CHAPTER XVI.
Before sunrise the wind changed. Heavy clouds bore down from the north,darkening the clear sky of Alexandria. By the time the market wasfilling it was raining in torrents, and a cold breeze blew over the townfrom the lake. Philostratus had only allowed himself a short time forsleep, sitting till long after midnight over his history of Apoloniusof Tyana. His aim was to prove, by the example of this man, that acharacter not less worthy of imitation than that of the lord of theChristians might be formed in the faith of the ancients, and nourishedby doctrines produced by the many-branched tree of Greek religionand philosophy. Julia Domna, Caracalla's mother, had encouraged thephilosopher in this task, which was to show her passionate and criminalson the dignity of moderation and virtue. The book was also to bringhome to Caesar the religion of his forefathers and his country in allits beauty and elevating power; for hitherto he had vacillated fromone form to another, had not even rejected Christianity, with which hisnurse had tried to inoculate him as a child, and had devoted himself toevery superstition of his time in a way which had disgusted those abouthim. It had been particularly interesting to the writer, with a viewto the purpose of this work, to meet with a girl who practiced all thevirtues the Christians most highly prized, without belonging to thatsect, who were always boasting of the constraining power of theirreligion in conducing to pure morality.
In his work the day before he had taken occasion to regret the smallrecognition his hero had met with among those nearest to him. In this,as in other respects, he seemed to have shared the fate of Jesus Christ,whose name, however, Philostratus purposely avoided mentioning. Now,to-night, he reflected on the sacrifice offered by Melissa for Caesarwhom she knew not, and he wrote the following words as though proceedingfrom the pen of Apollonius himself: "I know well how good a thing it isto regard all the world as my home, and all mankind as my brethrenand friends; for we are all of the same divine race, and have all oneFather."
Then, looking up from the papyrus, he murmured to himself: "From sucha point of view as this Melissa might see in Caracalla a friend and abrother. If only now it were possible to rouse the conscience of thatimperial criminal!"
He took up the written sheet on which he had begun a dissertation as towhat conscience is, as exerting a choice between good and evil. He hadwritten: "Understanding governs what we purpose; consciousness governswhat our understanding resolves upon. Hence, if our understanding choosethe good, consciousness is satisfied."
How flat it sounded! It could have no effect in that form.
Melissa had confessed with far greater warmth what her feelings had beenafter she had sacrificed for the suffering sinner. Every one, no doubt,would feel the same who, when called on to choose between good and evil,should prefer the good; so he altered and expanded the last words: "Thusconsciousness sends a man with song and gladness into the sanctuariesand groves, into the roads, and wherever mortals live. Even in sleep thesong makes itself heard, and a happy choir from the land of dreams liftup their voices about his bed."
That was better! This pleasing picture might perhaps leave someimpression on the soul of the young criminal, in whom a preference forgood could still, though rarely, be fanned to a flame. Caesar read whatPhilostratus wrote, because he took pleasure in the form of his work;and this sentence would not have been written in vain if only it shouldprompt Caracalla in some cases, however few, to choose the good.
The philosopher was fully determined to do his utmost for Melissa andher brothers. He had often brought pictures under Caesar's notice, forhe was the first living authority as a connoisseur of painting, and ashaving 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 nomeans devoid of danger.
But next morning it presented itself in a less promising light. Theclouded sky, the storm, and rain might have a fatal effect on Caesar'stemper; and when he heard that old Galen, after examining his patientand prescribing certain remedies, had yesterday evening taken ship,leaving Caracalla in a frenzy of rage which had culminated in slightconvulsions, he almost repented of his promise. However, he felt himselfpledged; so as early as possible he went to Caesar's rooms, prepared forthe worst.
His gloomy anticipations were aggravated by the scene which met hiseyes.
In the anteroom he found the chief men of the city and somerepresentative members of the Alexandrian Senate, who were anxious foran audience of their imperial visitor. They had been commanded toattend at an unusually early hour, and had already been kept a long timewaiting.
