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!