Philotas of Amphissa, the pupil of Didymus, had been the first to inform them of the attack and, with fiery zeal, had used his utmost power to atone for the wrong done to his master’s granddaughter.  His appeal had roused the most eager sympathy.  The Ephebi believed themselves strong enough to defend their friend against any one and, if the worst should come, they knew they would be sustained by the council, the Exegetus, the captain of the guard—­a brave Macedonian, who had once been an ornament of their own band—­and the numerous clients of Dion and his family.  There was not a single weakling among them.  They had already found an opportunity to prove this; for, though they had arrived too late to protect Didymus’s property from injury, they had checked the fury of the mob whose passions Philostratus had aroused, and forced back the crowd whom the Syrian led to Barine’s dwelling to devote it to the same fate.

Another equipage was already standing before the door of Berenike’s house—­one of the carriages which were always at the disposal of the Queen’s officials—­when Anukis left Archibius’s vehicle.  Had some of Alexas’s myrmidons arrived, or was he himself on the way to examine Dion, or even arrest him?  The driver, like all the palace servants, knew Anukis, and she learned from him that he had brought Gorgias, the architect.

Anukis had never met the latter, though, during the rebuilding of Caesarion’s apartments, she had often seen him, and heard much of him; among other things, that Dion’s beautiful palace was his work.  He was a friend of the wounded man, so she need not fear him.

When she entered the atrium she heard that Berenike had gone out to drive with Archibius and his Roman friend.  The leech had forbidden his patient to see many visitors.  No one had been admitted except Gorgias and one of Dion’s freedmen.

But time pressed; people of the same rank and disposition understand one another; the old porter and the Nubian were both loyal to their employers, and, moreover, were natives of the same country; so it required only a few words to persuade the door-keeper to conduct her without delay to the bedside of the wounded man.

The freedman, a tall, weather-beaten greybeard, simply clad, who looked like a pilot, was waiting outside the sick-room.  He had not yet been admitted to Dion’s presence, but this did not appear to vex him, for he stood leaning quietly against the wall beside the door, gazing at the broad-brimmed sailor’s hat which he was slowly turning in his hands.

Scarcely had Dion heard Anukis’s name, when an eager “Let her come in” reached her ears through the half-open door.

The Nubian waited to be summoned, but her dark face must have showed distinctly that something important and urgent had brought her here, for the wounded man added to his first words of greeting the expression of a fear that she had no good news.

Her reply was an eager nod of assent, accompanied by a doubtful glance at Gorgias; and Dion now curtly told the architect the name of the newcomer, and assured her that his friend might hear everything, even the greatest secret.