The sun had passed the meridian when Melissa and Andreas left the house.
They walked on in silence through the deserted streets, the girl with
her eyes sadly fixed on the ground; for an inward voice warned her that
her lover’s life was in danger. She did not sob, but more than once she
wiped away a large tear.
Andreas, too, was lost in his own thoughts. To win a soul to the Saviour
was surely a good work. He knew Melissa’s sober, thoughtful nature,
and the retired, joyless life she led with her surly old father. So his
knowledge of human nature led him to think that she, if any one, might
easily be won over to the faith in which he found his chief happiness.
Baptism had given such sanctification to his life that he longed to lead
the daughter of the only woman for whom his heart had ever beat a shade
faster, to the baptismal font. In the heat of summer Olympias had often
been the guest for weeks together of Polybius’s wife, now likewise
dead. Then she had taken a little house of her own for herself and her
children, and when his master’s wife died, the lonely widower had known
no greater pleasure than that of receiving her on his estate for as long
as Heron would allow her to remain; he himself never left his work
for long. Thus Andreas had become the great ally of the gem-cutter’s
children, and, as they could learn nothing from him that was not good
and worth knowing, Olympias had gladly allowed them to remain in his
society, and herself found a teacher and friend in the worthy steward.
She knew that Andreas had joined the Christians; she had made him tell
her much about his faith; still, as the daughter and wife of artists,
she was firmly attached to the old gods, and could only regard the
Christian doctrine as a new system of philosophy in which many things
attracted her, but many, on the other hand, repelled her. At that time
his passion for Melissa’s mother had possessed him so wholly that
his life was a constant struggle against the temptation to covet his
neighbor’s wife. And he had conquered, doing severe penance for every
glance which might for an instant betray to her the weakness of his
soul. She had loved flowers, and he knew the plant-world so well, and
was so absolutely master over everything which grew and bloomed in
the gardens of which he had charge, that he could often intrust his
speechless favorites to tell her things which lips and eyes might not
reveal. Now she was no more, and the culture of plants had lost half its
charm since her eyes could no longer watch their thriving. He now left
the gardens for the most part to his men, while he devoted himself to
other cares with double diligence, and to the strictest exercises of his
faith.
But, as many a man adores the children of the woman he might not marry,
Alexander and Melissa daily grew dearer to Andreas. He took a father’s
interest in their welfare, and, needing little himself, he carefully
hoarded his ample income to promote the cause of Christianity and
encourage good works; but he had paid Alexander’s debts when his time of
apprenticeship was over, for they were so considerable that the reckless
youth had not dared confess the sum to his stern father.
Very soon after this, Alexander had become one of the most popular
painters of the town; and when he proposed to repay his friend the money
he had lent him, Andreas accepted it; but he added it to a capital of
which the purpose was his secret, but which, if his prayers were heard,
might return once more to benefit Alexander. Diodoros, too, was as dear
to the freedman as a son of his own could have been, though he was a
heathen. In the gymnasium and the race-course, or in the practice of the
mysteries, the good seed which he sowed in the lad’s heart was trodden
down. Polybius, too, was an utter heathen; indeed, he was one of the
priests of Dionysus and Demeter, as his wealth and position in the
senate required.
Then, Diodoros had confessed to him that he hoped to win Melissa for his
wife, and this had been adverse to Andreas’s hope and purpose of making
a Christian of the girl; for he knew by experience how easily married
happiness was wrecked when man and wife worship different gods. But when
the freedman had again seen the gem-cutter’s brutality and the girl’s
filial patience, an inward voice had called to him that this gentle,
gifted creature was one of those elect from among whom the Lord chose
the martyrs for the faith; and that it was his part to lead her into the
fold of the Redeemer. He had begun the work of converting her with the
zeal he put into everything. But fresh doubts had come upon him on the
threshold of the sick-room, after seeing the lad who was so dear to him,
and whose eye had met his with such a trustful, suffering look. Could it
be right to sow the seed of discord between him and his future wife? And
supposing Diodoros, too, should be converted by Melissa, could he thus
alienate from his father the son and heir of Polybius--his benefactor
and master?
Then, he remembered, too, to what a position he had risen through that
master’s confidence in him. Polybius knew nothing of the concerns of his
house but from the reports laid before him by Andreas; for the steward
controlled not merely the estate but the fortune of the family, and for
years had been at the head of the bank which he himself had founded to
increase the already vast income of the man to whom he owed his freedom.
