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Marcus: The Young Centurion, a novel by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 31. The General's Tent |
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_ CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. THE GENERAL'S TENT The driver's face lit up as he saw Marcus and Serge come to his help, for the battle was as nothing to him compared to the state of the chariot and horses; and he eagerly set to work over the extraction of the vehicle, which, though splintered and battered, was not much the worse for the accident, and was soon dragged out from where it had been wedged close to the spot where the horses, now quit calmed, had settled down to browse upon the grass, which grew in abundance outside the clump of trees. It was the harness which had fared the worst, but the driver and Serge were both pretty handy, and by the time the day dawned tying and lacing had done their work, so that, excepting appearance, the ropes, straps and thongs were as good as ever, and, tired and anxious, Marcus hurried his companions into the chariot to start for the camp. Guessing at the direction where the slope led, they had just started when they were encountered by a minor officer at the head of a party of men, who looked hard at them and accosted them with: "Have you seen anything of an overturned chariot in a clump of trees?" "Yes," said Marcus, smiling. "Which way?" cried the officer, who looked surprised at Marcus' way of receiving the question. "Straight down that slope," said Marcus. "You can almost see the trees from here." The officer nodded his thanks and was turning away, but Marcus stopped him by saying: "The chariot is not there now." "Not there?" "No; this is it." "Ah!" cried the officer, eagerly. "Then you are the youth and this is the man I want." "What for?" asked Marcus, flushing slightly. "Oh, you'll know soon enough. My chief has sent me to find you. It is for something that took place in the fight last night." "Something that took place in the fight last night?" faltered Marcus, wearily. "But tell me, did the Romans win the battle?" "Oh, yes, of course; but don't stop to talk. I must make haste back. You haven't been murdering and plundering the people, have you?" "No, of course not," cried Marcus, sharply. "So much the better for you," said the officer, shortly. "Come along." He gave orders to some of his men to form up behind the chariot, and with the rest he placed himself in front, and gave the order to march, leading off at once to the left of the route in which the chariot had been moving when it was stopped. "Why, anyone would think that we were prisoners," said Marcus, who felt annoyed, but, satisfied that they were being taken to the camp, he thought of his message and was content. He, however, reached over the front of the chariot and called to the young officer, asking who was in command of the army. The young man looked at him superciliously. "What is it to you?" he said, shortly. "Ask the general himself when you come before him, and then perhaps you will be able to explain why you who are Romans have come to be fighting on the side of the Gaul." "What!" said Marcus. "Do you know that--" "Never mind what I know, my lad," said the officer, shortly, "and don't speak to me again in that free off-hand tone. Please to understand that I am an officer and you a prisoner. Forward, and mind this: any attempt to escape will be followed by a shower of spears." "Thanks," said Marcus, sarcastically; and he turned to Serge. "I shall not tell him why we have come," he said, with his face of a deeper red than before. "That's right, boy," growled Serge. "We don't want him to be civil; all we want is for him to take us to the general. You can tell him why we have come." They were ascending a slope that grew more and more steep, and the morning would have seemed beautiful to Marcus, whose heart beat high at the prospect of being able to deliver his message to the general in command, whoever it might be; but the beauty of the scene and the approaching sunrise were marred by the traces left by the battle, which they were constantly passing: the dead here, wounded men waiting for help there; the trampled and stained earth everywhere. It was a pleasant relief when the top of the hill they were ascending had been reached, though it showed no trace of any camp till the descending slope came into view, and then the adventurers found that they had to cross a valley, beyond which, with the trench and banks showing in rich brown tints gilded by the rays of the rising sun, was the Roman camp, with its few tents and moving columns of men passing up the flanks of the steep hill upon which it stood, evidently returning in regular order from the pursuit of the scattered foes who had resisted the attack upon the invader during the past night. In his eagerness Marcus gave an order to the driver for the chariot to