A Thorny Path. Georg Ebers
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its meridian heat—he would go thither in his litter. “And be sure you are there in good time!” he added, shaking his finger at her.
“If you come an hour too soon, you will find me waiting!” she cried.
He laughed, and said, “What pretty maid, indeed, would dare to be late for an appointment under the very eyes of the goddess of Love!” He bade her a friendly farewell, and lay back in the chariot.
Melissa, radiant with happiness, looked about her for the place where she had left her companion. However, in spite of the lictors, Andreas had followed her; he drew her hand under his arm, and led her through the now-thinning crowd into a sidelane which led to the lake, opening out of the colonnaded street opposite the little temple.
Melissa’s steps were winged. Her joy at having gained her end so quickly and so easily was uppermost in her mind, and as they threaded their way among the people she tried to tell Andreas what the great physician had promised. But the noise drowned her speech, for at this moment Caesar’s tame lion, named the “Sword of Persia” was being led through the street by some Numidian slaves.
Every one was looking at the splendid beast; and, as she too turned to gaze, her eye met the ardent glance of a tall, bearded man standing at the window of a house just behind the round temple to Aphrodite. She at once recognized Serapion, the Magian, and whispered his name to Andreas; he, however, without looking round, only drew her along more quickly, and did not breathe easily till they found themselves in the narrow, deserted alley.
The Magian had observed her while she stood by the Roman’s chariot, and his conversation with a Syrian of middle age in his company had been of her. His companion’s appearance was as insignificant as his own was stately and commanding. Nothing distinguished the Syrian from a thousand of his fellows but the cunning stamped on his sharply-cut features; still, the great Magian seemed to hold him in some esteem, for he readily replied to the little man’s questions and remarks.
At this moment the Syrian waved his hand in the air with a gesture common to men of his race when displaying their own superior knowledge, as he said “What did I spend ten years in Rome for, if I do not know Serenus Samonicus? He is the greatest book-collector in the empire. And he regards himself as a second AEsculapius, and has written a book on medicine in verse, which Geta, Caesar’s murdered brother, always had about him, for he regarded the physicians here as mere bunglers. He is as rich as the Alabarch, and riding in his coach is Galenus, for whom Caesar sent. What can that girl want of him?”
“H’m!” muttered the other, stroking his beard with thoughtful dignity. “She is a modest maiden; it can only be something urgent and important which has prompted her to address the Roman.”
“Your Castor will be able to find out,” replied the Syrian Annianus. “That omniscient rascal can get through a key-hole, and by to-morrow will be the best friend of the Roman’s people, if you care to know.”
“We will see,” said Serapion. “Her brother, perhaps, to-morrow evening, will tell me what is going on.”
“The philosopher?” said the other, with a contemptuous flourish. “You are a great sage, Serapion, as the people hold; but you often sew with needles too fine for me. Why, just now, when Caesar is here, and gain and honor be in the streets for such a one as you only to stoop for—why, I say, you should waste precious time on that poring fellow from the Museum, I can not understand.”
A superior smile parted the Magian’s lips; he stepped back into the room, followed by Annianus, and replied:
“You know how many who call themselves Magians will crowd round Caesar, and the fame of Sosibius, Hananja, and Kaimis, is not much behind mine. Each plies his art by his own formulas, though he may call himself a Pythagorean or what not. None dare claim to belong to any recognized school, since the philosophers of the guild pride themselves on condemning the miracle-mongers. Now, in his youth, Caracalla went through his courses of philosophy. He detests Aristotle, and has always attached himself to Plato and the Pythagoreans. You yourself told me that by his desire Philostratus is writing a life of Apollonius of Tyana; and, though he may turn up his nose at the hair-splitting and frittering of the sages of the Museum, it is in his blood to look for marvels from those privileged philosophers. His mother has made courtiers of them again; and he, who looks for everything from the magic arts, has never yet met a Magian who could have been one of them.”
At this the Syrian clapped his hands, exclaiming: “And you propose to use Philip as your signbearer to talk to the emperor of a thaumaturgist who is hand in hand with all the learning of the Museum? A cursed good idea! But the gem-cutter’s son does not look like a simpleton; and he is a skeptic into the bargain, and believes in nothing. If you catch him, I shall really and truly believe in your miraculous powers.”
“There are harder things than catching him,” said the Magian.
“You mean to break his will,” said the Syrian, looking down at the ground, “by your eye and the laying on of hands, as you did mine and Triphis’s two years ago?”
“That, no doubt, formed the first bond between us,” said Serapion. “I now need only your ventriloquism. Philip himself will come half-way to meet me on the main point.”
“And what is that?”
“You called him a skeptic, and he does, in fact, pride himself on going further than the old masters of the school. Diligent study has brought him to the point of regarding nothing as certain, but, on the other hand, everything as possible. The last result he can arrive at is the probability—since certainty there is none—that it is impossible ever to know anything, be it what it may. He is always ready to listen with sympathetic attention to the arguments for the reappearance of the souls of the dead in the earthly form they have quitted, to visit and converse with the living. He considers it a fallacy to say that anything is impossible; and my arguments are substantial. Korinna will appear to him. Castor has discovered a girl who is her very image. Your arts will convince him that it is she who speaks to him, for he never heard her voice in life, and all this must rouse his desire to see her again and again. And thus the skeptic will be convinced, in spite of his own doctrine. In this, as in every other case, it is the passionate wish that gives rise to the belief.”
“And when you have succeeded in getting him to this point?” asked the Syrian, anxiously.
“Then,” replied the Magian, “he will help me, with his triumphant dialectics, to win Caesar over to the same conviction; and then we shall be able to satisfy the emperor’s desire to hold intercourse with the dead; and for that I count on your power of making voices proceed from any person present.”
He said no more. The little man looked up at him approvingly, and said, modestly: “You are indeed wise, Serapion, and I will do my best to help you. The next thing to be done is to seek representatives of the great Alexander, of Apollonius of Tyana, and of Caesar’s brother, father-in-law, and wife.”
“Not forgetting Papinian, the noblest of his victims,” added the Magian. “Back again already, Castor?”
These words were addressed to a tall and apparently elderly man in a long white robe, who had slipped in without a sound. His demeanor was so grave and dignified that he looked precisely like a Christian priest impressed with the sanctity of his office; but hardly had he got into the room, and greeted the Magian with much unction, than he pulled the white garment off over his head, rubbed from his cheeks the lines which gave him twenty added years, stretched his lithe limbs, and exclaimed with delight:
“I have got her! Old Dorothea will bring her to your theatre!”—and the young fellow’s mobile face beamed with the happy radiance of success.
It almost seemed as though fermenting wine flowed in the man’s veins instead of blood; for, when he had made his report to the Magian, and had been rewarded with a handful of gold-pieces, he tossed the coins in the air, caught them like flies in the hollow of his hand, and then pitched wheel fashion over head and heels from one end of the room to the other. Then, when he stood on his feet once more, he went on, without a sign of breathlessness:
“Forgive