Polybius paid him a considerable portion of each year’s profits, and had
said one day at a banquet, with the epigrammatic wit of an Alexandrian,
that his freedman, Andreas, served his interests as only one other man
could do--namely, himself--but with the industry of ten. The Christian
greatly appreciated his confidence; and as he walked on by the side of
Melissa, he told himself again and again that it would be dishonorable
to betray it.
If only the sweet girl might find the way alone! If she were chosen to
salvation, the Lord himself would lead and guide her. Had he indeed
not beckoned her already by impressing on her heart those words, “The
fullness of the time is now come?”
That he was justified in keeping this remembrance alive he had no doubt;
and he was about to speak of it again, when she prevented him by raising
her large eyes beseechingly to his, and asking him:
“Is Diodoros in real danger? Tell me the truth. I would rather endure
the worst than this dreadful anxiety.”
So Andreas acknowledged that the youth was in a bad way, but that
Ptolemaeus, himself well-skilled, hoped to cure him if his greater
colleague Galenus would aid him.
“And it is to secure his assistance, then,” Melissa went on, “that the
leech would have him carried to the Serapeum?”
“Yes, my child. For he is in Caesar’s train, and it would be vain to try
to speak with him to-day or to-morrow.”
“But the journey through the town will do the sufferer a mischief.”
“He will be carried in a litter.”
“But even that is not good for him. Perfect quiet, Ptolemaeus said, was
the best medicine.”
“But Galenus has even better remedies at hand,” was the reply.
Melissa seemed satisfied with this assurance, for she walked on for some
time in silence. But when the uproar of the crowd in the vicinity of the
Serapeum became more audible as they advanced, she suddenly stood still,
and said:
“Come what may, I will find my way to the great physician’s presence
and crave his help.” “You?” cried the freedman; and when she firmly
reiterated her purpose, the strong man turned pale.
“You know not what you say!” he exclaimed, in deep concern. “The men who
guard the approaches to Caracalla are ruthless profligates, devoid of
courtesy or conscience. But, you may rely upon it, you will not even get
into the antechamber.”
“Perhaps. Nevertheless, it is my duty, and I will try.”
How firmly and decisively she spoke! And what strength of will sparkled
in the quiet, modest maiden’s eyes! And the closely set lips, which
usually were slightly parted, and hardly covered two of her pearly white
teeth, gave her a look of such determination, that Andreas could see
that no obstacle would check her.
Still, love and duty alike required him to use every means in his power
to keep her from taking such a step. He lavished all his eloquence; but
she adhered to her purpose with steadfast persistency, and none of the
reasons he could adduce to prove the impossibility of the undertaking
convinced her. The only point which staggered her was the information
that the great leech was an old man, who walked with difficulty; and
that Galen, as a heathen and a disciple of Aristotle, would never be
induced to enter a Christian dwelling. Both these facts might be a
serious hindrance to her scheme; yet she would not now stop to reflect.
They had got back to the great street of Hermes, leading from the temple
of that god to the Serapeum, and must cross it to reach the lake, their
immediate destination. As in all the principal streets of Alexandria, a
colonnade bordered the street in front of the houses on each side of the
wide and handsome roadway. Under these arcades the foot-passengers were
closely packed, awaiting Caesar’s passage. He must soon be coming, for
the reception, first at the Kanopic Gate, and then at the Gate of the
Sun, was long since over; and, even if he had carried out his purpose
of halting at the tomb of Alexander the Great, he could not be detained
much longer. The distance hither down the Kanopic Way was not great, and
swift horses would quickly bring him down the Aspendia street to that
of Hermes, leading straight to the Serapeum. His train was not to follow
him to the Soma, the mausoleum of the founder of the city, but to turn
off to the southward by the Paneum, and make a round into the street of
Hermes.
The praetorians, the German body-guard, the imperial Macedonian phalanx,
and some mounted standard-bearers had by this time reached the spot
where Melissa was proceeding up the street holding Andreas’s hand.
Close by them came also a train of slaves, carrying baskets full of
palm-leaves and fresh branches of ivy, myrtle, poplar, and pine, from
the gardens of the Paneum, to be carried to the Serapeum. They were
escorted by lictors, endeavoring with their axes and fasces to make a
way for them through the living wall which barred their way.
