Andreas, who had so much on his shoulders, had lost much time, and was
urgently required at home. After gratifying Melissa’s wish by describing
how Diodoros had immediately recovered consciousness on the completion
of the operation performed by Galen, and painting the deep amazement
that had fallen on all the other physicians at the skill of this fine
old man, he had done all he could for the present to be of use to the
girl. He was glad, therefore, when in the street of Hermes, now swarming
again with citizens, soldiers, and horsemen, he met the old nurse, who,
after conducting Agatha home to her father, had been sent back to the
town to remain in attendance, if necessary, on Diodoros. The freedman
left it to her to escort Melissa to her own home, and went back to
report to Polybius--in the first place, as to his son’s state.
It was decided that Melissa should for the present remain with her
father; but, as soon as Diodoros should be allowed to leave the
Serapeum, she was to go across the lake to receive the convalescent on
his return home.
The old woman assured her, as they walked on, that Diodoros had always
been born to good luck; and it was clear that this had never been truer
than now, when Galenus had come in the nick of time to restore him to
life and health, and when he had won such a bride as Melissa. Then she
sang the praises of Agatha, of her beauty and goodness, and told her
that the Christian damsel had made many inquiries concerning Alexander.
She, the speaker, had not been chary of her praise of the youth, and,
unless she was much mistaken, the arrow of Eros had this time pierced
Agatha’s heart, though till now she had been as a child--an innocent
child--as she herself could say, who had seen her grow up from the
cradle. Her faith need not trouble either Melissa or Alexander, for
gentler and more modest wives than the Christian women were not to be
found among the Greeks--and she had known many.
Melissa rarely interrupted the garrulous old woman; but, while she
listened, pleasant pictures of the future rose before her fancy. She
saw herself and Diodoros ruling over Polybius’s household, and, close
at hand, on Zeno’s estate, Alexander with his beautiful and adored wife.
There, under Zeno’s watchful eye, the wild youth would become a noble
man. Her father would often come to visit them, and in their happiness
would learn to find pleasure in life again. Only now and then the
thought of the sacrifice which the vehement Philip must make for his
younger brother, and of the danger which still threatened Alexander,
disturbed the cheerful contentment of her soul, rich as it was in glad
hopes.
The nearer they got to her own home, the more lightly her heart beat.
She had none but good news to report there. The old woman, panting for
breath, was obliged to beg her to consider her sixty years and moderate
her pace.
Melissa willingly checked her steps; and when, at the end of the street
of Hermes, they reached the temple of the god from whom it was named
and turned off to the right, the good woman parted from her, for in this
quiet neighborhood she could safely be trusted to take care of herself.
Melissa was now alone. On her left lay the gardens of Hermes, where, on
the southern side, stood her father’s house and that of their neighbor
Skopas. Though the old nurse had indeed talked of nothing that was not
pleasant, it was a comfort not to have to listen to her, but to be free
to follow her own thoughts. Nor did she meet with anything to distract
them, for at this hour the great public garden was left almost entirely
to children and their attendants, or to the inhabitants of the immediate
neighborhood who frequented the temples of Hermes or Artemis, or the
little shrine of Asklepios, which stood in a grove of mimosas on the
skirt of the park, and to which Melissa herself felt attracted. It had
been a familiar spot at the time when her mother was at the worst. How
often had she flown hither from her home near at hand to pour oil on
the altar of the god of healing--to make some small offering and find
comfort in prayer!
The day was now hot, she was tired, and, when she saw the white marble
columns gleaming among the greenery, she yielded to the impulse to enjoy
a few minutes’ rest in the cool cella and accomplish the vow she had
taken an hour or two since. She longed, indeed, to get home, that her
father might share the happiness which uplifted her heart; but then she
reflected that she would not soon have the opportunity of carrying out,
unobserved, the purpose she had in her mind. Now, if ever, was the time
to offer sacrifice for Caesar and for the mitigation of his sufferings.
