impression on the soul of the young criminal, in whom a preference for
good could still, though rarely, be fanned to a flame. Caesar read what
Philostratus wrote, because he took pleasure in the form of his work; and
this sentence would not have been written in vain if only it should
prompt Caracalla in some cases, however few, to choose the good.
The philosopher was fully determined to do his utmost for Melissa and
her brothers. He had often brought pictures under Caesar's notice, for
he was the first living authority as a connoisseur of painting, and as
having written many descriptions of pictures. He built some hopes, too,
on Melissa's innocence; and so the worthy man, when he retired to rest,
looked forward with confidence to the work of mediation, which was by no
means devoid of danger.
But next morning it presented itself in a less promising light. The
clouded sky, the storm, and rain might have a fatal effect on Caesar's
temper; and when he heard that old Galen, after examining his patient and
prescribing certain remedies, had yesterday evening taken ship, leaving
Caracalla in a frenzy of rage which had culminated in slight convulsions,
he almost repented of his promise. However, he felt himself pledged; so
as early as possible he went to Caesar's rooms, prepared for the worst.
His gloomy anticipations were aggravated by the scene which met his eyes.
In the anteroom he found the chief men of the city and some
representative members of the Alexandrian Senate, who were anxious
for an audience of their imperial visitor. They had been commanded to
attend at an unusually early hour, and had already been kept a long time
waiting.
When Philostratus--who was always free to enter Caesar's presence--made
his appearance, Caracalla was seating himself on the throne which had
been placed for him in the splendidly fitted audience-chamber. He had
come from his bath, and was wrapped in the comfortable white woolen robe
which he wore on leaving it. His "friends" as they were called,
senators, and other men of mark, stood round in considerable numbers,
among them the high-priest of Serapis. Pandion, Caesar's charioteer, was
occupied, under the sovereign's instructions, in fastening the lion's
chain to the ring fixed for the purpose in the floor by the side of the
throne; and as the beast, whose collar had been drawn too tight, uttered
a low, complaining growl, Caracalla scolded the favorite. As soon as he
caught sight of Philostratus, he signed to him to approach:
"Do you see nothing strange in me?" he whispered. "Your Phoebus Apollo
appeared to me in a dream. He laid his hand on my shoulder toward
morning; indeed, I saw only horrible faces." Then he pointed out of the
window, exclaiming:
"The god hides his face to-day. Gloomy days have often brought me good
fortune; but this is a strange experience of the eternal sunshine of
Egypt! Men and sky have given me the same kind welcome; gray, gray, and
always gray-without and within--and my poor soldiers out on the square!
Macrinus tells me they are complaining. But my father's advice was
sound: "Keep them content, and never mind anything else." The heads of
the town are waiting outside; they must give up their palaces to the
bodyguard; if they murmur, let them try for themselves how they like
sleeping on the soaking ground under dripping tents. It may cool their
hot blood, and perhaps dilute the salt of their wit.--Show them in,
Theocritus."
He signed to the actor, and when he humbly asked whether Caesar had
forgotten to exchange his morning wrapper for another dress, Caracalla
laughed contemptuously, and replied:
"Why, an empty corn-sack over my shoulders would be dress enough for this
rabble of traders!" He stretched his small but muscular frame out at
full length, resting his head on his hand, and his comely face, which had
lost the suffering look it had worn the day before, suddenly changed in
expression. As was his habit when he wished to inspire awe or fear, he
knit his brows in deep furrows, set his teeth tightly, and assumed a
suspicious and sinister scowl.
The deputation entered, bowing low, headed by the exegetes, the head of
the city, and Timotheus, the chief-priest of Serapis. After these came
the civic authorities, the members of the senate, and then, as
representing the large Jewish colony in the city, their alabarch or head-
man. It was easy to see in each one as he came in, that the presence of
the lion, who had raised his head at their approach, was far from
encouraging; and a faint, scornful smile parted Caracalla's lips as he
noted the cowering knees of these gorgeously habited courtiers. The
high-priest alone, who, as Caesar's host, had gone up to the side of the
throne, and two or three others, among them the governor of the town, a
tall, elderly man of Macedonian descent, paid no heed to the brute. The
Macedonian bowed to his sovereign with calm dignity, and in the name of
the municipally hoped he had rested well. He then informed Caesar what
shows and performances were prepared in his honor, and finally named the
considerable sum which had been voted by the town of Alexandria to
express to him their joy at his visit. Caracalla waved his hand, and
said, carelessly:
"The priest of Alexander, as idiologos, will receive the gold with the
temple tribute. We can find use for it. We knew that you were rich.
