Across the Waters of Time- Pliny Remembered

by Ken Parejko

  Strike summer’s purest chord,

  Let the wind song

  of the syrinx sing

  a dance for Pan.

  I unrolled the text further, held the papyrus up into the dim light coming in through the window, focused and scanned the lines: From this song you will know a sacred way...You were born, you died, you were born again....

  As a student I’d read the Orphic Hymns in Latin but paid little attention to them. The ancient songs of divine ecstasy and enthusiasm -- and, according to some, passwords into the afterlife -- meant little to me. But in the original Greek they were surprisingly more immediate.

  Once a man,

  Now God;

  A kid,

  Fallen in milk.

  Hail to you,

  walking on the right

  by the sacred groves

  and meadows of Persephone.

  This was a language as exotic to me as any I ran across in the busy markets of Alexandria. Composed in the language of symbolism and metaphor, the Hymns required the kind of suspension of disbelief I seldom allowed myself. They spoke of the journey of the soul through life and death and into the after-life. I found myself oddly drawn into this unfamiliar world. The copy I held was ancient. It might have been the outdated script which seduced me in ways a more modern copy wouldn’t. As I read the verses they conjured in my heart and the back recesses of my mind the gentle singing of a lyre in a quiet place of repose beside a lake.

  Lucius touched me on the shoulder. “Are we going?”

  I looked up as though from a deep sleep, or dream, hardly recognizing him.

  “Yes. Yes, we’re going,” I answered, though my response was to more than just Lucius’s question.

  “What's this?” Lucius leaned over the papyrus. Of course he couldn’t read Greek.

  “It’s a copy of the Orphic Hymns. It’s very old.” I ran my hands across the paper, the highest quality papyrus kind used mostly for religious texts. I measured it with my hand. “Thirteen fingers wide,” I said. “Yes, the finest. Heiratica.” I lifted the roll to my nose and sniffed. “Well made.” Too musty a smell, often found in cheaper papyrus, meant muddy Nile waters had been used in making the paper. But I could catch only the faintest tang of citrus and a whiff of the cedar leaves used to protect more valuable papyrus from insects. The sheets were smooth and of even thickness. This was one of the highest-quality papyri I’d ever held.

  I knew from personal experience that well-made paper, carefully preserved, could last many years. I’d once seen the original works of Gaius Gracchus, owned by Pomponius Secundus, which were two centuries old and easily legible. This papyrus could be even older.

  Lucius’ eyes were following the columns of verse. Behind them, the words flowing into one another without breaks, there seemed to be a crosswise rhythm or text, like vague columns of tiny insects marching up and down beneath the words of the poem. He rested his finger at a spot where the crosswise text seemed more distinct.

  He took the roll from my hand, moved it closer to his eyes.

  But the light was not good and his vision was no longer what it once had been. So he simply handed it back to me. I re-rolled the Hymns and carried them along with the Hyperides to the owner of the shop. Bronze coins fell from my purse onto a table, and the papyri were mine.

  As we walked out into the hot Egyptian evening the sun had already disappeared into the western sea, its brilliance but a fading reflection on the palimpsest of the sky. We hurried through the crowds towards the Greek quarter, not speaking to each other all the while. My soul was strangely astir with memories and dreams. Like a phantasm over a moonlit marsh Drusus’ admonition to me made in my dream twenty years before, to heed the Orphic Hymns, rose briefly to consciousness before settling back into darkness.

  Once in our apartment after a hurried dinner I tucked my two purchases into my field-chest and sat down to my journals. I recorded some anecdotes I’d read in the store’s papyri about the Nile floods. Lucius had retired to his room. I stayed up late, listening to the sounds of the city, the bark of its dogs, the occasional courier passing by on horseback, the cry of an infant from one of the servants’ quarters. Before blowing the candle out and lying back to sleep I unrolled the Hymns onto my lap. The simple verses, which seemed to skirt the edge of nonsense, seemed yet to resonate with a deeper, wider meaning. As the Nile slowly rose not far from my window, so the Hymns flooded my heart, like the Nile to leave there a rich fertile deposit. I woke the next morning surprised to find them there, still unrolled across my chest.

