A little before, rumor reached him that a group of the citizens of
Alexandria had referred to him as a fratricide. After the
adventure in Parthia he bethought him of the city which Alexander
had founded, and of the temple of Serapis that was there. He
wished to honor both, he declared, and presently he was at the
gates. The people were enchanted; the avenues were strewn with
flowers, lined with musicians. There were illuminations,
festivals, sacrifices, torrents of perfumes, and through it all
Caracalla passed, a legion at his heels. To see him, to
participate in the succession of prodigalities, the surrounding
country flocked there too. In recognition of the courtesy with
which he was received, Caracalla gave a banquet to the magnates
and the clergy. Before his guests could leave him they were
killed. Through the streets the legion was at work. Alexandria was
turned into a cemetery. Herodian states that the carnage was so
great that the Nile was red to its mouth.
In Rome at that time was a prefect, Macrin by name, who had
dreamed the purple would be his. He was a swarthy liar, and his
promises were such that the pretorians were willing that the dream
should come true. Emissaries were despatched, and Caracalla was
stabbed. In his luggage poison was found to the value of five
million five hundred thousand drachmae. What fresh turpitude he
was devising no one knew, and the discovery might serve as an
epitaph, were it not that by his legions he was adored.
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