by Sax Rohmer
Four tripods immediately moved forward of their own volition! Upon them were cup-bearers of black brass, which resembled the figures of beautiful youths. And the earth magically strewed soft grass beneath them. Dried fruit, bread, and vegetables were served and set before the royal guest and Apollonius by these mysterious automata; and we learn that two of the tripods flowed with wine, whilst the others furnished, respectively, hot and cold water. We are reminded of Homer:
That day no common task his labour claim’d:
Full twenty tripods for his hall he fram’d,
That, plac’d on living wheels of massy gold
(Wondrous to tell), instinct with spirit, roll’d
From place to place, around the blest abodes
Self-mov’d, obedient to the beck of gods.
Vessels and goblets formed of enormous jewels were passed to the guests by the bronze cup-bearers; and these contained a mixture of wine and water.
The happenings at the abode of the Brahmins have afforded Apollonius’s critics (and the critics of his biographer, Philostratus) with matter for ridicule. By some who have sought, amid the seemingly fabulous, for the real episodes of his life, these adventures of Apollonius have been deliberately ignored. But I as deliberately select them, since I wish to present him as a magician and as one who consorted with magicians.
Aaron’s rod had powers strangely similar to those possessed by the rods of the Brahmins, and Éliphas Lévi evidently was of opinion that his wand was capable of performing feats more wonderful even than that of levitation. The bronze cup-bearers must be a stumbling-block for the sceptical, but theosophy teaches an absolute control of mind over matter. Thus, a theosophist will perceive little of the remarkable in these bronze waiters. You and I may doubt if jewels ever existed large enough to have been used as goblets; but the authors of The Arabian Nights had no such doubts. In short, an examination of occult phenomena, conducted from the common level, usually can yield no other result than increased incredulity; but those who stand upon the ladder of the Secret Wisdom tell us that they can see much further; that a great and wondrous landscape unfolds, map-like, to their view. Some, who have ascended many rungs, believing that, the topmost attained, the human veil would wholly be lifted from their eyes, have learned that that ladder is endless.
Therefore, without essaying to mount, let us endeavour to review the marvels recorded of Apollonius in the spirit, not of scoffers, but of those who, whilst failing themselves to perceive any light, are sufficiently generous to admit that their vision and not the light may be in fault.
A conversation which followed this magical banquet is worthy of record. Apollonius asked the Brahmins of what they supposed the Cosmos to be composed.
“Of the elements.”
“Are there then four?” he asked.
“Not four,” said Iarchas, “but five.”
“And how can there be a fifth,” demanded Apollonius, “beside water and air and earth and fire?”
“There is the ether,” replied the Brahmin, “which we must regard as the element of which the gods are made; for just as all mortal creatures inhale the air, so do immortal and divine natures inhale the ether.” Apollonius asked which was the first of the elements. “All are simultaneous,” Iarchas answered, “for a living creature is not born by degrees.”
“Am I,” said Apollonius, “to regard the universe as a living creature?”
“Yes,” replied the other “... for it engenders all living things.”
“Should I then term the universe female? — or male?”
“Of both genders,” said the other, “for by commerce with itself it fulfils the rôle both of mother and father in bringing forth living creatures; and it is possessed by a love for itself more intense than any separate being has for its fellow, a passion which knits it together into harmony....”
Then we have a glimpse of the alchemistical philosophy (if not of the true philosopher’s stone) in the following words of Iarchas:
“Respecting the stone which attracts and binds to itself other stones, you must not be sceptical; for you may see the stone yourself if you will, and admire its properties. The largest specimen is of the size of a finger-nail, and it is conceived in a hollow of the earth at a depth of four fathoms; but it is endowed with such force that the earth swells and breaks open in many places where the stone is....”
It was impossible to secure it, Apollonius was told, except by the most subtle artifices of science; for it vanished if unskilfully sought. “We alone,” said the Brahmin, “can secure, partly by performance of certain rites, and partly by certain forms of words, the pentarbe....”
Touching this interesting point — the elusive nature of the pentarbe — the original text of Philostratus is susceptible of more than one construction; but a French translator renders it thus:— “Il n’est permis à per sonne de la chercher, car elle s’évanouit si l’on ne la prend pas par artifice.”
“In the night-time,” Iarchas related, “it glows like fire, for it is red and emits rays; and if you look at it, it smites your eyes with a thousand glints and gleams. And this light within it is a spirit of mysterious power, for it absorbs to itself everything in its neighbourhood.”
This account has quite a unique interest; for the philosopher’s stone possessed by the Adept Trautmansdorf was stated, by those alleged to have seen it, to have been about as large as a bean, of a garnet red colour, and to have emitted light in the dark.
Iarchas, then, exhibited to Apollonius the pentarbe and all that it was capable of performing. He also gave to the man of Tyana seven mystic rings, named after the seven stars; and it is said that Apollonius wore each of them in turn on the day of the week which bore its name.
During his sojourn among these thaumaturgists, he himself performed wonderful cures of the halt, the blind, and the possessed; but what he learnt of the Brahmins’ lore we can only assume from his subsequent life and works.
