On the wide ascent leading to the Serapeum the praetorians stood
awaiting Caesar’s commands. They had not yet formed in rank and file,
but were grouped round the centurion Martialis, who had come to
tell them, sadly, of his removal to Edessa, and to take leave of his
comrades. He gave his hand to each one of them in turn, and received a
kindly pressure in return; for the stubborn fellow, though not of the
cleverest, had proved himself a good soldier, and to many of them a
trusty friend. There was not one who did not regret his going from among
them. But Caesar had spoken, and there was no gainsaying his orders.
In the camp, after service, they might talk the matter over; for the
present it were wise to guard their tongues.
The centurion had just said farewell to the last of his cohort, when
the prefect, with the legate Quintus Flavius Nobilior, who commanded the
legion, and several other higher officers, appeared among them. Macrinus
greeted them briefly, and, instead of having the tuba blown as usual and
letting them fall into their ranks, he told them to gather close round
him, the centurions in front. He then disclosed to them the emperor’s
secret orders. Caesar, he began, had long exercised patience and
mercy, but the insolence and malice of the Alexandrians knew no bounds;
therefore, in virtue of his power over life and death, he had pronounced
judgment upon them. To them as being nearest to his person he handed
over the most remunerative part of the work of punishment. Whomsoever
they found on the Kanopic way, the greatest and richest thoroughfare of
the city, they were to cut down as they would the rebellious inhabitants
of a conquered town. Only the women and children and the slaves were to
be spared. If for this task, a hideous one at best, they chose to pay
themselves out of the treasures of the citizens, nobody would blame
them.
A loud cheer followed these orders, and many an eye gleamed brighter.
Even the coolest among them seemed to see a broad, deep pool of blood
into which he need only dip his hand and bring out something worth the
catching. And the fish that were to be had there were not miserable
carp, but heavy gold and silver vessels, and coins and magnificent
ornaments. Macrinus then proceeded to inform the higher and lower
officers of the course of action he had agreed upon with the emperor and
Zminis. Seven trumpet-blasts from the terrace of the Serapeum would give
the signal for the attack to begin. Then they were to advance, maniple
on maniple; but they were not required to keep their ranks--each man had
his own work to do. The legion was to assemble again at sunset at the
Gate of the Sun, at the eastern end of the road, after having swept it
from end to end.
By order of the emperor, each man, however, must be particularly careful
whom he cut down in any hiding-place, for Caesar wished to give the
following Alexandrians--who had sinned most flagrantly against him--the
benefit of a trial, and they must therefore be taken alive. He then
named the gem-cutter Heron, his son Alexander, and his daughter Melissa,
the Alexandrian senator Polybius, his son Diodoros, and the wife of
Seleukus.
He described them as well as he was able. For each one Caesar promised
a reward of three thousand drachmas, and for Heron’s daughter twice as
much, but only on condition of their being delivered up unhurt. It
would therefore be to their own advantage to keep their eyes open in
the houses, and to be cautious. Whoever should take the daughter of the
gem-cutter--and he described Melissa once more--would render a special
service to Caesar and might reckon on promotion.
The centurion Julius Martialis stayed to hear the end of this discourse,
and then hurriedly departed. He felt just as he had done in the war with
the Alemanni when a red-haired German had dealt him a blow on the helmet
with his club. His head whirled and swam as it did then--only to-day
blood-red lights danced before his eyes instead of deep blue and gold.
It was some time before he could collect his thoughts to any purpose;
but when he did, he clinched his fists as he recalled Caesar’s malignant
cruelty in forcing him away from his family.
Presently his large mouth widened into a satisfied smile. He was no
longer in that company, and need take no part in the horrid butchery. In
any other place he would no doubt have joined in it like the rest, glad
of the rich booty; but here, in his own home, where his mother and wife
and child dwelt, it seemed a monstrous and accursed deed. Besides the
gemcutter’s family, in whom Martialis took no interest, Caesar seemed to
have a special grudge against the lady Berenike, whose husband Seleukus
had been master to the centurion’s father; nay, his own wife was still
in the service of the merchant.
Not being skilled in any trade, he had entered the army early. As
Evocatus he had married the daughter of a free gardener of Seleukus,
and when he was ordered to Rome to join the praetorians his wife had
obtained the post of superintendent of the merchant’s villa at Kanopus.