  After a quick breakfast of fruit and bread I dressed and wandered across the street to the royal palace. The guard at the gate told me Vespasian and Titus weren't in, but had only a moment ago gone to the Serapeum with a visitor.

  “A visitor?” I’d expected another strategy session, and couldn’t remember Titus saying anything about a visitor.

  “Some holy man,” the guard answered. While Rome had its share of augurs, this part of the world fairly swarmed with self-appointed holy men, easily recognized by their dirty white linen and long unruly beards and hair. “Some Apollonius or another.”

  That would be Apollonius of Tyana, I thought. At the top of the crowded field of prophets and holy men, Apollonius had attracted Vespasian’s attention. At the moment Apollonius’ following was as large as the martyred Christus Lucius was so interested in. The other most popular cult hovered around the Samarian Simon Magus. When Simon Magus met the Simon Peter who was one of Christus’ disciples he was so impressed he offered Peter a sizable salary to teach him what he knew. Lucius told me that Peter said it was not with silver but with a pure heart that one entered the house of the Lord. This impressed Simon even further, and he convinced Peter to baptize him. It was said the two men were often seen together, walking the streets of Jerusalem, discussing fine points of the new theology. But their relationship broke down when Simon Magus agreed to talk the Drusilla I knew into divorcing her husband so she could marry Felix. This outraged Peter and the affair inspired a series of sermons against what he called fornication, marriages made for any reason but spiritual commitment.

  So Peter went his way and Simon his, for whom it was the beginning of a long slide into a self-delusional compact with the darker forces. He learned the arts of the occult and became so impressed by his own abilities that in time he saw himself as God. From there, as it was for Caligula and Nero, it was a short step to the conclusion that to him all things were lawful. His solipsism attracted Simon a following, especially among those who found the chains of human ethics limiting.

  Simon purchased a prostitute out of a brothel, a woman named Helen, who he then dignified with the title of Mother of the Universe. He preached that all things flowed from her, the stars and sun, clouds, earth, water and all living kinds. Not long after Peter was martyred by Nero Simon paid the price of surrounding himself with the mentally unhinged when one of his followers, in a fit of paranoia, assassinated him. Like others Simon must have died astonished that he was not the immortal God he thought he was.

  But Simon’s charisma continued to move on this our material plane even after his death. Apion, one of his followers and official historian of Alexandria’s Library, had recently spread fictions of Jewish ritual murders. More than anything else it was these fabrications that were responsible for the pogroms which had occurred not long before our arrival.

  It was all a tangled mess, the way these cults touched and tortured one another. I was familiar with several of Apollonius’ works. I found them well-written, mildly interesting, but far too metaphysical for my tastes. But not wanting to miss a meeting between the two most powerful men in Egypt, one on the material the other on the spiritual plane, I hurried to the Serapeum, making my way through several layers of security to finally join the men in Alexandria’s magnificent temple to the god Serapis.

  Apollonius had arrived only moments before and joined Vespasian, Titus, Julius Alexander and Josephus. Apollonius, a thorough-going Py
thagorean, would neither eat meat nor wear any clothing or shoes made from an animal’s hide. He wore only white linen and was barefoot. His hair was long and he was unshaven.

  Vespasian introduced me. “Glad you’re here. I sent a message about our meeting but it seems you were lost in the desert.”

  “Not in the desert. In a bookstore.”

  “I should have known,” Vespasian smiled.

  “So, you are a holy man,” Vespasian resumed his conversation with Apollonius. “Tell me what it is makes you a holy man.”

  Apollonius smiled. “I will tell you a story and let you decide. A client once came to a holy man. The client wanted his fortune told. The holy man said, ‘Okay. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but it seems you will die in two days.’

  ‘Two days? But...are you sure?’ the client stammered.

  ‘Do you doubt my word?’ said the holy man.

  ‘And there’s nothing I can do to prevent it?”

