deed, and it did not strike him that he was responsible for the crime
committed in his service; but her loveless heart, without a care for
him--her bird-sharp face, looking out like a well-made mask from her
abundant hair--and her red, pinched lips, were very present to him.
What cutting words those lips could speak; what senseless demands they
had uttered; and nothing more insolent could be imagined than her way
of pursing them up if at any time he had suggested a kiss!
His child? One had been born to him, but it had followed its mother into
exile and to the grave. The little thing, which he had scarcely known,
was so inseparable from its detested mother that he had mourned it no
more than her. It was well that the assassins, without any orders from
him, should have cut short that wretched life. He could not long for the
embraces of the monster which should have united Plautilla's vices and
his own.
Among the men about his person, there was not one for whom other hearts
beat warmer; no creature that loved him excepting his lion; no spot on
earth where he was looked for with gladness. He waited, as for some
marvel, to see the one human being who had spontaneously entreated the
gods for him. The girl must probably be a poor, tearful creature, as
weak of brain as she was soft-hearted.
There stood the centurion at the head of his maniple, and raised his
staff. Enviable man! How content he looked; how clearly he spoke the
word of command! And how healthy the vulgar creature must be--while he,
Caesar, was suffering that acute headache again! He gnashed his teeth,
and felt a strong impulse to spoil the happiness of that shameless
upstart. If he were sent packing to Spain, now, or to Pontus, there
would be an end of his gladness. The centurion should know what it was
to be a solitary soul.
Acting on this malignant impulse, he had raised his hand to his mouth to
shout the cruel order to a tribune, when suddenly the clouds parted, and
the glorious sun of Africa appeared in a blue island amid the ocean of
gray, cheering the earth with glowing sheaves of rays. The beams were
blinding as they came reflected from the armor and weapons of the men,
reminding Caesar of the god to whom he had just vowed an unparalleled
sacrifice.
Philostratus had often praised Phoebus Apollo above all gods, because
wherever he appeared there was light, irradiating not the earth alone but
men's souls; and because, as the lord of music and harmony, he aided men
to arrive at that morally pure and equable frame of mind which was
accordant and pleasing to his glorious nature. Apollo had conquered the
dark heralds of the storm, and Caracalla looked up. Before this radiant
witness he was ashamed to carry out his dark purpose, and he said,
addressing the sun:
"For thy sake, Phoebus Apollo, I spare the man." Then, pleased with
himself, he looked down again. The restraint he had laid upon himself
struck him as in fact a great and noble effort, accustomed as he was to
yield to every impulse. But at the same time he observed that the
clouds, which had so often brought him good fortune, were dispersing, and
this gave him fresh uneasiness. Dazzled by the flood of sunshine which
poured in at the window, he withdrew discontentedly into the room. If
this bright day were to bring disaster? If the god disdained his
offering?
But was not Apollo, perhaps, like the rest of the immortals, an idol of
the fancy, living only in the imagination of men who had devised it?
Stern thinkers and pious folks, like the skeptics and the Christians,
laughed the whole tribe of the Olympians to scorn. Still, the hand of
Phoebus Apollo had rested heavily on his shoulders in his dream. His
power, after all, might be great. The god must have the promised
sacrifice, come what might. Bitter wrath rose up in his soul at this
thought, as it had often done before, with the immortals, against whom
he, the all-powerful, was impotent. If only for an hour they could be
his subjects, he would make them rue the sufferings by which they spoiled
his existence.
"He is called Martialis. I will remember that name," he thought, as he
cast a last envious look at the centurion.
How long Philostratus was gone! Solitude weighed on him, and he looked
about him wildly, as though seeking some support. An attendant at this
moment announced the philosopher, and Caracalla, much relieved, went into
the tablinum to meet him. There he sat down on a seat in front of the
writing-table strewn with tablets and papyrus-rolls, rearranged the end
of the purple toga for which he had exchanged his bathing-robe, rested
one foot on the lion's neck and his head on his hand. He would receive
this wonderful girl in the character of an anxious sovereign meditating
on the welfare of his people.
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Galenus--What I like is bad for me, what I loathe is wholesome