By the help of the mounted troops, who kept the main road clear, space
was made for them; and Andreas, who knew one of the overseers of the
garden-slaves, begged him as a favor to allow Melissa and himself to
walk among his people. This was willingly granted to so well-known a
man; and the way was quite free for the moment, because the imperial
cartage had not followed immediately on the soldiers who had now all
marched past. Thus, among the flower-bearers, they reached the middle of
the street; and while the slaves proceeded on their way to the Serapeum,
the freedman tried to cross the road, and reach the continuation of the
street they had come by, and which led to the lake. But the attempt was
frustrated, for some Roman lictors who had just come up stood in their
way, and sent them to the southern side of the street of Hermes, to
mingle with the gaping crowd under the arcade.
They were, of course, but ill received by these, since they naturally
found themselves in front of the foremost rank; but the stalwart frame
and determined face of Andreas, and the exceptional beauty of his young
companion, over whose pretty head most of the gazers could easily see,
protected her from rough treatment.
Andreas spoke a few words of apology to those standing nearest to them,
and a young goldsmith at once courteously made way, so that Melissa, who
had taken a place behind a column, might see better.
And in a few minutes--there was that to see which made every one forget
the intruders. Vehicles and outriders, litters swung between mules, and
a long train of imperial footmen, in red tunics embroidered with
gold, huntsmen with leashes of noble dogs, baggage-wagons and loaded
elephants, came trooping down toward the Serapeum; while suddenly,
from the Aspendia into the Hermes Way, the Numidian horse rushed out,
followed by a troop of mounted lictors, who galloped up the street,
shouting their orders in loud tones to the imperial train, in a mixture
of Latin and Greek, of which Melissa understood only the words “Caesar!”
and “Make way to the right!”
The command was instantly obeyed. Vehicles, foot-passengers, and riders
alike crowded to the southern or left-hand side of the road, and the
many-headed throng, of which Andreas and Melissa formed a part, drew as
far back as possible under the colonnade; for on the edge of the footway
there was the risk of being trampled on by a horse or crushed by a
wheel. The back rows of the populace, who had collected under the
arcades, were severely squeezed by this fresh pressure from without, and
their outcries were loud of anger, alarm; or pain; while on the other
side of the street arose shouts of delight and triumph, or, when
anything singular came into view, loud laughter at the wit and irony of
some jester. Added to these there were the clatter of hoofs and the roll
of wheels, the whinnying of horses, the shouts of command, the rattle of
drums, the blare of trumpets, and the shrill pipe of flutes, without
a moment’s pause. It was a wild and ear-splitting tumult; to Melissa,
however, neither painful nor pleasing, for the one idea, that she must
speak with the great physician, silenced every other. But suddenly there
came up from the east, from the rising of the sun, whose course Caesar
had followed, such a tremendous roar that she involuntarily clutched her
companion’s hand.
Every instant the storm of noise increased, rolling on with irresistible
vehemence, gathering force as it came on, receiving, as it were, fresh
tributaries on its way, and rapidly swelling from the distance to the
immediate vicinity, compelling every one, as with a magic power, to
yield to the superior will of numbers and join in the cry. Even Melissa
cheered. She, too, was as a drop in the tide, a leaf on the rippling
face of the rushing torrent; her heart beat as wildly and her voice rang
as clear as that of the rest of the throng, intoxicated with they knew
not what, which crowded the colonnades by the roadway, and every window
and roof-top, waving handkerchiefs, strewing flowers on the ground, and
wiping the tears which this unwonted excitement had brought to their
eyes.
And now the shout is so tremendous that it could not possibly be louder.
It seems as though it were the union of voices innumerable rather than
the seabreeze, which flutters the pennons and flags which wave from
every house and arch, and sways the garlands hung across the street.
Melissa can see none but flushed faces, eyes swimming in tears, parted
lips, wildly waving arms and hands. Then suddenly a mysterious power
hushes the loud tones close round her; she hears only here and there the
cry of “Caesar!” “He is coming!” “Here he is!”--and the swift tramp
of hoofs and the clatter of wheels sounding like the rattle of an iron
building after a peal of thunder, above the shouts of ten thousand human
beings. Closer it comes and closer, without a pause, and followed by
fresh shouting, as a flock of daws follow an owl flying across the
twilight, swelling again to irrepressible triumph as the expected
potentate rushes past Melissa and her neighbors. They only see Caesar
as a form scarcely discerned by the eye during the space of a
lightning-flash in a dark night.
