Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  From the time of this interview onward to the trial, he subjected Apollonius to every insult, cutting off his hair and his beard and confining him among the lowest and vilest felons. Regarding these measures, the following rencontre may be quoted:

  “I had forgotten,” said Apollonius, “that it was treasonable to wear long hair,” and, speaking of his fetters: “If you think me a wizard, how will you fetter me? And if you fetter me, how can you maintain that I am a wizard?” —

  Replied the Emperor:

  “I will not release you until you have turned into water, or a wild animal, or into a tree.”

  “I will not turn into any of these,” said Apollonius, “even if I could, for I will never betray men who, in violation of all justice, stand in peril; and what I am, that will I remain.”

  “And who,” asked the Emperor, “is going to plead your cause?”

  “Time,” replied Apollonius, “the spirit of the gods, and the wisdom which inspires me.”

  In this prison he remained for some days, and it was here one morning, a little before midday, that Damis said to him:

  “O man of Tyana” (he took a particular pleasure, we read, in being so called), “what is to become of us?”

  “What has become of us already,” answered Apollonius, “and nothing more.”

  “And who,” said Damis, “is so invulnerable as that? Will you ever be liberated?”

  “So far as it rests with the verdict of the court,” said Apollonius, “I shall be liberated this day; but so far as depends on my own will, now and here.”

  With this he mysteriously removed his leg from the fetters, saying to Damis:

  “Here is proof positive to you of my freedom, so be of good cheer!”

  Damis has recorded that it was then for the first time that he fully understood the nature of Apollonius, “to wit that it was divine and superhuman, for without any sacrifice — and how in prison could he have offered any? — and without a single prayer, without even a word, he quietly laughed at the fetters, and then inserted his leg in them afresh, behaving like a prisoner once more.”

  True to his prediction, he was that day released from his fetters and sent elsewhere to await trial, and on the day following he called Damis and said:

  “My defence has to be made on the day appointed, so do you betake yourself to Dicæarchia — it is better to go by land — and when you have greeted Demetrius, turn aside to the sea-shore where the island of Calypso lies; for there you shall see me.”

  “Alive?” asked the faithful Damis.

  “As I myself believe,” Apollonius replied with a smile, “alive; but as you will believe, risen from the dead.”

  Accordingly, Damis tells us that he went away with sorrow in his heart; for although he did not wholly despair of the Master’s life, yet he feared exceedingly. And on the third day he arrived at Dicæarchia — and heard the news of the great storm which had raged throughout those three days; for a gale had burst over the sea, sinking some of the ships that were making for Dicæarchia, and driving out of their course those which were heading for Sicily and the Straits of Messina. Then, and not till then, did he comprehend why it was that Apollonius had bidden him go by land.

  VII. THE TRIAL — AND AFTER

  It is sunrise, and the doors of the court are thrown wide to admit the throng which flocks to hear the great Apollonius plead the cause of mystic philosophy.

  “And those about the Emperor say that he had taken no food that day, because he was so absorbed in examining the documents of the case. For they say that he was holding in his hands a roll of writing of some sort, sometimes reading it with anger and sometimes more calmly. And we must needs figure him as one who was angry with the law for having invented such things as courts of justice.”

  Apollonius, awaiting his summons to appear before the Emperor, was approached by an official of the tribunal.

  “Man of Tyana, you must enter the court with nothing on you.”

  “Are we then to take a bath,” inquired Apollonius, “or to plead?”

  “The rule,” explained the other, “does not apply to dress, but the Emperor forbids you to bring in either amulet, or book, or papers of any kind.”

  “And not even a cane, for the back of the fool who gave him such advice as this?”

  Whereupon the informer who was to accuse him — one of those contemptible creatures who fattened upon the fears of Domitian — cried out:

  “O my Emperor, this wizard threatens to beat me, for it was I who gave you this advice!”

  “Then,” retorted Apollonius, “it is you who are a wizard rather than myself; for you say that you have persuaded the Emperor of my being that which so far I have failed to persuade him that I am not.”

