The silence seemed to be awful to the listeners, who were prepared to
give the word for the ponies to dash away as soon as the approach they
expected commenced.
"Our people?" whispered Marcus at last, with his lips close to Serge's
ear.
"No," was whispered back, and the next moment there was the heavy
trampling of feet, but not towards them; and they had proof directly
that they were no friends by the strange yell of defiance which suddenly
rang out in response to a challenge given in the unmistakable Roman
tongue.
"Oh!" whispered Marcus, excitedly. "Our people, and so near! We must
go forward now."
"No, not yet, boy. Hark! Yonder are our people speaking out, and the
fight is beginning."
"A night attack," whispered Marcus, hoarsely, and with his heart beating
heavily.
"Yes, boy, and as far as I can make out the hill and camp have been
surrounded. Now, then, the darkness may prove to be our friend. What
do you say? Shall we try to join our people, or fall back till morning,
when we can see what is best for us to do?"
"Try and join the army," said Marcus, firmly. "If the hill is
surrounded we shall be getting into fresh danger by attempting to fall
back."
"Yes," said Serge, in a low, deep voice, and no further word was
uttered. Lupe gave vent to an impatient growl, and the ponies from time
to time stamped uneasily as if eager to advance, while away to right and
left rose, all the more horrible for the darkness, the clash of arms and
roar of voices, mingled with the loud braying of trumpets, followed by
the responsive shouts of the soldiery. There were moments when the tide
of battle seemed to flow in the direction of the chariot, but only to be
beaten back and sway to and fro.
Then, Marcus never afterwards knew how it happened--all he could recall
was a fragment or two of their situation--Serge had just almost shouted
in his ear, having to raise his voice to make himself heard, that they
must at all costs make a dash to get away, and he himself had laid his
hand on their driver's shoulder to bid him drive on, when he found that
he was too late. For all at once he discovered that the battle was
raging close at hand, right in front of the horses' heads, and directly
after as they were swung round in the opposite direction for the
occupants of the chariot to seek safety, there was a rush of armed men.
These came into contact with another body, and so it was that whichever
way they turned there was the wild turmoil and fury of the fight going
on, while as far as Marcus could make out, one minute the Roman soldiers
were driving the barbarians back and carrying all before them, but only
to be overwhelmed in turn by some tremendous wave of the enemy in the
shape of reinforcements, which raged and swirled round the more
disciplined men, carrying them back by sheer weight of numbers in the
direction from which they had come.
Both Marcus and Serge seemed to bear a charmed life. They made no
attempt to use their weapons, and their position in the car had
something to do with their escape from injury as they held on to the
front, to be borne here and there by their frantic horses, while
naturally enough Roman and Gaul, where they were crowded together in
contention, yielded and made way for the plunging and rearing steeds,
whose hoofs seemed to them for the time being more dangerous than the
weapons of a foe.
How long all this lasted Marcus never knew.
It was enough for his brain to take in the wild horrors of the fierce
fight and its many changes till all at once in the dim light shed by the
stars the chariot horses had borne him and Serge partly out of the
fierce crowds of fighting men.
Encounters were taking place all around in single combat, and charges
and counter charges made by little parties who were separated from the
main body crowded together in the central portions of the battlefield;
and snatching at the opportunity, Serge, spear in hand, leaned over to
Marcus and, pointing forward to an opening in front, shouted to him to
bid their driver make for that gap in the human wall.
Marcus planted his spear shaft sharply down upon the floor of the
chariot to steady himself, as he leaned down to the driver to utter his
commands, and the next minute the fiery little steeds were tearing away
at full gallop along the open space, as if in their wild excitement they
were eager to escape from the savage scenes and bloodshed going on
around.
But before a hundred yards had been traversed, the sea of human beings
closed in again, completely filling up the opening, and seeming about to
entirely stop the fugitives' course.
