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Marcus: The Young Centurion, a novel by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 9. The Old Armour |
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_ CHAPTER NINE. THE OLD ARMOUR When Marcus went to bed his habit was to drop his head upon his pillow, close his eyes in the darkness, and, as it seemed to him, open them the next minute to find it was broad daylight, and spring out of bed; but, almost for the first time in his life, he, that night, lay tossing about, thinking how hot it was, getting in and out of bed to open the window wider or to close it again, changing from side to side, and trying as hard as he possibly could to go off to sleep; and, even when at last he succeeded, it seemed that he had suddenly plunged into a new state of wakefulness in which he was listening to Caius Julius and then quarrelling with him. Then his father seemed mixed up with his dream, and all kinds of the wildest imaginings came forming processions through his fevered brain. Armies of barbarians were marching to attack Rome. His father was a great warrior and general once again, fighting to save his country. Then he was the quiet student once more in his white toga, chiding him for his love of arms and armour; and, directly after, Serge seemed to come upon the scene, to catch their strange visitor by the ankle with his crook and threaten to thrash him for breaking down the fir-poles and stealing the grapes. From dreams peopled in this incongruous way the boy woke up again and again, making up his mind that he would not go to sleep any more to be worried by what he termed such a horrible muddle. The night, which generally passed so quickly, seemed as if it would never end, and when at last he did start up from perhaps the worst and most exciting dream of all, to find that the sun was just about to rise, he sprang off his bed with a sigh of relief, dressed, and went out into the garden to have what he called a good rest. His intention was to go round to the back and rouse up Serge, not to make any confidence, but just to have a talk about the coming of the visitor and the surly reception the old soldier had given to his father's friend; but, before he had gone many yards, a gleam of something white amongst the trees caught his attention, and he found himself face to face with his father. "You out so soon?" he cried, in astonishment. "Yes, boy; it has been no time for sleep. I have had too much to think about." "But, father--" began the boy. Cracis held up his hand. "Wait," he said. "Our visitor, Marcus, seems to have been as sleepless as I; here he comes." For at the same moment they caught sight of Caius Julius leaving the doorway; and, upon seeing them, he came quickly to join them, with extended hand. The rest of that morning seemed afterwards one whirl of confusion to Marcus, in which he could recall his father's words to their visitor, and his quiet, grave declaration of how much it meant to him to have to give up his calm and peaceful home and its surroundings to plunge at once into the toil, excitement and care of public life. Marcus recalled too how, divining how they seemed to wish to be alone, he had left them pacing up and down beneath the shading vines, talking earnestly, while he consoled himself by joining Serge, who was in as great a state of excitement as himself and literally pelted him with questions which he could not answer, making the old soldier turn from him fiercely after telling him that he might speak out if he liked, instead of being so obstinate and refusing to trust him with what he knew. Serge went off in high dudgeon, while, hardly giving him a thought, Marcus strolled back towards the garden in the hope that his father would take some notice of him and call him to his side. It was then approaching mid-day, and this time he was not disappointed, for, as soon as the boy appeared, Cracis signed to him to approach. "Come here, Marcus," he said; and the boy noticed that their visitor smiled at him in a satisfied way. "I am going away, my boy," he said, "to leave our quiet little home, on very serious business." "Soon, father?" cried Marcus, excitedly, as his father stopped short. "Very soon, boy--now--at once. That is, as soon as I can make my preparations." Marcus drew a deep breath. "You are going to follow--him?" "I am going with my old friend Caius Julius." "And you'll take me with you, father?" Cracis was silent for a few moments, and he sighed deeply as he laid his hand upon his son's head. "No, my boy; I must leave you behind. I am going to take part in a great struggle." "A great struggle, father? You don't mean a war?" "Yes, my boy, I do mean a war." "Oh!" exclaimed Marcus, and he turned sharply upon their visitor, looking the question he longed to put, while Caius Julius met his eyes and bowed in silence. "You are too young," said Cracis, slowly; "and now I want you to help me for the short time I am here making my preparations." "Yes, father," cried the boy, in a choking voice; "but I should like for you to--" "Yes," said Cracis, interrupting him and speaking very firmly, "I know what you would say--take you with me--but it cannot be. Now, Marcus, you are only a boy, but I want you to let my old friend see that you can act like a man. Do you understand?" "Yes, father." "Then look here, my boy. I reproved you and Serge rather harshly the other day for what you had done--Serge especially, for treasuring up and keeping in order my old war-like gear; but Marcus, one never knows what Fate has in store for us. I could not foresee, neither, for that matter, could he, what was so soon to come, but he did quite right. Now then," he continued, sharply, "away with you at once, and get out all the arms that I shall want, for I cannot leave here as student, but as a soldier once again. You understand?" Marcus nodded, quickly. He could not trust himself to speak. "Go to my room then, at once, to the big, old