  But let us hasten to the trial.

  The court, though prepared for the accommodation of a large audience, scarce could contain the multitude that flocked thither; for not only was the famous man of Tyana to confront the Emperor, but all the illustrious of Rome were present. What a hush must have fallen — what a silence come upon citizen and patrician alike — when the accused made his stately entry!

  Apollonius, at this time, was already an old man; he had been deprived of his patriarchal beard and of his long white locks; but we may be sure that with them had gone none of his dignity, that his eyes had lost none of their fire, of that fire which told of secret power.

  He ignored the Emperor’s presence completely, not even glancing in his direction.

  “Turn your eyes upon the god of all mankind!”

  It was the voice of the parasite — the informer.

  Apollonius raised his eyes to the ceiling!

  Thus he was standing, I assume, a man scorning to compromise with his conscience, when the Emperor opened his examination:

  “What induces you, Apollonius,” he said, “to dress yourself differently from everybody else, and to wear this singular garb?”

  “The earth which feeds me,” said Apollonius, “also clothes me, and I do not like to trouble the poor animals.”

  “Why is it that men call you a god?”

  “Because,” was the answer, “every man that is thought to be good is honoured by the title of god.”

  “And what,” demanded the Emperor, “suggested your prediction to the Ephesians that they would suffer from a plague?”

  “I used,” said Apollonius, “a lighter diet than others, and so was first to be sensible of the danger.” Thus far, you will perceive, the rhetor had scored over the Emperor. The latter now spoke as follows: “Tell me, you left your house on a certain day, and you travelled into the country, and sacrificed a boy — I would like to know for whom?”

  To which Apollonius replied:

  “Good words, I beseech you; for if I did leave my house, I was in the country; and if this were so, then I offered the sacrifice; and if I offered it, then I ate of it! But” — and I doubt not his glance sought the villainous informer— “let these assertions be proved by trustworthy witnesses!”

  We are told that his words were greeted with applause. That applause must have been so general and so significant of popular opinion — particularly, no doubt, the popular opinion of informers — as to determine the timid Domitian to conciliate the plauditors.

  “I acquit you of the charges,” he said, concluding the trial abruptly; “but you must remain here until we have had a private interview.”

  Full well Apollonius knew how much this meant and how little, for:

  “I thank you indeed, my sovereign,” he replied, “but I would fain tell you that by reason of these miscreants your cities are in ruin, and the islands full of exiles, and the mainland of lamentations, and your armies of cowardice, and the Senate of suspicion. Grant me, then, opportunity to speak; or send some one to take my body. My soul you cannot take.

  Nay, you cannot even take my body. Not even thy deadly spear can slay me, since I tell thee I am not mortal!”

  And with these Homeric words he vanished from the c
ourt!

  So, at any rate, it is recorded; and I count it no part of my duties to inquire whether the disappearance were due to natural or to supernatural causes. When we shall have witnessed the scene which followed, at Dicæarchia, no doubt our judgment will be aided to a wise decision.

  For Damis had arrived on the previous day and had discussed with Demetrius the preliminaries of the trial, the account of which had filled the latter with the keenest apprehension. On the day following, their talk had been of nothing else, and as they wandered sadly along the edge of the sea immortalized by the woes of the lovely, deserted Calypso, they were almost in despair of the Master’s return.

  Discouraged, then, and sick at heart, they sat down in the Chamber of the Nymphs, by the fountain of white marble.

  There the grief of poor Damis broke out afresh:

  “O ye gods!” he cried, “shall we ever behold again our good and noble companion?”

  A voice answered:

  “Ye shall behold him; nay, ye have already beheld him!”

  How they leapt to their feet, whirling about in a kind of joyous fear; how pale they grew, those two philosophers, to find the man of Tyana standing there by the fountain!

  “Art thou alive?” whispered Demetrius.

  Apollonius stretched out his hand.

