and robe, his
appearance even had nothing in common with them; and his talar was not
like theirs, embroidered with hieroglyphics, tongues, and flames, but of
plain white stuff, which gave him the aspect of a learned and priestly
sage.

As Alexander, on his way through the temple to fulfill Caesar's
commission, went past the Magian, Castor, his supple accomplice, stole up
behind a statue, and, when the artist disappeared in the crowd, whispered
to his master:

"The rascally painter is at liberty!"

"Till further notice!" was the reply, and Serapion was about to give his
satellite some instructions, when a hand was laid on his shoulder, and
Zminis said in a low voice:

"I am glad to have found you here. Accusations are multiplying against
you, my friend; and though I have kept my eyes shut till now, that cannot
last much longer."

"Let us hope you are mistaken," replied the Magian, firmly. And then he
went on in a hurried whisper: "I know what your ambition is, and my
support may be of use to you. But we must not be seen together. We will
meet again in the instrument-room, to the left of the first stairs up to
the observatory. You will find me there."

"At once, then," said the other. "I am to be in Caesar's presence in a
quarter of an hour."

The Magian, as being one of the most skillful makers of astronomical
instruments, and attached to the sanctuary, had a key of the room he had
designated. Zminis found him there, and their business was quickly
settled. They knew each other well, and each knew things of the other
which inspired them with mutual fear. However, as time pressed, they set
aside all useless antagonisms, to unite against the common foe.

The Magian knew already that Zminis had been named to Caesar as a
possible successor to the chief of the night-watch, and that he had a
powerful rival. By the help of the Syrian, whose ventriloquism was so
perfect that he never failed to produce the illusion that his feigned
voice proceeded from any desired person or thing, Serapion had enmeshed
the praetorian prefect, the greatest magnate in the empire next to Caesar
himself, and in the course of the past night had gained a firm hold over
him.

Macrinus, a man of humble birth, who owed his promotion to Severus, the
father of Caracalla, had, the day before, been praying in the Pantheon to
the statue of his deceased patron. A voice had proceeded from the image,
telling him that the divine Severus needed him for a