But what do you want for your money? What have you to ask?"
"Nothing, noble Caesar," replied the governor. "Thy gracious presence--"
Caracalla interrupted him with a long-drawn "Indeed!" Then, leaning
forward, he gave him a keen, oblique look. "No one but the gods has
nothing to wish for; so it must be that you are afraid to ask. What can
that avail, unless to teach me that you look for nothing but evil from
me; that you are suspicious of me? And if that is so, you fear me; and
if you fear, you hate me. The insults I have received in this house
sufficiently prove the fact. And if you hate me," and he sprang up and
shook his fist, "I must protect myself!"
"Great Caesar," the exegetes began, in humble deprecation, but Caracalla
went on, wrathfully:
"I know when I have to protect myself, and from whom. It is not well to
trifle with me! An insolent tongue is easily hidden behind the lips; but
heads are less easy to hide, and I shall be content with them. Tell that
to your Alexandrian wits! Macrinus will inform you of all else. You may
go."
During this speech the lion, excited by his master's furious gestures,
had risen on his feet and showed his terrible teeth to the delegates.
At this their courage sank. Some laid their hands on their bent knees,
as if to shield them; others had gradually sidled to the door before
Caesar had uttered the last word. Then, in spite of the efforts of the
governor and the alabarch to detain them, in the hope of pacifying the
potentate, as soon as they heard the word "go," they hurried out; and,
for better or for worse, the few bolder spirits had to follow.
As soon as the door was closed upon them, Caesar's features lost their
cruel look. He patted the lion with soothing words of praise, and
exclaimed, contemptuously:
"These are the descendants of the Macedonians, with whom the greatest of
heroes conquered the world! Who was that fat old fellow who shrank into
himself so miserably, and made for the door while I was yet speaking?"
"Kimon, the chief of the night-watch and guardian of the peace of the
city," replied the high-priest of Alexander, who as a Roman had kept his
place by the throne; and Theocritus put in:
"The people must sleep badly under the ward of such a coward. Let him
follow the prefect, noble Caesar."
"Send him his dismissal at once," said Caracalla; "but see that his
successor is a man."
He then turned to the high-priest, and politely requested him to assist
Theocritus in choosing a new head for the town-guard, and Timotheus and
the favorite quitted the room together.
Philostratus took ingenious advantage of the incident, by at once
informing the emperor that it had come to his knowledge that this coward,
so worthily dismissed from office, had, on the merest suspicion, cast
into prison a painter who was undoubtedly one of the first of living
artists, and with him his guiltless relations.
"I will not have it!" Caesar broke out. "Nothing but blood will do any
good here, and petty aggravations will only stir their bile and increase
their insolence. Is the painter of whom you speak an Alexandrian?--I
pine for the open air, but the wind blows the rain against the windows."
"In the field," the philosopher remarked, "you have faced the weather
heroically enough. Here, in the city, enjoy what is placed before you.
Only yesterday I still believed that the art of Apelles was utterly
degenerate. But since then I have changed my opinion, for I have seen a
portrait which would be an ornament to the Pinakothek in your baths. The
northern windows are closed, or, in this land of inundations, and in such
weather as this, we might find ourselves afloat even under cover of a
roof; so it is too dark here to judge of a painting, but your dressing-
room is more favorably situated, and the large window there will serve
our purpose. May I be allowed the pleasure of showing you there the work
of the imprisoned artist?"
Caesar nodded, and led the way, accompanied by his lion and followed by
the philosopher, who desired an attendant to bring in the picture.
In this room it was much lighter than in the audience-chamber, and while
Caracalla awaited, with Philostratus, the arrival of the painting, his
Indian body-slave, a gift from the Parthian king, silently and skillfully
dressed his thin hair. The sovereign sighed deeply, and pressed his hand
to his brow as though in pain. The philosopher ventured to approach him,
and there was warm sympathy in his tone as he asked:
"What ails you, Bassianus? Just now you bore all the appearance of a
healthy, nay, and of a terrible man!"
