Marcus: the Young Centurion Part 3

Nibblers wouldn't do for him, would they, Lupe, old man? He wants good tools to tackle the wolves in winter. There, it's all over, and I don't feel so savage now. Here, you had better go and have a good wash while I see to the vine poles and put in a new un or two from the stack. I expect I shall have to prune a bit too, and tie, where those young ruffians have been at work. Let's get a bit tidy before the master comes back, though I don't suppose he'd take any notice if there wasn't a grape bunch left. But he'd see the dirt and scratches on your face first thing."

"Yes, of course," cried the boy, hastily, as he held up his knuckles, two of which were minus skin, and showing traces of dried blood. "But I say, Serge, look at my face. Is it much knocked about?"

"Well, pretty tidy, my lad. You look as if you had been in the wars.

Nose is a little bit knocked on one side."

"Oh, Serge!" cried the boy, showing real excitement now.

"Left eye looks a bit sleepy, too."

"Serge!"

"Well, you asked me, my lad--and your bottom lip has been cut against your tooth."

"Oh, what will he say?" cried the boy, wildly.

"I dunno," growled the old soldier, grimly. "Yes, I do," and his eyes twinkled with satisfaction and pride in the prowess his young master had displayed.

"What will he say?" cried the boy, anxiously, and as if he placed full confidence in the old servant's words.

"Say you oughtn't to have been fighting, but been busy scratting about with your stylus and making marks on that wax."

"But I was busy, only it was so hot and one couldn't keep awake; and when I heard those fellows breaking down the vines--"

"Why, you went out and walloped them, of course," cried the man. "Quite nat'ral. What boy wouldn't who had got any stuff in him at all? There, don't you fret yourself about it, lad. The master will grumble at you a bit, of course, same as he does at me; but he's a right to, and it's only his way as he's got into now since he took to his books and writing. But there was a time--ah! And not so very long ago, my lad-- when if he'd caught those ragged young cubs tearing down his vines, he'd have stood and laughed and enjoyed seeing you thrash 'em, and helped you with his stick. And done them good too, made men of them, knowing what was right. But there, those days have all pa.s.sed away. No more marching in the legion with the men's plumes dancing in the sunshine, and every man's armour as bright and clean as hands can make it. Ah, Marcus, my boy, those were grand old days, when we marched out to conquer, and came back and made grand processions, and the prisoners carrying all the spoil. I did hope to have seen you as fine a young centurion, growing into a general, as your father was before you. But-- but--There, don't stand staring at me with your eyes shining, your face red, and your mouth half open like that. Be off at once and have a good wash, and bathe those cuts and bruises till they look better."

"Yes! I had better go," said the boy, with a sigh. "It was a great bother for those boys to come. I meant when you came back for us to have some practice with the shield and spear, and then for you to show me again how to use the sword."

"Hah, yes," growled the old man, drawing a deep breath through his dilating nostrils, and unconsciously he whirled up his crook with one hand, and as he dropped into a picturesque att.i.tude with one foot advanced and let the stout staff drop into his extended left hand, "that's the way," he cried. "Fancy, boy, a thousand spears presented all at once like that to the coming barbarians, and then the advance slowly and steadily, driving them scattered back, while the trumpets sounded and the ground quivered like a coming earthquake beneath the army's tramp. That's how we conquered and made the fame of grand old Rome. Bah! What an old fool I am!" he cried, as he stamped the end of his crook down once more, "I forget I'm not a soldier now, boy, only Cracis' man who tends his farm and keeps his swine."

"Never mind, Serge; we are very nice and happy here. The place is so beautiful. Father likes you."

"Bah! Not he! He only looks upon me as a slave."

"That he doesn't!" cried the boy, indignantly. "Why, only the other day he was talking about you."

"About me?"

"Yes, and saying what a happy, peaceful place this was."

"Peaceful! Bah!"

"And that it didn't matter what came to pa.s.s, he had me with him."

"Of course! Spoken like a father."

"And you," continued the boy, "a true old friend in whom he could trust."

"What!" cried the old soldier. "What! Friend? Did he say that?"

"Of course. He often talks like that."

"A friend in whom he could trust!" muttered the old soldier. "And here have I been listening to you and doing what I know he'd hate."

He gripped the boy sharply by the wrist as he spoke.

"Why, Serge, what do you mean?" cried the boy, wonderingly.

"Mean! Why, what have I been doing? Doesn't he want you to grow up as one who hates fighting, and a lover of peace? And here have I been teaching you how to use the sword and spear and shield, making of you one who knows how to lead a phalanx to the fight--a man of war. What would he say if he knew?"

Marcus was silent.

"I have done wrong, boy," continued the old soldier, "and some day he'll find us out."

The boy was still silent for a few moments. Then quickly--

"I must tell him some day, Serge, that it was all my doing--that I wouldn't let you rest until you had taught me what I know."

"That's true, boy," said Serge, in a sombre tone, "and it all comes of letting you see me take so much care of his old armour and his sword and spear. Yes, like my own old arms and weapons, I have kept them all bright and ready for use, for it's always seemed to me as if the time might come and bring the order for us to march to tackle some of Rome's old enemies, or to make new conquests--perhaps to Gaul--and that we must be ready for that day. I oughtn't to have done it, boy, but I was an old soldier, one who loved to see his weapons ready for the fight, and somehow I did. There, off you go! It's no use to think now of what is done."

CHAPTER FOUR.

CAUGHT.

It was the next day, under a brilliant blue Italian sky, that Marcus, after spending the morning with his father in the room he devoted to his studies, hurried out with a sense of relief to seek out the old soldier, whom he expected to find repairing damages amongst the vines. But the damages were repaired, and very few traces remained of the mischief that had been done; but several of the upright fir-poles looked new, and there were marks of knife and bill-hook upon some of the fresh cross-pieces that had been newly bound in their places. But a freshly tied-in cane and the careful distribution of the broad leaves pretty well hid the injured places, and Marcus walked away smiling as he thought of the encounter he had had, while pa.s.sing his fingers daintily over bruise and cut, and feeling gently a place or two that were tender still. He walked down one path and up another of the garden, his eyes wandering about to see if Serge were busy there; but he was absent, and there was no sign of him in the farmyard, and none of the labourers whom he found at work could give any news of his whereabouts.

For quite half an hour the boy wandered about the well-kept little estate of his father before beginning to return towards the villa embowered in flowers that had been carefully trained over the stone walls, when, going round to the back, he heard a burring sound as if someone with a very unmusical voice were trying to sing; and, hurrying along a path, after muttering impatiently, the boy made for an open window, grasping the fact that he had had all his walk and search for nothing, and that, if he had gone round to the two rooms set apart for the old soldier's use before going out, he would have found him there.

Marcus dashed up to the window, and looked in.

"Why, Serge," he cried, "I've been hunting for you everywhere! Ah!

What are you doing there?"

Without waiting for an answer, the boy drew sharply back, ran to an open doorway, entered and made his way at once into Serge's room, a rough museum in its way of the odds and ends of one who acted as herdsman, gardener, and general odd man to the master of the little country Roman villa.

"Why, I have just come in time!"

"Oh, here you are, then," said Serge, ignoring the boy's question.

"Well, what did the master say about the broken vines?"

"Nothing," replied Marcus.

"Well, about your cuts and bruises?"

"Nothing," said the boy again.

"He must have said something, seeing how you're knocked about."