For this they had to thank the kindness of the lady Berenike and her
now dead daughter Korinna; and he was honestly grateful to the wife of
Seleukus, for, as his wife was established in the villa, he could leave
her without anxiety and go with the army wherever it was ordered.
Having by this time reached the Kanopic street on his way to his family,
he perceived the statues of Hermes and Demeter which stood on each side
of the entrance to the merchant’s house, and his slow mind recapitulated
the long list of benefits he had received from Seleukus and his wife; a
secret voice urged upon him that it was his duty to warn them.
He owed nothing to Caesar, that crafty butcher, who out of pure malice
could deprive an honest soldier of his only joy in life and cheat him
of half his pay--for the praetorians had twice the wages of the other
troops; and if he only knew some handicraft, he would throw away his
sword today.
Here, at least, he could interfere with Caesar’s ruthless schemes,
besides doing his benefactors a good turn. He therefore entered the
house of the merchant, instead of pursuing on his homeward way.
He was well known, and the mistress of the house was at once apprised of
his arrival.
All the lower apartments were empty, the soldiers who had been quartered
in them having joined the others at the Serapeum.
But what had happened to the exquisite garden in the impluvium? What
hideous traces showed where the soldiers had camped, and, drunk with
their host’s costly wine, had given free play to their reckless spirits!
The velvet lawn looked like a stable-floor; the rare shrubs had been
denuded of their flowers and branches. Blackened patches on the mosaic
pavement showed where fires had been kindled; the colonnades were turned
into drying-grounds for the soldiers’ linen, and a rope on which hung
some newly washed clothes was wound at one end round the neck of a
Venus from the hand of Praxiteles, and at the other round the lyre of an
Apollo fashioned in marble by Bryaxis. Some Indian shrubs, of which his
father-in-law had been very proud, were trampled underfoot; and in the
great banqueting-hall, which had served as sleeping-room for a hundred
praetorians, costly cushions and draperies were strewn, torn from the
couches and walls to make their beds more comfortable.
Used to the sights of war as he was, the soldier ground his teeth with
wrath at this scene. As long as he could remember, he had looked upon
everything here with reverence and awe; and to think that his comrades
had destroyed it all made his blood boil.
As he approached the women’s apartments he took fright. How was he to
disclose to his mistress what threatened her?
But it must be done; so he followed the waiting-maid Johanna, who led
him to her lady’s livingroom.
In it sat the Christian steward Johannes, with writing tablets and
scrolls of papyrus, working in the service of his patroness. She herself
was with the wounded Aurelius; and Martialis, on hearing this, begged to
be admitted to her.
Berenike was in the act of renewing the wounded soldier’s bandages, and
when the centurion saw how cruelly disfigured was the handsome, blooming
face of the young tribune, to whom he was heartily attached, the tears
rose to his eyes. The matron observed it, and witnessed with much
surprise the affectionate greeting between the young noble and the plain
soldier.
The centurion greeted her respectfully; but it was not till Nernesianus
asked him how it was that the troops had been called to arms at this
hour, that Martialis plucked up courage and begged the lady of the house
to grant him an interview.
But Berenike had still to wash and bandage the wounds of her patient--a
task which she always performed herself and with the greatest care; she
therefore promised the soldier to be at his disposal in half an hour.
“Then it will be too late!” burst from the lips of the centurion; then
she knew, by his voice and the terror-stricken aspect of the man whom
she had known so long, that he meant to warn her, and there was but one
from whom the danger could come.
“Caesar?” she asked. “He is sending out his creatures to murder me?”
The imperious gaze of Berenike’s large eyes so overpowered the simple
soldier as to render him speechless for a while. But Caesar had
threatened his mistress’s life--he must collect himself, and thus he
managed to stammer:
“No, lady, no! He will not have you killed assuredly not! On the
contrary-they are to let you live when they cut down the others!”
“Cut down!” cried Apollinaris, raising himself up and staring horrified
at this messenger of terror; but his brother laid his hand upon the
centurion’s broad shoulder, and, shaking him vigorously, commanded him
as his tribune to speak out.
