The statue of Serapis, a figure of colossal size, carved by the
master-hand of Bryaxis, out of ivory overlaid with gold, sat enthroned
in the inner chamber of the great Temple of Serapis, with the kalathos
crowning his bearded face, and the three-headed Cerberus at his feet,
gazing down in supreme silence on the scene around. He did not lack for
pious votaries and enthusiastic admirers, for, so long as Caesar was
his guest, the curtain was withdrawn which usually hid his majestic form
from their eyes. But his most devoted worshipers thought that the god’s
noble, benevolent, grave countenance had a wrathful look; for, though
nothing had been altered in this, the finest pillared hall in the world;
though the beautiful pictures in relief on the walls and ceiling, the
statues and altars of marble, bronze, and precious metals between the
columns, and the costly mosaic-work of many colors which decked the
floor in regular patterns, were the same as of yore, this splendid
pavement was trodden to-day by thousands of feet which had no concern
with the service of the god.
Before Caesar’s visit, solemn silence had ever reigned in this worthy
home of the deity, fragrant with the scarcely visible fumes of kyphi;
and the worshipers gathered without a sound round the foot of his
statue, and before the numerous altars and the smaller images of the
divinities allied to him or the votive tablets recording the gifts and
services instituted in honor of Serapis by pious kings or citizens. On
feast-days, and during daily worship, the chant of priestly choirs might
be heard, or the murmur of prayer; and the eye might watch the stolists
who crowned the statues with flowers and ribbons, as required by the
ritual, or the processions of priests in their various rank. Carrying
sacred relics and figures of the gods on trays or boats, with emblematic
standards, scepters, and cymbals, they moved about the sacred precinct
in prescribed order, and most of them fulfilled their duties with
devotion and edification.
But Caesar’s presence seemed to have banished these solemn feelings.
From morning till night the great temple swarmed with visitors, but
their appearance and demeanor were more befitting the market-place or
public bath than the sanctuary. It was now no more than the anteroom to
Caesar’s audience-chamber, and thronged with Roman senators, legates,
tribunes, and other men of rank, and the clients and “friends” of
Caesar, mingled with soldiers of inferior grades, scribes, freedmen,
and slaves, who had followed in Caracalla’s train. There were, too,
many Alexandrians who expected to gain some benefit, promotion, or
distinction through the emperor’s favorites. Most of these kept close to
his friends and intimates, to make what profit they could out of them.
Some were corn and wine dealers, or armorers, who wished to obtain
contracts for supplying the army; others were usurers, who had money to
lend on the costly objects which warriors often acquired as booty; and
here, as everywhere, bedizened and painted women were crowding round the
free-handed strangers. There were Magians, astrologers, and magicians
by the dozen, who considered this sacred spot the most suitable place
in which to offer their services to the Romans, always inquisitive
for signs and charms. They knew how highly Egyptian magic was esteemed
throughout the empire; though their arts were in fact prohibited, each
outdid the other in urgency, and not less in a style of dress which
should excite curiosity and expectancy.
Serapion held aloof. Excepting that he wore a beard and robe, his
appearance even had nothing in common with them; and his talar was not
like theirs, embroidered with hieroglyphics, tongues, and flames, but of
plain white stuff, which gave him the aspect of a learned and priestly
sage.
As Alexander, on his way through the temple to fulfill Caesar’s
commission, went past the Magian, Castor, his supple accomplice, stole
up behind a statue, and, when the artist disappeared in the crowd,
whispered to his master:
“The rascally painter is at liberty!”
“Till further notice!” was the reply, and Serapion was about to give his
satellite some instructions, when a hand was laid on his shoulder, and
Zminis said in a low voice:
“I am glad to have found you here. Accusations are multiplying against
you, my friend; and though I have kept my eyes shut till now, that
cannot last much longer.”
“Let us hope you are mistaken,” replied the Magian, firmly. And then
he went on in a hurried whisper: “I know what your ambition is, and my
support may be of use to you. But we must not be seen together. We will
meet again in the instrument-room, to the left of the first stairs up to
the observatory. You will find me there.”
“At once, then,” said the other. “I am to be in Caesar’s presence in a
quarter of an hour.”
