Then Plautilla, his wife?  His father had compelled him to marry her, the richest heiress in the world, whose dowry had been larger than the collected treasure of a dozen queens; and as he thought of the sharp features of that insignificant, sour-faced, and unspeakably pretentious creature, he shuddered with aversion.

He had banished her, and then had her murdered.  Others had done the deed, and it did not strike him that he was responsible for the crime committed in his service; but her loveless heart, without a care for him—­her bird-sharp face, looking out like a well-made mask from her abundant hair—­and her red, pinched lips, were very present to him.  What cutting words those lips could speak; what senseless demands they had uttered; and nothing more insolent could be imagined than her way of pursing 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 into exile and to the grave.  The little thing, which he had scarcely known, was so inseparable from its detested mother that he had mourned it no more than her.  It was well that the assassins, without any orders from him, should have cut short that wretched life.  He could not long for the embraces of the monster which should have united Plautilla’s vices and his own.

Among the men about his person, there was not one for whom other hearts beat warmer; no creature that loved him excepting his lion; no spot on earth where he was looked for with gladness.  He waited, as for some marvel, to see the one human being who had spontaneously entreated the gods for him.  The girl must probably be a poor, tearful creature, as weak of brain as she was soft-hearted.

There stood the centurion at the head of his maniple, and raised his staff.  Enviable man!  How content he looked; how clearly he spoke the word 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 shameless upstart.  If he were sent packing to Spain, now, or to Pontus, there would be an end of his gladness.  The centurion should know what it was to be a solitary soul.

Acting on this malignant impulse, he had raised his hand to his mouth to shout the cruel order to a tribune, when suddenly the clouds parted, and the glorious sun of Africa appeared in a blue island amid the ocean of gray, cheering the earth with glowing sheaves of rays.  The beams were blinding as they came reflected from the armor and weapons of the men, reminding Caesar of the god to whom he had just vowed an unparalleled sacrifice.

Philostratus had often praised Phoebus Apollo above all gods, because wherever he appeared there was light, irradiating not the earth alone but men’s souls; and because, as the lord of music and harmony, he aided men to arrive at that morally pure and equable frame of mind which was accordant and pleasing to his glorious nature.  Apollo had conquered the dark heralds of the storm, and Caracalla looked up.  Before this radiant witness he was ashamed to carry out his dark purpose, and he said, addressing the sun: