the men even displayed strange and handsome costumes as they were helped out of their gilt and plated chariots by their servants.  What untold wealth must these men have at their command, to be able to dress their slaves in gold and silver brocade; and the runners, who kept up with the swiftest horses, must have lungs of iron!  The praetorians, who had not for many a day seen anything to cause them to forget the motto of the greatest philosopher among their poets—­never to be astonished at anything—­repeatedly pushed each other with surprise and admiration; nay, the centurion Julius Martialis, who had just now had a visit in camp from his wife and children, in defiance of orders, while Caesar himself was looking on, struck his fist on his greaves, and, exclaiming loudly, “Look out!” pointed to Seleukus’s chariot, for which four runners, in tunics with long sleeves, made of sea-green bombyx, richly embroidered with silver, were making a way through the crowd.

The barefooted lads, with their nimble, gazellelike legs, were all well looking, and might have been cast all in one mold.  But what struck the centurion and his comrades as most remarkable in their appearance were the flash and sparkle from their slender ankles, as the setting sun suddenly shot a fleeting ray through a rift in the heavy clouds.  Each of these fellows wore on his legs gold bands set with precious stones, and the rubies which glittered on the harness of Seleukus’s horse were of far greater value.

He, as master of the festival, had come betimes, and this was the first of many such displays of wealth which followed each other in quick succession, as soon as the brief twilight of Egypt had given way to darkness, and the lighting up of the Circus was begun.

Here came a beautifully dressed woman in a roomy litter, over which waved a canopy entirely of white ostrich-plumes, which the evening breeze swayed like a thicket of fern-leaves.  This throne was borne by ten black and ten white slave-girls, and before it two fair children rode on tame ostriches.  The tall heir of a noble house, who, like Caesar at Rome, belonged to the “Blues,” drove his own team of four splendid white horses; and he himself was covered with turquoises, while the harness was set with cut sapphires.

The centurion shook his head in silent admiration.  His face had been tanned in many wars, both in the East and West, and he had fought even in distant Caledonia, but the low forehead, loose under lip, and dull eye spoke of small gifts of intellect.  Nevertheless, he was not lacking in strength of will, and was regarded by his comrades as a good beast of burden who would submit to a great deal before it became too much for him.  But then he would break out like a mad bull, and he might long ago have risen to higher rank, had he not once in such a fit of passion nearly throttled a fellow-soldier.  For this crime he had been severely punished, and condemned to begin again at the bottom of the ladder.  He owed it chiefly to the young tribune Aurelius Apollinaris that he had very soon regained the centurion’s staff, in spite of his humble birth; he had saved that officer’s life in the war with the Armenians—­to be here, in Alexandria, cruelly mutilated by the hand of his sovereign.