The Magian, as being one of the most skillful makers of astronomical
instruments, and attached to the sanctuary, had a key of the room he
had designated. Zminis found him there, and their business was quickly
settled. They knew each other well, and each knew things of the other
which inspired them with mutual fear. However, as time pressed, they set
aside all useless antagonisms, to unite against the common foe.
The Magian knew already that Zminis had been named to Caesar as a
possible successor to the chief of the night-watch, and that he had a
powerful rival. By the help of the Syrian, whose ventriloquism was so
perfect that he never failed to produce the illusion that his feigned
voice proceeded from any desired person or thing, Serapion had enmeshed
the praetorian prefect, the greatest magnate in the empire next to
Caesar himself, and in the course of the past night had gained a firm
hold over him.
Macrinus, a man of humble birth, who owed his promotion to Severus, the
father of Caracalla, had, the day before, been praying in the Pantheon
to the statue of his deceased patron. A voice had proceeded from the
image, telling him that the divine Severus needed him for a great work.
A pious seer was charged to tell him more exactly what this was; and
he would meet him if he went at about sunset to the shrine of Isis,
and called three times on the name of Severus before the altar of the
goddess.
The Syrian ventriloquist had, by Serapion’s orders, hidden behind a
pillar and spoken to the prefect from the statue; and Macrinus had, of
course, obeyed his instructions. He had met the Magian in the Temple
of Isis, and what he had seen, heard, and felt during the night had so
deeply affected him that he had promised to revisit Serapion the next
evening. What means he had used to enslave so powerful a man the Magian
did not tell his ally; but he declared that Macrinus was as wax in
his hands, and he came to an agreement with the Egyptian that if he,
Serapion, should bring about the promotion for which Zminis sighed,
Zminis, on his part, should give him a free hand, and commend his arts
to Caesar.
It needed but a few minutes to conclude this compact; but then the
Magian proceeded to insist that Alexander’s father and brother should be
made away with.
“Impossible,” replied Zminis. “I should be only too glad to wring the
necks of the whole brood; but, as it is, I am represented to Caesar as
too stern and ruthless. And a pretty little slut, old Heron’s daughter,
has entangled him in her toils.”
“No,” said Serapion, positively. “I have seen the girl, and she is as
innocent as a child. But I know the force of contrast: when depravity
meets purity--”
“Come, no philosophizing!” interrupted the other. “We have better things
to attend to, and one or the other may turn to your advantage.”
And he told him that Caesar, whose whim it was to spare Alexander’s
life, regarded Melissa as an incarnation of Roxana.
“That is worth considering,” said the Magian, stroking his beard
meditatively; then he suddenly exclaimed:
“By the law, as you know, all the relatives of a state criminal are sent
to the quarries or the mines. Dispatch Heron and his philosopher son
forthwith. Whither?--that is your concern; only, for the next few days
they must be out of reach.”
“Good!” said the Egyptian, and an odious smile overspread his thin brown
face. “They may go as galley-slaves and row themselves to the Sardinian
mines. A good idea!”
“I have even better ideas than that to serve a friend,” replied
Serapion. “Only get the philosopher out of the way. If Caesar lends an
ear to his ready tongue, I shall never see you guardian of the peace.
The painter is less dangerous.”
“He shall share their fate,” cried the spy, and he licked his thick lips
as if tasting some dainty morsel. He waved an adieu to the Magian, and
hastened back to the great hall. There he strictly instructed one of his
subordinates to take care that the gem-cutter and his son Philip found
places on board a galley bound for Sardinia.
At the great door he again met Serapion, with the Syrian at his heels,
and the Magian said:
“My friend here has just seen a clay figure, molded by some practiced
hand. It represents Caesar as a defiant warrior, but in the shape of a
deformed dwarf. It is hideously like him; you can see it at the Elephant
tavern.”
The Egyptian pressed his hand, with an eager “That will serve,” and
hastily went out.
Two hours slipped by, and Zminis was still waiting in Caesar’s anteroom.
The Greek, Aristides, shared his fate, the captain hitherto of the
armed guard; while Zminis had been the head of the spies, intrusted
with communicating written reports to the chief of the night-watch. The
Greek’s noble, soldierly figure looked strikingly fine by the slovenly,
lank frame of the tall Egyptian. They both knew that within an hour or
so one would be supreme over the other; but of this they thought it best
to say nothing. Zminis, as was his custom when he wished to assume an
appearance of respect which he did not feel, was alternately abject
and pressingly confidential; while Aristides calmly accepted his
hypocritical servility, and answered it with dignified condescension.