When Philostratus--who was always free to enter Caesar's presence--madehis appearance, Caracalla was seating himself on the throne which hadbeen placed for him in the splendidly fitted audience-chamber. He hadcome from his bath, and was wrapped in the comfortable white woolenrobe 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, wasoccupied, under the sovereign's instructions, in fastening the lion'schain to the ring fixed for the purpose in the floor by the side of thethrone; and as the beast, whose collar had been drawn too tight, uttereda low, complaining growl, Caracalla scolded the favorite. As soon as hecaught sight of Philostratus, he signed to him to approach:
"Do you see nothing strange in me?" he whispered. "Your Phoebus Apolloappeared to me in a dream. He laid his hand on my shoulder towardmorning; indeed, I saw only horrible faces." Then he pointed out of thewindow, exclaiming:
"The god hides his face to-day. Gloomy days have often brought me goodfortune; but this is a strange experience of the eternal sunshine ofEgypt! Men and sky have given me the same kind welcome; gray, gray, andalways gray-without and within--and my poor soldiers out on the square!Macrinus tells me they are complaining. But my father's advice wassound: 'Keep them content, and never mind anything else.' The heads ofthe town are waiting outside; they must give up their palaces to thebodyguard; if they murmur, let them try for themselves how they likesleeping on the soaking ground under dripping tents. It may cool theirhot 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 hadforgotten to exchange his morning wrapper for another dress, Caracallalaughed contemptuously, and replied:
"Why, an empty corn-sack over my shoulders would be dress enough forthis rabble of traders!" He stretched his small but muscular frame outat full length, resting his head on his hand, and his comely face, whichhad lost the suffering look it had worn the day before, suddenly changedin 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 asuspicious and sinister scowl.
The deputation entered, bowing low, headed by the exegetes, the head ofthe city, and Timotheus, the chief-priest of Serapis. After thesecame the civic authorities, the members of the senate, and then, asrepresenting the large Jewish colony in the city, their alabarchor head-man. It was easy to see in each one as he came in, that thepresence of the lion, who had raised his head at their approach, was farfrom encouraging; and a faint, scornful smile parted Caracalla's lips ashe noted the cowering knees of these gorgeously habited courtiers. Thehigh-priest alone, who, as Caesar's host, had gone up to the side of thethrone, and two or three others, among them the governor of the town, atall, elderly man of Macedonian descent, paid no heed to the brute. TheMacedonian bowed to his sovereign with calm dignity, and in the name ofthe municipally hoped he had rested well. He then informed Caesar whatshows and performances were prepared in his honor, and finally namedthe considerable sum which had been voted by the town of Alexandria toexpress to him their joy at his visit. Caracalla waved his hand, andsaid, carelessly:
"The priest of Alexander, as idiologos, will receive the gold with thetemple tribute. We can find use for it. We knew that you were rich. Butwhat 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, leaningforward, he gave him a keen, oblique look. "No one but the gods hasnothing to wish for; so it must be that you are afraid to ask. What canthat avail, unless to teach me that you look for nothing but evil fromme; that you are suspicious of me? And if that is so, you fear me; andif you fear, you hate me. The insults I have received in this housesufficiently prove the fact. And if you hate me," and he sprang up andshook his fist, "I must protect myself!"
"Great Caesar," the exegetes began, in humble deprecation, but Caracallawent on, wrathfully:
"I know when I have to protect myself, and from whom. It is not well totrifle with me! An insolent tongue is easily hidden behind the lips; butheads are less easy to hide, and I shall be content with them. Tell thatto your Alexandrian wits! Macrinus will inform you of all else. You maygo."
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. Atthis their courage sank. Some laid their hands on their bent knees, asif to shield them; others had gradually sidled to the door before Caesarhad uttered the last word. Then, in spite of the efforts of the governorand 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 betteror for worse, the few bolder spirits had to follow.