"It is better again already," replied the sovereign." And yet--!"
He groaned again, and then confessed that only yesterday he had in the
same way been tortured with pain.
"The attack came on in the morning, as you know," he went on, "and when
it was past I went down into the court of sacrifice; my feet would
scarcely carry me. Curiosity--and they were waiting for me; and some
great sign might be shown! Besides, some excitement helps me through
this torment. But there was nothing--nothing! Heart, lungs, liver, all
in their right place.--And then, Galenus--What I like is bad for me, what
I loathe is wholesome. And again and again the same foolish question,
'Do you wish to escape an early death?' And all with an air as though
Death were a slave at his command--He can, no doubt, do more than others,
and has preserved his own life I know not how long. Well, and it is his
duty to prolong mine.
"I am Caesar. I had a right to insist on his remaining here. I did so;
for he knows my malady, and describes it as if he felt it himself. I
ordered him--nay, I entreated him. But he adhered to his own way. He
went--he is gone!"
"But he may be of use to you, even at a distance," Philostratus said.
"Did he do anything for my father, or for me in Rome, where he saw me
every day?" retorted Caesar. "He can mitigate and relieve the suffering,
but that is all; and of all the others, is there one fit to hand him a
cup of water? Perhaps he would be willing to cure me, but he can not;
for I tell you, Philostratus, the gods will not have it so. You know
what sacrifices I have offered, what gifts I have brought. I have
prayed, I have abased myself before them, but none will hear. One or
another of the gods, indeed, appears to me not infrequently as Apollo did
last night. But is it because he favors me? First, he laid his hand on
my shoulder, as my father used to do; but his was so heavy, that the
weight pressed me down till I fell on my knees, crushed. This is no good
sign, you think? I see it in your face. I do not myself think so. And
how loudly I have called on him, of all the gods! The whole empire, they
say, men and women alike, besought the immortals unbidden for the welfare
of Titus. I, too, am their lord; but"--and he laughed bitterly--"who has
ever raised a hand in prayer for me of his own impulse? My own mother
always named my brother first. He has paid for it,--But the rest!"
"They fear rather than love you," replied the philosopher. "He to whom
Phoebus Apollo appears may always expect some good to follow. And
yesterday--a happy omen, too--I overheard by chance a young Greek girl,
who believed herself unobserved, who of her own prompting fervently
entreated Asklepios to heal you. Nay, she collected all the coins in her
little purse, and had a goat and a cock sacrificed in your behalf."
"And you expect me to believe that!" said Caracalla, with a scornful
laugh.
But Philostratus eagerly replied:
"It is the pure truth. I went to the little temple because it was said
that Apollonius had left some documents there. Every word from his pen
is, as you know, of value to me in writing his history. The little
library was screened off from the cella by a curtain, and while I was
hunting through the manuscripts I heard a woman's voice."
"It spoke for some other Bassianus, Antoninus, Tarautus, or whatever they
choose to call me," Caesar broke in.
"Nay, my lord, not so. She prayed for you, the son of Severus. I spoke
to her afterwards. She had seen you yesterday morning, and fancied she
had noted how great and severe your sufferings were. This had gone to
her heart. So she went thither to pray and sacrifice for you, although
she knew that you were prosecuting her brother, the very painter of whom
I spoke. I would you too could have heard how fervently she addressed
the god, and then Hygeia!"
"A Greek, you say?" Caracalla remarked. "And she really did not know
you, or dream that you could hear her?"
"No, my lord; assuredly not. She is a sweet maid, and if you would care
to see her--"
Caesar had listened to the tale with great attention and evident
expectancy; but suddenly his face clouded, and, heedless of the slaves
who, under the guidance of his chamberlain Adventus, had now brought in
the portrait, he sprang up, went close to Philostratus, and stormed out:
"Woe to you if you lie to me! You want to get the brother out of prison,
and then, by chance, you come across the sister who is praying for me! A
fable to cheat a child with!"
