the teachers of her faith he was the one she most dearly loved. Then,
hesitating a little, she asked if Melissa, being a heathen, had inquired
the meaning of this saying.
"Andrew, the freedman of Polybius and the lady Euryale, explained it to
me. Did the moment ever come to you in which you felt assured that for
you the time was fulfilled?"
"Yes," replied Johanna, with decision; "and that moment comes, sooner or
later, in every life."
"You are a maiden like myself," began Melissa, simply. "A heavy task
lies before me, and if you would confide to me--"
But the Christian broke in: "My life has moved in other paths than yours,
and what has happened to me, the freedwoman and the Christian, can have
no interest for you. But the saying which has stirred your soul refers
to the coming of One who is all in all to us Christians. Did Andrew tell
you nothing of His life?"
"Only a little," answered the girl, "but I would gladly hear more of
Him."
Then the Christian seated herself at Melissa's side, and, clasping the
maiden's hand in hers, told her of the birth of the Saviour, of His
loving heart, and His willing death as a sacrifice for the sins of the
whole world. The girl listened with attentive ear. With no word did she
interrupt the narrative, and the image of the Crucified One rose before
her mind's eye, pure and noble, and worthy of all love. A thousand
questions rose to her lips, but, before she could ask one, the Christian
was called away to attend the lady Berenike, and Melissa was again alone.
What she had already heard of the teaching of the Christians occurred to
her once more, and above all that first saying from the sacred Scriptures
which had attracted her attention, and about which she had just asked
Johanna. Perhaps for her, too, the time was already fulfilled, when she
had taken courage to defy the emperor's commands.
She rejoiced at this action, for she felt that the strength would never
fail her now to set her will against his. She felt as though she bore a
charm against his power since she had parted from her lover, and since
the murder of the governor had opened her eyes to the true character of
him on whom she had all too willingly expended her pity. And yet she
shuddered at the thought of meeting the emperor again, and of having to
show him that she felt safe with him because she trusted to his
generosity.
Lost in deep thought, she waited for the return of the lady and the
Christian waiting-woman, but in vain. At last her eye fell upon the
scrolls which the lady Berenike had pointed out to her. They lay in
beautiful alabaster caskets on an ebony stand. If they had only been
the writings of the Christians, telling of the life and death of their
Saviour! But how should writings such as those come here? The casket
only held the works of Philostratus, and she took from it the roll
containing the story of the hero of whom he had himself spoken to her.
Full of curiosity, she smoothed out the papyrus with the ivory stick, and
her attention was soon engaged by the lively conversation between the
vintner and his Phoenician guest. She passed rapidly over the beginning,
but soon reached the part of which Philostratus had told her. Under the
form of Achilles he had striven to represent Caracalla as he appeared to
the author's indulgent imagination. But it was no true portrait; it
described the original at most as his mother would have wished him to be.
There it was written that the vehemence flashing from the hero's bright
eyes, even when peacefully inclined, showed how easily his wrath could
break forth. But to those who loved him he was even more endearing
during these outbursts than before. The Athenians felt toward him as
they did toward a lion; for, if the king of beasts pleased them when he
was at rest, he charmed them infinitely more when, foaming with
bloodthirsty rage, he fell upon a bull, a wild boar, or some such
ferocious animal.
Yes, indeed! Caracalla, too, fell mercilessly upon his prey! Had she
not seen him hewing down Apollinaris a few hours ago?
Furthermore, Achilles was said to have declared that he could drive away
care by fearlessly encountering the greatest dangers for the sake of his
friends. But where were Caracalla's friends?
At best, the allusion could only refer to the Roman state, for whose sake
the emperor certainly did endure many a hardship and many a wearisome
task, and he was not the only person who had told her so.
Then she turned back a little and found the words: "But because he was
easily inclined to anger, Chiron instructed him in music; for is it not
inherent in this art to soothe violence and wrath--And Achilles acquired
without trouble the laws of harmony and sang to the lyre."
This all corresponded with the truth, and tomorrow she was to discover
what had suggested to Philostratus the story that when Achilles begged
Calliope to endow him with the gifts of music and poetry she had given
him so much of both as he required to enliven the feast and banish
sadness. He was also said to be a poet, and devoted himself most
ardently to verse when resting from the toils of war.
To hear that man unjustly blamed on whom her heart is set, only
increases a woman's love; but unmerited praise makes her criticise him
more sharply, and is apt to transform a fond smile into a scornful one.
Thus the picture that raised Caracalla to the level of an Achilles made
Melissa shrug her shoulders over the man she dreaded; and while she even
doubted Caesar's musical capacities, Diodoros's young, fresh, bell-like
voice rose doubly beautiful and true upon her memory's ear. The image of
her lover finally drove out that of the emperor, and, while she seemed to
hear the wedding song which the youths and maidens were so soon to sing
for them both, she fell asleep.
It was late when Johanna came to admonish her to retire to rest. Shortly
before sunrise she was awakened by Berenike, who wished to take some
rest, and who told her, before seeking her couch, that Apollinaris was
doing well. The lady was still sleeping when Johanna came to inform
Melissa that the slave Argutis was waiting to see her.
The Christian undertook to convey the maiden's farewell greetings to her
mistress.
As they entered the living-room, the gardener had just brought in fresh
flowers, among them three rose-bushes covered with full-blown flowers and
half-opened, dewy buds. Melissa asked Johanna timidly if the lady
Berenike would permit her to pluck one--there were so many; to which the
Christian replied that it would depend on the use it was to be put to.
"Only for the sick tribune," answered Melissa, reddening. So Johanna
plucked two of the fairest blooms and gave them to the maiden--one for
the man who had injured her and one for her betrothed. Melissa kissed
her, gratefully, and begged her to present the flowers to the sick man in
her name.
Johanna carried out her wish at once; but the wounded man, gazing
mournfully at the rose, murmured to himself: "Poor, lovely, gentle
child! She will be ruined or dead before Caracalla leaves Alexandria!"
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