As soon as the door was closed upon them, Caesar's features lost theircruel look. He patted the lion with soothing words of praise, andexclaimed, contemptuously:
"These are the descendants of the Macedonians, with whom the greatest ofheroes conquered the world! Who was that fat old fellow who shrank intohimself 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 thecity," replied the high-priest of Alexander, who as a Roman had kept hisplace by the throne; and Theocritus put in:
"The people must sleep badly under the ward of such a coward. Let himfollow the prefect, noble Caesar."
"Send him his dismissal at once," said Caracalla; "but see that hissuccessor is a man."
He then turned to the high-priest, and politely requested him to assistTheocritus in choosing a new head for the town-guard, and Timotheus andthe favorite quitted the room together.
Philostratus took ingenious advantage of the incident, by at onceinforming the emperor that it had come to his knowledge that thiscoward, so worthily dismissed from office, had, on the merest suspicion,cast into prison a painter who was undoubtedly one of the first ofliving artists, and with him his guiltless relations.
"I will not have it!" Caesar broke out. "Nothing but blood will do anygood here, and petty aggravations will only stir their bile and increasetheir insolence. Is the painter of whom you speak an Alexandrian?--Ipine for the open air, but the wind blows the rain against the windows."
"In the field," the philosopher remarked, "you have faced the weatherheroically enough. Here, in the city, enjoy what is placed before you.Only yesterday I still believed that the art of Apelles was utterlydegenerate. But since then I have changed my opinion, for I have seen aportrait which would be an ornament to the Pinakothek in your baths.The northern windows are closed, or, in this land of inundations, and insuch weather as this, we might find ourselves afloat even under coverof a roof; so it is too dark here to judge of a painting, but yourdressing-room is more favorably situated, and the large window therewill serve our purpose. May I be allowed the pleasure of showing youthere the work of the imprisoned artist?"
Caesar nodded, and led the way, accompanied by his lion and followed bythe philosopher, who desired an attendant to bring in the picture.
In this room it was much lighter than in the audience-chamber, and whileCaracalla awaited, with Philostratus, the arrival of the painting,his Indian body-slave, a gift from the Parthian king, silently andskillfully dressed his thin hair. The sovereign sighed deeply, andpressed his hand to his brow as though in pain. The philosopher venturedto 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 ahealthy, 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 thesame way been tortured with pain.
"The attack came on in the morning, as you know," he went on, "andwhen it was past I went down into the court of sacrifice; my feet wouldscarcely carry me. Curiosity--and they were waiting for me; and somegreat sign might be shown! Besides, some excitement helps me throughthis torment. But there was nothing--nothing! Heart, lungs, liver, allin their right place.--And then, Galenus--What I like is bad forme, what I loathe is wholesome. And again and again the same foolishquestion, 'Do you wish to escape an early death?' And all with an air asthough Death were a slave at his command--He can, no doubt, do more thanothers, and has preserved his own life I know not how long. Well, and itis 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. Iordered him--nay, I entreated him. But he adhered to his own way. Hewent--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 meevery 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 acup 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 knowwhat sacrifices I have offered, what gifts I have brought. I haveprayed, I have abased myself before them, but none will hear. One oranother of the gods, indeed, appears to me not infrequently as Apollodid last night. But is it because he favors me? First, he laid his handon my shoulder, as my father used to do; but his was so heavy, that theweight pressed me down till I fell on my knees, crushed. This is no goodsign, you think? I see it in your face. I do not myself think so. Andhow loudly I have called on him, of all the gods! The whole empire,they say, men and women alike, besought the immortals unbidden forthe welfare of Titus. I, too, am their lord; but"--and he laughedbitterly--"who has ever raised a hand in prayer for me of his ownimpulse? My own mother always named my brother first. He has paid forit,--But the rest!"