Nor had they any lack of subjects, for their interests were the same,
and they both had the satisfaction of reflecting what injury must ensue
to public safety through their long and useless detention here.
But when two full hours had elapsed without their being bidden to
Caesar’s presence, or taken any notice of by their supporters, Zminis
grew wroth, and the Greek frowned in displeasure. Meanwhile the anteroom
was every moment more crowded, and neither chose to give vent to his
anger. Still, when the door to the inner chambers was opened for a
moment, and loud laughter and the ring of wine-cups fell on their ears,
Aristides shrugged his shoulders, and the Egyptian’s eyes showed an
ominous white ring glaring out of his brown face.
Caracalla had meanwhile received the praetorian prefect; he had forgiven
him his long delay, when Macrinus, of his own accord, had told him of
the wonderful things Serapion had made known to him. The prefect’s son,
too, had been invited to the banquet of Seleukus; and when Caracalla
heard from him and others of the splendor of the feast, he had begun to
feel hungry. Even with regard to food, Caesar acted only on the impulse
of the moment; and though, in the field, he would, to please his
soldiers, be content with a morsel of bread and a little porridge, at
home he highly appreciated the pleasures of the table. Whenever he gave
the word, an abundant meal must at once be ready. It was all the same
to him what was kept waiting or postponed, so long as something to his
taste was set before him. Macrinus, indeed, humbly reminded him that
the guardians of the peace were awaiting him; but he only waved his hand
with contempt, and proceeded to the dining-room, which was soon filled
with a large number of guests. Within a few minutes the first dish was
set before his couch, and, as plenty of good stories were told, and an
admirable band of flute-playing and singing girls filled up the pauses
in the conversation, he enjoyed his meal. In spite, too, of the warning
which Galenus had impressed on his Roman physician, he drank freely of
the fine wine which had been brought out for him from the airy lofts
of the Serapeum, and those about him were surprised at their master’s
unwonted good spirits.
He was especially gracious to the high-priest, whom he bade to a place
by his side; and he even accepted his arm as a support, when, the meal
being over, they returned to the tablinum.
‘There he flung himself on a couch, with a burning head, and began
feeding the lion, without paying any heed to his company. It was a
pleasure to him to see the huge brute rend a young lamb. When the
remains of this introductory morsel had been removed and the pavement
washed, he gave the “Sword of Persia” pieces of raw flesh, teasing
the beast by snatching the daintiest bits out of his mouth, and then
offering them to him again, till the satiated brute stretched himself
yawning at his feet. During this entertainment, he had a letter read
to him from the senate, and dictated a reply to a secretary. His eyes
twinkled with a tipsy leer in his flushed face, and yet he was perfectly
competent; and his instructions to the senate, though imperious indeed,
were neither more nor less rational than in his soberest moods.
Then, after washing his hands in a golden basin, he acted on Macrinus’s
suggestion, and the two candidates who had so long been waiting were
at last admitted. The prefect of the praetorians had, by the Magian’s
desire, recommended the Egyptian; but Caesar wished to see for himself,
and then to decide. Both the applicants had received hints from their
supporters: the Egyptian, to moderate his rigor; the Greek, to express
himself in the severest terms. And this was made easy for him, for the
annoyance which had been pent up during his three hours’ waiting was
sufficient to lend his handsome face a stern look. Zminis strove to
appear mild by assuming servile humility; but this so ill became his
cunning features that Caracalla saw with secret satisfaction that
he could accede to Melissa’s wishes, and confirm the choice of the
high-priest, in whose god he had placed his hopes.
Still, his own safety was more precious to him than the wishes of any
living mortal; so he began by pouring out, on both, the vials of his
wrath at the bad management of the town. Their blundering tools had
not even succeeded in capturing the most guileless of men, the painter
Alexander. The report that the men-at-arms had seized him had been a
fabrication to deceive, for the artist had given himself up. Nor had
he as yet heard of any other traitor whom they had succeeded in laying
hands on, though the town was flooded with insolent epigrams directed
against the imperial person. And, as he spoke, he glared with fury at
the two candidates before him.
