At first, we are told that he wished to imitate the colossal statue in the Forum of Trajan, but finally he decided on presenting the city with the huge obelisk which his father, Constantine, had removed from the Temple of the Sun at Heliopolis and floated down the Nile to Alexandria. This decision gave universal satisfaction. Orders were at once dispatched to Alexandria for the transmission of the obelisk. A ship of huge proportions and strength was provided to convey this enormous mass of granite from the banks of the Nile to the Tiber. The command of the expedition was entrusted to a man of high family and reputation in Alexandria, and preparations for departure were speedily completed. Heraclitus was seated with the parchments and drafts before him, in his own beautiful home at Alexandria, lost in thought, wondering if the enormous outlay required would not exceed the expectations of the Emperor and his officers of state, when a light hand was laid on his shoulder. “Take me to Rome with thee, dear husband, I pray thee.” “Nay, nay, my pretty one,” was the reply, “the voyage may not be a quick one, thy health might suffer, and if the huge obelisk is swamped by the way, there will be great delay and danger to me, for I am responsible.” “Dear husband,” said the sweet voice, “I have a longing to see Rome. Thou knowest I went thither as a little child, with my dear father, and nurse, and dear good old Claudius. I pray thee, do not refuse me my prayer. I have a dim dreamy memory of my beautiful aunt, the Vestal Maxima, who died in the faith of Christ. I should like to see the place where she lived, and the spring on the Cælian Hill, where Claudius said she looked like an angel, as she filled her vase from the pure fountain. Dear husband, grant my request.” She had been the happy wife of Heraclitus for some years now. Her father had died in the preceding summer. Claudius and Anna had both passed away, and Cynthia, who was standing with her hand on her husband’s shoulder, urging her plea, is the only link left with those whose lives, or rather the fragments of whose lives, we have followed in this story. Cynthia had known sorrow: one by one her children had faded in their infancy, and died before she had fully tasted the sweetness of motherhood. Perhaps it was the remembrance of this trouble, which had left its trace on the fair face which was bending over him, that made Heraclitus feel as if he would not refuse his wife’s request. “Dear husband,” she pleaded, “I have but thee, and what should I do for all the long months of thy absence, alone?” “My sweet one, it is a long voyage, and my mind is so occupied with the business in hand, the arrangements, and the responsibility which lies on my shoulders, may so engross me, that I may seem cold and neglectful of thee.”