"They fear rather than love you," replied the philosopher. "He towhom Phoebus Apollo appears may always expect some good to follow. Andyesterday--a happy omen, too--I overheard by chance a young Greek girl,who believed herself unobserved, who of her own prompting ferventlyentreated Asklepios to heal you. Nay, she collected all the coins in herlittle purse, and had a goat and a cock sacrificed in your behalf."
"And you expect me to believe that!" said Caracalla, with a scornfullaugh.
But Philostratus eagerly replied:
"It is the pure truth. I went to the little temple because it was saidthat Apollonius had left some documents there. Every word from hispen is, as you know, of value to me in writing his history. The littlelibrary was screened off from the cella by a curtain, and while I washunting through the manuscripts I heard a woman's voice."
"It spoke for some other Bassianus, Antoninus, Tarautus, or whateverthey choose to call me," Caesar broke in.
"Nay, my lord, not so. She prayed for you, the son of Severus. I spoketo her afterwards. She had seen you yesterday morning, and fancied shehad noted how great and severe your sufferings were. This had gone toher heart. So she went thither to pray and sacrifice for you, althoughshe knew that you were prosecuting her brother, the very painter of whomI spoke. I would you too could have heard how fervently she addressedthe god, and then Hygeia!"
"A Greek, you say?" Caracalla remarked. "And she really did not knowyou, or dream that you could hear her?"
"No, my lord; assuredly not.
She is a sweet maid, and if you would careto see her--"
Caesar had listened to the tale with great attention and evidentexpectancy; but suddenly his face clouded, and, heedless of the slaveswho, under the guidance of his chamberlain Adventus, had now brought inthe 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! Afable to cheat a child with!"
"I am speaking the truth," replied Philostratus, coolly, though therapid winking of Caesar's eyelids warned him that his blood was boilingwith wrath.
"It was from the sister, whom I overheard in the temple, that I learnedof her brother's peril, and I afterward saw that portrait."
Caracalla stared at the floor for a moment in silence; then he lookedup, and said, in a tone husky with agitation:
"I only long for anything which may bring me nearer to the perverse raceover whom I rule, be it what it may. You offer it me. You are theonly man who never asked me for anything. I have believed you to be asrighteous as all other men are not. And now if you, if this time--"
He lowered his tones, which had become somewhat threatening, and wenton very earnestly: "By all you hold most sacred on earth, I ask you, Didthe girl pray for me, and of her own free impulse, not knowing that anyone 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 suddenlythe gleam of satisfaction, which for a moment had embellished hisfeatures, vanished, and with a sharp laugh he added: "And my mother! Doyou suppose that I do not know what she requires of you? It is solelyto please her that you, a free man, remain with me. For her sake you arebold 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 tostrike 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 thatsomething which might indeed mollify me. But you would betray Bassianusten times over to save an artist. And then, how my mother would flyto show her gratitude to the man who could quell her furious son! Yourmother!--But I only squint when it suits me. My eye must become dimmerthan it yet is before I fail to see the connection of ideas which ledyou 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 thelie it vanishes into thin air, for it has no more substance than a soapbubble!" The last words were at once sad, angry, and scornful; but thephilosopher, who had listened at first with astonishment and then withindignation, 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 toinjustice, 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 morethan once--would outrage the manes of the beloved woman who bore him toplease the mother of another man, even though she be Caesar's? What Iswear 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 toreturn to Rome."
The words were manly and spoken firmly, and they pleased Caracalla; forthe joy of believing in the philosopher's statement outweighed everyother feeling. And since he regarded Philostratus as the incarnationof goodness--though he had lost faith in that--his threat of leavingdisturbed him greatly. He laid his hand on his brave adviser's arm, andassured 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 andunbridled fancy made him capable of any folly, and who loved to assumethe aspect of a cruel misanthrope--to be a docile disciple, who caredfor nothing but to recover the favor and forgiveness of his master. AndPhilostratus, knowing this man, and the human heart, did not make it tooeasy for him to achieve his end. When he at last gave up his purpose ofreturning to Rome, and had more fully explained to Caesar how and wherehe 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 goodlight, and pointed out to Caracalla the particular beauties of thepurely Greek features.