The Greek bowed his head in silence, as if conscious of his
short-comings; the Egyptian’s eyes flashed, and, with an amazingly
low bend of his supple spine, he announced that, more than three
hours since, he had discovered a most abominable caricature in clay,
representing Caesar as a soldier in a horrible pygmy form.
“And the perpetrator,” snarled Caracalla, listening with a scowl for the
reply.
Zminis explained that great Caesar himself had commanded his attendance
just as he hoped to find the traces of the criminal, and that, while
he was waiting, more than three precious hours had been lost. At this
Caracalla broke out in a fury:
“Catch the villain! And let me see his insolent rubbish. Where are your
eyes? You bungling louts ought to protect me against the foul brood
that peoples this city, and their venomous jests. Past grievances are
forgotten. Set the painter’s father and brother at liberty. They have
had a warning. Now I want something new. Something new, I say; and,
above all, let me see the ringleaders in chains; the man who nailed
up the rope, and the caricaturists. We must have them, to serve as an
example to the others.”
Aristides thought that the moment had now come for displaying his
severity, and he respectfully but decidedly represented to Caesar
that he would advise that the gem-cutter and his son should be kept in
custody. They were well-known persons, and too great clemency would only
aggravate the virulence of audacious tongues. The painter was free,
and if his relatives were also let out of prison, there was nothing to
prevent their going off to the other end of the world. Alexandria was
a seaport, and a ship would carry off the criminals before a man could
turn round.
At this the emperor wrathfully asked him whether his opinion had been
invited; and the cunning Egyptian said to himself that Caracalla was
anxious to spare the father and his sons for the daughter’s sake. And
yet Caesar would surely wish to keep them in safety, to have some hold
over the girl; so he lied with a bold face, affirming that, in obedience
to the law of the land, he had removed Heron and Philip, at any rate for
the moment, beyond the reach of Caesar’s mercy. They had in the course
of the night been placed on board a galley and were now on the way to
Sardinia. But a swift vessel should presently be sent to overtake it and
bring them back.
And the informer was right, for Caesar’s countenance brightened. He did,
indeed, blame the Egyptian’s overhasty action; but he gave no orders for
following up the galley.
Then, after reflecting for a short time, he said:
“I do not find in either of you what I require; but at a pinch we are
fain to eat moldy bread, so I must need choose between you two. The one
who first brings me that clay figure, and the man who modeled it, in
chains and bonds, shall be appointed chief of the night-watch.”
Meanwhile Alexander had entered the room. As soon as Caracalla saw him,
he beckoned to him, and the artist informed him that he had made good
use of his time and had much to communicate. Then he humbly inquired as
to the clay figure of which Caesar was speaking, and Caracalla referred
him to Zminis. The Egyptian repeated what the Magian had told him.
Alexander listened calmly; but when Zminis ceased speaking, the artist
took a deep breath, drew himself up, and pointing a contemptuous finger
at the spy, as if his presence poisoned the air, he said: “It is that
fellow’s fault, great Caesar, if the citizens of my native town dare
commit such crimes. He torments and persecutes them in your name. How
many a felony has been committed here, merely to scoff at him and his
creatures, and to keep them on the alert! We are a light-headed race.
Like children, we love to do the forbidden thing, so long as it is no
stain on our honor. But that wretch treats all laughter and the most
innocent fun as a crime, or so interprets it that it seems so. From
this malignant delight in the woes of others, and in the hope of rising
higher in office, that wicked man has brought misery on hundreds. It has
all been done in thy great name, O Caesar! No man has raised you up
more foes than this wretch, who undermines your security instead of
protecting it.”
Here Zminis, whose swarthy face had become of ashy paleness, broke out
in a hoarse tone: “I will teach you, and the whole rabble of traitors at
your back--”
But Caesar wrathfully commanded him to be silent, and Alexander quietly
went on: “You can threaten, and you will array all your slanderous
arts against us, I know you. But here sits a sovereign who protects the
innocent--and I and mine are innocent. He will set his heel on your head
when he knows you--the curse of this city--for the adder that you are!
He is deceiving you now in small things, great Caesar, and later he will
deceive you in greater ones. Listen now how he has lied to you. He says
he discovered a caricature of your illustrious person in the guise of
a soldier. Why, then, did he not bring it away from the place where it
could only excite disaffection, and might even mislead those who should
see it into the belief that your noble person was that of a dwarf?
