the state by doing so? No. To show fitting respect to the Divine Singularity we must offer no victim at all, nor kindle a fire, nor burn incense, nor make promises, nor offer up any sort of trinket or amulet or any other material object. For if there is a god, who is higher than all else and of such perfection that he is unique and distinguished from every other essence, then what use does this god have of our paltry offerings? Far from giving him nourishment, such material offerings can only pollute his purity. And how dare we attempt to bargain with the Divine Singularity by making promises and pleading? We should approach the Divine Singularity using only our highest faculty, which is our intelligence. By thought alone should we strive to make ourselves known to the Divine Singularity, which itself is pure thought. If we desire to make these thoughts manifest for the benefit of other mortals, then we may employ beautiful speech, which is the imperfect servant of thought. A song or an uttered prayer shared among mortals may be pleasing to the Divine Singularity, but bloody carcasses and charred remains can only be offensive to that which is perfection.”

The lever on the water clock reached its upright position, which caused a bell to be struck. The gurgling of water ceased. Apollonius smiled serenely. He had said what he had to say in exactly the allotted time.

Catullus made a face of disgust. “Do I need to state the next charge, Dominus? The accused has already sufficiently incriminated himself. To offer him more opportunities to speak will only subject your majesty to more blasphemy and sedition.”

Domitian, who had been watching the proceedings in silence, stared at Apollonius with a quizzical tilt of his head. “That this man is guilty and worthy of death, there can be no doubt. But surely the third charge against him is the most serious. It should be addressed.”

Catullus stated the next charge. “It is alleged that Apollonius of Tyana practises magic. Witnesses attest that he has had healed sick persons by the use of magical influence, and has even caused the dead to return to life, against the laws of nature. He has used magic to witness faraway events and otherwise obtain knowledge of the movements of others, including even yourself, Dominus. He has used magical powers to look into the minds of others, so that even when they remain silent, his victims cannot conceal their thoughts from him. These uses of magic, which in and of themselves violate the laws of men and gods, also constitute a clear danger to the state and to the person of Caesar. What do you say to the charge, Apollonius of Tyana?”

Again, Epaphroditus touched a switch on the water clock. Its gurgling echoed loudly in the suddenly silent room, for everyone present was intent on hearing what Apollonius had to say.

Apollonius turned to Lucius. His lips did not move, yet Lucius heard him speak. “Do you have the thing Epaphroditus gave you earlier? Give it to me now.”

Lucius was puzzled. Nothing in the room had changed and yet everything suddenly seemed unreal, as if he had entered a dream without falling asleep. What was Apollonius talking about? Epaphroditus had given him nothing earlier. And yet, he found himself reaching into his tunic and pulling out a small sphere made of glass. He handed it to Apollonius.

Again without moving his lips, Apollonius spoke to him. “You are a good friend, Lucius Pinarius. I will miss you. Be strong.”

Apollonius raised the glass sphere and threw it against the floor. There was a blinding flash of light and a loud blast. A cloud of smoke enveloped Apollonius. There was a loud clatter, as of shackles falling to the floor. A peculiar smell filled Lucius’s nostrils. The floor seemed to ripple, as if shaken by an earthquake. Lucius thought that he alone felt these things, but when he looked at the spectators he saw that they, too, were reeling, as if from a blow. Some of them dropped to their knees. Lucius turned and saw that Domitian had risen from his chair. His small-headed companion was clutching the emperor’s leg.

The blind Catullus turned his head this way and that. “What’s happening?” he cried. “What has the magician done?”

The smoke dispersed. Apollonius was nowhere to be seen. His empty shackles lay on the marble floor.

“What trickery is this?” said Domitian. He ordered the guards to search every corner of the room and make sure that every exit was blocked. Apollonius was not to be found.

Domitian glared at Lucius. “The magician looked at you before he vanished. What happened?”

“I don’t know, Dominus.”

“Where has he gone?”

“I don’t know, Dominus.”

“Strip this man!” cried Domitian. Lucius’s tunic was torn from him. “What is that?” said Domitian.

“What is it you see, Dominus?” asked Catullus.

“He wears a talisman of some sort.”

Catullus raised his eyebrows. “How did this happen, Epaphroditus? You were to make sure the prisoners had no magical devices on their persons.”

“I’m as baffled as you,” said Epaphroditus.

Domitian stepped from the dais and approached Lucius. Lucius flinched but stood firm. The emperor reached out and took hold of the fascinum. “What is this? Did this amulet play some part in the magician’s disappearance?”

“It’s a fascinum, Dominus. A family heirloom. I call on it for protection, but I know of no other powers it might possess.”

Domitian frowned. “It looks like a cross.”

Catullus scurried to them, tapping his staff on the floor before him. “A cross, Dominus?” Domitian put the fascinum into the hand of Catullus, who examined it with his fingertips. Lucius cringed at having the man so close to him. Catullus cringed, as well. He released the fascinum with a show of disgust.