The thought that Galenus perhaps was right, and that of Caracalla’s
myriad subjects she might be the only one who would do so much for his
sake, strengthened her resolve.
The chief temple of Asklepios, whom the Egyptians called Imhotep, was
at the Serapeum. Imhotep was the son of Ptah, who, at Alexandria, was
merged in Serapis. There he was worshiped, conjointly with Serapis and
Isis, by Egyptians, Greeks, and Syrians alike. The little sanctuary
near her father’s house was the resort of none but Greeks. Ptolemaeus
Philadelphus, the second Macedonian King of Egypt, had built it as an
appendage to the Temple of Artemis, after the recovery from sickness of
his wife Arsinoe.
It was small, but a masterpiece of Greek art, and the statues of Sleep
and of A Dream, at the entrance, with the marble group behind the altar,
representing Asklepios with his sister Hygeia and his wife Epione the
Soother, was reckoned by connoisseurs as among the noblest and most
noteworthy works of art in Alexandria.
The dignity and benevolence of the god were admirably expressed in the
features of the divinity, somewhat resembling the Olympian Zeus, who
leaned on his serpent staff; and the graceful, inviting sweetness of
Hygeia, holding out her cup as though she were offering health to the
sufferer, was well adapted to revive the hopes of the despondent. The
god’s waving locks were bound with a folded scarf, and at his feet was a
dog, gazing up at his lord as if in entreaty.
The sacred snakes lay coiled in a cage by the altar; they were believed
to have the power of restoring themselves, and this was regarded as a
promise to the sick that they should cast off their disease as a serpent
casts its skin. The swift power of the reptile over life and death, was
an emblem to the votaries of the power of the god to postpone the death
of man or to shorten his days.
The inside of the little sanctuary was a cool and still retreat. Tablets
hung on the white marble walls, inscribed with the thanksgivings or vows
of those who had been healed. On several, the remedies were recorded
which had availed in certain cases; and on the left of the little hall,
behind a heavy hanging, a small recess contained the archives of the
temple, recipes, records of gifts, and documents referring to the
history of the sanctuary.
In this deserted, shady spot, between these thick marble walls, it was
much cooler than outside. Melissa lifted her hands in prayer before the
statue of the god. She was alone, with the exception of the priest
in charge. The temple-servant was absent, and the priest was asleep,
breathing heavily, in an arm-chair in a dark nook behind the marble
group. Thus she was free to follow the impulse of her heart, and pray,
first for her sick lover, and then for the sufferer to whom the whole
subservient world belonged.
For Diodoros, indeed, as she knew, other hands and hearts were uplifted
in loving sympathy. But who besides herself was praying for the hated
sovereign who had at his command the costliest and rarest gifts of
fortune, all poisoned by bitter anguish of mind and body? The world
thought only of the sufferings he had inflicted on others; no one
dreamed of the pangs he had to endure--no one but herself, to whom
Galenus had spoken of them. And had not his features and his look
betrayed to her that pain was gnawing at his vitals like the vulture
at those of Prometheus? Hapless, pitiable youth, born to the highest
fortune, and now a decrepit old man in the flower of his age! To pray
and sacrifice for him must be a pious deed, pleasing to the gods.
Melissa besought the marble images over the altar from the very bottom
of her heart, never even asking herself why she was bestowing on this
stranger, this cruel tryant, in whose name her own brother was in danger
of the law, an emotion which nothing but her care for those dearest to
her had ever stirred. But she did not feel that he was a stranger, and
never thought how far apart they were. Her prayers came easily, too, in
this spot; the bonds that linked her to these beautiful marble beings
were familiar and dear to her. While she gazed up into the face of
Asklepios, imploring him to be gracious to the imperial youth, and
release him from the pain but for which he might have been humane and
beneficent, the stony features seemed to live before her eyes, and the
majesty and dignity that beamed on the brow assured her that the god’s
power and wisdom were great enough to heal every disease. The tender
smile which played on his features filled her soul with the certainty
that he would vouchsafe to be gracious; nay, she could believe that he
moved those marble lips and promised to grant her prayer. And when she
turned to the statue of Hygeia she fancied the beautiful, kind face
nodded to her with a pledge of fulfillment.
