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Updated: June 7, 2025
Was it true that "never man spake as this man"? Even when Heraklas passed outside the city streets, and walked the northern cliffs beside the sea, he was constrained to remember that it was along these craggy places that, men said, a century and a half ago, Mark, the first Christian apostle to Alexandria, had been dragged by cords, at the time of the feast of the god Serapis.
When the sacred basket of Ceres had met him, he had bent his eyes downward, deeming himself unworthy of the sight. And now, as the crier's invitation rang from the portico, "All ye who are guiltless in thought and deed, come to the sacrifice!" Heraklas trembled. Swiftly he hurried away and passed down the broad street that led to the Gate of the Moon on the south of Alexandria.
He rushed from the house to the street. His brother, his Timokles, back again! Back from the desert! Back in his city-home of Alexandria! And not to be allowed to draw one free breath, to come back to the house, to see Cocce, to see him, Heraklas! What could be done! What could be done! To be taken to Rome to meet the lions! Heraklas ran toward the northern gate.
No suspicion concerning it had crossed his mind till now. "Oh, that I could see what he readeth!" wished Athribis vainly. "What meaneth that large sign? Is it the 'tau'?" Heraklas farther unrolled the papyrus, and the mark of the cross that had caught Athribis' eye and had interested him, vanished.
The slave of the threshold, like Athribis, hated Christians. There was a secret agreement between the two men that if Athribis ever should gain any reward for betraying Heraklas to the authorities, the reward should be evenly divided. Half should belong to the slave of the threshold, in consideration of his having been apparently asleep at times when Athribis went out without permission.
At length he reached the gate, but swiftly yet he pushed forward a short distance along the vineyard-fringed banks of Lake Mareotis. Heraklas lifted up his eyes, and marked how the vines by the lake's side contrasted with the burning whiteness of the desert beyond. The glaring sand shimmered in the heat of the flaming Egyptian sun.
The face of the proud woman was hidden in her hands. Before her stood a messenger who had brought her the following writing from Heraklas: "O my mother, forgive thy son! I have found Timokles! He is weak; nigh, I fear, to death. O my mother, I also am a Christian: Read, I pray thee, the papyrus I send. We flee, with other Christians, from Alexandria, today. Farewell."
A laugh came, as the slave's reply. Athribis and his conductor went away. The light faded from the hold. Heraklas crept near the Christians. "Timokles!" he whispered. "Timokles! O Timokles, my brother!" From the bound Christians came no answer to Heraklas' cry, though there was a startled movement among them.
A sudden joy shot through Heraklas that they were so near together, Timokles and, himself. It was for this he had stayed outside Alexandria till the gates were shut. It were better to be a homeless Christian on this water than to linger in godless Alexandria! He heard sounds of revelry on shipboard. Heraklas pulled on the rope that fastened the small boat to the ship.
He refused to take a pagan oath, and was brought to martyrdom. When Heraklas reached home, he was trembling. His short journey had been freighted with silent meaning. Two men passed out of the Gate of the Sun, the northern gate of Alexandria, and came to the docks that bordered the Great Port.
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