The soldier, ever accustomed to obey, and only too anxious that his
warning should not come too late, disclosed in hurried words what he had
learned from the prefect. The brothers interrupted him from time to time
with some exclamation of horror or disgust, but Berenike remained silent
till Martialis stopped with a deep breath.
Then the lady gave a shrill laugh, and as the others looked at her in
amazement she said coolly “You men will wade through blood and shame
with that reprobate, if he but orders you to do so. I am only a woman,
and yet I will show him that there are limits even to his malignity.”
She remained for a few moments lost in thought, and then ordered the
centurion to go and find out where her husband was.
Martialis obeyed at once, and no sooner was the door closed behind him
than she turned to the two brothers, and addressing herself first to one
and then to the other with equal vehemence, she cried “Who is right now?
Of all the villains who have brought shame upon the throne and name of
mighty Caesar, this is the most dastardly. He has written plainly enough
upon Apollinaris’s face how much he values a brave soldier, the son of a
noble house. And you, Nemesianus--are you not also an Aurelius? You say
so; and yet, had he not chanced to let you care for your brother, you
would at this moment be wandering through the city like a mad dog,
biting all who crossed your path. Why do you not speak? Why not tell
me once more, Nemesianus, that a soldier must obey his commander
blindly?--And you, Apollinaris, will you dare still to assert that
the hand with which Caesar tore your face was guided only by righteous
indignation at an insult offered to an innocent maiden? Have you the
courage to excuse the murders by Caracalla of his own wife, and many
other noble women, by his anxiety for the safety of throne and state? I,
too, am a woman, and may hold up my head with the best; but what have I
to do with the state or with the throne? My eye met his, and from that
moment the fiend was my deadly enemy. A quick death at the hands of one
of his soldiers seemed too good for the woman he hated. Wild beasts were
to tear me to pieces before his eyes. Is that not sufficient for you?
Put every abomination together, everything unworthy of an honorable man
and abhorrent to the gods, and you have the man whom you so willingly
obey. I am only the wife of a citizen. But were I the widow of a
noble Aurelian and your mother--” Here Apollinaris, whose wounds were
beginning to burn again, broke in: “She would have counseled us to leave
revenge to the gods. He is Caesar!”
“He is a villain!” shrieked the matron--“the curse, the shame of
humanity, a damnable destroyer of peace and honor and life, such as
the world has never beheld before! To kill him would be to earn the
gratitude and blessing of the universe. And you, the scions of a noble
house, you, I say, prove that there still are men among so many
slaves! It is Rome herself who calls you through me--like her, a woman
maltreated and wounded to the heart’s core--to bear arms in her service
till she gives you the signal for making an end of the dastardly blood
hound!”
The brothers gazed at one another pale and speechless, till at last
Nemesianus ventured to say “He deserves to die, we know, a thousand
deaths, but we are neither judges nor executioners. We can not do the
work of the assassin.”
“No, lady, we can not,” added Apollinaris, and shook his wounded head
energetically.
But the lady, nothing daunted, went on: “Who has ever called Brutus a
murderer? You are young--Life lies before you. To plunge a sword into
the heart of this monster is a deed for which you are too good. But I
know a hand that understands its work and would be ready to guide the
steel. Call it out at the right moment and be its guide!”
“And that hand?” Apollinaris asked in anxious expectation.
“It is there,” replied Berenike, pointing to Martialis, who entered the
room at that moment. Again the brothers interchanged looks of doubt, but
the lady cried: “Consider for a moment! I would fain go hence with the
certainty that the one burning desire shall be fulfilled which still
warms this frozen heart.”
She motioned to the centurion, left the apartment with him, and preceded
him to her own room. Arrived there, she ordered the astonished freedman
Johannes, in his office as notary, to add a codicil to her will. In
the event of her death, she left to Xanthe, the wife of the centurion
Martialis, her lawful property the villa at Kanopus, with all it
contained, and the gardens appertaining to it, for the free use of
herself and her children.
The soldier listened speechless with astonishment. This gift was worth
twenty houses in the city, and made its owner a rich man. But the
testator was scarcely ten years older than his Xanthe, and, as he kissed
the hem of his mistress’s robe in grateful emotion, he cried: “May
the gods reward you for your generosity; but we will pray and offer up
sacrifices that it may be long before this comes into our hands!”