She raised her beseeching arms higher still, and addressed her
sculptured friends aloud, as though they could hear her:
“I know that nothing is hidden from you, eternal gods,” she began, “and
when it was your will that my mother should be taken from me my foolish
heart rebelled. But I was then a child without understanding, and my
soul lay as it were asleep. Now it is different. You know that I have
learned to love a man; and many things, and, the certainty that the gods
are good, have come to me with that love. Forgive the maid the sins of
the child, and make my lover whole, as he lies under the protection and
in the sanctuary of the great Serapis, still needing your aid too. He
is mending, and the greatest of thy ministers, O Asklepios, says he will
recover, so it must be true. Yet without thee even the skill of Galenus
is of little avail; wherefore I beseech you both, Heal Diodoros, whom
I love!--But I would fain entreat you for another. You will wonder,
perhaps--for it is Bassianus Antoninus, whom they call Caracalla and
Caesar.
“Thou, Asklepios, dost look in amazement, and great Hygeia shakes her
head. And it is hard to say what moves me, who love another, to pray for
the blood-stained murderer for whom not another soul in his empire would
say a word to you. Nay, and I know not what it is. Perhaps it is but
pity; for he, who ought to be the happiest, is surely the most wretched
man under the sun. O great Asklepios, O bountiful and gracious Hygeia,
ease his sufferings, which are indeed beyond endurance! Nor shall
you lack an offering. I will dedicate a cock to you; and as the cock
announces a new day, so perchance shall you grant to Caracalla the dawn
of a new existence in better health.
“Alas, gracious god! but thou art grave, as though the offering were too
small. How gladly would I bring a goat, but I know not whether my money
will suffice, for it is only what I have saved. By and by, when the
youth I love is my husband, I will prove my gratitude; for he is as rich
as he is handsome and kind, and will, I know, refuse me nothing. And
thou, sweet goddess, dost not look down upon me as graciously as before;
I fear thou art angry. Yet think not”--and she gave a low laugh--“that
I pray for Caracalla because I care for him, or am in love with him. No,
no, no, no! my heart is wholly given to Diodoros, and not the smallest
part of it to any other. It is Caesar’s misery alone that brings me
hither. Sooner would I kiss one of those serpents or a thorny hedgehog
than him, the fratricide in the purple. Believe me, it is true, strange
as it must seem.
“First and last, I pray and offer sacrifice indeed for Diodoros and
his recovery. My brother Alexander, too, who is in danger, I would fain
commend to you; but he is well in body, and your remedies are of no
effect against the perils which threaten him.”
Here she ceased, and gazed into the faces of the statues, but they would
not look so friendly as before. It was, no doubt, the smallness of
her offering that had offended them. She anxiously drew out her little
money-bag and counted the contents. But when, after waking the priest,
she had asked how much a goat might cost for sacrifice, her countenance
cleared, for her savings were enough to pay for it and for a young cock
as well. All she had she left with the old man, to the last sesterce;
but she could only wait to see the cock sacrificed, for she felt she
must go home.
As soon as the blood of the bird had besprinkled the altar, and she had
told the divinities that a goat was also to be killed, she fancied that
they looked at her more kindly; and she was turning to the door, as
light and gay as if she had happily done some difficult task, when the
curtain screening off the library of archives was lifted, and a man came
out calling her by name. She turned round; but as soon as she saw that
he was a Roman, and, as his white toga told her, of the upper class,
she took fright. She hastily exclaimed that she was in a hurry, and flew
down the steps, through the garden, and into the road. Once there, she
reproached herself for foolish shyness of a stranger who was scarcely
younger than her own father; but by the time she had gone a few steps
she had forgotten the incident, and was rehearsing in her mind all she
had to tell Heron. She soon saw the tops of the palms and sycamores in
their own garden, her faithful old dog Melas barked with delight, and
the happiness which the meeting with the stranger had for a moment
interrupted revived with unchecked glow.