“Most certainly this is a magical amulet. I can feel the sorcery in it! Christian magic, I suspect.”

“Christian?” said Domitian.

“They use amulets in the shape of a cross to bewitch their enemies.”

“It’s a fascinum, Dominus, not a crucifix,” said Lucius.

“He lies,” said Catullus. “When I was preparing my dossier on this man, I discovered that his uncle was a Christian, one of those punished by Nero for arson. Can it be a coincidence that he wears a Christian amulet?”

Domitian peered down his nose at Lucius. “This man is follower of Apollonius, and whatever else he might be, Apollonius is not a Christian.”

“We cannot expect the enemies of the gods to be consistent in their blasphemy. This secret Christian has just assisted in the escape of a most dangerous magician, and by means of this amulet he may intend to endanger your divine person. Lucius Pinarius has conspired against you, Dominus. He must be punished.”

Domitian narrowed his eyes. “Yes, but how?”

“His uncle was burned alive in the Circus Vaticanus.”

Lucius felt a sudden prickling sensation all over his body and saw oily spots before his eyes. He tried to emulate the courage of Apollonius, but he swayed and fell to the floor.

Domitian looked down at him. “Are you sure this pitiful wretch poses a threat to me, Catullus?”

Catullus lowered his voice to a whisper. “Dominus, if the magician Apollonius has truly escaped, then this one must be made to suffer in his place. His punishment must be public, and it must be made to fit his crime.”

Domitian nodded. “I know what to do with him.”

Lucius was taken not to the cell where he had previously been held but through a series of narrow underground passages to a much smaller cell, large enough to hold only one prisoner. He was allowed to keep the fascinum. From the whisperings of the guards, Lucius gathered that they had been instructed to take it from him, but they were all too afraid to touch it.

His cell was a bare, windowless cubicle of dank stone with iron bars on one side. Beyond the bars, set too closely for him to stick his head between them, was a curved hallway, dimly lit by indirect sunlight. From somewhere nearby he heard wild animals – the growling of lions, the snorting of aurochs, the yelping of dogs. The air was heavy with the odours of straw, dung, and urine, and the smell of the raw meat that was fed to the carnivores.

From elsewhere he heard the clashing of swords and gruff voices – the sounds of gladiators training – and realized where he must be: in the cells beneath the Flavian Amphitheatre. If he recalled correctly, the next occasion for games in the amphitheatre was five days away.

By the alternation of darkness and light he was able to mark the passage of the days. At night the hallway was unlit and the darkness of his cell was absolute. The blackness of the nights terrified him at first, but in his imagination he sought the company of Apollonius and was comforted. It seemed to him sometimes that the Teacher actually spoke to him during the night, but in such complete darkness he could not tell if he was awake or dreaming, or even if he was alive or dead. “Be calm,” Apollonius said. “Though my body is far away, I am with you.”

On the fifth day, Lucius awoke to a great tumult of sounds from near and far – the blare of trumpets, men shouting and laughing, gates clanging, and the steady hum of a vast crowd, punctuated at intervals by roars of excitement. The amphitheatre above him was filled with people, and the games had commenced.

The punishment of criminals was a part of the games. Lucius had watched such exhibits many times, until he had become a follower of Apollonius and ceased to attend the games. Though he had sometimes imagined himself in the role of the hunters in the arena who stalked exotic prey, he had never imagined himself as one of the wretched criminals forced to fight to the death or to become the prey of savage beasts. And yet, that was to be his fate.

Had Apollonius foreseen this outcome? Why had the Teacher fled, saving himself, only to abandon Lucius to a horrible and humiliating death? Why had he not used his magic to take Lucius with him?

For a brief instant, Lucius fell into despair. Then his spirits suddenly lifted. He felt a sense of lightness, as if a great weight had been lifted from him. Even his shackles felt lighter. He decided to surrender himself completely to the Teacher, to trust that Apollonius had foreseen this moment and had sufficiently prepared Lucius to face it calmly and with dignity. All was for the best.

When the guards came for him, they were surprised by his demeanor. They were used to seeing men who cringed, wept, struggled, and begged, or who fell limp or went stiff and stared into space. But Lucius looked them in the eye, nodded to them amiably, and stood up to follow them.

They removed his shackles. His arms and legs felt weak and stiff after such long confinement, but he was glad to be free of the restraints. He stretched out his arms and spread his fingers wide. He kicked out his legs and lifted his knees, testing his control of his body. It was a good thing that in his final moments he would be able to feel like man again, however briefly.

