Another of Rutilianus’s questions was, Whose soul he had succeeded to, and the answer:

 First thou wast Peleus’ son, and next Menander; 
 Then thine own self; next, a sunbeam shalt be; 
 And nine score annual rounds thy life shall measure. 

 

At seventy, he died of melancholy, not waiting for the God to pay in full.

 That was an autophone too. Another time Rutilianus consulted the oracle on the choice of a wife. The answer was express:
 Wed Alexander’s daughter and Selene’s. 
He had long ago spread the report that the daughter he had had was by Selene: she had once seen him asleep, and fallen in love, as is her way with handsome sleepers. The sensible Rutilianus lost no time, but sent for the maiden at once, celebrated the nuptials, a sexagenarian bridegroom, and lived with her, propitiating his divine mother-in-law with whole hecatombs, and reckoning himself now one of the heavenly company.

 His finger once in the Italian pie, Alexander devoted himself to getting further. Sacred envoys were sent all over the Roman Empire, warning the various cities to be on their guard against pestilence and conflagrations, with the prophet’s offers of security against them. One oracle in particular, an autophone again, he distributed broadcast at a time of pestilence. It was a single line:

 Phoebus long-tressed the plague-cloud shall dispel. 

This was everywhere to be seen written up on doors as a prophylactic. Its effect was generally disappointing; for it somehow happened that the protected houses were just the ones to be desolated. Not that I would suggest for a moment that the line was their destruction; but, accidentally no doubt, it did so fall out. Possibly common people put too much confidence in the verse, and lived carelessly without troubling to help the oracle against its foe; were there not the words fighting their battle, and long-tressed Phoebus discharging his arrows at the pestilence?