Serge and the driver, both now as excited as the horses, burst forth
into a wild cry of command, and this and the sight of the dimly-seen
approaching steeds thundering along had their effect. The crowd opened
out again just as the driver's efforts were rewarded and he was able to
check the furious gallop of his steeds and save them from plunging into
the mass of friend and foe alike.
The gallop became a trot, the trot a gentle amble, as the chariot now
rolled slowly on to where about a score altogether of Romans and Gauls,
each party headed by an officer, were just in the act of meeting, pretty
evenly balanced, in deadly combat.
As with wild shouts they rushed together with sword and spear clashing
loudly against helmet, shield, or the protecting body armour they wore,
the driver of Marcus' chariot dragged upon his left rein to try and
swing round to avoid the contending foes. But in the darkness he did
not grasp that which was on his left, and Marcus became aware by a
sudden jerk that their further progress was at an end, the chariot being
wedged in between a couple of trees, while the horses were plunging
wildly to escape from a tangle of bush and branch, and the driver had
leaped out to seize them by their heads.
"Look, look!" shouted Serge just then.
Marcus, who had had to cling to the sides of the chariot to save himself
from being thrown out, turned sharply to learn the meaning of his old
comrade's cry, and he was just in time to see him throw himself over the
chariot's side, evidently to hurry to the help of the Roman officer and
his few men, who, completely outnumbered, were being beaten down by two
or three times their number of Gauls.
Serge said no more in words; his acts spoke for themselves, and grasping
that he meant at all costs to go to the help of the Roman officer,
Marcus stood for a moment spear in hand and hurled it with all his might
at four of the barbarians who were attacking the Roman leader, who was
cut off from his companions and faring badly, in spite of a valorous
defence, at his enemies' hands.
It was pretty nearly momentary, but Marcus took all in at a glance. He
saw that their coming and the dash of the chariot had had their effect
upon a portion of the Gauls, who turned and fled, while some of their
fellows were beating back the few Roman soldiers left unhurt.
There were enough still, though, of the Gauls to rush at spear-armed
Serge with a yell of triumph, and Marcus, as he saw the sturdy old
soldier making furious play with his spear, snatched out his sword to
rush to his help; but his course was diverted by that which he saw just
beyond, dimly enough, but with sufficient vividness to go straight to
his heart.
It was the Roman officer staggering back with his helmet falling from
his head from a blow he had just received from one Gaul, while, taking
advantage of his momentary helplessness, a second rushed at him with his
spear, bore him down backwards, and with a yell of triumph planted one
foot upon his chest and drove his spear with all his force right at his
throat.
There was a curious crashing sound as the spear point was turned aside
by the finely-tempered gorget the Roman wore, and with a snarl the Gaul
raised his weapon again for a second blow.
He made the thrust, but it was caught midway by the sword of Marcus, who
ended his rush to the Roman's help with a bound; his keen sword met the
descending spear shaft, cutting it right through as if it were a twig,
while he who wielded the sword came with all his weight full upon the
Gaul's chest and sent him rolling over and over upon the ground.
Marcus, too, came heavily to earth, but it was upon hands and knees,
and, still retaining his sword, he scrambled to his feet again at the
same time as the Gaul, who raised his headless spear on high to bring it
down upon the head of his assailant.
But at that moment Marcus was reinforced by the officer whose life he
had saved, and who, regaining his feet, cut down the Gaul and turned to
meet his next enemy; for about a dozen men came at him with a rush, but
only to be borne back in turn by a rallying party of the Romans, who,
coming at their officer's help, sprang at the Gauls, to be swept on in
turn by a tremendous rush in which Marcus was trampled down, to lie half
insensible for a few minutes before he struggled up, looked round, and
than staggered towards the trees in which the chariot was entangled,
while the horses were still being held by the driver.
Here Marcus supported himself, panting and breathing hard, by the edge
of the chariot. He was giddy, and the dim battlefield seemed to be
heaving and slowly gliding round before his eyes. There was a curious
feeling of sickness troubling him and an intense longing for a draught
of water, while his thoughts were all, so to speak, broken and confused
and mingled together with a selfish feeling that he must be very badly
hurt.