They took off his tattered tunic so that he wore only his filthy loincloth. Around his waist they fitted a leather belt with a sheath; in the sheath was a knife. He pulled it out for a moment and saw that the blade was very dull. They handed him a bow and a single arrow. The bow was weak and poorly strung, and the head of the arrow was made not of metal but of cork. From a distance, the spectators would not be able to tell that the weapons were useless.

As they proceeded down a hallway, the roar of the crowd grew louder. They arrived at a gate made of iron bars. The gate opened. The guards lowered their spears, but there was no need for them to drive Lucius into the arena. He walked barefoot onto the sun-heated sand, squinting at the brightness of the day.

He had beheld the enormity of the amphitheatre from the stands but never from the arena floor. The magnitude of the crowd was staggering. The imperial box looked very small amid the vastness, and the people within it seemed like figures in a picture. Lucius spotted Domitian and the empress, and also the emperor’s small-headed companion. The most highly favoured members of the imperial family were there, including the emperor’s beautiful niece Flavia Domitilla, along with her husband and two of their young sons. Earinus was there, and close to the eunuch, Lucius saw with a slight shock, was Martial. Would he make a poem of what was about to happen? Amid the courtiers, Lucius saw Catullus, and also Epaphroditus.

There was a hush. A crier made an announcement. The words echoed oddly in Lucius’s ears. He was unable to make out anything the man said, except his own name: “Lucius Pinarius…”

His name sounded strange to him, a collection of sounds that had nothing to do with what he was. “Lucius Pinarius: I am called Lucius Pinarius,” he said to himself. “I am in a place called Roma. I am about to die.”

Lucius strode to the very centre of the arena and turned in a slow circle, gazing around him.

He felt that he was at the precise centre of the cosmos, surrounded on all sides by the whole population of Roma, and by the city itself, and by the vast empire and the lands and oceans that lay beyond it. Every eye in the amphitheatre was upon him; he was the focus of every gaze. And yet he felt not exposed and vulnerable but strangely isolated and protected. All around him was ceaseless noise and swirling chaos, but in the place where Lucius stood there was silence and stillness. He stood in the pupil of the eye of the Divine Singularity. Had Apollonius known that he would feel this? Was that why the Teacher had guided him to this place and this moment?

He heard the clanging of a gate and turned to see that he was no longer alone in the arena. A lion had been released. The beast looked about, sniffing the air, then spotted Lucius. It crouched for a moment, tensing and flexing its haunches, then sprang forward and ran straight towards Lucius.

Of what use were the bow and arrow? Even if Lucius took aim and struck the beast, he would only aggravate it. Lucius cast them aside.

Of what use was the knife? There was a slim chance that even with such a dull blade Lucius might inflict a wound on the beast; he might even, by some miracle, fatally wound it. But by the time that happened, the lion would have mauled him, and in the best possible outcome they both would die. Lucius felt no desire to kill the lion. He drew the knife from the sheath, which greatly excited the crowd, then cast it away, which elicited cries of derision and mutterings of confusion.

Lucius looked at the belt around his waist. What would Apollonius think if he saw Lucius wearing a garment made of leather? Lucius undid the belt and cast it away.

He suddenly loathed the touch of the filthy loincloth against his flesh. He did not want to die wearing it. He pulled off the loincloth and threw it to the ground.

Lucius stood naked at the centre of the cosmos, stripped of all earthly pretense – naked except for the fascinum, which caught the sunlight and glittered brightly.

Where did he find the sense to do what he did next? An old slave, the scarred survivor of many dangerous hunts over a long lifetime, had once advised Lucius on the best way to comport himself should he ever encounter a deadly animal in the wild without the advantage of a weapon: “You must be as wild and fierce as the beast. No – wilder, fiercer! Jump, flail your arms, scream and shout like a madman.”

“Pretend to be dangerous?” Lucius had asked.

“No pretending,” said the slave. “You must find inside yourself the part of you that truly is as savage as the beast.”

“And what if there is no such part of me?” said Lucius.

“There is,” the slave had answered.

Lucius had quickly forgotten this exchange, but he remembered it now, as the lion ran towards him.

He heard a shrieking noise so bloodcurdling that even he was unnerved by it, though he knew he must be producing it himself. His body was in motion, but he had no conception of what his movements must look like. Perhaps they were comical, like the writhing of a mime, for he heard laughter from the stands. But the lion did not seem amused by his screaming and stamping and flailing. The beast stopped in its tracks and sprang back, looking startled. Lucius sensed that he had the advantage and pursued it. He did what no sane man would have done: he charged the lion.

What would he do if the lion stood its ground? He would have no choice but to leap onto the beast and wrestle it. The idea was absurd, but there was no turning back.

He heard gasps of disbelief and screams of excitement from the spectators. The lion crouched, flattened it ears, lifted a paw, and bared its fangs. Lucius continued his headlong rush, screaming at the top of his lungs, waving his arms and gaining speed as he drew closer. Just as he was about to leap, the beast turned and began to run.

