Serapion held aloof.  Excepting that he wore a beard 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 great work.  A pious seer was charged to tell him more exactly what this was; and he would meet him if he went at about sunset to the shrine of Isis, and called three times on the name of Severus before the altar of the goddess.