The bearded hero held an infant in his arms—­assuredly his own—­while a girl and boy clung to him, gazing up in his face with wondering black eyes; and another child, of about three, paying no heed to the others, was crowing as it splashed through a puddle with its little bare feet.  Two women, one young and one elderly, the man’s mother and his wife, no doubt, seemed to hang on his lips as he recounted perhaps some deed of valor.

The tuba sounded to arms.  He kissed the infant, and carefully laid it on its mother’s bosom; then he took up the boy and the girl, laughingly caught the little one, and pressed his bearded lips to each rosy mouth in turn.  Last of all he clasped the young wife to his breast, gently stroked her hair, and whispered something in her ear at which she smiled up at him through her tears and then blushingly looked down.  His mother patted him fondly on the shoulder, and, as they parted, he kissed her too on her wrinkled brow.

Caracalla had remarked this centurion once before; his name was Martialis, and he was a simple, commonplace, but well-conducted creature, who had often distinguished himself by his contempt for death.  The imperial visit to Alexandria had meant for him a return home and the greatest joy in life.  How many arms had opened to receive the common soldier; how many hearts had beat high at his coming!  Not a day, it was certain, had passed since his arrival without prayers going up to Heaven for his preservation, from his mother, his wife, and his children.  And he, the ruler of the world, had thought it impossible that one, even one of his millions of subjects, should have prayed for him.  Who awaited him with a longing heart?  Where was his home?

He had first seen the light in Gaul.  His father was an African; his mother was born in Syria.  The palace at Rome, his residence, he did not care to remember.  He traveled about the empire, leaving as wide a space as possible between himself and that house of doom, from which he could never wipe out the stain of his brother’s blood.

And his mother?  She feared—­perhaps she hated him—­her first-born son, since he had killed her younger darling.  What did she care for him, so long as she had her philosophers to argue with, who knew how to ply her with delicate flattery?

Then Plautilla, his wife?  His father had compelled him to marry her, the richest heiress in the world, whose dowry had been larger than the collected treasure of a dozen queens; and as he thought of the sharp features of that insignificant, sour-faced, and unspeakably pretentious creature, he shuddered with aversion.

He had banished her, and then had her murdered.  Others had done the deed, and it did not strike him that he was responsible for the crime committed in his service; but her loveless heart, without a care for him—­her bird-sharp face, looking out like a well-made mask from her abundant hair—­and her red, pinched lips, were very present to him.  What cutting words those lips could speak; what senseless demands they had uttered; and nothing more insolent could be imagined than her way of pursing them up if at any time he had suggested a kiss!