Chapter 4. Caught

________________________________________________
_ 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 passing 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."

"No, he must not."

"What!"

"He was so quiet and thoughtful yesterday evening, and again this morning, that he hardly looked at me at breakfast time; and when we went into the study he took up the new volume he is reading, and hardly raised his head again."

"Then you haven't been scolded for fighting?"

"Not in the least."

"So much the better for you."

"But I say, what in the world is the meaning of all this?" cried the boy, as he stepped to the rough table, upon which, bright with polishing, was a complete suit of armour such as would have been worn by a Roman man-at-arms if he had joined the army when a mere youth.

There lay the curved, brazen helmet with its comb arching over and edged with its plume, the scaled cheek-straps that held it in its place, the leathern breast and back-piece moulded and hammered into the shape of the human form, brazen shoulder-pieces, ornamentations and strengthening, the curved, oblong shield and short sword with lion's head to its hilt and heavy sheath.

There were two more helmets and suits of armour hanging from the walls, the one rich and ornamental, such as an officer would have worn, the other plain, and every indication visible of the old soldier having had a general clean up, the result of his polishing being that every piece of metal glistened and was as bright as hands could make it.

"Come in time?" said Serge. "What for? I didn't want you here."

"No, but I wanted to come. How beautiful it all looks!"

These words softened the old soldier's next remarks. He uttered a satisfied grunt as he said:

"Yes, I have had a good turn at them; but it seems a pity, don't it?"

"What seems a pity?"

"To wrap all that tackle up and put it away so as it shan't be seen, till I think it wants cleaning again."

"Yes, of course. But you are not going to put mine away."

"Oh, yes, I am," said the old man. "I didn't sleep all last night for thinking about it. I don't mean for us to get into any trouble with the master, so remember that."

"Look here, Serge!" cried the boy, angrily, "you can put your armour and father's away, of course, but this is mine, and I didn't save up the money father gave me and let you buy what was wanted and pay those old workmen, the smith and armourer, to cut down and alter and make all these things to fit me, to have them all wrapped up and put away where I can't see them."

"But you must, boy. You are not going to fight."

"Never mind that. I am not going to have them put away."

"Why not?"

"Because I want to put them on sometimes."

"Bah! To go and strut about like a full-plumaged young cockerel in the spring, and look at yourself in a bit of glass!"

"No; I'm not so vain," said the boy; "but I've got that armour and those weapons, and you have been teaching me how to use a sword and spear, and a lot more besides, and I mean to go on learning--so mind that."

"Ho!" cried the old man. "And who's going to teach you?"

"You are, till I'm perfect."

"Can't ever get perfect in using a sword and spear. It arn't to be done, no matter how you practise."

"Well, I mean to get as perfect as I can, and you are going on teaching me."

"Nay," said the old man; "once a fool don't mean always a fool. I am going to put all these away, and you have got to forget it."

"No!" cried the boy, angrily. "I shall never forget what you've taught me, Serge--never; and I'm not going to have my things put away. You shall keep them here, as you have since you fetched them home one after the other as they were made."

"And all too big for you, so that you might fill up and grow into them," said the old soldier, with a sigh of regret.

"And I have grown, ever so much, Serge."

"You have, lad; and you're big-boned, and you'll make a big man one of these days. You were framing finely for a soldier, my boy. But that's all over now."

"No, it isn't," cried the boy, impatiently, "and you shall go on teaching me about all the fighting and the men's shields being all linked together so that the enemy shouldn't break through the serried ranks."

"Nay, my lad," sighed the old warrior; "that was all very grand, but I don't know what I could have been thinking about to let you persuade me to teach you what I did, all going against the master's orders as it was. I suppose I liked it, for it put me in mind of the old days; but I seem to have come to myself like and know better now. You tempted me, my lad, and I'm afraid I tempted you; but no more of it. I'm sorry for what's done, and the best way to be sorry for it is to own up and never do so any more."

"Then you mean that you're to leave off teaching me?"

"Yes, my lad; that's so."

"And suppose I say, as your master: 'you shall go on.' What then?"