The lady shook her head with a bitter smile, and, drawing the soldier
aside, she disclosed to him in rapid words her determination to quit
this life before the praetorians entered the house. She then informed
the horror-stricken man that she had chosen him to be her avenger. To
him, too, the emperor had dealt a malicious blow. Let him remember that,
when the time came to plunge the sword in the tyrant’s heart. Should
this deed, however, cost Martialis his life--which he had risked in many
a battle for miserable pay--her will would enable his widow to bring up
their children in happiness and comfort.
The centurion had thrown in a deprecatory word or two, but Berenike
continued as if she had not heard him, till at last Martialis cried:
“You ask too much of me, lady. Caesar is hateful to me, but I am no
longer one of the praetorians, and am banished the country. How is it
possible that I should approach him? How dare I, a common man--”
The lady came closer to him, and whispered:
“You will perform this deed to which I have appointed you in the name
of all the just. We demand nothing from you but your sword. Greater men
than you--the two Aurelians--will guide it. At their word of command
you will do the deed. When they give you the signal, brave Martialis,
remember the unfortunate woman in Alexandria whose death you swore to
revenge. As soon as the tribunes--”
But the centurion was suddenly transformed. “If the tribunes command
it,” he interrupted with decision, his dull eye flashing--“if they
demand it of me, I do it willingly. Tell them Martialis’s sword is
ever at their service. It has made short work of stronger men than that
vicious stripling.”
Berenike gave the soldier her hand, thanked him hurriedly, and begged
him, as he could pass unharmed through the city, to hasten to her
husband’s counting-house by the water-side, to warn him and carry him
her last greetings.
With tears in his eyes Martialis did as she desired. When he had gone,
the steward began to implore his mistress to conceal herself, and
not cast away God’s gift of life so sinfully; but she turned from him
resolutely though kindly, and repaired once more to the brothers’ room.
One glance at them disclosed to her that they had come to no definite
conclusion; but their hesitation vanished as soon as they heard that the
centurion was ready to draw his sword upon the emperor when they
should give the signal; and Berenike breathed a sigh of relief at this
resolution, and clasped their hands in gratitude.
They, too, implored her to conceal herself, but she merely answered:
“May your youth grow into happy old age! Life can offer me nothing
more, since my child was taken from me--But time presses--I welcome the
murderers, now that I know that revenge will not sleep.”
“And your husband?” interposed Nemesianus.
She answered with a bitter smile: “He? He has the gift of being easily
consoled.--But what was that?”
Loud voices were audible outside the sick-room. Nemesianus stationed
himself in front of the lady, sword in hand. This protection, however,
proved unnecessary, for, instead of the praetorians, Johanna entered the
room, supporting on her arm the half-sinking form of a young man in whom
no one would have recognized the once beautifully curled and carefully
dressed Alexander. A long caracalla covered his tall form; Dido the
slave had cut off his hair, and he himself had disguised his features
with streaks of paint. A large, broad-brimmed hat had slipped to the
back of his head like a drunken man’s, and covered a wound from which
the red blood flowed down upon his neck. His whole aspect breathed pain
and horror, and Berenike, who took him for a hired cut-throat sent by
Caracalla, retreated hastily from him till Johanna revealed his name.
He nodded his head in confirmation, and then sank exhausted on his knees
beside Apollinaris’s couch and managed with great difficulty to stammer
out: “I am searching for Philip. He went into the town-ill-out of his
senses. Did he not come to you?”
“No,” answered Berenike. “But what is this fresh blood? Has the
slaughter begun?”
The wounded man nodded. Then he continued, with a groan: “In front
of the house of your neighbor Milon--the back of my head--I fled--a
lance--”
His voice failed him, and Berenike cried to the tribune: “Support
him, Nemesianus! Look after him and tend him. He is the brother of the
maiden--you know--If I know you, you will do all in your power for him,
and keep him hidden here till all danger is over.”
“We will defend him with our lives!” cried Apollinaris, giving his hand
to the lady.
But he withdrew it quickly, for from the impluvium arose the rattle of
arms, and loud, confused noise.
Berenike threw up her head and lifted her hands as if in prayer. Her
bosom heaved with her deep breath, the delicate nostrils quivered, and
the great eyes flashed with wrathful light. For a moment she stood thus
silent, then let her arms fall, and cried to the tribunes:
“My curse be upon you if you forget what you owe to yourselves, to the
Roman Empire, and to your dying friend. My blessing, if you hold fast to
what you have promised.”