Four tawny bay horses of medium size, dappled with black, harnessed
abreast and wide apart, fly along the cleared road like hunted foxes,
the light Gallic chariot at their heels. The wheels seem scarcely to
touch the smooth flags of the Alexandrian pavement. The charioteer wears
the red-bordered toga of the highest Roman officials. He is well known
by repute, and the subject of many a sharp jest; for this is Pandion,
formerly a stableboy, and now one of “Caesar’s friends,” a praetor, and
one of the great men of the empire. But he knows his business; and
what does Caracalla care for tradition or descent, for the murmurs and
discontent of high or low?
Pandion holds the reins with elegant composure, and urges the horses to
a frantic pace by a mere whistle, without ever using the whip. But why
is it that he whirls the mighty monarch of half a world, before whose
bloodthirsty power every one quakes, so swiftly past these eager
spectators? Sunk in the cushions on one side, Bassianus Antoninus is
reclining rather than sitting in the four-wheeled open chariot of Gallic
make which sweeps past. He does not vouchsafe a glance at the jubilant
crowd, but gazes down at the road, his well-shaped brow so deeply
furrowed with gloom that he might be meditating some evil deed.
It is easy to discern that he is of middle height; that his upper lip
and cheeks are unshaven, and his chin smooth; that his hair is already
thin, though he lacks two years of thirty; and that his complexion is
pale and sallow; indeed, his aspect is familiar from statues and coins,
many of which are of base metal.
Most of those who thus beheld the man who held in his hand the fate
of each individual he passed, as of the empire at large, involuntarily
asked themselves afterward what impression he had made on them; and
Caracalla himself would have rejoiced in the answer, for he aimed not at
being attractive or admired, but only at being feared. But, indeed,
they had long since learned that there was nothing too horrible to be
expected of him; and, now that they had seen him, they were of opinion
that his appearance answered to his deeds. It would be hard to picture
a more sinister and menacing looking man than this emperor, with his
averted looks and his haughty contempt for the world and mankind; and
yet there was something about him which made it difficult to take
him seriously, especially to an Alexandrian. There was a touch of
the grotesque in the Gallic robe with a red hood in which this
ominous-looking contemner of humanity was wrapped. It was called a
‘Caracalla’, and it was from this garment that Bassianus Antoninus had
gained his nickname.
The tyrant who wore this gaudy cloak was, no doubt, devoid alike of
truth and conscience; but, as to his being a philosopher, who knew the
worthlessness of earthly things and turned his back upon the world,
those who could might believe it! He was no more than an actor, who
played the part of Timon not amiss, and who made use of his public to
work upon their fears and enjoy the sight of their anguish. There was
something lacking in him to make one of those thorough-going haters of
their kind at whose mere aspect every knee must bend. The appearance, in
short, of this false philosopher was not calculated to subdue the rash
tongues of the Alexandrians.
To this many of them agreed; still, there was no time for such
reflections till the dust had shrouded the chariot, which vanished as
quickly as it had come, till the shouting was stilled, and the crowd
had spread over the roadway again. Then they began to ask themselves why
they had joined in the acclamations, and had been so wildly excited; how
it was that they had so promptly surrendered their self-possession
and dignity for the sake of this wicked little man. Perhaps it was his
unlimited control over the weal and woe of the world, over the life
and death of millions, which raised a mortal, not otherwise formed for
greatness, so far above common humanity to a semblance of divinity.
Perhaps it was the instinctive craving to take part in the grand
impulsive expression of thousands of others that had carried away each
individual. It was beyond a doubt a mysterious force which had compelled
every one to do as his neighbors did as soon as Caesar had appeared.
Melissa had succumbed with the rest; she had shouted and waved her
kerchief, and had not heeded Andreas when he held her hand and asked her
to consider what a criminal this man was whom she so eagerly hailed. It
was not till all was still again that she recollected herself, and her
determination to get the famous physician to visit her lover revived in
renewed strength.
Fully resolved to dare all, she looked about with calm scrutiny,
considering the ways and means of achieving her purpose without any aid
from Andreas. She was in a fever of impatience, and longed to force her
way at once into the Serapeum. But that was out of the question, for
no one moved from his place. There was, however, plenty to be seen. A
complete revulsion of feeling had come over the crowd. In the place of
Expectancy, its graceless step-child, Disappointment, held sway. There
were no more shouts of joy; men’s lungs were no longer strained to the
utmost, but their tongues were all the busier. Caesar was for the most
part spoken of with contempt as Tarautas, and with the bitterness--the
grandchild of Expectancy-which comes of disappointment. Tarautas had
originally been the name of a stunted but particularly bloodthirsty
gladiator, in whom ill-will had traced some resemblance to Caesar.
