The Magian had observed her while she stood by the Roman’s chariot, and his conversation with a Syrian of middle age in his company had been of her.  His companion’s appearance was as insignificant as his own was stately and commanding.  Nothing distinguished the Syrian from a thousand of his fellows but the cunning stamped on his sharply-cut features; still, the great Magian seemed to hold him in some esteem, for he readily replied to the little man’s questions and remarks.

At this moment the Syrian waved his hand in the air with a gesture common to men of his race when displaying their own superior knowledge, as he said “What did I spend ten years in Rome for, if I do not know Serenus Samonicus?  He is the greatest book-collector in the empire.  And he regards himself as a second AEsculapius, and has written a book on medicine in verse, which Geta, Caesar’s murdered brother, always had about him, for he regarded the physicians here as mere bunglers.  He is as rich as the Alabarch, and riding in his coach is Galenus, for whom Caesar sent.  What can that girl want of him?”

“H’m!” muttered the other, stroking his beard with thoughtful dignity.  “She is a modest maiden; it can only be something urgent and important which has prompted her to address the Roman.”

“Your Castor will be able to find out,” replied the Syrian Annianus.  “That omniscient rascal can get through a key-hole, and by to-morrow will be the best friend of the Roman’s people, if you care to know.”

“We will see,” said Serapion.  “Her brother, perhaps, to-morrow evening, will tell me what is going on.”

“The philosopher?” said the other, with a contemptuous flourish.  “You are a great sage, Serapion, as the people hold; but you often sew with needles too fine for me.  Why, just now, when Caesar is here, and gain and honor be in the streets for such a one as you only to stoop for—­why, I say, you should waste precious time on that poring fellow from the Museum, I can not understand.”

A superior smile parted the Magian’s lips; he stepped back into the room, followed by Annianus, and replied: 

“You know how many who call themselves Magians will crowd round Caesar, and the fame of Sosibius, Hananja, and Kaimis, is not much behind mine.  Each plies his art by his own formulas, though he may call himself a Pythagorean or what not.  None dare claim to belong to any recognized school, since the philosophers of the guild pride themselves on condemning the miracle-mongers.  Now, in his youth, Caracalla went through his courses of philosophy.  He detests Aristotle, and has always attached himself to Plato and the Pythagoreans.  You yourself told me that by his desire Philostratus is writing a life of Apollonius of Tyana; and, though he may turn up his nose at the hair-splitting and frittering of the sages of the Museum, it is in his blood to look for marvels from those privileged philosophers.  His mother has made courtiers of them again; and he, who looks for everything from the magic arts, has never yet met a Magian who could have been one of them.”