She pressed their hands, and, turning to do the same to the artist,
found that he had lost consciousness. Johanna and Nemesianus had removed
his hat and caracalla, to attend to his wound.
A strange smile passed over the matron’s stern features. Snatching
the Gallic mantle from the Christian’s hand, she threw it over her own
shoulders, exclaiming:
“How the ruffian will wonder when, instead of the living woman, they
bring him a corpse wrapped in his barbarian’s mantle!”
She pressed the hat upon her head, and from a corner of the room where
the brothers’ weapons stood, selected a hunting-spear. She asked if this
weapon might be recognized as belonging to them, and, on their answering
in the negative, said:
“My thanks, then, for this last gift!”
At the last moment she turned to the waiting-woman:
“Your brother will help you to burn Korinna’s picture. No shameless gaze
shall dishonor it again.” She tore her hand from that of the Christian,
who, with hot tears, tried to hold her back; then, carrying her head
proudly erect, she left them.
The brothers gazed shudderingly after her. “And to know,” cried
Nemesianus, striking his forehead, “that our own comrades will slay her!
Never were the swords of Rome so disgraced!”
“He shall pay for it!” replied the wounded man, gnashing his teeth.
“Brother, we must avenge her!”
“Yes--her, and--may the gods hear me!--you too, Apollinaris,” swore the
other, lifting his hand as for an oath.
Loud screams, the clash of arms, and quick orders sounded from below and
broke in upon the tribune’s vow. He was rushing to the window to draw
back the curtain and look upon the horrid deed with his own eyes,
when Apollinaris called him back, reminding him of their duty toward
Melissa’s brother, who was lost if the others discovered him here.
Hereupon Nemesianus lifted the fainting youth in his strong arms and
carried him into the adjoining room, laying him upon the mat which had
served their faithful old slave as a bed. He then covered him with his
own mantle, after hastily binding up the wound on his head and another
on his shoulder.
By the time the tribune returned to his brother the noise outside had
grown considerably less, only pitiable cries of anguish mingled with the
shouts of the soldiers.
Nemesianus hastily pulled aside the curtain, letting such a flood of
blinding sunshine into the room that Apollinaris covered his wounded
face with his hands and groaned aloud.
“Sickening! Horrible! Unheard of!” cried his brother, beside himself
at the sight that met his eyes. “A battle-field! What do I say? The
peaceful house of a Roman citizen turned into shambles. Fifteen, twenty,
thirty bodies on the grass! And the sunshine plays as brightly on the
pools of blood and the arms of the soldiers as if it rejoiced in it
all. But there--Oh, brother! our Marcipor--there lies our dear old
Marci!--and beside him the basket of roses he had fetched for the lady
Berenike from the flower-market. There they be, steeped in blood, the
red and white roses; and the bright sun looks down from heaven and
laughs upon it!”
He broke down into sobs, and then continued, gnashing his teeth with
rage: “Apollo smiles upon it, but he sees it; and wait--wait but a
little longer, Tarautas! The god stretches out his hand already for the
avenging bow! Has Berenike ventured among them? Near the fountain-how
it flashes and glitters with the hues of Iris!--they are crowding round
something on the ground--Mayhap the body of Seleukus. No--the crowd is
separating. Eternal gods! It is she--it is the woman who tended you!”
“Dead?” asked the other.
“She is lying on the ground with a spear in her bosom. Now the
legate-yes, it is Quintus Flavius Nobilior--bends over her and draws it
out. Dead--dead! and slain by a man of our cohort!”
He clasped his hands before his face, while Apollinaris muttered curses,
and the name of their faithful Marcipor, who had served their father
before them, coupled with wild vows of vengeance.
Nemesianus at length composed himself sufficiently to follow the course
of the horrible events going on below.
“Now,” he went on, describing it to his brother, “now they are
surrounding Rufus. That merciless scoundrel must have done something
abominable, that even goes beyond what his fellows can put up with.
There they have caught a slave with a bundle in his hand, perhaps stolen
goods. They will punish him with death, and are themselves no better
than he. If you could only see how they come swarming from every side
with their costly plunder! The magnificent golden jug set with jewels,
out of which the lady Berenike poured the Byblos wine for you, is there
too!--Are we still soldiers, or robbers and murderers?”