The answer is self-evident. He left it to betray others into further
mockery, to bring them to ruin.”
Caesar had listened with approval, and now sternly asked the Egyptian:
“Did you see the image?”
“In the Elephant tavern!” yelled the man.
But Alexander shook his head doubtfully, and begged permission to ask
the Egyptian a question. This was granted, and the artist inquired
whether the soldier stood alone.
“So far as I remember, yes,” replied Zminis, almost beside himself.
“Then your memory is as false as your soul!” Alexander shouted in his
face, “for there was another figure by the soldier’s side. The clay,
still wet, clung to the same board as the figure of the soldier, modeled
by the same hand. No, no, my crafty fellow, you will not catch the
workman; for, being warned, he is already on the high-seas.”
“It is false!” shrieked Zminis.
“That remains to be proved,” said Alexander, scornfully.--“Allow me
now, great Caesar, to show you the figures. They have been brought by my
orders, and are in the anteroom-carefully covered up, of course, for the
fewer the persons who see them the better.”
Caracalla nodded his consent, and Alexander hurried away; the despot
heaping abuse on Zminis, and demanding why he had not at once had the
images removed. The Egyptian now confessed that he had only heard of the
caricature from a friend, and declared that if he had seen it he should
have destroyed it on the spot. Macrinus here tried to excuse the spy, by
remarking that this zealous official had only tried to set his services
in a favorable light. The falsehood could not be approved, but was
excusable. But he had scarcely finished speaking, when his opponent, the
praetor, Lucius Priscillianus, observed, with a gravity he but rarely
displayed:
“I should have thought that it was the first duty of the man who ought
to be Caesar’s mainstay and representative here, to let his sovereign
hear nothing but the undistorted truth. Nothing, it seems to me, can be
less excusable than a lie told to divine Caesar’s face!”
A few courtiers, who were out of the prefect’s favor, as well as the
high-priest of Serapis, agreed with the speaker. Caracalla, however,
paid no heed to them, but sat with his eyes fixed on the door, deeply
wounded in his vanity by the mere existence of such a caricature.
He had not long to wait. But when the wrapper was taken off the clay
figures, he uttered a low snarl, and his flushed face turned pale.
Sounds of indignation broke from the bystanders; the blood rose to his
cheeks again, and, shaking his fist, he muttered unintelligible threats,
while his eyes wandered again and again to the caricatures. They
attracted his attention more than all else, and as in an April day the
sky is alternately dark and bright, so red and white alternated in his
face. Then, while Alexander replied to a few questions, and assured
him that the host of the “Elephant” had been very angry, and had gladly
handed them over to him to be destroyed, Caracalla seemed to become
accustomed to them, for he gazed at them more calmly, and tried to
affect indifference. He inquired of Philostratus, as though he wished
to be informed, whether he did not think that the artist who had modeled
these figures must be a very clever follow; and when the philosopher
assented conditionally, he declared that he saw some resemblance to
himself--in the features of the apple-dealer. And then he pointed to his
own straight legs, only slightly disfigured by an injury to the ankle,
to show how shamefully unfair it was to compare them with the lower
limbs of a misshapen dwarf. Finally, the figure of the apple-dealer--a
hideous pygmy form, with the head of an old man, like enough to his
own--roused his curiosity. What was the point of this image? What
peculiarity was it intended to satirize? The basket which hung about the
neck of the figure was full of fruit, and the object he held in his hand
might be an apple, or might be anything else.
With eager and constrained cheerfulness, he inquired the opinion of his
“friends,” treating as sheer flattery a suggestion from his favorite,
Theocritus, that this was not an apple-dealer, but a human figure, who,
though but a dwarf in comparison with the gods, nevertheless endowed the
world with the gifts of the immortals.
Alexander and Philostratus could offer no explanation; but when the
proconsul, Julius Paulinus, observed that the figure was offering
the apples for money, as Caesar offered the Roman citizenship to the
provincials, he knew for what, Caracalla nodded agreement.
