Several weeks later a messenger from Jerusalem brought, among other documents, a bulky letter from my old friend. Generally, I enjoyed Afranius’s rare absences, for when he was away he would write to me, and his letters seldom failed to evoke all that was most agreeable in his pleasantly easy conversation, leaving his mannerisms – elided vowels, drawled emphases, mimic gestures and changes of accent – to my affectionate recollection. But this letter was not light-hearted. For once in his life, Afranius was not able to make himself comfortable; and he was a man with a glorious capacity for enjoying himself in any circumstances. A divine gift, this; but its efficacy depends to a great extent upon self-abandonment. An honest hedonist cannot be self-conscious. And it appeared that my little Paulus possessed a peculiar power to make Afranius feel uneasy, when they were alone together. He awoke some watch-dog in Afranius’s head. ‘He sets twanging some note that I can feel but not hear – a sort of vibration that stiffens the backs of my legs.’ he wrote.
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