advance down the slope and cross the valley at a trot; but the officer turned upon him angrily, and ordered two of his spear-armed men to take the ponies by the rein, and in this fashion Marcus and his companion were led right to the centre of the camp before one of the tents, up to whose entrance the officer marched, spoke to another who was on guard, and then entered. "Got all you want to say ready?" whispered Serge. "Yes," whispered back Marcus. "Oh, if he would only be quick! This is all wasting time." The young officer was quick enough, for he returned directly, and his manner seemed changed as he stepped up to the chariot. "Follow me, sir," he said. "The generals will see you directly." Marcus' heart beat quicker than ever now, as he sprang from the chariot, wincing slightly from his stiffness, while Serge limped and screwed up his face as he strove in vain to hold himself erect. It was bright with the early sunshine outside the tent, where Marcus now found himself face to face with a stern-looking man in the dress of a general, who sat with his hand resting upon his helmet. But he was not alone, for another officer was lying upon a rough couch, evidently, from his bandaged head, wounded; but he was fully dressed, and his helmet and sword were upon the rolled-up cloak at the side of his averted head. "You are welcome," began the sitting general, warmly. "I have sent for you to give you the thanks of my injured friend, whose life--Why, what is this! My severe young friend Marcus here!" "What!" came from the couch, and its occupant sprang into a sitting position. "Father!" cried Marcus, and Serge, who had doffed his helmet, now in his astonishment let it fall upon the skins which covered the ground with a heavy thud. As Marcus spoke he ran to his father's side and sank down upon one knee to gaze anxiously in his face. "Are you much hurt?" he said, hoarsely. "No, no, not much, my boy," said Cracis; "but in the excitement I did not know you, Marcus. Oh, it seems impossible that you could have been my preserver!" "It was more Serge than I, father," cried Marcus, quickly. "Nay, nay, nay!" growled the old soldier, in his hoarsest tones. "Speak the truth, boy." "That is the truth," cried Marcus, quickly. "I helped, of course, but it was him, master, who made that cut at the Gaul's spear and knocked him over. But we neither of us knew that it was you." "But you, Marcus, my boy," said Cracis, as he gazed wonderingly in his son's face, while Caius Julius watched them both in turn--"you knew me, of course?" "No, father," replied Marcus, whose face was scarlet now with excitement. "I only saw that it was a Roman officer." "And you dashed at once to his help," said Caius Julius, smiling. "Well, it was a brave act then, while now I scarcely know what to call it. Why, Marcus, you must feel very proud of what you have done." "Stop!" cried the boy, quickly, eager to end the words of praise and compliment. "Yes, stop," said Cracis, sternly. "You here, Marcus, in a soldier's armour, and Serge as well! Is this the way my commands are obeyed? Why are you here?" "To bring the message of the general commanding the rear-guard, father. He is shut in on the snowy pass that crosses the mountain, and held there by many times his number of the enemy; and he sent me and Serge to the army here to ask for help." "He sent you, boy?" cried Cracis, quickly. "Yes, father," replied Marcus, "and I was to say that at all cost he would hold out till help was sent." "Help shall be sent at once," said Cracis, firmly; "or better still, Julius," he continued, "our work being so far completed, with yesterday's victory, we will march to his help ourselves." Caius Julius bent his head without saying a word, and then sat back in his seat, attentively watching father and son. "But your message did not answer my question, boy," said Cracis, coldly. "Marcus, my son, how came it that you were with the little army that at my orders was to follow in our wake, crushing down the Gauls who would be sure to gather after we had passed? Speak out, sire: how came you there?" "I could not bear it, father: something seemed to tell me that you would be in danger, and I followed you to Rome, and then on here." "Then you disobeyed my commands, boy," said Cracis, sternly; and Marcus sank upon his other knee, clasped his hands, and held them out before him. Closing his eyes then he threw back his head and was silent while one might have slowly counted ten. Then in a low, distinct tone, full of sorrow and despair, he said slowly: "Yes, father; I disobeyed your command." "And you, Serge, my old and trusted servant, old soldier though you were," continued Cracis, in tones that sounded icy, "as soon as my back was turned you plotted with my son to follow me and forsake your post." "Nay, master," cried Serge, quickly; "there was no plotting. I deserted first." "Hah!" ejaculated Caius Julius again, and his clearly-cut face looked as if it were