He then provisionally appointed Aristides to the coveted office. The
Egyptian should be informed as to his fate. When the prefect was about
to remove the figures, Caesar hastily forbade it, and ordered the
bystanders to withdraw. Alexander alone was commanded to remain. As soon
as they were together, Caesar sprang up and vehemently demanded to
know what news he had brought. But the young man hesitated to begin his
report. Caracalla, of his own accord, pledged his word once more to
keep his oath, and then Alexander assured him that he knew no more than
Caesar who were the authors of the epigrams which he had picked up here
and there; and, though the satire they contained was venomous in some
cases, still he, the sovereign of the world, stood so high that he could
laugh them to scorn, as Socrates had laughed when Aristophanes placed
him on the stage.
Caesar declared that he scorned these flies, but that their buzzing
annoyed him.
Alexander rejoiced at this, and only expressed his regret that most of
the epigrams he had collected turned on the death of Caesar’s brother
Geta. He knew now that it was rash to condemn a deed which--
Here Caesar interrupted him, for he could not long remain quiet, saying
sternly:
“The deed was needful, not for me, but for the empire, which is dearer
to me than father, mother, or a hundred brothers, and a thousand times
dearer than men’s opinions. Let me hear in what form the witty natives
of this city express their disapproval.”
This sounded so dignified and gracious that Alexander ventured to repeat
a distich which he had heard at the public baths, whither he had first
directed his steps. It did not, however, refer to the murder of Geta,
but to the mantle-like garment to which Caesar owed the nickname of
Caracalla. It ran thus:
“Why should my lord Caracalla affect a garment so ample?
‘Tis that the deeds are many of evil he needs to conceal.”
At this Caesar laughed, saying: “Who is there that has nothing to
conceal? The lines are not amiss. Hand me your tablets; if the others
are no worse--”
“But they are,” Alexander exclaimed, anxiously, “and I only regret that
I should be the instrument of your tormenting yourself--”
“Tormenting?” echoed Caesar, disdainfully. “The verses amuse me, and I
find them most edifying. That is all. Hand me the tablets.”
The command was so positive, that Alexander drew out the little diptych,
with the remark that painters wrote badly, and that what he had noted
down was only intended to aid his memory. The idea that Caesar should
hear a few home-truths through him had struck him as pleasant, but now
the greatness of the risk was clear to him. He glanced at the scrawled
characters, and it occurred to him that he had intended to change
the word dwarf in one line to Caesar, and to keep the third and most
trenchant epigram from the emperor. The fourth and last was very
innocent, and he had meant to read it last, to mollify him. So he did
not wish to show the tablets. But, as he was about to take them back,
Caracalla snatched them from his hand and read with some difficulty:
“Fraternal love was once esteemed
A virtue even in the great,
And Philadelphos then was deemed
A name to grace a potentate.
But now the dwarf upon the throne,
By murder of his mother’s son,
As Misadelphos must be known.”
“Indeed!” murmured Caesar, with a pale face, and then he went on in
a low, sullen tone: “Always the same story--my brother, and my small
stature. In this town they follow the example of the barbarians, it
would seem, who choose the tallest and broadest of their race to be
king. If the third epigram has nothing else in it, the shallow wit
of your fellow-citizens is simply tedious.--Now, what have we next?
Trochaics! Hardly anything new, I fear!--There is the water-jar. I will
drink; fill the cup.” But Alexander did not immediately obey the command
so hastily given; assuring Caesar that he could not possibly read the
writing, he was about to take up the tablets. But Caesar laid his hand
on them, and said, imperiously: “Drink! Give me the cup.”
He fixed his eyes on the wax, and with difficulty deciphered the clumsy
scrawl in which Alexander had noted down the following lines, which he
had heard at the “Elephant”:
“Since on earth our days are numbered,
Ask me not what deeds of horror
Stain the hands of fell Tarautas.
Ask me of his noble actions,
And with one short word I answer,
‘None!’-replying to your question
With no waste of precious hours.”
Alexander meanwhile had done Caracalla’s bidding, and when he had
replaced the jar on its stand and returned to Caesar, he was horrified;
for the emperor’s head and arms were shaking and struggling to and fro,
and at his feet lay the two halves of the wax tablets which he had torn
apart when the convulsion came on. He foamed at the mouth, with low
moans, and, before Alexander could prevent him, racked with pain and
seeking for some support, he had set his teeth in the arm of the seat
off which he was slipping. Greatly shocked, and full of sincere pity,
Alexander tried to raise him; but the lion, who perhaps suspected the
artist of having been the cause of this sudden attack, rose on his feet
with a roar, and the young man would have had no chance of his life if
the beast had not happily been chained down after his meal. With much
presence of mind, Alexander sprang behind the chair and dragged it,
with the unconscious man who served him as a shield, away from the angry
brute.