  ‘Well,' the holy man said, 'I might intercede with the gods on your behalf. It will require a sacrifice, made to me.’

  ‘Anything,’ the man said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘In cases such as yours it’s customary to sacrifice a part of your body which the gods accept as a substitute for the whole.’

  ‘What part?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. An arm, if you like, or an ear. Or perhaps a finger. A finger should do.’

  “The client was aghast. He couldn’t imagine giving up a part of his body. He held his ear a moment, stroked a finger. Is there nothing else I can give you?”

  “The holy man was deep in thought. Well, I can see you are an honest, good-hearted man. In your case we’ll make an exception. I see you have a gold ring on your finger. I’m sure the gods will be satisfied with that, instead of the finger.”

  “The man slipped the ring off his hand and dropped it into the holy man’s palm. For what is a gold ring compared to his life, an arm or even a finger? He left the holy man’s presence with a light heart, happy that through his own cleverness and the help of the holy man, he’d cheated fate.” Apollonius paused, stroking his long beard, waiting for Vespasian’ response.

  “He’s very smart,” Vespasian answered, “your holy man. He cheated his client out of his best ring, and left the man feeling happy for it. If only our tax-collectors as smart as him.”

  Apollonius smiled.

  “I’ve noticed that the desert is full of holy men, some claiming to be mages, others prophets,” Vespasian noted.

  Apollonius nodded. “There are many in our hills.”

  “It’s true,” Josephus added. “As a young man I went among them.”

  Apollonius had met Josephus before, when Josephus was Jewish rather than Roman. “After a week in the desert,” Apollonius said, “they consider themselves adepts. Then they turn their energy to becoming famous, and set their sails to the most recent fad. One week it’s faith healing, the next its prophecy, astrology or finding the divinity within. Some chew soapwort and foam at the mouth to appear as though in a trance.”

  He looked out the door of the temple, beyond which was the desert from which he’d come. “It’s spooky,” he confessed, “how quickly they communicate with one another over distances. The latest spiritual fad seems to fly across miles of barren desert. Like the ‘I am God’ thing, there was a spate of that going around...”

  “Simon, the one they call the Magus,” Vespasian added.

  “Simon? Right. He had it bad.”

  “What about the Nazarene, the one called Christus? He claimed to be God, didn’t he?”

  “Technically, I suppose. But both God and man, a subtle but perhaps important difference.”

  “I’ve heard you’ve healed people, raised the dead, performed minor miracles. You have a complete resume as a holy man. Have you actually healed anyone?” Vespasian asked.

  Apollonius nodded.

  “How?”

  “It's not hard,” Apollonius admitted. “If they believe in you enough you can heal them.”

  Vespasian thought a moment. “If someone believed I could heal them, I could?”

  “Well, yes, most of the time.”

  “Most of the time? You mean sometimes you don’t heal them?”

  “No, sometimes I don’t heal them. But they only remember when I do. One or two successes can cover dozens of failures,” Apollonius added with a smile.

  “Interesting,” Vespasian nodded. “And the Library? Have you been there?”

  “Yes, of course,” Apollonius answered.

  “And?” Vespasian pursued.

  “A wonderful place, I suppose.” He turned to me. “If you are thirsty, which would you rather have, one empty water-jug, or a thousand empty water-jugs?”

  “Why,” I answered, “it would be the same. One empty or a thousand empty, it wouldn’t matter. I’d want a full water-jug.’

  “ Exactly. A half million books, each without wisdom, is no better than one book without wisdom,” Apollonius said.

  “But your books are there, too,” I pointed out. “Don’t they contain wisdom?”

  Apollonius didn’t answer.

  “Of all the holy men you’ve met, who was the greatest?” Josephus asked.

  “We are all holy men, and we are all great,” Apollonius smiled. “The secret is in knowing that, but not making too much of it.” He leaned back against one of the Temple’s columns. “In India I met a Brahmin, a simple man who could neither read nor write. He hadn’t traveled more than ten miles from the village in which he was born. But his eyes were afire with the Godhead. We lived side by side for nearly a month, and never exchanged a word. But when I left him, I was a different man.”