By degrees, though, the various objects began to settle down, and the
roar of battle and clash of arms gave place slowly to a dull, singing
noise in his ears. Then, as if by a sudden jump, his power of thinking
lucidly came back, and he looked round for the officer he had tried to
help.
But he was not there. Some twenty or thirty dead and wounded men were
scattered about as they had fallen, some few of whom wore the armour of
Roman soldiers, but for the most part they were Gauls, and Marcus looked
in vain for the object of his search.
Then he turned giddy again, for a mental cloud seemed to close him in,
and he snatched at his helmet and dragged it off, when the cool night
wind that played upon his heated brow brought with it a sense of relief,
and he thought clearly again, not of self but of Serge, and with a cry
of horror he ran from where he had stood, to bend over each of the
prostrate Roman soldiers in turn, uttering a sigh of relief as he raised
himself up, replaced his helmet, and looked round, fully conscious now
that the tide of war had swept right away to a distance. The fighting
was still going on, and the cries and the clashing of weapons were
strangely commingled, but faintly heard. One side had evidently won the
battle and was driving its enemies before it. But were was Serge?
Marcus turned to where the driver was still soothing the horses, but he
could give him no information. He had not seen Serge since he leapt
from the chariot and was lost directly in the crowd of fighting men.
Marcus stepped back to the spot where his own encounter had taken place,
and looked round again for a few moments, but though he could see
several prostrate bodies Serge's was not one, and going on and on in the
dim starlight he was to some extent able to follow the course of the
fighting men by those they had left behind, till he grew confused as to
his position and began to retrace his steps.
It was not easy, for he had nothing to guide him, and some considerable
space of time had elapsed before, utterly worn out and disheartened, he
made out a clump of trees, towards which he now directed his steps in
the hope that it might be the one in which the chariot had been
entangled.
To his great delight, as he approached, he heard the voice of the driver
talking to the horses, and, hurrying on, he found that he was
approaching the chariot from the opposite side to that he had left. The
next minute he was tugging his sword from its sheath, for an armed man
suddenly rose up from just in front, and as the boy's sword fell to his
side, caught him in his arms.
"And I thought you were dead--I thought you were dead!" came in a
familiar, deep, gruff voice, broken by sobs. "Oh, Marcus, my boy, where
have you been?"
"Looking for you, Serge."
"You have? Well, that's what I have been doing for you."
"But where were you?" cried Marcus.
"I d'know, boy, only that I have been fighting. I was hard at it when
there was a rush, and I was carried along with all the rest, getting a
hit now and then at one of the enemy, but not often, for they don't
fight fair. They all crowd at you together, and I got the worst of it
badly."
"Then you are wounded?" cried Marcus. "No, boy; but I lost my spear."
"Lost your spear?" cried Marcus, staring. "Yes, boy; this 'ere's only a
savage one."
"But you are not hurt?" cried Marcus again.
"Not hurt?" cried Serge. "Why, boy, I just am. Battered and banged and
hit all over. If it hadn't been for the goodness of my armour there
wouldn't have been no Serge--nothing left but a few bits. But you, my
boy?"
"Oh, I'm very sore and bruised and sprained, but nothing worse. But
that officer, Serge, that we went to help?"
"Ah!" cried Serge. "That officer we went to help! What about him? You
didn't let him be killed, boy?"
"No; I remember he got up and fought again."
"That's right, boy; but where is he now?"
"I don't know," cried Marcus. "I was trampled down and lost my senses.
Don't you know what became of him?"
"No," said Serge, "and I don't care, boy now that I have found you.
Here, don't let's stand talking, but help to get out that chariot. I
want to get up to the Roman camp."
"Can we? Did our people win?"
"Win? Why, of course, my lad! Romans never fail."
"Quick, then!" cried Marcus. "The chariot, and then up to the camp.
There's the message; and let's hope my father's there."