  “Take hold of me,” he said, “and if I evade you, then I am indeed a phantom come to you from the realm of Persephone, such as the gods of the underworld reveal to those who are dejected with much mourning. But if not, then you shall persuade Damis also that I am both alive and that I have not abandoned my body.”

  Demetrius ventured to touch the great Master, thus wondrously translated from Rome to the Isle of Calypso. They were, in fact, no longer able to disbelieve, “but rose up and threw themselves upon his neck and kissed him.”

  VIII. ASSASSINATION OF DOMITIAN

  A rumour, we are told, now ran through the Hellenic world that the thaumaturgist was alive, and had arrived at Olympia.

  At first the rumour seemed unreliable; for besides being humanly unable to entertain any hope for him, since they had heard that he was cast into prison, there also circulated such rumours as that he had been burnt alive, dragged about with grapnels fixed in his neck, and had been cast into a deep pit, or into a well. But when the rumour of his arrival was confirmed, thousands flocked to see him from the whole of Greece, exceeding the throngs which attended the Olympic festivals; and all were filled with the wildest enthusiasm and agog with curiosity and expectation.

  “People came from Elis and Sparta, and from Corinth away at the limits of the Isthmus; and the Athenians, too, although they are outside the Peloponnese; nor were they behind the cities which are at the gates of Pisa, for it was especially the most celebrated of the Athenians that hurried to the temple, together with the young men who flocked to Athens from all over the earth. Moreover, there were people from Megara staying in Olympia, as well as many from Boeotia and from Argus, and all the leading people of Phocis and Thessaly.”

  And now it was September 18, in A.D. 96, a date with which the fame of Apollonius will ever be associated. Urged to the deed (as we may fairly assume) by the Empress Domitia, a freedman obtained a private audience with Domitian, and, seizing a suitable opportunity, plunged a dagger into his body.

  The Emperor was a man yet full of physical vigour, and, though bleeding freely from the wound, he threw the assassin, gouged out his eyes, and crushed his skull with the base of a gold cup used in religious ceremonies. The cries of assailed and assailant, and the sounds of conflict, brought the guard upon the scene.

  Ensued that which is by no means unparalleled in Roman history (wherein, later, we read of the Praetorian Guard putting up the Imperial purple to auction). Finding the Emperor swooning, the guard dispatched him! Domitian’s sun was set; the star of Nerva risen.

  So much for what befell in Rome; I shall ask you to be translated to Ephesus.

  At about noon, Apollonius was delivering an address in the groves of the Colonnade, just at the moment when Domitian met his death in Rome; and suddenly he dropped his voice, as if something terrified him, and then, though with hesitancy, continued his exposition; finally, he lapsed into silence.

  His next words were perhaps the most dramatic of his life; for with an awful glance at the ground, and stepping forward three or four paces, he cried:

  “Smite the tyrant, smite him!”

  All Ephesus — for all Ephesus, be assured, was there — was struck dumb with amazement; but he, pausing like one who peers through the gloom and at last sees his object clearly, said:

  “Take heart, for the tyrant has been slain this day; by Athene, even now at the moment that I uttered my words!”

  We know that his inner sight had not misled him, and ere long all Ephesus knew, when the messengers from Rome came racing with the tidings.

  This, the sage’s most famous exhibition of supernatural power, concludes the memoirs of Damis, to which we owe our knowledge of Apollonius. The man of Tyana died at a great age, probably nearly if not quite a hundred years; and respecting the place of his death much controversy has been. Ephesus, Lindus, and Crete would seem to have equal claims.

  I shall add no opinion to those which already have been expressed, I shall quote no word from the works of those, ancient and modern — Dion, Vopiscus, Lampridius, Hierocles, Eusebius, Lactantius, St. Justin, Jerome, Sidonius, Lucian, Apuleius, Caracalla, Blount, Voltaire, Baur, Froude, Pettersch, d’Aussy — who have sought to deify and who have sought to besmirch Apollonius of Tyana. His whole life was a great mystery; his end one befitting the man who said:

  “Live unobserved, and, if that cannot be, slip unobserved from life.”

