Marcus: the Young Centurion Part 27

Marcus' spirits had been rising again, and his eyes were sparkling, lit up as they were by hope; but at that question down they went directly to the lowest point.

He tried hard to look firmly in the captain's face, but his eyes would blench. He tried to speak, but he could not answer, and he stood quivering in every nerve, shamefaced and humbled, while his trouble increased and he turned his eyes upon Serge, looking appealingly at him for help, as the big officer suddenly exclaimed, as he caught him by the shoulder:

"Why, you young dog, it's all written in your face! You've run away!

Ha-ha! I don't mean from the fight, but to it. Let me see. Am I right? You being a trained young soldier, wanted to go with your father to the war, and he told you to stay at home. You've run away to follow him. Am I right?"

Marcus looked at him firmly now. There was no shrinking in his eyes, for he was uttering the truth.

"Yes, sir," he said, huskily; "quite right."

"Well, but I say, captain," growled Serge, "that's all true enough, every word. But the boy aren't a bit worse than me. The master said I was to stop at home and mind him and the swine and things about the farm; but I couldn't do it with the smell of battle in the air, being an old soldier, don't you see, and the master gone to lead. I felt like the boy did, ashamed to stop and let one's armour rust when Rome's enemies were waiting to be beaten. I felt obliged to come, and so did young Marcus here. A brave boy, captain, so don't be hard."

"Hah!" cried the captain, frowning severely. "A nice pair, both of you!

It isn't likely, but how could I meet Cracis or Julius by and by if I took you into my following?"

"Oh, we'd keep out of sight, captain," growled Serge.

The captain pointed mockingly at Marcus.

"He doesn't look much like a boy who'd keep out of sight, old warrior,"

he said. "Far more likely to thrust himself into the front with all the unbalanced rashness of a boy. A nice pair indeed! But I should like to have a thousand of you, all the same. No, I don't think I ought to take you, boy," he continued, slowly, with a very severe frown gathering on his forehead. "But look here; I don't like to stand in the light of one of Rome's brave sons, however young, at a time when our country needs their help. But tell me, boy; if I say to you, go back home and wait a year or two till you have grown more of a man, you will go back at once, will you not?"

"Shall you tell Serge to go back too?" replied Marcus, sharply.

"Most certainly not," said the captain, laughing. "He has offered his services, and I have taken him. You will have to go home alone. Tell me, will you obey my orders?"

"No," said Marcus, firmly. "I am not going to forsake old Serge."

"You are a pretty fellow for a volunteer," cried the captain, merrily.

"Ask me to take you into my following, and, at the first command I give you, tell me flat to my nose that you won't obey!"

"I'll do anything else you tell me, captain, but that," cried Marcus, quickly.

"Well, boy," said the captain. "But stop. What shall you do now?"

"Find my way to the army alone," said Marcus, quickly.

"You'd never do that, boy. The country ahead is in a state of war, and swarms with ruffians hanging about the heels of the army like wolves following a drove of sheep--worse, these, than the enemy. Boy, before many days had pa.s.sed you'd be stripped of all your bravery, robbed for the sake of your weapons, and left dead or dying somewhere in the forest."

"I can fight, sir," said Marcus, proudly, "and my sword and spear are sharp."

"Yes, boy, and I should be sorry for the one or two who tried to stop your way. But wolves hunt in packs, and can pull the bravest down. Are you heeding what I say?"

Marcus nodded. He could not speak, but stood gazing at Serge, who had taken off his helmet and with a face full of perplexity was vigorously scratching at his grizzled head.

"Well, boy," continued the captain, "I have thought it over and I must do my duty, which is to send you back."

"Oh!" cried Marcus, and throwing his spear sharply into his left hand he held out his right to Serge.

"But if I do that duty," continued the captain, "it will be to expose you to greater risks amongst the marauders gathering everywhere now than if I take you with me."

"And you will let me come?" cried Marcus.

