Then, after washing his hands in a golden basin, he acted on Macrinus’s suggestion, and the two candidates who had so long been waiting were at last admitted.  The prefect of the praetorians had, by the Magian’s desire, recommended the Egyptian; but Caesar wished to see for himself, and then to decide.  Both the applicants had received hints from their supporters:  the Egyptian, to moderate his rigor; the Greek, to express himself in the severest terms.  And this was made easy for him, for the annoyance which had been pent up during his three hours’ waiting was sufficient to lend his handsome face a stern look.  Zminis strove to appear mild by assuming servile humility; but this so ill became his cunning features that Caracalla saw with secret satisfaction that he could accede to Melissa’s wishes, and confirm the choice of the high-priest, in whose god he had placed his hopes.

Still, his own safety was more precious to him than the wishes of any living mortal; so he began by pouring out, on both, the vials of his wrath at the bad management of the town.  Their blundering tools had not even succeeded in capturing the most guileless of men, the painter Alexander.  The report that the men-at-arms had seized him had been a fabrication to deceive, for the artist had given himself up.  Nor had he as yet heard of any other traitor whom they had succeeded in laying hands on, though the town was flooded with insolent epigrams directed against the imperial person.  And, as he spoke, he glared with fury at the two candidates before him.

The Greek bowed his head in silence, as if conscious of his short-comings; the Egyptian’s eyes flashed, and, with an amazingly low bend of his supple spine, he announced that, more than three hours since, he had discovered a most abominable caricature in clay, representing Caesar as a soldier in a horrible pygmy form.

“And the perpetrator,” snarled Caracalla, listening with a scowl for the reply.

Zminis explained that great Caesar himself had commanded his attendance just as he hoped to find the traces of the criminal, and that, while he was waiting, more than three precious hours had been lost.  At this Caracalla broke out in a fury: 

“Catch the villain!  And let me see his insolent rubbish.  Where are your eyes?  You bungling louts ought to protect me against the foul brood that peoples this city, and their venomous jests.  Past grievances are forgotten.  Set the painter’s father and brother at liberty.  They have had a warning.  Now I want something new.  Something new, I say; and, above all, let me see the ringleaders in chains; the man who nailed up the rope, and the caricaturists.  We must have them, to serve as an example to the others.”

Aristides thought that the moment had now come for displaying his severity, and he respectfully but decidedly represented to Caesar that he would advise that the gem-cutter and his son should be kept in custody.  They were well-known persons, and too great clemency would only aggravate the virulence of audacious tongues.  The painter was free, and if his relatives were also let out of prison, there was nothing to prevent their going off to the other end of the world.  Alexandria was a seaport, and a ship would carry off the criminals before a man could turn round.