formed of marble. "Worse and worse," cried Cracis, angrily. "Then you set the example which my weak son followed?" "No, father," cried Marcus, quickly; "I did not know that Serge had gone." "Ah!" said Cracis, quickly. "What excuse have you to make, sir, for deserting your post?" "I didn't, master," cried the old soldier, stoutly. "I didn't desert my post. My post was where I was last night, at my master's side. It was my post that deserted me." "What!" cried Cracis, angrily. "Insolent!" "Nay, master," cried the old soldier; "I'm as humble as young Marcus there, and I'd kneel down just the same as he's a-doing now, but them Gauls knocked me about so in the fight that my legs won't bend. Look here, master; I couldn't help it. I was just like the boy there; I felt somehow that you'd want your old follower's help, and I was obliged to come and join you. You see, we came together, and reached you just in time." "You disobeyed my commands, Serge," said Cracis, speaking as if deaf to his old follower's appealing words. "You too, my son; but the words of both tell of the repentance in your breasts. Prove, then, by your next acts that you are willing to make amends. Silence! Do not speak, but act. The horrors and bloodshed of this campaign are not for my son and servant. You, Serge, do your duty as guardian--you, Marcus, yours, in obedience at once. Back home at once, and I will forgive." "And leave you now, father, wounded, amidst all these perils?" cried Marcus, wildly. "I cannot! I would sooner die!" Cracis started angrily to his feet and tore the bandage from his head, as at that moment two officers advanced as if to receive commands. "You hear me, Marcus?" he cried, sternly. "You hear me, Serge?" "Yes, master," said the old soldier, slowly, and making an effort with his bruised and stiffened limb, he slowly passed his hand across to his left side and drew his short, heavy sword, passed the hilt into his left so that he could clasp the blade with his right, and in that way held it out to Cracis as he went on speaking: "I disobeyed you once, master, and that's enough for a Roman soldier. Take hold. I've kept it as sharp as it was in the old days when I followed you to victory, ready to die for you, master, as I am this day, for I can't live to disobey you again. Take it, I say, master, and let me die at once; better that you should cut me down than that I should myself fall upon my sword, for that has always seemed to me a coward's death." "Stop, Serge!" cried Marcus, passionately, and he laid his hand upon his old comrade's blade. "I am a Roman, if only a boy, and I have the right to appeal." Turning to Caius Julius, he cried: "You refused me once, sir, when I appealed to you, saying that I was but a weak unseasoned boy--not in those words, but that is what you meant." Caius Julius gravely bent his head, and fixed his keen, glittering eyes upon the speaker, who went on: "Since then I have tried hard to prove myself worthy to bear the arms I was taught by an old soldier to use." The general bowed his head slowly once again. "Then help me, sir. It is from no desire to disobey, but I feel that I cannot leave my father now. Forgive me, father. I cannot obey you. Forgive me, too, for this appeal." "Yes," said Caius Julius, rising from his seat and taking a step or two forward. "You both disobeyed, and came here bearers of an important despatch which means more than you, boy, can imagine, in time to save a father's and a master's life. Serge, old comrade," he continued, laying his hand upon the unsheathed sword, "keep your blade for our enemies. If it prove necessary I will kneel for you to my oldest friend and ask his forgiveness for you and my brave young soldier here. Boy," he continued, "you have confessed your fault as your father's son, but since he left you, a simple scholar, you have become a soldier and bravely done your duty in your country's cause. Cracis, my brother general, I grant your son's appeal. Endorse it, man, for a fault so frankly acknowledged is half atoned." "I must have obedience," said Cracis, coldly, "not defiance, at a time like this." "I feel with you, old friend," said Caius Julius, slowly, "but your wounds have fevered you, and it has not been cool, calculating Cracis who has spoken, but the angry, offended general. Brother, you desire that your old servant and your son should return home at once?" "Yes," said Cracis, speaking faintly now. "How?" said Caius Julius, quickly. "Alone, to fight their way through the thousands of half conquered Gauls who will bar their way to the pass where the great captain is waiting for help?" Cracis looked wildly at his brother in arms, and then slowly turned his eyes upon his son--eyes that had flashed but a short time before, but which now softened into a look of loving pride, as he slowly sank back insensible upon his rough pillow, Marcus darting to his side. _ |
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