"I am obliged to, boy," said the captain, smiling, "for I can't help feeling that Cracis, if we meet, would blame me more for doing my duty than for letting you come. Here, old man, you shall not tramp after our horse to come in weary and distressed at every halt. I'll put the boy, as he is Cracis' son, in one of the chariots, one of the light ones drawn by Thracian horses. There are several with their drivers yonder that I have not yet manned. You as his spearman may accompany him, of course. There, boy, no thanks," continued the captain, sternly. "I have no time for more. Off with you to your place. One of my officers will see that all is right. What is that man? Away with you!" he shouted to the old crippled soldier, who had heard all and now hobbled forward to speak. But a couple of soldiers placed their spear shafts before him and drove him back.

But Marcus had seen, and sprang after him, dived under the spears and pressed a few coins into his hand before he was hurried away, babbling his thanks.

"I'd about given it up, Marcus, boy," said Serge just then. "Here, come along; here's a young captain waiting to show us where to go, and my word, talk about a piece of luck! I thought I was going to be taken away, never to see you again, and here we are. A chariot and pair with our own driver, and me to sit behind you and do nothing but tell you how to fight. Here, come along. Talk about a piece of luck! How old are you? Eighteen. Why, you'll be a general at the end of another week!"

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

THE CHARIOTEER.

"I shall never be able to do it, Serge," said Marcus, nervously, as he stood with his old companion looking admiringly at a pair of fiery-looking little steeds harnessed to a low chariot just big enough to afford room for three.

The little pair were being held, stamping and covering their sides with the foam they champed from their bits, by a short, broad-shouldered, swarthy driver, who had his work to restrain the impatient little animals.

They were less in size than what would now be termed cobs, almost ponies, but beautifully formed, arched-necked and heavily maned and tailed, a pair that had excited admiration in the boy's eyes as soon as he saw the chariot to which he had been led. But they were almost wild, and ready to resent the buffets given by their driver with teeth and hoofs.

"A chariot to be proud of," Serge had growled in the boy's ear. "Why, a captain needn't wish for better. I don't know what the master will say when he sees you."

"Oh, don't talk about the meeting, Serge. I feel so excited," replied the boy, and then he added the words which head this chapter.

"Never be able to do what?" cried the old soldier.

"Manage the chariot. It seems too much for me."

"Tchah!" cried Serge. "Don't want no managing. You've got your driver to take you where you tell him right at the enemy, when you get your orders to advance, and cut them up. You'll stand there in front with your spear or javelin, and I shall sit behind ready with spare ones for you to throw when you are amongst the enemy, and stop anyone who tries to come up behind if he's foolish enough. But I don't hold with throwing javelins. It wants a lot of practice, and those who have practised most, when they are going at full gallop, are pretty well sure to miss. I should like for you to use your spear, and keep it tightly in your hand. It means closer quarters, but your thrusts are surer, and you do better work. Besides, you don't lose your weapon."

"But I feel it's almost too much for me."

"Then don't feel at all," said the old soldier. "Go and do what you've got to do along with the cavalry when you have got your orders, and don't think at all. What you have got to do is to skirmish and drive the enemy, and what I have got to do is to mind they don't skirmish and drive you. There, jump in boldly, and look as big as you can."

"Nonsense! How am I to look big?"

"By opening your mouth, boy, and speaking loud. You are not afraid?"

"Oh no, I am not afraid," cried Marcus.

"Then don't let that little driver chap think you are," whispered Serge.

"Act like a captain. That little fellow is only your slave, but if you put on a scared look he'll try to play the master. Unlucky for him if he does, for, if he don't do what he's told, I'll crack him like I would a nut."

There was no time for more conversation, for the little detachment under the captain's command had already begun to advance; an order was brought to the cavalry, and the chariot driver appealed to Serge to come and stand at the horses' heads for a moment while he took the reins.

Serge changed places with him directly, while the driver a.s.sumed the reins, the slight touch upon the ponies' withers making them snort and plunge as much as Serge's strong arms at their bits would allow.

Then a trumpet rang out, Serge joined his young master in the chariot, and in a few minutes the ponies had settled down into a steady progress at the rear of the column.