The more remarkable figures in the imperial train were curiously gazed
at and discussed. A worker in mosaic, who stood near Melissa, had been
employed in the decoration of the baths of Caracalla at Rome, and had
much information to impart; he even knew the names of several of the
senators and courtiers attached to Caesar. And, with all this, time was
found to give vent to discontent.
The town had done its utmost to make itself fine enough to receive the
emperor. Statues had been erected of himself, of his father, his mother,
and even of his favorite heroes, above all of Alexander the Great;
triumphal arches without number had been constructed. The vast halls
of the Serapeum, through which he was to pass, had been magnificently
decorated; and in front of the new temple, outside the Kanopic Gate,
dedicated to his father, who now ranked among the gods, the elders of
the town had been received by Caesar, to do him homage and offer him the
gifts of the city. All this had cost many talents, a whole heap of gold;
but Alexandria was wealthy, and ready to make even greater sacrifices if
only they had been accepted with thanks and condescension. But a young
actor, who had been a spectator of the scene at the Kanopic Gate, and
had then hurried hither, declared, with dramatic indignation, that
Caesar had only replied in a few surly words to the address of the
senate, and even while he accepted the gift had looked as if he were
being ill-used. The delegates had retired as though they had been
condemned to death. To none but Timotheus, the high-priest of Serapis,
had he spoken graciously.
Others confirmed this report; and dissatisfaction found expression in
muttered abuse or satirical remarks and bitter witticisms.
“Why did he drive past so quickly?” asked a tailor’s wife; and some one
replied:
“Because the Eumenides, who haunt him for murdering his brother, lash
him on with their whips of snakes!”
A spice-merchant; who was not less indignant but more cautious, hearing
a neighbor inquire why Tarautas drove panther-spotted horses, replied
that such beasts of prey had spotted skins, and that like to like was
a common rule. A cynical philosopher, who proclaimed his sect by his
ragged garment, unkempt hair, and rough mode of speech, declared that
Caesar had a senator to guide his chariot because he had long since
succeeded in turning the senate-house into a stable.
To all this, however, Melissa turned a deaf ear, for the thought of the
great Roman leech possessed her mind entirely. She listened earnestly
to the mosaic-worker, who had come close up to her, and officiously
mentioned the names of the most important personages as they went past.
Caesar’s train seemed endless. It included not merely horse and
foot soldiers, but numberless baggage-wagons, cars, elephants--which
Caracalla especially affected, because Alexander the Great had been
fond of these huge beasts--horses, mules, and asses, loaded with bales,
cases, tents, and camp and kitchen furniture. Mingling with these
came sutlers, attendants, pages, heralds, musicians, and slaves of the
imperial household, in knots and parties, looking boldly about them at
the bystanders. When they caught sight of a young and pretty woman on
the edge of the path, they would wave a greeting; and many expressed
their admiration of Melissa in a very insolent manner. Woolly-headed
negroes and swarthy natives of north Africa mixed with the fairer
dwellers on the Mediterranean and the yellow or red haired sons of
northern Europe. Roman lictors, and Scythian, Thracian, or Keltic
men-at-arms kept every one out of the way who did not belong to the
imperial train, with relentless determination. Only the Magians,
wonder-workers, and street wenches were suffered to push their way in
among the horses, asses, elephants, dogs, vehicles, and mounted troops.
Each time that one of the unwieldy traveling-carriages, drawn by several
horses, came in sight, in which the wealthy Roman was wont to take his
ease on a long journey, or whenever a particularly splendid litter was
borne past, Melissa asked the mosaic-worker for information. In some
few instances Andreas could satisfy her curiosity, for he had spent some
months at Antioch on a matter of business, and had there come to know by
sight some of Caesar’s most illustrious companions.
So far the great Galenus was not of the number; for Caracalla, who was
ailing, had but lately commanded his presence. The famous physician had
sailed for Pelusium, in spite of his advanced age, and had only just
joined the sovereign’s suite. The old man’s chariot had been pointed
out to the mosaic-worker at the Kanopic Gate, and he was certain that
he could not mistake it for any other; it was one of the largest and
handsomest; the side doors of it were decorated with the AEsculapius
staff and the cup of Hygeia in silver, and on the top were statuettes in
wood of Minerva and of AEsculapius. On hearing all this, Melissa’s face
beamed with happy and hopeful anticipation. With one hand pressed to
her throbbing bosom, she watched each vehicle as it drove past with such
intense expectancy that she paid no heed to Andreas’s hint that they
might now be able to make their way through the crowd.
