No sign of fear, either of Caesar or his lion, marred this impression.  His bow, as he approached the potentate, was neither abject nor awkward, and Caesar felt bitter wrath at the thought that this splendid youth, of all men, should have selected him as the butt of his irony.  He would have regarded it as a peculiar gift of fortune if this man—­such a brother of such a sister—­could but love him, and, with the eye of an artist, discern in the despot the great qualities which, in spite of his many crimes, he believed he could detect in himself.  And he hoped, with an admixture of anxiety such as he had never known before, that the painter’s demeanor would be such as should allow him to show mercy.

When Alexander besought him with a trustful mien to consider his youth, and the Alexandrian manners which he had inherited both from his parents and his grandparents, if indeed his tongue had wagged too boldly in speaking of the all-powerful Caesar, and to remember the fable of the lion and the mouse, the scowl he had put on to impress the youth with his awfulness and power vanished from Caesar’s brow.  The idea that this great artist, whose sharp eye could so surely distinguish the hideous from the beautiful, should regard him as ill-favored, was odious to him.  He had listened to him in silence; but suddenly he inquired of Alexander whether it was indeed he, whom he had never injured, who had written the horrible epigram nailed with the rope to the door of the Serapeum and when the painter emphatically denied it, Caesar breathed as though a burden had fallen from his soul.  He nevertheless insisted on hearing from the youth’s own lips what it was that he had actually dared to say.  After some hesitation, during which Melissa besought Caesar in vain to spare her and her brother this confession, Alexander exclaimed: 

“Then the hunted creature must walk into the net, and, unless your clemency interferes, on to death!  What I said referred partly to the wonderful strength that you, my lord, have so often displayed in the field and in the circus; and also to another thing, which I myself now truly repent of having alluded to.  It is said that my lord killed his brother.”

“That—­ah! that was it!” said Caesar, and his face, involuntarily this time, grew dark.

“Yes, my lord,” Alexander went on, breathing hard.  “To deny it would be to add a second crime to the former one, and I am one of those who would rather jump into cold water both feet at once, when it has to be done.  All the world knows what your strength is; and I said that it was greater than that of Father Zeus; for that he had cast his son Hephaestos only on the earth, and your strong fist had cast your brother through the earth into the depths of Hades.  That was all.  I have not added nor concealed anything.”

Melissa had listened in terror to this bold confession.  Papinian, the brave praetorian prefect, one of the most learned lawyers of his time, had incurred Caracalla’s fury by refusing to say that the murder of Geta was not without excuse; and his noble answer, that it was easier to commit fratricide than to defend it, cost him his life.