As soon as the prefect had disappeared within the building, the praetorian ranks fell out again.  It was lucky that among them were several Alexandrians, besides the centurion Martialis, who had not long been absent from their native town; for without them much would have remained incomprehensible.  The strangest thing to foreign eyes was a stately though undecorated harmamaxa, out of which stepped first a handsome wreathed youth, then a matron of middle age, and at last an elegantly dressed girl, whose rare beauty made even Martialis—­who rarely noticed women—­exclaim, “Now, she is to my taste the sweetest-thing of all.”

But there must have been something very remarkable about these three; for when they appeared the crowd broke out at first in loud shouts and outcries, which soon turned to acclamations and welcome, though through it all shrill whistles and hisses were heard.

“Caesar’s new mistress, the daughter of a gemcutter!” the Alexandrian muttered to his comrades.  That handsome boy is her brother, no doubt.  He is said to be a mean sycophant, a spy paid by Caesar.”

“He?” said an older centurion, shaking his scarred head.  “Sooner would I believe that the shouts of the populace were intended for the old woman and not for the young one.”

“Then a sycophant he is and will remain,” said the Alexandrian with a laugh.  “For, as a matter of fact, it is the elder lady they are greeting, and, by Heracles, she deserves it!  She is the wife of the high-priest of Serapis.  There are few poor in this city to whom she has not done a kindness.  She is well able, no doubt, for her husband is the brother of Seleukus, and her father, too, sat over his ears in gold.”

“Yes, she is able,” interrupted Martialis, with a tone of pride, as though it were some credit to himself.  “But how many have even more, and keep their purse-strings tight!  I have known her since she was a child, and she is the best of all that is good.  What does not the town owe to her!  She risked her life to move Caesar’s father to mercy toward the citizens, after they had openly declared against him and in favor of his rival Pescennius Niger.  And she succeeded, too.”

“Why, then, are they whistling?” asked the older centurion.

“Because her companion is a spy,” repeated the Alexandrian.  “And the girl—­In Caesar’s favor!  But, after all, which of you all would not gladly see his sister or his niece Caesar’s light of love?”

“Not I!” cried Martialis.  “But the man who speaks ill of that girl only does so because he likes blue eyes best.  The maiden who comes in the lady Euryale’s chariot is spotless, you may swear.”

“Nay, nay,” said the younger Alexandrian soothingly.  “That black-haired fellow and his companions would whistle another tune if they knew any evil of her, and she would not be in the lady Euryale’s company—­that is the chief point—.  But, look there!  The shameless dogs are stopping their way!  ‘Green’ to a man.—­But here come the lictors.”