  MICHEL DE NOTRE DAME, CALLED NOSTRADAMUS

  I. MEDICINE IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY

  THE period of unrest amongst the Latin States which marked the opening of the sixteenth century is notable for the number of men whose names are a byword in the history of Europe. Louis XII of France carried on an unsuccessful campaign against the armies of Ferdinand and Isabella, meeting with defeat at the hands of the great captain, Gonsalvo de Cordova, who had played no small part in the subjugation of the Moors of Granada; and Bayard, the knight “sans peur et sans reproche,” was carving a name to be immortal in the annals of chivalry. Cæsar Borgia pursued his wild career of intrigue and crime, now seeking the aid of this State, now of that, in his insatiable ambition to become paramount amongst the rulers of his time. Machiavelli was compiling his book Il Principe, taking his stand on the Borgian ogre; whilst Christopher Columbus prepared the way for the great rivalry in the New World, which was to culminate before the end of the century in the victory of Sir Francis Drake over the might of Spain.

  Into this maze of momentous happenings, on Thursday, December 14, 1503 — a year which saw the death of Rodrigo Borgia, Pope Alexander VI — was born at St. Rémy, a small town in Provence, Michel de Notre Dame, or, as he was more generally known, Michel Nostradamus.

  Of Jewish origin, his family had been but recently converted to Christianity, and was included in the celebrated tax of 1512. Michel, who was fully acquainted with the ancient Jewish religion, and who knew also to which tribe he belonged, manifested considerable pride in declaring “the tribe of Issachar is renowned for the gift of prophecy; and we read in the first book of Chronicles, 32nd verse, 12th chapter, that the men of this tribe are learned and experienced, and capable of discerning and remarking the times — de filiis quoque Issachar viri eruditi, qui noverunt, singula tempora.”

  His father, Jacques de Notre Dame, was a notary, and his grandfather, Pierre de Notre Dame, a celebrated physician to the Duc de Calabre, son of René the Good, King of Navarre and Count of Provence; whilst the maternal grandfather of Nostradamus had also been a physician and counsellor of the same King, René. Upon this subject Jean Astruc, in dealing with the genealogy of Nostradamus, says: “His origin on his mother’s side was not obscure, for through her he was descended from Jean de St.
Rémy, counsellor and physician to King René.”

  Certain historians have thought that Michel was of noble origin, although Pitton denies this in his Sentiments sur les histoires de Provence. From authentic sources, however, we are enabled to state with certainty that his family was honest and learned, patronized by the great and loved of the people. The author of the Commentaires, after having proved that the forbears of Nostradamus were men of learning, says: “The mouths of the envious who, ignoring the truth, have slandered his origin, are closed.”

  Nostradamus very early gave evidence of his remarkable genius. When little more than a child he was sent by his father to study at Avignon, and it is said of him that he assimilated the teachings of his professors with such facility that these marvelled. Possessed of a wonderful memory, he added to this precious faculty a sound judgment, penetration, tact, vivacity, gaiety, and finesse in conversation. Whilst yet young, he instructed his fellow-students, and frequently explained to them numerous terrestrial and celestial phenomena, exhibiting thus early a profound interest in the science of astronomy.

  At this period astronomy formed part of the science of philosophy, and Nostradamus proved better qualified to instruct his schoolfellows upon the movements of the planets, and the annual revolution of the earth around the sun, than were the learned professors of the college of Avignon; and his own tutor frequently charged him to teach in his stead. His father, however, unwilling that his son should devote himself to astronomy, desired him to undertake the study of medicine, and accordingly, for this purpose, sent him to Montpellier, where his prodigious faculty for assimilating knowledge rapidly brought him to the front.

  Let us glance at the outer man. Nostradamus was well made, but of no more than medium height. His face was oval, his forehead high, broad, and bulging, and his eyes were grey and brilliant; his nose was aquiline, his cheeks were fresh and rosy, and his hair was of a deep chestnut hue. He wore his beard long, and was noticeable for his expression of abstraction.