Lucius chased the lion. The roar from the crowd was deafening. He perceived a vast upward movement all around him. The spectators, in unison, had risen to their feet.

The lion ran for a short distance, then stopped and looked back at him with flattened ears, made ready to fight, then lost its nerve and began to run again, staying low to the ground. The beast seemed as perplexed by its own craven behaviour as it was by Lucius’s headlong advance. The predator was not used to being pursued.

Lucius could not continue to scream and run for long. He was weak from imprisonment. He had managed to find within himself an unexpected reservoir of energy and had released it in a great burst of noise and action, but already he was flagging.

In the blink of an eye, his strength was gone. He stopped running. He could scream no longer. He gasped for air. He could barely stand.

The lion ran until it reached the far side of the arena. It spun around and peered at Lucius, then sat on the sand like a Sphinx and snapped its tail this way and that.

They stayed like that for a while, man and lion, peering at each other across the sand. Eventually, a gate opened. Attendants with long poles ran onto the sand and poked at the lion, trying to goad it into attacking Lucius again. But the cat turned on the attendants instead, spitting and batting its claws at them. Eventually the attendants retreated. The lion sat on the sand again, panting and showing its tongue.

No longer able to stand, Lucius sat. Nearby he noticed a bloody spot on the sand. Amid the blood lay a lump of flesh. Most likely it was from a human being, one of the day’s previous victims, but it was so bloody and torn that it looked like a cut of meat from a butcher’s shop. Lucius wrinkled his nose and felt a twinge of nausea.

For a while Lucius and the lion sat on the sand, resting and keeping their distance. Then the cat roused itself. It stood and began to walk very slowly towards Lucius. The crowd murmured in anticipation. A stone’s throw from Lucius, the lion came to a stop and sat again, Sphinx-like, staring at him.

Lucius summoned his last vestige of strength to crawl on his hands and knees to the lump of bloody flesh on the sand. What would Apollonius think of his intention? Apollonius believed that men should not eat animals, but Lucius had never heard him express the opinion that animals should not eat men. It was in their nature, and they could not be reasoned out of it.

Grimacing with disgust, Lucius grabbed hold of the lump of flesh and flung it at the lion. The beast scrambled back, then poked its head towards the flesh and sniffed at it. It leaped onto the bloody lump, seized it with both paws, and attacked it with its powerful jaws.

The lion relished its meal. When it was done, it rose to its feet and sauntered towards Lucius, who stayed where he was, too exhausted to do anything except shut his eyes. He breathed deeply and awaited what was to come. As the lion drew nearer, Lucius heard its footsteps on the sand and smelled the gore on its breath.

Something rough and wet touched Lucius’s hand. He opened his eyes and saw that the cat was licking the blood from his fingers. The lion took its time and did a very thorough job, then sat beside him and closed its eyes, seemingly content.

From the stands came a strange mixture of sounds – applause and laughter, but also angry jeers and cries of scorn. Some of the spectators were enthralled by the scene they had just witnessed and hailed Lucius’s bravery. Others felt cheated of the thrill of seeing a man torn apart, and suspected that some trickery was afoot.

Lucius looked at the imperial box. Domitian was on his feet. Catullus was beside him, speaking into his right ear. Epaphroditus was speaking into his left ear. Domitian waved them both aside and gave an order to another courtier in his retinue. A few moments later, the attendants with long poles again appeared in the arena. One of the poles had a bit of meat tied to the end. They lured the cat to one of the openings and through the gate, which clanged shut after them.

A courtier beckoned to Lucius from the imperial box. Somehow, Lucius rose to his feet and staggered in that direction. Domitian stood at the parapet, looking down at him.

The emperor raised his hand. The spectators fell silent.

Domitian flashed a chilly smile. Thanks to the extraordinary acoustics of the amphitheatre, he barely had to raise his voice to be heard by Lucius. “I think, Lucius Pinarius, that you are the luckiest man I have ever met. More than once I have intended to do away with you. More than once I have changed my mind.”

“Caesar is merciful,” Lucius managed to say. His throat ached and his voice was hoarse from screaming.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps Caesar is mindful of some powerful magic about you. Did the magician from Tyana teach you to cast that spell on the lion?”

“I am always mindful of the Teacher’s example, Dominus. But he did not teach me any spells.”

“Then perhaps that amulet you wear is responsible for your good fortune. It must possess a powerful magic.”

Lucius touched the fascinum.

“You are pardoned and released, Lucius Pinarius. The property that was to be confiscated from you is hereby returned. Epaphroditus, see to the details.”

“But, Dominus-” protested Catullus, before Domitian cut him off by pressing a finger to the man’s lips.

Attendants assisted Lucius from the arena. They were strong men, and for that Lucius was glad. His legs had turned to water and the attendants practically had to carry him out.