Now--and the freedman had called her once more--here was another
monstrous conveyance, belonging to Julius Paulinus, the former consul,
whose keen face, with its bright, merry eyes, looked out between the
silken curtains by the side of the grave, unsympathetic countenance of
Dion Cassius the senator and historian.
The consul, her informant told her--and Andreas confirmed the
statement--had displeased Severus, Caracalla’s father, by some biting
jest, but, on being threatened with death, disarmed his wrath by saying,
“You can indeed have my head cut off, but neither you nor I can keep it
steady.”
Those of the populace who stood near enough to the speaker to hear this
anecdote broke out in loud cheers, in which they were joined by others
who had no idea of what had given rise to them.
The consul’s chariot was followed by a crowd of clients, domestic
officials, and slaves, in litters, on horses or mules, or on foot; and
behind these again came another vehicle, for some time concealed from
sight by dust. But when at last the ten fine horses which drew it had
gone past Melissa, and the top of the vehicle became visible, the color
mounted to her cheeks, for on the corners of the front she recognized
the figures of AEsculapius and Minerva, which, if the mosaic-worker were
right, distinguished the chariot of Galenus. She listened breathlessly
to the roll of the wheels of this coach, and she soon perceived the
silver AEsculapius staff and bowl on the wide door of this house on
wheels, which was painted blue. At an open window by the door a kindly
old face was visible, framed in long, gray hair.
Melissa started at hearing the order to halt shouted from the Serapeum,
far down the road, and again, close at hand, “Halt!” The procession came
to a standstill, the riders drew rein, the blue wheels ceased to turn,
the coach was immovable but a few steps in front of her, and her eyes
met those of the old man. The thought flashed through her brain that
Fate itself had brought about this pause just at this spot; and when she
heard the mosaic-worker exclaim, “The great Roman physician!” horses,
coach, and everything swam before her eyes; she snatched her hand away
from that of Andreas, and stepped out on the roadway. In an instant she
was standing face to face with the venerable leech.
She heard the warning voice of her companion, she saw the crowd staring
at her, she had, no doubt, a brief struggle with her maidenly shyness,
but she carried out her purpose. The thought that the gods themselves
were helping her to appeal to the only man who could save her lover,
encouraged her to defy every obstacle.
She was standing by the vehicle; and scarcely had she raised her sweet,
innocent, blushing face with pathetic and touching entreaty to the
white-haired Roman, her large, tear-filled eyes meeting his, when he
beckoned her to him, and in pleasant, sympathetic tones desired to know
what she wanted. Then she made bold to ask whether he were the great
Roman physician, and he replied with a flattered and kindly smile that
he was sometimes so called. Her thankful glance to heaven revealed what
a comfort his words were, and now her rosy lips moved freely, and she
hurriedly, but with growing courage, gave him to understand that her
betrothed, the son of a respected Roman citizen of Alexandria, was
lying badly wounded in the head by a stone, and that the leech who was
treating him had said that none but he, the great Galenus, could save
the young man’s life. She also explained that Ptolemaeus, though he had
said that Diodoros needed quiet above all things, had proposed to carry
him to the Serapeum, and to commend him there to the care of his greater
colleague, but that she feared the worst results from the move. She
glanced pleadingly into the Roman’s eyes, and added that he looked so
kind that she hoped that he would go instead to see the sufferer, who
had, quite by chance, been taken into a Christian house not very far
from the Serapeum, where he was being taken good care of, and--as a
matter of course--cure her lover.
The old man had only interrupted her tale with a few sly questions as
to her love-affair and her religion; for when she had told him that
Diodoros was under the care of Christians, it had occurred to him that
this simply but not poorly dressed girl, with her modest ways and sweet,
calm face, might herself be a Christian. He was almost surprised when
she denied it, and yet he seemed pleased, and promised to grant her
request. It was not fitting that a girl so young should enter any house
where Caesar and his train took up their abode; he would wait for her,
“there”--and he pointed to a small, round temple to Aphrodite, on
the left-hand side of the street of Hermes, where the road was rather
wider--for the coach had meanwhile slowly moved on.