And on departing from the Hill of the Sages we are told that he kept the Ganges on his right hand, but the Hyphasis on his left, going down toward the sea a journey of ten days from the sacred ridge. And as he and his followers descended they saw a great many ostriches, and many wild bulls, and numbers of asses and lions and pards and tigers, and “another kind of apes than those which inhabit the pepper trees, for these were black and bushy-haired, and were dog-like in features and as big as small men.”
In this way they came to the sea, where passenger ships rode. And we read that the sea called Erythra, or “red,” was really of a deep blue colour, but that it was so named from a King Erythas, who gave his own name to it.
Having reached this point, Apollonius sent back with the guide the camels to Iarchas, together with the following letter:
“Apollonius to Iarchas and the other Sages greeting. “I came to you by land, and you presented me with the sea; but by sharing with me the wisdom which is yours, you have opened for me the road to the heavens. All this I shall tell to the Hellenes; and I shall communicate my words to you as if you were present, unless I have in vain drunk of the draught of Tantalus. Farewell, ye goodly philosophers.”
IV. THE FAIR WOMAN OF CORINTH
Apollonius returned once more to his beloved Greece, where his subsequent divinations, including that of the plague at Ephesus, calling up of spirits, and miraculous cures, are too numerous to be dealt with here. I proceed to the day of the Epidaurian festival at Athens, whereat he received a serious affront at the hands of the hierophant, who denied him admission to the rites, saying that he would never initiate a wizard and charlatan, nor unveil the Eleusinian mystery to a man who dabbled in impure rites. Thereupon Apollonius retorted with dignity:
“You have not yet mentioned the chief of my offences, which is that knowing, as I do, more about the initiatory rite than you do yourself, I have nevertheless come to you for initiation, as if you were wiser than I am.”
These words the bystanders applauded with true Hellenic appreciation, saying tha
t he had answered with characteristic vigour; whereupon the hierophant, perceiving that his exclusion of Apollonius was unpopular with the crowd and likely to react upon himself, adopted a tone of conciliation:
“Be thou initiated,” he said, “for thou seemest to be some wise man that has come here.”
“I will be initiated,” Apollonius replied, “at another time, and” (glancing at the hierophant who succeeded the one he addressed, and who was destined to preside over the temple four years later) “it is he who will initiate me.”
This augury was fulfilled.
One of the most remarkable incidents of Apollonius’s remarkable career took place at about this time.
There was in Corinth a man named Demetrius, a student of philosophy who had embraced in his system all the masculine vigour of the Cynics. We shall see more of Demetrius later. Of him Favorinus, in several of his own works, made the most generous mention; and the attitude of Demetrius toward Apollonius was one of reverence and admiration; for he regularly sought his company and was anxious to become his disciple, being so impressed with his doctrines as to convert to the cult of Apollonius the more advanced of his own pupils. Among the latter was one Menippus, a Lycian twenty-five years of age, a man of good judgment, “and of a physique so beautifully proportioned that in mien he resembled a fine and gentlemanly athlete.”
The handsome Menippus, returning one day to Cenchræ, and walking alone along the road, engaged, I assume, in reflections befitting a Cynic philosopher, met with an amorous adventure. A woman approached him whose beauty was such as to drive all thoughts of Cynicus from his mind, and whose glance pierced his philosopher’s cloak and found a youthful heart beneath.
She was daintily and richly attired, and, the licence of the period allowing of such overtures, she clasped his hand, declaring that she had long been in love with him! Furthermore she confided to him that she was a Phoenician and lived in a suburb of Corinth, where she desired him to call upon her.
“When you reach the place this evening,” she whispered to him, “you will hear my voice as I sing to you, and you shall have such wine as you never before drank. There will be no rival to disturb you; and we two beautiful beings will live together.”
To this proposal Menippus consented:
“For although he was in general a strenuous philosopher, he was nevertheless susceptible to the tender passion; and he visited her in the evening, and for the future constantly sought her company by way of relaxation.”
Then came a day when Apollonius surveyed Menippus as a sculptor might do, sketching a mental outline of the youth and examining him. From the eye of Apollonius no weakness could be hidden, no foible concealed, no secret veiled.
“You are a fine youth,” he said, “and hunted by fine women; but in this case you are cherishing a serpent, and a serpent cherishes you.”
The respect in which the great sage was held no doubt secured his immunity from the kind of retort natural in such case. Menippus, however, demanded his reasons for so extraordinary a statement.
“This woman,” Apollonius warned him, “is of a kind you cannot marry. Do you think that she loves you?”
Menippus replied that he had every reason to think so. His manner presumably revealed to his questioner the depths of his infatuation, for:
“Would you then marry her?” asked Apollonius. The youth, whose philosophy evidently had failed him in his direst need, replied that to do so would be delightful. His desire to conceal the truth is shown; for when the omniscient sage, perceiving that the affair was serious, asked when the wedding was to be, the enamoured Menippus answered:
“Perhaps to-morrow; for it brooks no delay.” That the ceremony actually took place on the morrow we are not told, but on the occasion of the wedding banquet Apollonius presented himself before the whole of the guests, his presence, probably, being not entirely welcome to Menippus.
