When at last the unhappy monarch quitted Alexandria one rainy morning, followed by the curses of innumerable mourners—­fathers, mothers, widows, and orphans—­as well as of ruined artisans and craftsmen, the ill-used city, once so proudly gay, felt itself relieved of a crushing nightmare.  This time it was not to Caesar that the cloudy sky promised welfare—­his life was wrapped in gloom—­but to the people he had so bitterly hated.  Thousands looked forward hopefully to life once more, in spite of their mourning robes and widows’ veils, and notwithstanding the serious hindrances which the malice of their “afflicted” sovereign had placed in the way of the resuscitation of their town, for Caracalla had commanded that a wall should be built to divide the great merchant city into two parts.

Nay, he had intended to strike a death-blow even at the learning to which Alexandria owed a part of her greatness, by decreeing that the Museum and schools should be removed and the theatres closed.

Maddening alike to heart and brain was the memory that he left behind him, and the citizens would shake their fists if only his name were spoken.  But their biting tongues had ceased to mock or jest.  Most of the epigramatists were silenced forever, and the nimble wit of the survivors was quelled for many a month by bitter curses or tears of sorrow.

But now—­it was a fortnight since the dreadful man had left—­the shops and stores, which had been closed against the plunderers, were being reopened.  Life was astir again in the deserted and silent baths and taverns, for there was no further fear of rapine from insolent soldiers, or the treacherous ears of spies and delators.  Women and girls could once more venture into the highways, the market was filled with dealers, and many an one who was conscious of a heedless speech or suspected of whistling in the circus, or of some other crime, now came out of his well-watched hiding-place.

Glaukias, the sculptor, among others, reopened his work-rooms in Heron’s garden-plot.  In the cellar beneath the floor the gem-cutter had remained hidden with Polybius and his sister Praxilla, for the easy-going old man could not be induced to embark in the vessel which Argutis had hired for them.  Sooner would he die than leave Alexandria.  He was too much petted and too infirm to face the discomforts of a sea voyage.  And his obstinacy had served him well, for the ship in which they were to have sailed, though it got out before the harbor was closed, was overtaken and brought back by an imperial galley.

Polybius was, however, quite willing to accept Heron’s invitation to share his hiding-place.