It was all one blur of mystery to Marcus as he tramped through the
forest, following the slightly beaten road. Time seemed to be no more,
and distance not to count. Everything was dreamy and strange,
over-ruled by the one great thought that he was going to reach his
father somewhere, somehow, in the future, when he would reprove him
bitterly and forgive him, but he would never turn him back; and,
governed by these thoughts, he went on, almost unconscious of everything
else.
The way was sometimes desolate, sometimes grand, with mountain and
forest, over which and through which the roughly beaten track always
led, for it was not one of the carefully constructed military roads that
his great people afterwards formed through the length and breadth of
their land.
The rocks amongst the mountains afforded resting places; beneath the
grand trees of the forest there was mossy carpet, upon which he slept;
there were trickling rills and natural basins where crystal water gave
him drink, or places where he could bathe his hot and tired feet, while
now and again he came upon the rude hut of some goat-herd or Pagan who,
for a small coin, gladly supplied him with coarse black bread and a bowl
of freshly-drawn goat's milk.
And this went on, as he could recall when he thought, day after day,
night after night, if he tried to think; but that was rarely, for he had
no time. The one great thought of finding his father mastered all else,
as, still in what continued a strange, blurred, adventurous dream, he
went on and on, seeming to grow more vigorous and stronger every hour,
feeling too, at heart, that he was on the right way, with Rome in the
distance, the goal for which he was bound; and once there--ah!
All was blank and confused again, but it was a confusion full of
excitement, where flashes of greatness played up on the great city of
which he had heard so much, and his father and the army were there.
There was nothing to hinder his progress, for the weather was glorious,
and, each morning when he awakened from his sleep, it was with his heart
throbbing with joy and desire as he sprang up refreshed and eager with
nothing to stay his way, till, on the morning of the third--the fourth--
the fifth--he could not tell what day--all he knew was that it was
during his journey--he came suddenly in a dense part of a forest, upon a
big, armed figure marching before him far down the track, evidently
going the same way as he, turning neither to the right nor left, but
striding steadily on, and Marcus suffered a new emotion near akin to
fear and dread, not of this armed man, but of what he might do. For the
boy reasoned that, if he overtook this man, he might question him, find
out who he was, and turn him back.
Marcus stopped short, after stepping aside to shelter himself partly
behind a tree-trunk, to watch the soldier, whose helmet glistened in the
sun-rays which played through the leaves, while the head of his spear
flashed at times as if it were a blade of fire.
It was not fear alone that troubled the boy, for the sight of this
warrior, who was evidently on the march to join the army, sent a thrill
through his breast, and the war-like ardour of old fostered by old
Serge, came back stronger than ever, as he said to himself that there
was nothing to mind, for they were both, this big, grand-looking warrior
and he, upon the same mission.
"He'll make me welcome," thought Marcus, "and we can march on together
and talk about the wars, the same as Serge and I used to before father
found us out.
"I wonder whether this man knew my father? He'll be sure to know Caius
Julius, and I can talk about him and his coming to my home."
But Marcus did not hurry on, for the dread came, and with it the horror
of being ignominiously forced to retrace his steps, while the Roman
warrior seemed to increase and grow large, till he disappeared among the
trees, came into sight again farther on, and, after a time, as Marcus
still hesitated, he finally passed out of sight, making the boy breathe
more freely.
"What a coward I am!" he cried, aloud. "It's because I'm doing wrong in
leaving home as I did after receiving my father's commands. But I
couldn't help it. Something forced me to come away, and it was only
because I felt that I ought to be at father's side.
"Perhaps it wasn't cowardice," he muttered, after a pause. "It may have
been prudence--the desire to make sure of reaching the army without
being turned back. And I'm such a boy that this great warrior would
have laughed at me and perhaps have looked at me mockingly as he felt my
arms. I've done quite right, and I'll keep to myself and join nobody
till I get to the army, where I shall be safe."
After a time Marcus started off again, keeping a sharp look-out along
the road as he proceeded, till, some time later, he saw afar off a flash
of light, then another, which proved that the first had come from the
marching warrior's helmet, and once more Marcus slackened his pace.
He saw no more of the man that day, but, as the evening was closing in,
upon the slope of a wooded mountain the boy caught sight of a
goat-herd's hut, where he obtained bread and milk, and the peasant who
lived there asked him if he was a companion of the big warrior who had
been there a short time before.
Marcus shook his head, and soon after continued his journey, keeping a
stricter watch than ever, but seeing no more of the man. But he turned
aside into the forest as soon as he found a suitable place offering
shelter and a soft, dry couch, and was soon after plunged in a restful
sleep which lasted till the grey dawn, when he suddenly started into
wakefulness, disturbed, as he was, by the rattling of armour.
Marcus shrank back among the undergrowth which had been his shelter,
waking fully to the fact that he had lain down to sleep not above a
dozen yards from where the man had made his couch, while, in all
probability, had he continued his journey for those few paces the night
before, he would have stumbled upon him he sought to avoid.
There was nothing for it but to wait for a while so as to give his
fellow-traveller time to get some distance ahead, and, when he thought
that he might start, Marcus went on again slowly, with the result that,
during that day, he caught sight of the man twice over steadily plodding
on, but never once looking back or hesitating as to his path.
When night closed in again, the country had become far more hilly, and,
as Marcus was descending a steep slope at the bottom of which a stream
gurgled and rippled along, the boy awoke to the fact that the man had
been resting and bathing in the bottom of the tiny valley, and was now
ascending the opposite slope, where, in full sight of his
fellow-traveller, he stopped beneath a tree, divested himself of a
portion of his armour, and then lay down to rest.