She was weary, and where could she rest so well as at home? She had
escaped many perils, and where could she feel so safe as under her
father’s roof? Glad as she was at the prospect of her new and handsome
home on the other side of the lake, and of all the delights promised
her by Diodoros’s affection, her heart still clung fondly to the pretty,
neat little dwelling whose low roof now gleamed in front of her. In
the garden, whose shell-strewn paths she now trod, she had played as a
child; that window belonged to the room where her mother had died. And
then, coming home was in itself a joy, when she had so much to tell that
was pleasant.
The dog leaped along by her side with vehement affection, jumping round
her and on her, and she heard the starling’s cry, first “Olympias!” and
then “My strength!”
A happy smile parted her rosy lips as she glanced at the work-room; but
the two white teeth which always gleamed when she was gay were presently
hidden, for her father, it would seem, was out. He was certainly not at
work, for the wide window was unscreened, and it was now nearly noon.
He was almost always within at this hour, and it would spoil half her
gladness not to find him there.
But what was this? What could this mean? The dog had announced her
approach, and old Dido’s gray head peeped out of the house-door, to
vanish again at once. How strangely she had looked at her--exactly
as she had looked that day when the physician had told the faithful
creature that her mistress’s last hour was at hand!
Melissa’s contentment was gone. Before she even crossed the threshold,
where the friendly word “Rejoice” greeted her in brown mosaic, she
called the old woman by name. No answer.
She went into the kitchen to find Dido; for she, according to her
invariable habit of postponing evil as long as possible, had fled to the
hearth. There she stood, though the fire was out, weeping bitterly, and
covering her wrinkled face with her hands, as though she quailed before
the eyes of the girl she must so deeply grieve. One glance at the woman,
and the tears which trickled through her fingers and down her lean
arms told Melissa that something dreadful had happened. Very pale, and
clasping her hand to her heaving bosom, she desired to be told all; but
for some time Dido was quite unable to speak intelligibly. And before
she could make up her mind to it, she looked anxiously for Argutis, whom
she held to be the wisest of mankind, and who, she knew, would reveal
the dreadful thing that must be told more judiciously than she could.
But the Gaul was not to be seen; so Dido, interrupted by sobs, began the
melancholy tale.
Heron had come home between midnight and sunrise and had gone to bed.
Next morning, while he was feeding the birds, Zminis, the captain of the
night-watch, had come in with some men-at-arms, and had tried to take
the artist prisoner in Caesar’s name. On this, Heron had raved like
a bull, had appealed to his Macedonian birth, his rights as a Roman
citizen, and much besides, and demanded to know of what he was accused.
He was then informed that he was to be held in captivity by the special
orders of the head of the police, till his son Alexander, who was guilty
of high-treason, should surrender to the authorities. But her master,
said Dido, sobbing, had knocked down the man who had tried to bind him
with a mighty blow of his fist. At last there was a fearful uproar, and
in fact a bloody fight. The starling shouted his cry through it all, the
birds fluttered and piped with terror, and it was like the abode of the
damned in the nether world; and strangers came crowding about the house,
till Skopas arrived and advised Heron to go with the Egyptian.
“But even at the door,” Dido added, “he called out to me that you,
Melissa, could remain with Polybius till he should recover his liberty.
Philip was to appeal for help to the prefect Titianus, and offer him the
gems--you know them, he said. And, last of all,” and again she began to
cry, “he especially commended to my care the tomb--and the birds; and
the starling wants some fresh mealworms.” Melissa heard with dismay; the
color had faded from her cheeks, and as Dido ended she asked gloomily:
“And Philip--and Alexander?”
