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  The next moment a soldier’s head appeared in the doorway, to be quickly withdrawn with the exclamation, “It is true—­here lies Apollinaris!”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