Nemesianus hastily pulled aside the curtain, letting such a flood of blinding sunshine into the room that Apollinaris covered his wounded face with his hands and groaned aloud.

“Sickening!  Horrible!  Unheard of!” cried his brother, beside himself at the sight that met his eyes.  “A battle-field!  What do I say?  The peaceful house of a Roman citizen turned into shambles.  Fifteen, twenty, thirty bodies on the grass!  And the sunshine plays as brightly on the pools of blood and the arms of the soldiers as if it rejoiced in it all.  But there—­Oh, brother! our Marcipor—­there lies our dear old Marci!—­and beside him the basket of roses he had fetched for the lady Berenike from the flower-market.  There they be, steeped in blood, the red and white roses; and the bright sun looks down from heaven and laughs upon it!”

He broke down into sobs, and then continued, gnashing his teeth with rage:  “Apollo smiles upon it, but he sees it; and wait—­wait but a little longer, Tarautas!  The god stretches out his hand already for the avenging bow!  Has Berenike ventured among them?  Near the fountain-how it flashes and glitters with the hues of Iris!—­they are crowding round something on the ground—­Mayhap the body of Seleukus.  No—­the crowd is separating.  Eternal gods!  It is she—­it is the woman who tended you!”

“Dead?” asked the other.

“She is lying on the ground with a spear in her bosom.  Now the legate-yes, it is Quintus Flavius Nobilior—­bends over her and draws it out.  Dead—­dead! and slain by a man of our cohort!”

He clasped his hands before his face, while Apollinaris muttered curses, and the name of their faithful Marcipor, who had served their father before them, coupled with wild vows of vengeance.

Nemesianus at length composed himself sufficiently to follow the course of the horrible events going on below.

“Now,” he went on, describing it to his brother, “now they are surrounding Rufus.  That merciless scoundrel must have done something abominable, that even goes beyond what his fellows can put up with.  There they have caught a slave with a bundle in his hand, perhaps stolen goods.  They will punish him with death, and are themselves no better than he.  If you could only see how they come swarming from every side with their costly plunder!  The magnificent golden jug set with jewels, out of which the lady Berenike poured the Byblos wine for you, is there too!—­Are we still soldiers, or robbers and murderers?”

“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.