Next day, at three hours after the rising of the fierce African sun--for
he could not bear its meridian heat--he would go thither in his litter.
“And be sure you are there in good time!” he added, shaking his finger
at her.
“If you come an hour too soon, you will find me waiting!” she cried.
He laughed, and said, “What pretty maid, indeed, would dare to be late
for an appointment under the very eyes of the goddess of Love!” He bade
her a friendly farewell, and lay back in the chariot.
Melissa, radiant with happiness, looked about her for the place where
she had left her companion. However, in spite of the lictors, Andreas
had followed her; he drew her hand under his arm, and led her through
the now-thinning crowd into a sidelane which led to the lake, opening
out of the colonnaded street opposite the little temple.
Melissa’s steps were winged. Her joy at having gained her end so quickly
and so easily was uppermost in her mind, and as they threaded their way
among the people she tried to tell Andreas what the great physician had
promised. But the noise drowned her speech, for at this moment Caesar’s
tame lion, named the “Sword of Persia” was being led through the street
by some Numidian slaves.
Every one was looking at the splendid beast; and, as she too turned to
gaze, her eye met the ardent glance of a tall, bearded man standing at
the window of a house just behind the round temple to Aphrodite. She at
once recognized Serapion, the Magian, and whispered his name to Andreas;
he, however, without looking round, only drew her along more quickly,
and did not breathe easily till they found themselves in the narrow,
deserted alley.
The Magian had observed her while she stood by the Roman’s chariot, and
his conversation with a Syrian of middle age in his company had been
of her. His companion’s appearance was as insignificant as his own was
stately and commanding. Nothing distinguished the Syrian from a thousand
of his fellows but the cunning stamped on his sharply-cut features;
still, the great Magian seemed to hold him in some esteem, for he
readily replied to the little man’s questions and remarks.
At this moment the Syrian waved his hand in the air with a gesture
common to men of his race when displaying their own superior knowledge,
as he said “What did I spend ten years in Rome for, if I do not know
Serenus Samonicus? He is the greatest book-collector in the empire. And
he regards himself as a second AEsculapius, and has written a book on
medicine in verse, which Geta, Caesar’s murdered brother, always had
about him, for he regarded the physicians here as mere bunglers. He is
as rich as the Alabarch, and riding in his coach is Galenus, for whom
Caesar sent. What can that girl want of him?”
“H’m!” muttered the other, stroking his beard with thoughtful dignity.
“She is a modest maiden; it can only be something urgent and important
which has prompted her to address the Roman.”
“Your Castor will be able to find out,” replied the Syrian Annianus.
“That omniscient rascal can get through a key-hole, and by to-morrow
will be the best friend of the Roman’s people, if you care to know.”
“We will see,” said Serapion. “Her brother, perhaps, to-morrow evening,
will tell me what is going on.”
“The philosopher?” said the other, with a contemptuous flourish. “You
are a great sage, Serapion, as the people hold; but you often sew with
needles too fine for me. Why, just now, when Caesar is here, and
gain and honor be in the streets for such a one as you only to stoop
for--why, I say, you should waste precious time on that poring fellow
from the Museum, I can not understand.”
A superior smile parted the Magian’s lips; he stepped back into the
room, followed by Annianus, and replied:
“You know how many who call themselves Magians will crowd round Caesar,
and the fame of Sosibius, Hananja, and Kaimis, is not much behind mine.
Each plies his art by his own formulas, though he may call himself a
Pythagorean or what not. None dare claim to belong to any recognized
school, since the philosophers of the guild pride themselves on
condemning the miracle-mongers. Now, in his youth, Caracalla went
through his courses of philosophy. He detests Aristotle, and has always
attached himself to Plato and the Pythagoreans. You yourself told me
that by his desire Philostratus is writing a life of Apollonius of
Tyana; and, though he may turn up his nose at the hair-splitting and
frittering of the sages of the Museum, it is in his blood to look
for marvels from those privileged philosophers. His mother has made
courtiers of them again; and he, who looks for everything from the magic
arts, has never yet met a Magian who could have been one of them.”
At this the Syrian clapped his hands, exclaiming: “And you propose to
use Philip as your signbearer to talk to the emperor of a thaumaturgist
who is hand in hand with all the learning of the Museum? A cursed good
idea! But the gem-cutter’s son does not look like a simpleton; and he is
a skeptic into the bargain, and believes in nothing. If you catch him, I
shall really and truly believe in your miraculous powers.”
“There are harder things than catching him,” said the Magian.