"I am speaking the truth," replied Philostratus, coolly, though the rapid
winking of Caesar's eyelids warned him that his blood was boiling with
wrath.
"It was from the sister, whom I overheard in the temple, that I learned
of her brother's peril, and I afterward saw that portrait."
Caracalla stared at the floor for a moment in silence; then he looked up,
and said, in a tone husky with agitation:
"I only long for anything which may bring me nearer to the perverse race
over whom I rule, be it what it may. You offer it me. You are the only
man who never asked me for anything. I have believed you to be as
righteous as all other men are not. And now if you, if this time--"
He lowered his tones, which had become somewhat threatening, and went on
very earnestly: "By all you hold most sacred on earth, I ask you, Did the
girl pray for me, and of her own free impulse, not knowing that any one
could hear her?"
"I swear it, by the head of my mother!" replied Philostratus, solemnly.
"Your mother?" echoed Caesar, and his brow began to clear. But suddenly
the gleam of satisfaction, which for a moment had embellished his
features, vanished, and with a sharp laugh he added: "And my mother! Do
you suppose that I do not know what she requires of you? It is solely to
please her that you, a free man, remain with me. For her sake you are
bold enough to try now and then to quell the stormy sea of my passions.
You do it with a grace, so I submit. And now my hand is raised to strike
a wretch who mocks at me; he is a painter, of some talent, so, of course,
you take him under your protection. Then, in a moment, your inventive
genius devises a praying sister. Well, there is in that something which
might indeed mollify me. But you would betray Bassianus ten times over
to save an artist. And then, how my mother would fly to show her
gratitude to the man who could quell her furious son! Your mother!--
But I only squint when it suits me. My eye must become dimmer than it
yet is before I fail to see the connection of ideas which led you to
swear by your mother. You were thinking of mine when you spoke. To
please her, you would deceive her son. But as soon as he touches the
lie it vanishes into thin air, for it has no more substance than a soap
bubble!" The last words were at once sad, angry, and scornful; but the
philosopher, who had listened at first with astonishment and then with
indignation, could no longer contain himself.
"Enough!" he cried to the angry potentate, in an imperious tone. Then,
drawing himself up, he went on with offended dignity:
"I know what the end has been of so many who have aroused your wrath, and
yet I have courage enough to tell you to your face, that to injustice,
the outcome of distrust, you add the most senseless insult. Or do you
really think that a just man--for so you have called me more than once--
would outrage the manes of the beloved woman who bore him to please the
mother of another man, even though she be Caesar's? What I swear to by
the head of my mother, friend and foe alike must believe; and he who does
not, must hold me to be the vilest wretch on earth; my presence can only
be an offense to him. So I beg you to allow me to return to Rome."
The words were manly and spoken firmly, and they pleased Caracalla; for
the joy of believing in the philosopher's statement outweighed every
other feeling. And since he regarded Philostratus as the incarnation of
goodness--though he had lost faith in that--his threat of leaving
disturbed him greatly. He laid his hand on his brave adviser's arm, and
assured him that he was only too happy to believe a thing so incredible.
Any witness of the scene would have supposed this ruthless fatricide,
this tyrant--whose intercourse with the visions of a crazed and unbridled
fancy made him capable of any folly, and who loved to assume the aspect
of a cruel misanthrope--to be a docile disciple, who cared for nothing
but to recover the favor and forgiveness of his master. And
Philostratus, knowing this man, and the human heart, did not make it too
easy for him to achieve his end. When he at last gave up his purpose of
returning to Rome, and had more fully explained to Caesar how and where
he had met Melissa, and what he had heard about her brother the painter,
he lifted the wrapper from Korinna's portrait, placed it in a good light,
and pointed out to Caracalla the particular beauties of the purely Greek
features.
It was with sincere enthusiasm that he expatiated on the skill with which
the artist had reproduced in color the noble lines which Caracalla so
much admired in the sculpture of the great Greek masters; how warm and
tender the flesh was; how radiant the light of those glorious eyes; how
living the waving hair, as though it still breathed of the scented oil!
And when Philostratus explained that though Alexander had no doubt spoken
some rash and treasonable words, he could not in any case be the author
of the insulting verses which had been found at the Serapeum with the
rope, Caracalla echoed his praises of the picture, and desired to see
both the painter and his sister.
