“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 The next moment a soldier’s head appeared in the doorway, to be quickly withdrawn with the exclamation, “It is true—here lies Apollinaris!”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.”