chest. Stop!" he cried, when Marcus was half way to the door. "Serge knows better than you. Call him and take him with you to help you lay out what I shall require. That will do. At once." His brain whirling with excitement, his heart sinking with disappointment and despair, Marcus ran into the house, striving to make duty conquer all, his first effort being to drag his thoughts from self and condense them upon the task he had in hand. "Where shall I find Serge?" he muttered. "He'll be gone off somewhere in the fields. Which way had I better go?" The question had hardly formed itself in his brain as he was hurrying across the little court where the fountain played, when the big, burly figure of the old soldier stopped his way. "Want me, boy?" he cried, hoarsely. "Yes, Serge. Father is going away at once." "With that Caius Julius?" cried the old soldier. "I know him now. It seemed to come to me like this morning when I woke. What does it mean then? The master a prisoner?" "No, Serge; he's going with him to the war. But come, quickly!" he added, as the man stood staring at him as if struck speechless with wonderment. "Don't talk--don't ask me questions. Father wants his weapons and his armour at once. Come on. You are to help me get them ready." The old soldier was standing before him with his herdsman's staff in his hand as if ready to go off round the farm, and, drawing himself up, he grasped the stout crook in both his hands, bent down, placed one knee against it, and, with one effort of his great strength, snapped it across his knee as if it were a twig and threw the pieces from him with a gesture of contempt. "Hah!" he cried, with a deep expiration of his breath. "At last, boy! The master is going to be himself again. There, don't talk to me! I know! I have lain awake, boy, cursing that Caius Julius for coming here to disturb the master's quiet life. He was his enemy always, and I could see nothing in it but ill--blind fool that I was! I can bless him now. Come on, boy! I know! Who was right now in keeping the swords sharp and the armour bright?" The next minute the great chest had been dragged out into the middle of Cracis' room and the old soldier was down upon his knees joyously unpacking the war-like equipments that he had so sadly stowed away so short a time before. They were all mingled together so as to make them fit and the great chest contain them all, and as, taking the lead, Serge worked on, it was with a rapid touch that he sorted the three suits, giving each its place, his own armour and weapons, the more handsomely furnished appertaining to his master, and those of the boy, which had been fitted in. The two former portions he laid to right and left, and, as he drew them forth, he sent pang after pang through the breast of Marcus, for it seemed to him that Serge laid his father's offensive and defensive pieces of accoutrement together with almost reverent care, banging his own together heavily, while, as he dislodged those portions that had been prepared and fitted with such pride to suit the youth who wore them, they were pitched carelessly upon the bed to clash and jingle as if in protest at being looked upon now, when reality ruled the occasion, as toys and of no account. "Ah!" cried the old soldier, as, when he had nearly finished, he drew out from the bottom of the chest the smallest of the shields and pitched it so that it fell upon Cracis' pillow, suggesting to Marcus that the man meant that it should lie there in his master's absence and sleep; but Serge saw nothing of Marcus' agitated countenance, for he was gazing into the future. "Here we are," he cried, as he lifted out his own and Cracis' shields together, to stand them up on edge so that he could separate them, for the loops and handles were tightly wedged together so that they seemed loth to come apart. "How soon will he be coming here for me to gird him up?" "Directly, he said, Serge," replied the boy. "Then you look sharp, my lad, and put those things of yours back into the chest out of the way. I shall be wanting him to sit there while I fasten some of his buckles and straps. To think of its coming to this again!" he cried, joyously. "Why, how many years is it since I did it last? Why, you were a little toddling boy, and here you are getting on to be a man--man enough, Marcus, to help me and buckle on and hitch together some of the slides and studs when I dress myself." Marcus nodded, with a look of despair and envy in his eyes, while the old soldier bent down, caught up his old legionary helmet from the floor, gave it a slap with one hand, and then placed it upon his head, to draw himself up proudly before the boy, and give his foot a stamp, as he struck an attitude and cried: "Burn my old straw hat, Marcus, when I am gone. This fits me again like a shell does one of the old white snails, and makes me feel like a soldier and a man again, instead of a herdsman and a serf." He had hardly finished speaking when the door was thrown open, and as if imbued by his old follower's feelings, Cracis, no longer in his movements the calm, grave student, but the general and leader of men once more, strode quickly into the room and stopped short as the old soldier drew himself up motionless in his helmet, stiffly awaiting his officer's next command. It seemed to Marcus, too, no longer his calm, grave father who, the next moment, spoke as he raised one hand and pointed at the helmet his man had donned. "What is the meaning of this, Serge?" he said, sternly. "Only the thought of old times, general," cried Serge, sharply, and to Marcus the man's manner struck him as being completely changed, for he spoke shortly and bluntly, standing up as stiff and erect as before, and then in his misery and disappointment there was something very near akin to malicious triumph as his father said, sternly: "Tut, man! Take that off! Did you think you were going too?" Serge's jaw dropped. _ |
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