Home > Authors Index > George Manville Fenn > Marcus: The Young Centurion > This page
Marcus: The Young Centurion, a novel by George Manville Fenn |
||
Chapter 17. Too Late |
||
| < Previous |
Table of content |
Next > |
|
________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. TOO LATE It was the beginning of a tramp that lasted days. Rome had been soon reached, but they were too late to witness the turmoil of excitement that had preceded and accompanied the departure of the last division of the army which, Marcus and his companion gathered from a group of invalided soldiers left behind, had been tarrying and awaiting the return of Caius Julius to assume the supreme command. He, they were told, had been away upon a mission to claim the assistance of some great general who was supposed to be an old friend full of wisdom; and he, they told Serge, had been brought in triumph to the city, to place himself with Julius at the head of the waiting men. "You should have been here then," said one old man, "and seen the welcome they had from our gallant boys and the women who crowded the streets waiting to see them go. Ah, it made the tears come into my old eyes to think that I should be left behind." "Then why were you left behind?" growled Serge. "You are not an older man than I." "No," said the old soldier, laughing softly, "but you have two legs to march on. I have only one and this stick." Marcus glanced sharply down at the speaker, and, seeing the boy's intention, the old fellow laughed again. "Oh, yes, you are thinking I lie. There's two of them, my lad, and one's as good a leg as ever stepped; but as for the other, it's years ago now, when I was with Julius, and I got a swoop from a Gallic sword; the savage ducked down as I struck at him, and brought his blade round to catch me just above the heel. But he never made another blow," continued the old man, grimly. "My short, sharp sword took him in the chest, and he never hurt a Roman again." "But you got over your wound?" cried Marcus, eagerly. "It soon healed up, my lad, but he had cut through the tendon, and I was never fit to march again, or I shouldn't be talking to you here. But look here, old fellow, you were ready enough to twit me about not being with the army. Why are you not there?" "Can't you see we are too late?" growled Serge, angrily. "Oh yes, that's plain enough," said the old man, maliciously, as he rested upon his staff, "and some great fighting men who win great battles with their tongues are always too late to strike a blow. How is it you are late like that?" "Oh, that's what you want to know, is it?" said Serge, surlily. "Yes," said the old man. "A man with legs like yours ought to have been there." "Well, I'll tell you," said Serge. "It was like this. My chariot had gone to have new wheels. But perhaps I might have made the old ones do. But both my chariot horses were down with a sort of fever. Then the driver had gone away to get married and couldn't be found, and so I had to walk. And now you know." "Bah!" cried the old man. "Look at your rough hands! You have been like me. You never had a chariot or horses of your own. You're only a working man. All lies." "Every word of it," said Serge, grinning, "'cept that it's true about me and the youngster here having to walk like our dog. But we want to get there, brother, as soon as we can, so put us on our way to overtake the army, or by a short track to cut it off." "Do you mean it?" said the old soldier. "Mean it? Of course!" cried Marcus, excitedly. "The division, mind, that's led by Caius Julius." "Ho, ho, my young cockerel!" cried the old man. "Then nothing will do for you but the best?" "Nothing," cried Marcus, eagerly. "We want to be where that great general is that Julius went to seek. Now put us on the way." "That's easily done," cried the old man. "There's a troop of horse that sets off to-night to follow the rear-guard, and they'll have chariots with them too. Go and see if you can get along with them. You've no horses, but you might run beside the chariots, and their drivers, as soon as they see there's stuff in you and that you want to fight, will give you a lift from time to time." "Run beside the chariots, eh?" said Serge, with a laugh, as he glanced at Marcus. "Running would suit you better, my lad, than it would me. I've got a deal more flesh to carry than you have, and running is not good in armour with a big helmet on your head. You'd have something to grumble at about feeling sore, or I'm mistaken. But never mind; we want to get there, don't we?" "Oh yes, we must get on," cried Marcus, "and if we can't run we can walk." "What I was going to say," cried Serge, "so put us on the right way, old comrade," he continued, to the old cripple, "and you shan't want for something to pay for to-morrow; eh, Marcus, my lad?" "Oh no," cried the boy, thrusting his hand into his pouch; but Serge clapped a hand upon his arm. "Wait a bit, boy," he said. "Don't pay for your work until it is done." A