Marcus: the Young Centurion Part 10

COMPANY COMES.

"I want to go out," said Marcus to himself, one morning, as he sat at the little table exclusively his.

There was a small volume, a double roll tied round by a band of silk, his tablets and stylus were before him, the latter quite blank, and the window was open, giving him a glorious view of the distant, sunlit mountains, while the air that was wafted in through the vine leaves was rich in delicious odours that came gratefully to his nostrils.

"But I can't go out," he said; "I have all that writing to do, and the first thing when father comes back will be to ask me how much I have done. And here have I been sitting for long enough and have not scratched a word. I wonder how soon he will come?"

The boy sat silently for a few minutes watching some twittering young birds that were playing in the garden trees, chasing one another from twig to twig in the full enjoyment of their life in the transparent atmosphere.

"I wish I were a bird!" sighed the boy, and then half pa.s.sionately: "Oh, what a lazy dog I am! I am always longing to be or do something else than what I am. But look at that," he said, dropping into his dreamy way again. "How beautiful it must be to throw oneself off the very top of a tree and go floating and gliding about just where one likes, with no books to study, nothing to write, only play about in the sunshine, covered with clothes of the softest down; no bother about a house to live in or a bed, but just when the sun goes down sing a bit about how pleasant life is as one sits on a twig, and then tuck one's head under one's wing, stick one's feathers up till one looks like a ball, and go to sleep till the Sun rises again. Oh, how glorious to be a bird! Ha, ha, ha!" he cried, with a merry laugh, "Old Serge is right. He says I am a young fool, when he's in the grumps, and I suppose I am to think like that; but it seems a life so free from trouble to be a bird, till a cat comes, or a weasel, or perhaps a snake, and catches one on the ground, or a hawk when one's flying in the air, or one of the noisy old owls when one's roosting in the ivy at night. And then squeak-- scrunch--and there's no more bird. Everything has to work, I suppose, and nothing is able to do just as it pleases. That's what father says, and, of course, it's true; but somehow I should like to go out this morning, but I can't; I have to stick here and write. There's father gone off, and old Serge too. I wonder where he's gone. Right away into the forest, of course, to look after the swine, or else into the fields to see whether something's growing properly, and mind that the men keep to work and are not lying snoozing somewhere in the shade. Oh, how beautiful it looks out of doors!"

Marcus sat gazing longingly out of the window, and then apparently, for no reason at all, raised his right hand and gave himself a sharp slap on the side of the head.

"Take that, you lazy brute!" he cried. "Of course you can't do your work if you sit staring out of the window. Turn your back to it, sir, and look inside where you will only see the wall. No wonder you can't work."

He jumped up quickly, raised his stool, and was in the act of turning it round, giving a final glance through the window before he began to work in earnest, when he stopped short and set down the stool again.

"There's somebody coming along the road," he said. "Who's he? Dressed just like father, in his long, white toga. Wonder where he's going, and who he is? Some traveller, I suppose, seeing the country and enjoying himself."

The boy stood watching the stranger for a few moments.

"Why, where can he be going?" he said. "That path only leads here and to our fields. He can't be coming here, because n.o.body ever comes to see us, and father doesn't seem to have any friends. Perhaps he wants to see Serge about buying some pigs or corn, or to sell some young goats? Yes, that's it, I should think. He wants to sell something.

No; it can't be that; he doesn't look the sort of man. Look at that smooth-shaven face and short-cut hair. He seems quite a patrician, just like father. What can he want? Here, how stupid!" cried the boy, as he saw the stranger stop short a little distance from the villa front and begin to look about him as if admiring the beauty of the place and the distant scene. "I know; he's a traveller, and he's lost his way."

Excited by his new thought, Marcus hurried out and down the garden, catching the attention of the stranger at once, who smiled as he looked with the eyes of curiosity at the bright, frank lad, while he took out a handkerchief and stood wiping his dewy face.

"Lost your way?" cried Marcus.

"Well, not quite," was the reply; "but I know very little of these parts."

"I do," said Marcus, "laughing always, and have. I'll show you if you tell me where you want to go."

"Thank you," said the stranger, gravely and quietly; and the boy thought to himself once more that he was no dealer or trader, but some patrician on his travels, and he noted more particularly the clear skin, and clean-cut features of a man thoughtful and strong of brain, who spoke quietly, but in the tones of one accustomed to command.

"You have a beautiful place here, my boy," he continued, as he looked round and seemed to take in everything; "fields, woodlands, garden.

Fruit too--vines and figs. An attractive house too. The calm and quiet of the country--a tired man could live very happily here."

"Yes, of course," cried Marcus and with a merry laugh, "a boy too!"

"Hah! Yes," said the stranger, smiling also, as he gazed searchingly in the boy's clear eyes. "So you lead a very happy life here, do you?"

"Oh yes!"

"But not alone?" said the stranger.

"Oh no, of course not," cried Marcus. "There's father, and old Serge, and the labourers and servants."

"Yes, a very pleasant place," said the stranger, as he once more wiped his dewy face.

"You look hot," said the boy. "Come in and sit down for a while and rest. It's nice and shady in my room, and you get the cool breeze from the mountains."

"Thank you, my boy, I will," said the stranger, and he followed Marcus through the shady garden and into the lately vacated room, where the boy placed a chair, and his visitor sank into it with a sigh of relief.

"Have you walked far?" he asked.

"Yes, some distance," was the reply; "but the country is very beautiful, especially through the woodlands, and very pleasant to one who is fresh from the hot and crowded city."

"The city!" cried Marcus, eagerly. "You don't mean Rome?"

"I do mean Rome," said the visitor, leaning back smiling, and with his eyes half closed, but keenly reading the boy the while. "Have you ever been there?"

"Oh no," said Marcus, quickly, "but I know all about it. My father often used to tell me about Rome."

"Your father? May I ask who your father is?"

"Cracis," said the boy, drawing himself up proudly, as if he felt it an honour to speak of such a man. "He used to live in Rome. You've come from there. Did you ever hear of him?"

"Cracis? Cracis? Yes, I have heard the name. Is he at home?"

"No; he went out this morning; but I daresay he will be back soon.

Serge is out too."

"Serge?" said the stranger.

"Yes; our man who superintends the farm. He was an old soldier, and knew Rome well. He was in the wars."

"Ha!" said the stranger. "And they are both away?"

"Yes; but you are tired, sir, and look faint. I'll come back directly."

Marcus hurried from the room, but returned almost immediately, laden with a cake of bread, a flask and cup, and a bunch or two of grapes lying in an open basket.

"Ha, ha!" said the visitor, smiling. "Then you mean to play the host to a tired stranger?"

"Of course," said the boy. "That is what father would do if he were at home."

"And the son follows his father's teaching, eh?"

Marcus smiled, and busied himself in pouring out a cup of wine and breaking the bread, which he pressed upon his guest, who partook of both sparingly, keenly watching the boy the while.

"The rest is good," he said, as he caught the boy's eye, "the room cool and pleasant, and these most refreshing. You will let me rest myself awhile? I might like to see your father when he comes."

"Oh, of course," cried the boy. "Father will be very glad, I am sure.

We so seldom have anyone to see us here."

Quite unconsciously the boy went on chatting, little realising that he was literally answering his visitor's questions and giving him a full account of their life at the villa and farm.

He noted how sparingly his visitor ate and drank, and pressed him hospitably to partake of more, but, after a few minutes, the guest responded by smilingly waving the bread and wine aside.