  “If you can’t find it in words or books, what then is this thing called wisdom?” Vespasian asked.

  “A wise man does not put his hand in a fire, nor does he sit down to eat with the lions. If the sea is rising and will drown him, he goes to higher ground; but if his neighbor calls for help, he goes to his aid.”

  “Why, that’s just common sense. It’s no more than what I do,” Vespasian objected.

  “Then, you are a wise man.” Apollonius smiled and took Vespasian by the arm and together they walked down the Temple stairs and across the marble tiles toward the Library. The rest of us followed. “Only it seems, my friend, you are not satisfied to be only a wise man, but want to be emperor, too,” Apollonius said.

  “Want?” Vespasian mulled the idea over. “No, not really. I’d rather be a general, or procurator somewhere. Much of the time all I want to do is retire to my grandmother’s farm, raise chickens and mules and grow cabbages. But emperor, no, it’s too much.”

  “But it must be tempting. And you’d like my advice, whether you should be emperor or not, right?” Apollonius offered.

  Vespasian replied, “Yes, of course, emperor of all Rome, it’s tempting.” I knew Vespasian well; the two of us had gone over all this before. “But that’s because then I can steer the empire's future in a better direction.”

  For some time Apollonius didn’t answer. At last he stopped, reached out and touched Vespasian’s hand. “You’re right,” he said. “Rome does need you, and you will become emperor. It is your destiny, and Rome’s destiny, and to shrink from it would be a mistake. Only remember,” Apollonius added, “the true empire is not the one found in your temples and government buildings, your roads and armies. The true empire you will build and which will be the measure of your own greatness as emperor, is in your heart.”

  We walked the long path together in silence, and stood quietly at Alexander’s tomb. Then Apollonius went his way, and Vespasian his, without another word.

  Vespasian was committed to a course leading to the highest office in Rome. Alexandria seethed with excitement: the next emperor was in their midst. To woo Vespasian the wealthy and ambitious threw opulent banquets. But the excitement reached to all levels of society. Word spread that Apollonius had given him the power of prophecy and a healing hand.r />
  Every morning crowds gathered around Vespasian's lodgings, crowds of the curious, of those hoping for jobs, and each day a growing number who came to be healed. A blind man begged to meet Vespasian. I saw him there many mornings, quietly pleading for an audience. Then one morning he was with a man whose right hand hung lame at the end of his arm. They'd become friends, the lame man helping the blind find his way. They camped outside the door and wouldn’t leave. One of the guards must have felt sorry for them. He mentioned them to Vespasian, who brushed the idea aside. He was a farmer, a mule-dealer, a general, not a healer.

  But he thought it over. Well now, he told me, the common folk here think that if I’m emperor I can heal people. It can’t hurt. It’s just a little thing, a splash of fish sauce on the beans. It’s worth a try. So the next morning he had his personal doctor examine the two men.

  “The blind man’s eyes are healthy,” the doctor reported. “I can’t find anything wrong with them. Perhaps some kind of trauma in his youth collapsed his soul into darkness. It’s not uncommon.”

  “And the other?” Vespasian asked.

  “There’s a joint in his wrist which has come out of place, perhaps from a fall,” the doctor said. “It could be forced back into place.”

  Vespasian turned to me.

  “Apollonius said if they believe in me enough, I can heal them. What do you think?”

  “He said too that his failures were soon forgotten. So, nothing ventured...”

  He turned to the doctor. “Bring them in.”

  The blind man came in, led by the other.

  They stopped a few feet from Vespasian. The blind one spoke. “They said you could make me see again. Will you help me?”

  Vespasian turned to the doctor and winked, then spat into his hand. “Close your eyes,” he said, then rubbed the spit into the man’s eyes, muttering: “Now, go and see. The world awaits you.”

  The man opened his eyes, blinked a few times. He looked directly into Vespasian’s eyes, an incredulous smile growing on his face. A cry of joy leapt from his lips. He turned to his friend, who he hugged and kissed, and spun around in a kind of joyful dance.