It was with sincere enthusiasm that he expatiated on the skill withwhich the artist had reproduced in color the noble lines which Caracallaso much admired in the sculpture of the great Greek masters; how warmand tender the flesh was; how radiant the light of those glorious eyes;how living the waving hair, as though it still breathed of the scentedoil! And when Philostratus explained that though Alexander had no doubtspoken some rash and treasonable words, he could not in any case be theauthor of the insulting verses which had been found at the Serapeum withthe rope, Caracalla echoed his praises of the picture, and desired tosee both the painter and his sister.
That morning, as he rose from his bed, he had been informed that theplanets which had been seen during the past night from the observatoryof the Serapeum, promised him fortune and happiness in the immediatefuture. He was himself a practiced star-reader, and the chief astrologerof the temple had pointed out to him how peculiarly favorable theconstellation was whence he had deduced his prediction. Then, PhoebusApollo had appeared to him in a dream; the auguries from themorning's sacrifices had all been favorable; and, before he dispatchedPhilostratus to fetch Melissa, he added:
"It is strange! The best fortune has always come to me from a gloomysky. How brightly the sun shone on my marriage with the odiousPlautilla! 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 ofAlexander the Great had selected this tortured frame in which to liveout his too early ended years on earth. Can such coincidence be merechance? Phoebus Apollo, your favorite divinity--and that, too, of thesage of Tyana--may perhaps have been angry with me. He who purifiedhimself from blood-guiltiness after killing the Python is the god ofexpiation. I will address myself to him, like the noble hero of yourbook. This morning the god visited me again; so I will have suchsacrifice slain before him as never yet was offered. Will that satisfyyou, O philosopher hard to be appeased?"
"More than satisfy me, my Bassianus," replied Philostratus. "Yetremember that, according to Apollonius, the sacrifice is effective onlythrough the spirit in which it is offered."
"Always a 'but' and an 'if'!" exclaimed Caracalla, as his friend leftthe room to call Melissa from the high-priest's quarters, where she waswaiting.
For the first time for some days Caesar found himself alone. Leadingthe lion by the collar, he went to the window. The rain had ceased, butblack clouds still covered the heavens. Below him lay the opening of thestreet of Hermes into the great square, swarming with human life, andcovered with the now drenched tents of the soldiery; and his eyes fellon that of a centurion, a native of Alexandria, just then receiving avisit from his family, to whom the varied fortunes of a warrior's lifehad brought him back once more.
The bearded hero held an infant in his arms--assuredly his own--whilea girl and boy clung to him, gazing up in his face with wondering blackeyes; 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, nodoubt, seemed to hang on his lips as he recounted perhaps some deed ofvalor.
The tuba sounded to arms. He kissed the infant, and carefully laid iton its mother's bosom; then he took up the boy and the girl, laughinglycaught the little one, and pressed his bearded lips to each rosy mouthin turn. Last of all he clasped the young wife to his breast, gentlystroked her hair, and whispered something in her ear at which s
he smiledup at him through her tears and then blushingly looked down. His motherpatted him fondly on the shoulder, and, as they parted, he kissed hertoo on her wrinkled brow.
Caracalla had remarked this centurion once before; his name wasMartialis, and he was a simple, commonplace, but well-conductedcreature, who had often distinguished himself by his contempt for death.The imperial visit to Alexandria had meant for him a return home andthe greatest joy in life. How many arms had opened to receive the commonsoldier; how many hearts had beat high at his coming! Not a day, it wascertain, had passed since his arrival without prayers going up to Heavenfor his preservation, from his mother, his wife, and his children. Andhe, the ruler of the world, had thought it impossible that one, even oneof his millions of subjects, should have prayed for him. Who awaited himwith a longing heart? Where was his home?