Galen had urged Caesar to avoid excess in wine and violent emotions, and
the wisdom of the warning was sufficiently proved by the attack which
had seized him with such fearful violence, just when Caracalla had
neglected it in both particulars. Alexander had to exert all the
strength of his muscles, practised in the wrestling-school, to hold the
sufferer on his seat, for his strength, which was not small, was doubled
by the demons of epilepsy. In an instant the whole Court had rushed
to the spot on hearing the lion’s roar of rage, which grew louder and
louder, and could be heard at no small distance, and then Alexander’s
shout for help. But the private physician and Epagathos, the
chamberlain, would allow no one to enter the room; only old Adventus,
who was half blind, was permitted to assist them in succoring the
sufferer. He had been raised by Caracalla from the humble office of
letter-carrier to the highest dignities and the office of his private
chamberlain; but the leech availed himself by preference of the
assistance of this experienced and quiet man, and between them they soon
brought Caesar to his senses. Caesar then lay pale and exhausted on
a couch which had hastily been arranged, his eyes fixed on vacancy,
scarcely able to move a finger. Alexander held his trembling hand, and
when the physician, a stout man of middle age, took the artist’s place
and bade him retire, Caracalla, in a low voice, desired him to remain.
As soon as Caesar’s suspended faculties were fully awake again, he
turned to the cause of his attack. With a look of pain and entreaty
he desired Alexander to give him the tablets once more; but the artist
assured him--and Caracalla seemed not sorry to believe--that he had
crushed the wax in his convulsion. The sick man himself no doubt felt
that such food was too strong for him. After he had remained staring at
nothing in silence for some time, he began again to speak of the gibes
of the Alexandrians. Surrounded as he was by servile favorites, whose
superior he was in gifts and intellect, what had here come under his
notice seemed to interest him above measure.
He desired to know where and from whom the painter had got these
epigrams. But again Alexander declared that he did not know the names of
the authors; that he had found one at the public baths, the second in
a tavern, and the third at a hairdresser’s shop. Caesar looked sadly at
the youth’s abundant brown curls which had been freshly oiled, and said:
“Hair is like the other good gifts of life. It remains fine only with
the healthy. You, happy rascal, hardly know what sickness means!” Then
again he sat staring in silence, till he suddenly started up and asked
Alexander, as Philostratus had yesterday asked Melissa:
“Do you and your sister belong to the Christians?”
When he vehemently denied it, Caracalla went on: “And yet these epigrams
show plainly enough how the Alexandrians feel toward me. Melissa, too,
is a daughter of this town, and when I remember that she could bring
herself to pray for me, then--My nurse, who was the best of women, was
a Christian. I learned from her the doctrine of loving our enemies and
praying for those who despitefully treat us. I always regarded it as
impossible; but now--your sister--What I was saying just now about the
hair and good health reminds me of another speech of the Crucified one
which my nurse often repeated--how long ago!--‘To him that hath shall
be given, and from him that hath not shall be taken even that which he
hath.’ How cruel and yet how wise, how terribly striking and true! A
healthy man! What more can he want, and what abundant gifts that best of
all gifts will gain for him! If he is visited by infirmity--only look at
me!--how much misery I have suffered from this curse, terrible enough in
itself, and tainting everything with the bitterness of wormwood!”
He laughed softly but scornfully, and continued: “But I! I am the
sovereign of the universe. I have so much--oh yes, so much!--and for
that reason more shall be given to me, and my wildest wishes shall be
satisfied!”
“Yes, my liege!” interrupted Alexander, eagerly. “After pain comes
pleasure!
‘Live, love, drink, and rejoice,
And wreath thyself with me!’
sings Sappho, and it is not a bad plan to follow Anakreon’s advice,
even at the present day. Think of the short suffering which now and
then embitters for you the sweet cup of life, as being the ring of
Polykrates, with which you appease the envy of the gods who have given
you so much. In your place, eternal gods! how I would enjoy the happy
hours of health, and show the immortals and mortals alike how much true
and real pleasure power and riches can procure!”