“We have thought of everything,” replied the old woman. “As soon as we
were alone we held a council, Argutis and I. He went to find Alexander,
and I went to Philip. I found him in his rooms. He had come home very
late, the porter said, and I saw him in bed, and I had trouble enough to
wake him. Then I told him all, and he went on in such mad talk--it
will be no wonder if the gods punish him. He wanted to rush off to the
prefect, with his hair uncombed, just as he was. I had to bring him to
his senses; and then, while I was oiling his hair and helping him into
his best new mantle, he changed his mind, for he declared he would come
home first, to talk with you and Argutis. Argutis was at home again, but
he had not found Alexander, for the poor youth has to hide himself as if
he were a murderer.” And again she sobbed; nor was it till Melissa had
soothed her with kind speeches that she could go on with her story.
Philip had learned yesterday where Alexander was concealed, so he
undertook to go across the lake and inform him of what had occurred.
But Argutis, faithful and prudent, had hindered him, representing that
Alexander, who was easily moved, as soon as he heard that his father
was a prisoner would unhesitatingly give himself up to his enemies as a
hostage, and rush headlong into danger. Alexander must remain in hiding
so long as Caesar was in Alexandria. He (Argutis) would go instead of
Philip, who, for his part, might call on the prefect later. He would
cross the lake and warn Melissa not to return home, and to tell
Alexander what he might think necessary. The watch might possibly follow
Argutis; but he knew every lane and alley, and could mislead and avoid
them. Philip had listened to reason. The slave went, and must now soon
be back again.
Of how different a home-coming had Melissa dreamed! What new and
terrible griefs were these! Still, though distressed at the thought of
her vehement father in prison, she shed no tears, but told herself
that matters could only be mended by rational action on behalf of the
victims, and not by lamentations. She must be alone, to collect her
strength and consider the situation. So she desired Dido, to her great
amazement, to prepare some food, and bring her wine and water. Then,
seating herself, with a melancholy glance at her embroidery where it lay
folded together, she rested her elbow on the table and her head in her
hand, considering to whom she could appeal to save her father.
First she thought of Caesar himself, whose eye had met hers, and for
whom she had prayed and offered sacrifice. But the blood fired her
cheeks at the thought, and she repelled it at once. Yet her mind would
linger at the Serapeum, where her lover, too, still rested his fevered
head. She knew that the high-priests’ spacious lodgings there, with
their splendid rooms and banqueting halls, had been prepared for the
emperor; and she remembered various things which her brother had
told her of Timotheus, who was at the head not only of the heathen
priesthood, but also of the museum. He was said to be a philosopher, and
Philip had more than once been distinguished by him, and invited to his
house. Her brother must apply to him. He, who was in a way Caracalla’s
host, would easily succeed in obtaining her father’s release, from his
imperial guest.
Her grave face brightened at this thought, and, while she ate and
drank, another idea struck her. Alexander, too, must be known to the
high-priest; for Timotheus was the brother of Seleukus, whose daughter
the artist had just painted, and Timotheus had seen the portrait and
praised it highly. Thus it was not improbable that the generous man
would, if Philip besought him, intercede for Alexander. So all might
turn out better than she had ventured to hope.
Firmly convinced that it was her part to rescue her family, she once
more reviewed in her mind every acquaintance to whom she might look
for aid; but even during her meditations her tired frame asserted its
rights, and when Dido came in to remove the remains of the meal and the
empty wine-cup, she found Melissa sunk in sleep.
Shaking her head, and saying to herself that it served the old man right
for his cruel treatment of a dutiful child--though, for Alexander’s
sake, she might have tried to keep awake--the faithful soul pushed a
cushion under the girl’s head, drew the screen across the window, and
stood waving off the flies which buzzed about her darling’s flushed
face, till presently the dog barked, and an energetic knock shook the
house-door. Melissa started from her slumbers, the old woman threw aside
the fan, and, as she hurried to admit the vehement visitor, cried out to
Melissa:
“Be easy, dear child--be easy. It is nothing; depend upon that. I know
the knock; it is only Philip.”