“If we are,” cried Apollinaris, “I know who has made us so.”
They were startled by the approaching rattle of arms in the corridor,
and then a loud knock at the chamber-door. The next moment a soldier’s
head appeared in the doorway, to be quickly withdrawn with the
exclamation, “It is true--here lies Apollinaris!”
“One moment,” said a second deep voice, and over the threshold stepped
the legate of the legion, Quintus Flavius Nobilior, in all the panoply
of war, and saluted the brothers.
Like them, he came of an old and honorable race, and was acting in place
of the prefect Macrinus, whose office in the state prevented him from
taking the military command of that mighty corps, the praetorians.
Twenty years older than the twins, and a companion-in-arms of their
father, he had managed their rapid promotion. He was their faithful
friend and patron, and Apollinaris’s misfortune had disgusted him no
less than the order in the execution of which he was now obliged to take
part. Having greeted the brothers affectionately, observed their painful
emotion, and heard their complaints over the murder of their slave, he
shook his manly head, and pointing to the blood that dripped from his
boots and greaves, “Forgive me for thus defiling your apartments,” he
said. “If we came from slaughtering men upon the field of battle, it
could only do honor to the soldier; but this is the blood of defenseless
citizens, and even women’s gore is mixed with it.”
“I saw the body of the lady of this house,” said Nemesianus, gloomily.
“She has tended my brother like a mother.”
“But, on the other hand, she was imprudent enough to draw down Caesar’s
displeasure upon her,” interposed the Flavian, shrugging his shoulders.
“We were to bring her to him alive, but he had anything but friendly
intentions toward her; however, she spoiled his game. A wonderful woman!
I have scarcely seen a man look death--and self-sought death--in the
face like that! While the soldiers down there were massacring all who
fell into their hands--those were the orders, and I looked on at
the butchery, for, rather than--well, you can imagine that for
yourselves--through one of the doors there came a tall, extraordinary
figure. The wide brim of a traveling hat concealed the features, and it
was wrapped in one of the emperor’s fool’s mantles. It hurried toward
the maniple of Sempronius, brandishing a javelin, and with a sonorous
voice reviling the soldiers till even my temper was roused. Here I
caught sight of a flowing robe beneath the caracalla, and, the
hat having fallen back, a beautiful woman’s face with large and
fear-inspiring eyes. Then it suddenly flashed upon me that this grim
despiser of death, being a woman, was doubtless she whom we were to
spare. I shouted this to my men; but--and at that moment I was heartily
ashamed of my profession--it was too late. Tall Rufus pierced her
through with his lance. Even in falling she preserved the dignity of
a queen, and when the men surrounded her she fixed each one separately
with her wonderful eyes and spoke through the death-rattle in her
throat:
“‘Shame upon men and soldiers who let themselves be hounded on like dogs
to murder and dishonor!’ Rufus raised his sword to make an end of her,
but I caught his arm and knelt beside her, begging her to let me see to
her wound. With that she seized the lance in her breast with both
hands, and with her last breath murmured, ‘He desired to see the living
woman--bring him my body, and my curse with it! Then with a last supreme
effort she buried the spear still deeper in her bosom; but it was not
necessary.
“I gazed petrified at the high-bred, wrathful face, still beautiful
in death, and the mysterious, wide-open eyes that must have flashed
so proudly in life. It was enough to drive a man mad. Even after I had
closed her eyes and spread the mantle over her--”
“What has been done with the body?” asked Apollinaris.
“I caused it to be carried into the house and the door of the
death-chamber carefully locked. But when I returned to the men. I had to
prevent them from tearing Rufus to pieces for having lost them the large
reward which Caesar had promised for the living prisoner.”
“And you,” cried Apollinaris, excitedly, “had to look on while our men,
honest soldiers, plundered this house--which entertained many of us so
hospitably--as if they had been a band of robbers! I saw them dragging
out things which were used in our service only yesterday.”
