“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?”