The emperor’s weary eyes brightened, and with the cry--
“So will I! I am still young, and I have the power!” he started suddenly
to his feet. But he sank back again directly on the couch, shaking his
head as if to say, “There, you see what a state I am in!” The fate of
this unhappy man touched Alexander’s heart even more deeply than before.
His youthful mind, which easily received fresh impressions, forgot the
deeds of blood and shame which stained the soul of this pitiable wretch.
His artistic mind was accustomed to apprehend what he saw with his whole
soul and without secondary considerations, as if it stood there to be
painted; and the man that lay before him was to him at that moment only
a victim whom a cruel fate had defrauded of the greatest pleasures in
life. He also remembered how shamelessly he and others had mocked at
Caesar. Perhaps Caracalla had really spilled most of the blood to serve
the welfare and unity of the empire.
He, Alexander, was not his judge.
If Glaukias had seen the object of his derision lying thus, it certainly
would never have occurred to him to represent him as a pygmy monster.
No, no! Alexander’s artistic eye knew the difference well between the
beautiful and the ugly--and the exhausted man lying on the divan, was no
hideous dwarf. A dreamy languor spread over his nobly chiselled features
An expression of pain but rarely passed over them, and Caesar’s whole
appearance reminded the painter of the fine Ephesian gladiator hallistos
as he lay on the sand, severely wounded after his last fight, awaiting
the death-stroke. He would have liked to hasten home and fetch his
materials to paint the likeness of the misjudged man, and to show it to
the scoffers.
He stood silent, absorbed in studying the quiet face so finely formed
by Nature and so pathetic to look at. No thoroughly depraved miscreant
could look like that. Yet it was like a peaceful sea: when the hurricane
should break loose, what a boiling whirl of gray, hissing, tossing,
foaming waves would disfigure the peaceful, smooth, glittering surface!
And suddenly the emperor’s features began to show signs of animation.
His eye, but now so dull, shone more brightly, and he cried out, as if
the long silence had scarcely broken the thread of his ideas, but in a
still husky voice:
“I should like to get up and go with you, but I am still too weak. Do
you go now, my friend, and bring me back fresh news.”
Alexander then begged him to consider how dangerous every excitement
would be for him; yet Caracalla exclaimed, eagerly:
“It will strengthen me and dome good! Everything that surrounds me is so
hollow, so insipid, so contemptible--what I hear is so small. A strong,
highly spiced word, even if it is sharp, refreshes me--When you have
finished a picture, do you like to hear nothing but how well your
friends can flatter?”
The artist thought he understood Caesar. True to his nature, always
hoping for the best, he thought that, as the severe judgment of the
envious had often done him (Alexander) good, so the sharp satire of
the Alexandrians would lead Caracalla to introspection and greater
moderation; he only resolved to tell the sufferer nothing further that
was merely insulting.
When he bade him farewell, Caracalla glanced up at him with such a look
of pain that the artist longed to give him his hand, and speak to
him with real affection. The tormenting headache which followed each
convulsion had again come on, and Caesar submitted without resistance to
what the physician prescribed.
Alexander asked old Adventus at the door if he did not think that the
terrible attack had been brought on by annoyance at the Alexandrians’
satire, and if it would not be advisable in the future not to allow
such things to reach the emperor’s ear; but the man, looking at him
in surprise with his half-blind eyes, replied with a brutal want of
sympathy that disgusted the youth: “Drinking brought on the attack. What
makes him ill are stronger things than words. If you yourself, young
man, do not suffer for Alexandrian wit, it will certainly not hurt
Caesar!”
Alexander turned his back indignantly on the chamberlain, and he became
so absorbed in wondering how it was possible that the emperor, who was
cultivated and appreciated what was beautiful, could have dragged out of
the dust and kept near him two such miserable ‘creatures as Theocritus
and this old man, that Philostratus, who met him in the next room, had
almost to shout at him.
Philostratus informed him that Melissa was staying with the chief
priest’s wife; but just as he was about to inquire curiously what had
passed between the audacious painter and Caesar--for even Philostratus
was a courtier--he was called away to Caracalla.