He had first seen the light in Gaul. His father was an African; hismother was born in Syria. The palace at Rome, his residence, he did notcare to remember. He traveled about the empire, leaving as wide a spaceas possible between himself and that house of doom, from which he couldnever 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, solong as she had her philosophers to argue with, who knew how to ply herwith 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 thecollected treasure of a dozen queens; and as he thought of the sharpfeatures of that insignificant, sour-faced, and unspeakably pretentiouscreature, he shuddered with aversion.
He had banished her, and then had her murdered. Others had done thedeed, and it did not strike him that he was responsible for the crimecommitted in his service; but her loveless heart, without a care forhim--her bird-sharp face, looking out like a well-made mask from herabundant hair--and her red, pinched lips, were very present to him. Whatcutting words those lips could speak; what senseless demands they haduttered; and nothing more insolent could be imagined than her way ofpursing 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 intoexile and to the grave. The little thing, which he had scarcely known,was so inseparable from its detested mother that he had mourned it nomore than her. It was well that the assassins, without any orders fromhim, should have cut short that wretched life. He could not long for theembraces of the monster which should have united Plautilla's vices andhis own.
Among the men about his person, there was not one for whom other heartsbeat warmer; no creature that loved him excepting his lion; no spoton earth where he was looked for with gladness. He waited, as for somemarvel, to see the one human being who had spontaneously entreated thegods for him. The girl must probably be a poor, tearful creature, asweak of brain as she was soft-hearted.
There stood the centurion at the head of his maniple, and raised hisstaff. Enviable man! How content he looked; how clearly he spoke theword 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 shamelessupstart. If he were sent packing to Spain, now, or to Pontus, therewould be an end of his gladness. The centurion should know what it wasto be a solitary soul.
Acting on this malignant impulse, he had raised his hand to his mouth toshout the cruel order to a tribune, when suddenly the clouds parted, andthe glorious sun of Africa appeared in a blue island amid the ocean ofgray, cheering the earth with glowing sheaves of rays. The beams wereblinding as they came reflected from the armor and weapons of the men,reminding Caesar of the god to whom he had just vowed an unparalleledsacrifice.
Philostratus had often praised Phoebus Apollo above all gods, becausewherever he appeared there was light, irradiating not the earth alonebut men's souls; and because, as the lord of music and harmony, he aidedmen to arrive at that morally pure and equable frame of mind which wasaccordant and pleasing to his glorious nature. Apollo had conquered thedark heralds of the storm, and Caracalla looked up. Before this radiantwitness 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 withhimself, he looked down again. The restraint he had laid upon himselfstruck him as in fact a great and noble effort, accustomed as he wasto yield to every impulse. But at the same time he observed that theclouds, which had so often brought him good fortune, were dispersing,and this gave him fresh uneasiness. Dazzled by the flood of sunshinewhich poured in at the window, he withdrew discontentedly into the room.If this bright day were to bring disaster? If the god disdained hisoffering?
But was not Apollo, perhaps, like the rest of the immortals, an idolof 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 ofPhoebus Apollo had rested heavily on his shoulders in his dream.His power, after all, might be great. The god must have the promisedsacrifice, come what might. Bitter wrath rose up in his soul at thisthought, as it had often done before, with the immortals, against whomhe, the all-powerful, was impotent. If only for an hour they couldbe his subjects, he would make them rue the sufferings by which theyspoiled his existence.
"He is called Martialis. I will remember that name," he thought, as hecast a last envious look at the centurion.
How long Philostratus was gone! Solitude weighed on him, and he lookedabout him wildly, as though seeking some support. An attendant at thismoment announced the philosopher, and Caracalla, much relieved, wentinto the tablinum to meet him. There he sat down on a seat in front ofthe writing-table strewn with tablets and papyrus-rolls, rearrangedthe 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 wouldreceive this wonderful girl in the character of an anxious sovereignmeditating on the welfare of his people.