Marcus: the Young Centurion Part 26

"Oh yes, that's plain enough," said the old man, maliciously, as he rested upon his staff, "and some great fighting men who win great battles with their tongues are always too late to strike a blow. How is it you are late like that?"

"Oh, that's what you want to know, is it?" said Serge, surlily.

"Yes," said the old man. "A man with legs like yours ought to have been there."

"Well, I'll tell you," said Serge. "It was like this. My chariot had gone to have new wheels. But perhaps I might have made the old ones do.

But both my chariot horses were down with a sort of fever. Then the driver had gone away to get married and couldn't be found, and so I had to walk. And now you know."

"Bah!" cried the old man. "Look at your rough hands! You have been like me. You never had a chariot or horses of your own. You're only a working man. All lies."

"Every word of it," said Serge, grinning, "'cept that it's true about me and the youngster here having to walk like our dog. But we want to get there, brother, as soon as we can, so put us on our way to overtake the army, or by a short track to cut it off."

"Do you mean it?" said the old soldier.

"Mean it? Of course!" cried Marcus, excitedly. "The division, mind, that's led by Caius Julius."

"Ho, ho, my young c.o.c.kerel!" cried the old man. "Then nothing will do for you but the best?"

"Nothing," cried Marcus, eagerly. "We want to be where that great general is that Julius went to seek. Now put us on the way."

"That's easily done," cried the old man. "There's a troop of horse that sets off to-night to follow the rear-guard, and they'll have chariots with them too. Go and see if you can get along with them. You've no horses, but you might run beside the chariots, and their drivers, as soon as they see there's stuff in you and that you want to fight, will give you a lift from time to time."

"Run beside the chariots, eh?" said Serge, with a laugh, as he glanced at Marcus. "Running would suit you better, my lad, than it would me.

I've got a deal more flesh to carry than you have, and running is not good in armour with a big helmet on your head. You'd have something to grumble at about feeling sore, or I'm mistaken. But never mind; we want to get there, don't we?"

"Oh yes, we must get on," cried Marcus, "and if we can't run we can walk."

"What I was going to say," cried Serge, "so put us on the right way, old comrade," he continued, to the old cripple, "and you shan't want for something to pay for to-morrow; eh, Marcus, my lad?"

"Oh no," cried the boy, thrusting his hand into his pouch; but Serge clapped a hand upon his arm.

"Wait a bit, boy," he said. "Don't pay for your work until it is done."

A short time before, weary with their long tramp, the disappointment of finding that they were quite left behind had made the future look blank and dismal. But the old cripple's words seemed to bring the sun out again, and he hobbled along by their side through street after street, chattering volubly about his old experiences with the army and his disappointment now in seeing the st.u.r.dy warriors march off, legion after legion, leaving him behind.

"Ah," he said, "it's lucky to be you, able to go, and luckier still for you to have met me who can lead you to the place where the last party are camping."

"Where's that?" said Marcus, sharply, for the man seemed to be taking them a very devious course.

"Just outside the gate, over yonder. There, you can see the wall, and in a few minutes we shall be there."

The old soldier's words proved to be quite true, as, at the end of a few minutes, he led them to the little camp, all astir with the soldiery preparing to start--hors.e.m.e.n, chariots, baggage, horses and camp followers, all were there, with the leaders fuming and fretting about making the last preparations, and eager to make the start.

The old soldier gave his new friends a nudge of the elbow and a very knowing look.

"I know what to do," he said. "You leave it to me. I wasn't in a marching army for years without learning something. Yonder is a big captain, there by that standard. Nothing like going to the top at once.

Come along."

The old cripple drew himself up as well as he could, and, thumping his stick heavily down, led the way to the fierce-looking captain, whose face looked scarlet with anger and excitement.

"Here, captain," cried the old man.

The officer turned upon him angrily.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" he roared.

The old man pointed to Marcus and Serge.

"Two brave fighting men," he cried; "volunteers, well-armed and trained, who want to join."

"Oh, I've all I want," cried the captain, roughly, "and--" He stopped short, for, as he spoke, he ran his eyes over the two strangers, resting them longest upon Serge, and he hesitated.

"Here, you," he said, as he noted the way in which Marcus' companion was caparisoned, "you've been in the army before?"

"Years, captain," cried Serge, with military promptness. "I served with Cracis and Julius in the old war."

"Hah! You'll do," cried the captain. "But I don't want boys."

Marcus' spirits had been rising to the highest point, but the contemptuous tone in which these words were uttered dashed his hopes to the ground, and he listened despairingly as in imagination he saw himself rudely separated from his companion and left behind.

The thoughts were instantaneous, and he was consoling himself with the reflection that Serge would not forsake him, and antic.i.p.ating the old soldier's words, as Serge turned sharply upon his new commander.

"Boys grow into men, captain," he said, sharply, "and I've trained this one myself. He can handle a sword and spear better than I."

"Hah!" cried the captain, as he looked critically at Marcus, examining him from top to toe, whilst, as if for no reason whatever, he slowly drew his sword, while Marcus, who stood spear in hand and shield before him, in the att.i.tude he had been taught by Serge, quivered beneath the captain's searching eye.

"Trained him yourself, have you?"

"Yes, captain--well."

"He can use his weapons?"

"Yes, captain."

To the astonishment of both Serge and Marcus, and as if without the slightest reason, the big, burly, war-like captain made one step forward and with it like lightning he struck a blow with his sword right at the comb of Marcus' helmet, such a one as would have, had it been intended, brought the boy to his knees.

But Serge had spoken truth when he said that he trained Marcus well, for, quicker in his action than the deliverer of the blow, Marcus had thrown up his shield-bearing left arm, there was a loud clang upon its metal guards as he received the sword blow, and, the next moment, the captain drew back as sharply as he had advanced, to avoid the boy's short spear, directed at his throat.

"Good!" he cried. "Well done, boy!" And he began to sheath his sword.

"Your teacher, an old hand, no doubt, could not have done better. Why, boy," he continued, "you are a soldier, every inch," and he grasped the lad by both arms. "But this won't do; you must lay on muscle here, and thicken and deepen in the chest. That helmet's too heavy for you too.

Yes, you are quite a boy--a brave one, no doubt, and well-trained; but you are too young and slight to stand the hardships of a rough campaign.

I should like to take you, but I want men--strong men like your companion here--and I should be wronging your parents if I took you.

Whose son are you, boy?"

"My father is Cracis, sir, a friend of Caius Julius, and he is at the front."

"Ha!" cried the officer, looking at him searchingly. "Then why are you at the rear?"