Marcus: the Young Centurion Part 44

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

MARCUS' PROMISE.

"Seems to me, my lad," said Serge, "that we ought to have been started on this journey two days earlier."

"Yes, Serge," replied Marcus, in a despairing tone. "It's maddening.

Here have we gone on, almost starved, never getting a proper night's rest--"

"Well, but that's nothing to grumble at, my boy. That's soldiering; that is what I always told you. A soldier must be ready to fast and go without sleep, and be always prepared to fight. Now, didn't I teach you that?"

"Yes, Serge, but I didn't quite understand it then."

"But you do now?"

"Oh, yes, I know now; and I wouldn't care a bit if we could only overtake them. Three times over during the past week we have been so close that half a day's march must have brought us to the army."

"That's true," said Serge; "and each time we were cut off by parties of the enemy, and driven back, just as we thought we could march in, find the master and Caius Julius, and deliver our message. Fortune of war, my lad; fortune of war."

"Misfortune of war," cried Marcus, angrily. "Here, I don't know how many days it is since we started, for days and nights and time all seem to have grown mixed up together."

"Yes, we have had rather a muddled and worrying time of it, Marcus, lad."

"And now we are just as far off as ever."

"Well, not quite, my lad."

"I feel weak for want of food, and confused for want of sleep."

"Not you! You only fancy that because you're down in the dumps. You'll be all right as soon as ever there's anything wants doing and we have tumbled by accident near to one of those parties of the enemy, who all seem to be moving the same way as we are to surround the army."

"Yes, Serge, and that's what I am afraid they are doing, and keeping us outside. It's all desperate and bad."

"Oh, I don't know. We shall get to them some time," said Serge.

"Some time!" cried Marcus, mockingly. "Our poor general with his followers must have been utterly destroyed by this time."

"Tchah! Not he! You don't know what a Roman general can do. He'll hold out for months, or kill those who are attacking him. Give it up your fashion!"

"What do you mean by my fashion?" cried Marcus, sharply.

"Give it up in despair sort of way when there's no need."

"No need!" cried Marcus, bitterly. "You seem to be blind to the danger.

Why, the main army, as you must see perfectly well, has penetrated so far into the enemy's country that it is completely surrounded by the tribes that have gathered together, and are only now waiting for a favourable opportunity to fall upon it and crush it."

"Well, the army's no worse off than we are. They've surrounded us-- parties of them--only we wouldn't be crushed. It's just the same with the Roman army; it won't be crushed. I've taught you times enough, boy, what our generals can do--lock their men together, shield to shield, cohort to cohort, all facing outwards and bristling with spear and sword. These barbarians are brave enough and they rush at our men meaning to crush them and sweep them out of the country; and so they keep on at it, losing more and more, before they roll back beaten."

"Yes, Serge, but only to try again."

"Oh, of course. That's right enough, but it only means to be rolled back again. Now, look here, my boy; you have got your message to deliver."

"Yes, yes, I know," cried Marcus, despairingly.

"And you are a bit disappointed because it's not done. Everything's bad, you say. It's been all misfortune since we started, and we may as well give up at once."

"Well, isn't it all true?" cried Marcus, as he stood unconsciously caressing one of the chariot horses as the pair stood ready to make another dash at a moment's notice, their driver busying himself the while with seeing to and examining the different parts of the harness.

"True! Hardly a bit of it," cried Serge. "I ought to give you a good drilling and bullying for what you said; but somehow I can't, for we have had some very hard work, and all through you have been such a brave boy."

"Oh, nonsense, Serge! You are only saying that to comfort me. You will praise me so."

"Oh no I won't," said the old soldier, gruffly. "I won't give you a bit more than's good for you, boy. When I say you have done well it means you have done well. You won't get any flattery out of me. All this trouble that we are going through is no more than you must expect. Look what we are doing, and how we stand."

Serge was sitting down on a stone, busily employed as he talked polishing and sharpening his sword as it lay across his knees, and he did not trouble himself to look up at his young companion, but kept on lecturing him in a bluff, good-humoured way, smiling to himself with satisfaction all the time.

"Now here we are, trying to overtake our army, which had some days the start of us. If I say what you think isn't right, you stop me. Well, our army has invaded the country of these Gallic tribes. The Gauls are no fools. They know Caius Julius has come to conquer them, and they don't want to be conquered. Their idea is to invade Rome and conquer us. Well, my boy, we have come into their country, and every man who can fight has been called upon to come and fight against us, so that like a big crop in a cultivated land, what has been planted has come up all over. And this crop is fighting men with swords and spears. Now we--you and me and the driver, and we ought to put the horses in, bless 'em, for they've done wonders--have come after the army, marching through this bristling crop, and you, without taking any account of what a hard job it is to get through, keep on grumbling and saying everything is bad."

"And so it is, Serge."

"It arn't, boy!" cried the old soldier, firmly, and letting his sword rest, brightly polished and sharp as it was, he now raised his head and looked smilingly in the boy's face. "Haven't you got proof of it that things are not as bad as you say?"

"No," cried Marcus, angrily. "I was entrusted with a message to my father and Caius Julius, and I have not done my task."

"Not yet, boy, but you are going to at the first chance. Why, look here, my lad, if things were half as bad as you say they are we shouldn't be here. If we have escaped once from being taken or killed we have got through a dozen times. Look at us. Why, we haven't got a scratch, and here we are, better, ever so much, than when we started."

"Better?" cried Marcus.

"Yes, better. We are a bit hungry."

"I tell you I'm half starved," cried Marcus.

"Take your belt up another hole, then, boy. That's a splendid tightener. Hungry! Why, you talk about it as if it was a disease, when it's a thing you can cure yourself the first time you get hold of a big cake and a bowl of goat's milk."

"Oh, how you talk!" cried the boy, holding out his arm and trying to span his wrist with his fingers. "Look how thin I am getting."

"Thin!" cried Serge. "Why, you look prime. You have got rid of a lot of that nasty fat that was filling out your skin through doing nothing but sit on a stool all day making scratches with a stylus on a plate of wax. What does a soldier want with fat? Your armour's quite heavy enough to carry, without your being loaded up with a lot of fat. That's right enough for women and girls; makes 'em look smooth and nice and pretty, and fills up all the holes and corners; but a soldier wants bone and muscle--good, hard, tough muscle and sinew, and that's what you have got now. Look at me."

"Yes, I have looked at you time after time, Serge, and you look hollow-cheeked and haggard and worn."

"Why, I feel prime, my boy, ready for anything; ten years younger than when we started. Why, I have got into regular fighting condition again.

Did you see how I jumped into the car yesterday when the ponies started without me?"

"Yes, I saw you run ever so far and jump," cried Marcus.

"And you begin talking to me about being haggard and worn! Isn't a sword all the sharper for being a bit worn?"

"Yes, of course."