short time before, weary with their long tramp, the disappointment of finding that they were quite left behind had made the future look blank and dismal. But the old cripple's words seemed to bring the sun out again, and he hobbled along by their side through street after street, chattering volubly about his old experiences with the army and his disappointment now in seeing the sturdy warriors march off, legion after legion, leaving him behind. "Ah," he said, "it's lucky to be you, able to go, and luckier still for you to have met me who can lead you to the place where the last party are camping." "Where's that?" said Marcus, sharply, for the man seemed to be taking them a very devious course. "Just outside the gate, over yonder. There, you can see the wall, and in a few minutes we shall be there." The old soldier's words proved to be quite true, as, at the end of a few minutes, he led them to the little camp, all astir with the soldiery preparing to start--horsemen, chariots, baggage, horses and camp followers, all were there, with the leaders fuming and fretting about making the last preparations, and eager to make the start. The old soldier gave his new friends a nudge of the elbow and a very knowing look. "I know what to do," he said. "You leave it to me. I wasn't in a marching army for years without learning something. Yonder is a big captain, there by that standard. Nothing like going to the top at once. Come along." The old cripple drew himself up as well as he could, and, thumping his stick heavily down, led the way to the fierce-looking captain, whose face looked scarlet with anger and excitement. "Here, captain," cried the old man. The officer turned upon him angrily. "Who are you, and what do you want?" he roared. The old man pointed to Marcus and Serge. "Two brave fighting men," he cried; "volunteers, well-armed and trained, who want to join." "Oh, I've all I want," cried the captain, roughly, "and--" He stopped short, for, as he spoke, he ran his eyes over the two strangers, resting them longest upon Serge, and he hesitated. "Here, you," he said, as he noted the way in which Marcus' companion was caparisoned, "you've been in the army before?" "Years, captain," cried Serge, with military promptness. "I served with Cracis and Julius in the old war." "Hah! You'll do," cried the captain. "But I don't want boys." Marcus' spirits had been rising to the highest point, but the contemptuous tone in which these words were uttered dashed his hopes to the ground, and he listened despairingly as in imagination he saw himself rudely separated from his companion and left behind. The thoughts were instantaneous, and he was consoling himself with the reflection that Serge would not forsake him, and anticipating the old soldier's words, as Serge turned sharply upon his new commander. "Boys grow into men, captain," he said, sharply, "and I've trained this one myself. He can handle a sword and spear better than I." "Hah!" cried the captain, as he looked critically at Marcus, examining him from top to toe, whilst, as if for no reason whatever, he slowly drew his sword, while Marcus, who stood spear in hand and shield before him, in the attitude he had been taught by Serge, quivered beneath the captain's searching eye. "Trained him yourself, have you?" "Yes, captain--well." "He can use his weapons?" "Yes, captain." To the astonishment of both Serge and Marcus, and as if without the slightest reason, the big, burly, war-like captain made one step forward and with it like lightning he struck a blow with his sword right at the comb of Marcus' helmet, such a one as would have, had it been intended, brought the boy to his knees. But Serge had spoken truth when he said that he trained Marcus well, for, quicker in his action than the deliverer of the blow, Marcus had thrown up his shield-bearing left arm, there was a loud clang upon its metal guards as he received the sword blow, and, the next moment, the captain drew back as sharply as he had advanced, to avoid the boy's short spear, directed at his throat. "Good!" he cried. "Well done, boy!" And he began to sheath his sword. "Your teacher, an old hand, no doubt, could not have done better. Why, boy," he continued, "you are a soldier, every inch," and he grasped the lad by both arms. "But this won't do; you must lay on muscle here, and thicken and deepen in the chest. That helmet's too heavy for you too. Yes, you are quite a boy--a brave one, no doubt, and well-trained; but you are too young and slight to stand the hardships of a rough campaign. I should like to take you, but I want men--strong men like your companion here--and I should be wronging your parents if I took you. Whose son are you, boy?" "My father is Cracis, sir, a friend of Caius Julius, and he is at the front." "Ha!" cried the officer, looking at him searchingly. "Then why are you at the rear?" 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 passed 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!" _ |
||