“Where,” inquired the inflexible man of Tyana, “is the dainty lady at whose instance ye are come?”
She entered at that moment; but her loveliness had no power to soften the heart of Apollonius.
“Here she is,” replied Menippus, and rose, blushing, from his seat.
“And to which of you belong the silver and gold and all the rest of the decorations of the banqueting hall?”
“To the lady,” replied the youth, “for this is all I have of my own.” And he pointed to the philosopher’s cloak which he wore.
Apparently ignoring the lovers, Apollonius turned to the guests, a man detached from earthly things, whose sandals were set upon the ladder of the gods.
“You know of the gardens of Tantalus, how they exist and yet do not exist?”
Can we not hear his stern voice; see the company grouped about him, all eyes upon the bearded face; see Menippus standing protectively by his beautiful mistress?
“As such,” continued Apollonius, “you must regard this world of ours, for it is no reality, but the semblance of a reality. And that you may realize the truth of what I say, this is one of the vampires, that is to say of those beings whom the many regard as lamias. These beings fall in love, and they are devoted to the delights of Aphrodite, but especially to the flesh of human beings, and they decoy with such delights those whom they mean to devour at their feasts.”
Now, it will be evident at once that we may place at least two constructions upon this speech; we may accept it literally, as did Damis, and after him Philostratus, or we may regard it somewhat in the light of a parable, the clue, I think, to the light in which Apollonius designed that it be viewed we may find in the words whom the many regard as lamias.”
This point of view, however, I shall not discuss further; but when we remember that the vampire, the most gruesome ghoul in the gallery of human superstitions, to this day thralls the imagination in Greece, as well as in Russia, Servia, Hungary, and parts of Germany, it is no wonder that Damis, a true man of his age, adopted a different view, and has so recorded the incident as to bear it out.
No doubt the words of Apollonius struck consternation to the hearts of his audience.
“Cease your ill-omened talk,” cried the object of his denunciations, “and be gone!”
But when we read that the golden goblets and the rich appointments of the villa were proved “as light as air” and melted from sight, whilst all the retinue of servants vanished before the rebukes of Apollonius, whereupon “the phantom pretended to weep, and prayed him not to torture her, nor to compel her to confess what she really was,” again we hesitate, scarce knowing how to construe. I will conclude the episode in the words of Philostratus:
“But Apollonius insisted and would brook no denial, and then she admitted that she was a vampire, and was feasting Menippus with pleasures and devouring his body, for it was her habit to feed upon young and beautiful bodies, because their blood is pure and strong.”
Curiously enough, this incident is dealt with by Sinistrari of Ameno, a seventeenth-century writer, who speaks of:
“The case of Menippus Lycius, who, after frequent intimacies with a woman, was by her entreated to marry her; but a certain philosopher, who partook of the wedding entertainment, having guessed what that woman was, told Menippus that he had to deal with a Compusa, that is a Succuba Demon; whereupon the bride vanished, bewailing...
V. TIGELLINUS
Passing over his subsequent travels, throughout which he addressed himself to executing reforms, notably in the various temples, and, in addition, gave utterance to a number of remarkable predictions, let us see what befell the man of Tyana in Rome.
The Rome to which Apollonius now directed his steps was the Rome of deeds more than humanly bloody, the Rome of magnificent vice, the Imperial city whose wit was directed to the eulogy of incestuous courtesans, whose genius employed itself with devising new subtleties of debauchery; a garden of horror wherein living torches flamed by night, proclaiming redly the capital of the world — the Rome of the immortal madman, Nero.
Its walls not yet in sigh
t, Apollonius met with one Philolaus of Cittium, near to the Grove of Aricia. This philosopher was a fugitive from the capital, and he spoke of the deeds of Nero in a hushed voice, glancing about him in fear lest his words be overheard. He warned Apollonius that he would in all probability be arrested by the officers set over the gates, and earnestly counselled him to retrace his steps, pointing out that, whatever he might choose to incur of risk to his own person, he was not entitled to subject his band of followers to the dangers of Rome.
“Do you at least save these, your companions,” he implored.
Upon which Apollonius, turning to Damis, said:
“Of all the blessings which have been vouchsafed to me by the gods, often without my praying for them at all, this present one is the greatest; for chance has thrown in my way a touchstone to test these young men, of a kind to prove most thoroughly which of them are philosophers, and which of them prefer some other line of conduct than that of philosophy.”
And in fact the poor-spirited members of the company were now detected readily enough; for, under the influence of Philolaus’s words, some of them declared themselves ill, others unprovided for the journey, others homesick, others visited by warning dreams; and in the end the thirty-four philosophers surrounding Apollonius, whose philosophy crumbled not at the mere name of Nero, were reduced to eight!
This, then, was the tried band which approached the gates of Rome, and, despite the doubts and fears of Philolaus, entered unchallenged.
Apollonius, we are informed, took up his residence in a temple, crowds flocking to see and hear the sage of Tyana. And at about this time, from Corinth came Demetrius, attaching himself to Apollonius and at the same time publicly expressing suicidal opinions against the Emperor.