"I should say: 'you're not going to disobey your father's orders any more, but to give all this soldiering up like a man.'"

"Serge!"

"That's right, my lad, and I know you aren't going to set your face against what the master says I'm right, aren't I?"

"Yes, Serge," said the boy, sadly; "but it seems very hard."

"It do, boy, very, very hard; but orders are orders, and I forgot to teach you what is the first thing a soldier has to learn."

"What's that, Serge? How to use his sword and shield? You did teach me that."

"No, that's not what I meant. What a soldier has to learn first is to obey orders, and I want to teach you that now."

Marcus was silent for a while, as he stood looking wistfully at the speaker, then at the bright soldierly accoutrements, back at the old man, and lastly, as if the bright weapons and armour fascinated him, he stood frowning fixedly down at everything that was spread out upon the rough table.

The boy's looks and actions affected the old man, who said sadly:

"It do seem hard, lad, eh?"

"Yes, very, very hard, Serge," replied Marcus.

"But it's duty, boy, eh! What we ought to do?"

"Yes, Serge, and it must be done; but I wish we had never begun it all."

"Ay, lad, so do I; but it's of no use to wish. There, have one good look at it, and then I'll put it all away in the big chestnut box."

"But I shall want to look at it all sometimes, Serge."

"Well, I don't see no harm in that, my boy. Only no more fighting lessons."

"No," sighed Marcus; "no more fighting lessons. You are right, Serge, and I'm going to forget all about it if I can; but I shall always feel that I should have liked to be a Roman soldier."

"Ah, you can't help that, boy, of course."

"No, I can't help that," sighed Marcus, and, stretching out his hands, he picked up the heavy brazen helmet, looked at it round and round before turning it with the back towards him, and then, slowly raising it, he balanced the heavy head-piece on high for a few moments before slowly lowering it down upon his head; the scaled cheek-straps fell into their places, and he drew himself up erect with his eyes flashing and face lighting up, as he gazed half defiantly at the old soldier.

"Hah!" cried the latter. "It do fit you well, boy, and you look nearly a man in it."

"Do I, Serge?" cried the boy, flushing, as he put off the helmet with a sigh, and set it aside; then, catching up the sword and belt, he went out on to the _Piazza_ to buckle them on, his fingers trembling with excitement the while.

"Do you, boy? Yes, and a regular soldier too," said Serge, following.

Marcus threw his hand across and grasped the scabbard of the short sword blade with his left, the hilt with his right, and, the next moment, the keen, two-edged weapon flashed in the sunlight.

"Good! Brave boy!" cried the old soldier excitedly, and, forgetting all the words that had passed, he fetched the oblong, round-faced shield from the table and held it ready for Marcus to thrust his left arm through the loop and then grasp the hand-hold firmly, and draw the piece of defensive armour before his breast. "Well done! Now think that I'm going to cut you down."

In an instant Marcus had drawn back with all his weight upon his right foot, as he slightly raised the shield to cover his head and left breast, before throwing himself forward again, bringing up his right hand, sword-armed as it was, and delivering a thrust which, in the boy's excitement, lightly touched the folds of the thick woollen garment which crossed his breast, while the receiver smartly drew himself aside.

"Gently, boy!" he shouted. "I didn't mean you to do that!"

"Oh, Serge!" cried Marcus, flushing scarlet. "I didn't mean to touch you like that! I haven't hurt you, have I?" he cried.

"Well, no," said the old fellow, smiling grimly; "but it was very near, and the point of that sword's as sharp as I could grind it."

"I'm so sorry," cried Marcus. "I didn't think."

"Lucky for me I did," said Serge, with a laugh. "Did you think I was an enemy?"

"No," cried Marcus, hurriedly; "I thought--no, I didn't think."

"Of course you didn't, boy, but--"

"What is the meaning of this?" said a stern voice, and a bare-headed figure draped in the folds of a simple Roman toga stood looking wonderingly at the pair. _

Read next: Chapter 5. The Trouble Grows

Read previous: Chapter 3. An Old-Fashioned Fight

Table of content of Marcus: The Young Centurion


GO TO TOP OF SCREEN

Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book