“The emperor--his permission!” sighed Flavius. “You know how it is. The
lowest instincts of every nature come out at such a time as this, and
the sun shines upon it all. Many a poor wretch of yesterday will go to
bed a wealthy man to-day. But, for all that, I believe much was hidden
from them. In the room of the mistress of the house whence I have just
come, a fire was still blazing in which a variety of objects had been
burned. The flames had destroyed a picture--a small painted fragment
betrayed the fact. They perhaps possessed masterpieces of Apelles or
Zeuxis. This woman’s hatred would lead her to destroy them rather than
let them fall into the hands of her imperial enemy; and who can blame
her?”
“It was her daughter’s portrait,” said Nemesianus, unguardedly.
The legate turned upon him in surprise. “Then she confided in you?” he
asked.
“Yes,” returned the tribune, “and we are proud to have been so honored
by her. Before she went to her death she took leave of us. We let her
go; for we at least could not bring ourselves to lay hands upon a noble
lady.”
The officer looked sternly at him and exclaimed, angrily:
“Do you suppose, young upstart, that it was less painful to me and many
another among us? Cursed be this day, that has soiled our weapons with
the blood of women and slaves, and may every drachma which I take from
the plunder here bring ill-luck with it! Call the accident that has kept
you out of this despicable work a stroke of good fortune, but beware how
you look down upon those whose oath forces them to crush out every
human feeling from their hearts! The soldier who takes part with his
commander’s enemy--”
He was interrupted by the entrance of Johanna, the Christian, who
saluted the legate, and then stood confused and embarrassed by the side
of Apollinaris’s bed. The furtive glance she cast first at the side-room
and then at Nemesianus did not pass unobserved by the quick eye of the
commander, and with soldierly firmness he insisted on knowing what was
concealed behind that door.
“An unfortunate man,” was Apollinaris’s answer.
“Seleukus, the master of this house?” asked Quintus Flavius, sternly.
“No,” replied Nemesianus. “It is only a poor, wounded painter. And
yet--the praetorians will go through fire and water for you, if you
deliver up this man to them as their booty. But if you are what I hold
you to be--”
“The opinion of hot-headed boys is of as little consequence to me as the
favor of my subordinates,” interposed the commander. “Whatever my con
science tells me is right, I shall do. Quick, now! Who is in there?”
“The brother of the maiden for whose sake Caesar--” stammered the
wounded man.
“The maiden whom you have to thank for that disfigured face?” cried the
legate. “You are true Aurelians, you boys; and, though you may doubt
whether I am the man you take me for, I confess with pleasure that you
are exactly as I would wish to have you. The praetorians have slain your
friend and servant; I give you that man to make amends for it.”
With deep emotion Nemesianus seized his old friend’s hands, and
Apollinaris spoke words of gratitude to him from his couch. The officer
would not listen to their thanks, and walked toward the door; but
Johanna stood before him, and entreated him to allow the twins, whose
servant had been killed, to take another, from whom they need have
no fear of treachery. He had been captured in the impluvium by the
praetorians while trying, in the face of every danger, to enter the
house where the painter lay, to whose father he had belonged for many
years. He would be able to tend both Apollinaris and Melissa’s brother,
and make it possible to keep Alexander’s hiding-place a secret. The
soldiery would be certain to penetrate as far as this, and other lives
would be endangered if they should bear off the faithful servant and
force him on the rack to disclose where Melissa’s father and relatives
were hidden.
The legate promised to insure the freedom of Argutis.
A few more words of thanks and farewell, and Quintus had fulfilled his
mission to the Aurelians. Shortly afterward the tuba sounded to assemble
the plunderers still scattered about Seleukus’s house, and Nemesianus
saw the men marching in small companies into the great hall. They were
followed by their armor-bearers, loaded with treasure of every kind;
and three chariots, drawn by fine horses, belonging to Seleukus and his
murdered wife, conveyed such booty as was too heavy for men to carry. In
the last of these stood the statue of Eros by Praxiteles. The glorious
sunshine lighted up the smiling marble face; with the charm of
bewitching beauty he seemed to gaze at the lurid crimson pools on the
ground, and at the armed cohorts which marched in front to shed more
blood and rouse more hatred.
As Nemesianus withdrew from the window, Argutis came into the room. The
legate had released him; and when Johanna conducted the faithful fellow
to Alexander’s bedside, and he saw the youth lying pale and with closed
eyes, as though death had claimed him for his prey, the old man dropped
on his knees, sobbing loudly.