“You mean to break his will,” said the Syrian, looking down at the
ground, “by your eye and the laying on of hands, as you did mine and
Triphis’s two years ago?”
“That, no doubt, formed the first bond between us,” said Serapion. “I
now need only your ventriloquism. Philip himself will come half-way to
meet me on the main point.”
“And what is that?”
“You called him a skeptic, and he does, in fact, pride himself on going
further than the old masters of the school. Diligent study has brought
him to the point of regarding nothing as certain, but, on the other
hand, everything as possible. The last result he can arrive at is the
probability--since certainty there is none--that it is impossible ever
to know anything, be it what it may. He is always ready to listen with
sympathetic attention to the arguments for the reappearance of the souls
of the dead in the earthly form they have quitted, to visit and converse
with the living. He considers it a fallacy to say that anything is
impossible; and my arguments are substantial. Korinna will appear to
him. Castor has discovered a girl who is her very image. Your arts will
convince him that it is she who speaks to him, for he never heard her
voice in life, and all this must rouse his desire to see her again
and again. And thus the skeptic will be convinced, in spite of his own
doctrine. In this, as in every other case, it is the passionate wish
that gives rise to the belief.”
“And when you have succeeded in getting him to this point?” asked the
Syrian, anxiously.
“Then,” replied the Magian, “he will help me, with his triumphant
dialectics, to win Caesar over to the same conviction; and then we shall
be able to satisfy the emperor’s desire to hold intercourse with the
dead; and for that I count on your power of making voices proceed from
any person present.”
He said no more. The little man looked up at him approvingly, and said,
modestly: “You are indeed wise, Serapion, and I will do my best to help
you. The next thing to be done is to seek representatives of the
great Alexander, of Apollonius of Tyana, and of Caesar’s brother,
father-in-law, and wife.”
“Not forgetting Papinian, the noblest of his victims,” added the Magian.
“Back again already, Castor?”
These words were addressed to a tall and apparently elderly man in a
long white robe, who had slipped in without a sound. His demeanor was
so grave and dignified that he looked precisely like a Christian priest
impressed with the sanctity of his office; but hardly had he got into
the room, and greeted the Magian with much unction, than he pulled the
white garment off over his head, rubbed from his cheeks the lines which
gave him twenty added years, stretched his lithe limbs, and exclaimed
with delight:
“I have got her! Old Dorothea will bring her to your theatre!”--and the
young fellow’s mobile face beamed with the happy radiance of success.
It almost seemed as though fermenting wine flowed in the man’s veins
instead of blood; for, when he had made his report to the Magian, and
had been rewarded with a handful of gold-pieces, he tossed the coins
in the air, caught them like flies in the hollow of his hand, and then
pitched wheel fashion over head and heels from one end of the room
to the other. Then, when he stood on his feet once more, he went on,
without a sign of breathlessness:
“Forgive me, my lord! Nature asserts her rights. To play the pious for
three whole hours! Eternal gods, that is a hard task, and a man must--”
“I know all about it,” Serapion broke in with a smile and a threatening
finger. “Now go and stretch your limbs, and then share your lightly
earned gains with some pretty flute-player. But I want you again this
evening; so, if you feel weak, I shall lock you up.”
“Do,” said Castor, as earnestly as if he had been promised some
pleasure. “What a merry, good-for-nothing set they are!-Dorothea will
bring the girl at the appointed hour. Everything is arranged.”
Whereupon he danced out of the room, singing a tune.
“An invaluable creature!” said the Syrian, with an admiring glance.
“A better one spoiled,” said Serapion. “He has the very highest gifts,
but is utterly devoid of conscience to set a limit to his excesses.
How should he have one? His father was one of a troupe of Ephesian
pantomimists, and his mother a golden-haired Cyprian dancer. But he
knows every corner of Alexandria--and then, what a memory! What an actor
he would have made! Without even a change of dress, merely by a grimace,
he at once becomes an old man, an idiot, or a philosopher.”
“And what a genius for intrigue!” Annianus went on enthusiastically.
“As soon as he saw the portrait of Korinna he knew that he had seen her
double among the Christians on the other side of the lake. This morning
he tracked her out, and now she is caught in the snare. And how sharp of
him to make Dorothea bring her here!”
“I told him to do that, and use the name of Bishop Demetrius,” observed
the Magian. “She would not have come with a stranger, and Dorothea must
be known to her in the meetings of their congregation.”