To have gone on and passed him would have been the most sensible thing
to do, but to do this the boy would have had to creep along a rugged
path close beside the sleeper's halting place, at the great risk of
dislodging stones and awakening him if he were asleep, while, if he were
yet awake, to pass without being seen was impossible.
It was not the spot where Marcus would have chosen his resting place,
but there was no option, and, carefully keeping among the trees, he
dropped down at the most suitable place, and then lay for some time
vainly trying to sleep, till at last he lost consciousness, resting and
preparing for his next day's journey, waking at sunrise in the hope that
if he could not lose sight of his unwelcome fellow-traveller, the next
night would find him so near to Rome that another day's march would, at
least, bring him so close that there would be no more such anxious
travel.
But matters turn out in daily life very often in a different way from
what is expected, and so it was here. Marcus waited and watched till he
saw the warrior rise bare-headed, but not to go on at once after donning
his helmet, but to come back in his direction.
"He must have seen me," thought the boy excitedly, and he began to creep
carefully away through the low bushes; but, at the end of a minute, upon
glancing back, he found that the man was not following him, but had made
his way down to the little stream to drink and wash.
Relieved by this, Marcus reseated himself to watch unseen every action
of the soldier, who had left his helmet, shield and weapons at the foot
of the tree where he had slept; and, after bathing his face and hands,
he was on his way back, when, to Marcus' horror, he caught sight of a
glint of something bright, and, directly after, made out first one and
then another rough-looking, armed man, till he saw there were no less
than six creeping towards the spot where the Roman soldier had left his
weapons.
Marcus thought no more of himself at this, but was about to issue from
his hiding place when he grasped the fact that the soldier had realised
his danger, and, springing forward with a shout, he made a dash to reach
his resting place first.
The strange men were evidently shaken by his bold action, but only for a
few moments, and turned to meet the soldier, knife in hand; but their
hesitation gave the warrior time to reach shield and sword, when,
without waiting to be attacked, the men advanced upon him at once.
Such an encounter as this was quite new to Marcus, and he stood there
hidden from all concerned for quite a minute, with his heart beating
rapidly, trembling with excitement, and taking the position of a
spectator, gazing with starting eyes at the party of strangers as if the
fight were no concern of his.
Strangers? Yes, they were all strangers--enemies perhaps; and then,
like a flash, it struck him that these rough-looking, knife-armed men
were robbers intent upon spoiling the warrior and perhaps taking his
life.
This flash of intelligence opened the way for another, making him see
the cowardice of six attacking one while that one was brave as brave
could be.
For a few moments, as he watched the encounter in the bright morning
light, Marcus was full of admiration for the brave and clever way in
which, hemmed in though he was, the big warrior interposed his shield
and turned off blow after blow. But all the same it was very evident
that numbers would gain the day and some desperate thrust lay the poor
fellow low.
Marcus' thoughts passed very quickly in his excitement, and now another
came like a question: You are in armour, with a good shield, a sharp
sword and spear. You have taken upon yourself the part of a Roman
soldier, and you stand there doing nothing but look on.
That thought seemed to smite Marcus right in the face, and the next
moment he was running hard, spear in hand, down the steep hill slope, to
leap the rivulet and, with lowered spear, charge up the other side
towards the contending party, a loud shout ringing out upon the morning
air.
So fully were the attacking party taken up by their work of escaping the
single swordsman's blows and trying to get in a thrust, that they paid
no heed to the shout of the boy, and were not even conscious of his
presence till he was close at hand.
But his approach was noted by the brave soldier, just as an attack from
behind was delivered simultaneously with one in front, and it gave him
strength to make a last effort which enabled him to lay one of his
assailants low; but at the same moment another enemy sprang upon his
back, and he went down, his foes hurling themselves upon him with a
shout of triumph, which turned into a yell of dismay as the boy
literally leaped amongst them as if to join in the mastery over the
fallen man.
But though Marcus sprang quickly into their midst, his spear moved far
more quickly than his feet, and he darted in to right and left two of
the thrusts that he had learned from Serge in one of his mock combats at
home when his spear had been only a short, light pole, cut and trimmed
by the old soldier for the purpose in hand.
All that was sham, but this was startlingly real to the boy, as, at each
thrust, he saw blood start, and heard the yells of pain given by the
receivers of the point.
Those cries were auxiliaries, for they pierced the ears of those who
attacked, making them turn in their surprise to find amongst them a
fully-armed warrior whose arms flashed in the morning sun, as, advancing
his shield ready for a blow, he darted his spear forward at another, who
avoided the thrust by a backward leap, and, once started, dashed away as
hard as they could go. Fighting men are prone to follow their leader,
sometimes to victory, sometimes in panic flight. This latter was the
case here. Marcus' next thrust, delivered with all his might, coming
too late, for it was at a flying foe, three men running swiftly, one
limping away, another running more slowly, nursing his right arm, and
the sixth, who had been struck down by the Roman soldier's sword,
crawling along towards the rivulet, by which he stopped to bathe his
wound.
It was a matter of very few moments, and Marcus had hardly realised the
fact that his daring surprise had completely turned the tables, for his
first thought was, "They couldn't have seen what a boy I am," when his
next led him to turn back to see how the beaten-down soldier had fared,
just in time to meet him face to face, as, half stunned, he struggled to
his knees and pressing his sword upon one of the stones hard by, used it
as a staff to enable him to gain his feet.
The next moment he was afoot, passing his sword into his shield-bearing
hand so that he might raise his big helmet, which, in the struggle, had
been driven down over his eyes. Then it was that he stared at his
deliverer, and his deliverer stared at him.
"Thank you, whoever you are--" began the soldier, and then his jaw
dropped and he was silent. Not so Marcus, whose countenance lit up with
delight, as he shouted:
"Why, Serge! Can this be you?"