That morning, as he rose from his bed, he had been informed that the
planets which had been seen during the past night from the observatory of
the Serapeum, promised him fortune and happiness in the immediate future.
He was himself a practiced star-reader, and the chief astrologer of the
temple had pointed out to him how peculiarly favorable the constellation
was whence he had deduced his prediction. Then, Phoebus Apollo had
appeared to him in a dream; the auguries from the morning's sacrifices
had all been favorable; and, before he dispatched Philostratus to fetch
Melissa, he added:
"It is strange! The best fortune has always come to me from a gloomy
sky. How brightly the sun shone on my marriage with the odious
Plautilla! It has rained, on the contrary, on almost all my victories;
and it was under a heavy storm that the oracle assured me the soul of
Alexander the Great had selected this tortured frame in which to live out
his too early ended years on earth. Can such coincidence be mere chance?
Phoebus Apollo, your favorite divinity--and that, too, of the sage of
Tyana--may perhaps have been angry with me. He who purified himself from
blood-guiltiness after killing the Python is the god of expiation. I
will address myself to him, like the noble hero of your book. This
morning the god visited me again; so I will have such sacrifice slain
before him as never yet was offered. Will that satisfy you, O
philosopher hard to be appeased?"
"More than satisfy me, my Bassianus," replied Philostratus. "Yet
remember that, according to Apollonius, the sacrifice is effective only
through the spirit in which it is offered."
"Always a 'but' and an 'if'!" exclaimed Caracalla, as his friend left the
room to call Melissa from the high-priest's quarters, where she was
waiting.
For the first time for some days Caesar found himself alone. Leading the
lion by the collar, he went to the window. The rain had ceased, but
black clouds still covered the heavens. Below him lay the opening of the
street of Hermes into the great square, swarming with human life, and
covered with the now drenched tents of the soldiery; and his eyes fell on
that of a centurion, a native of Alexandria, just then receiving a visit
from his family, to whom the varied fortunes of a warrior's life had
brought him back once more.
The bearded hero held an infant in his arms--assuredly his own--while a
girl and boy clung to him, gazing up in his face with wondering black
eyes; and another child, of about three, paying no heed to the others,
was crowing as it splashed through a puddle with its little bare feet.
Two women, one young and one elderly, the man's mother and his wife, no
doubt, seemed to hang on his lips as he recounted perhaps some deed of
valor.
The tuba sounded to arms. He kissed the infant, and carefully laid it on
its mother's bosom; then he took up the boy and the girl, laughingly
caught the little one, and pressed his bearded lips to each rosy mouth in
turn. Last of all he clasped the young wife to his breast, gently
stroked her hair, and whispered something in her ear at which she smiled
up at him through her tears and then blushingly looked down. His mother
patted him fondly on the shoulder, and, as they parted, he kissed her too
on her wrinkled brow.
Caracalla had remarked this centurion once before; his name was
Martialis, and he was a simple, commonplace, but well-conducted creature,
who had often distinguished himself by his contempt for death. The
imperial visit to Alexandria had meant for him a return home and the
greatest joy in life. How many arms had opened to receive the common
soldier; how many hearts had beat high at his coming! Not a day, it was
certain, had passed since his arrival without prayers going up to Heaven
for his preservation, from his mother, his wife, and his children. And
he, the ruler of the world, had thought it impossible that one, even one
of his millions of subjects, should have prayed for him. Who awaited him
with a longing heart? Where was his home?
He had first seen the light in Gaul. His father was an African; his
mother was born in Syria. The palace at Rome, his residence, he did not
care to remember. He traveled about the empire, leaving as wide a space
as possible between himself and that house of doom, from which he could
never wipe out the stain of his brother's blood.
And his mother? She feared--perhaps she hated him--her first-born son,
since he had killed her younger darling. What did she care for him, so
long as she had her philosophers to argue with, who knew how to ply her
with delicate flattery?
Then Plautilla, his wife? His father had compelled him to marry her,
the richest heiress in the world, whose dowry had been larger than the
collected treasure of a dozen queens; and as he thought of the sharp
features of that insignificant, sour-faced, and unspeakably pretentious
creature, he shuddered with aversion.