Serge was right. The weather was glorious; the hot sun blazed down; but
the heat was tempered by the gentle breeze which wafted its coolness
from the snowy pass.
To one ignorant of the horrors that lurked behind, it was one grand
display of armed men, with their armour glittering and standards on
high, marching in different bodies as if to take part in some glorious
pageant to be held in the mighty, rugged amphitheatre whose walls were
mountains and whose background was formed by the piled-up masses of ice
and snow, here silvery, there dazzling golden in the blaze of the
afternoon sun, and farther back beauteous with the various azure tints,
from the faintest tinge to the deepest purple, in the rifts and chasms
far on high.
There was a grim meaning behind it all as the troops under the command
of Caius Julius swept round by slow degrees to seize upon and hold the
different little valleys leading into the amphitheatre, and all in a
slow orderly fashion suggesting merely change of position, and as if
collision with the Gallic force was the last thing likely to occur.
For as the Roman soldiery gradually advanced as if the distant pass were
the object they held in view, ready for pressing through it in one long
extended column, the barbarian troops gradually fell back, to form
themselves into one vast dam whose object it was to check the Roman
human river and roll it back broken and dismembered, ready for final
destruction in the plains they had invaded.
There were moments when, as he stood beside the line of stalwart men
with whom he had been placed, Marcus' thoughts were wholly upon the
scene of which, from high up on a slope of one of the valleys, he had a
most comprehensive view; and he too was ready to forget what was behind,
as for an hour he watched and waited, until as if by magic the marching
and changing of position of the thousands before his eyes had ceased.
It was evening then, with the sun sinking behind the hills in the rear
of the now concentrated Roman army, while the Gauls who filled the
amphitheatre and faced them were lit up, and their armour and weapons
blazed as if turned to fire by the orange glow which rose and filled the
mountain hollows and the pass beyond with its ever-deepening reddening
haze.
Naturally enough Marcus took his stand close by Serge, who seemed to
have quite recovered from the injuries which he had received, and stood
up bronzed and sturdy, with his face lit up with the expectancy of one
whose training taught him to foresee a triumph for the Roman arms.
"Are we all ready, Serge?" said Marcus, in a low voice.
"Yes, boy. Isn't it grand! Take the lesson to heart. You will
understand it better later on, for it's too much for one so young as you
to take in all at once. Look how our generals have placed their men,
with never a bit of confusion from beginning to end, and all ready when
the trumpets sound to advance and strike, while these Gauls, crowded up
together into this great trap, don't even know as yet that their numbers
will be worse than nothing, only a big crowd in which every man will be
in his neighbour's way."
"But suppose they stand fast," said Marcus, "instead of giving way?"
"We shall march over them, boy, straight for the pass. Nothing can stop
our advance. One of our lines may go down, but another will step into
its place, and if that is broken there is another close behind, and
another and another, each of which must weaken the resistance and pave
the way for our army to pass on."
"Don't say pave the way, Serge. It sounds too horrible, and makes me
think of what it means."
"Don't think, then, boy."
"I must," replied Marcus; "but it will be dreadful for the first cohort
which leads."
"Grand, you mean, boy," cried the veteran, "and you ought to be proud,
for it is ours."
"I don't see any signs of the captain's coming to meet us."
"In hiding perhaps," said Serge. "He's certain to be there. He will
not let his men show themselves until we advance, and he has not stirred
as yet."
"How do you know?"
"Look at the barbarians," cried the old soldier, pointing to the distant
crowd far up the slope. "They would be showing it by now if he were
coming on."
"It is getting late," said Marcus, after a pause.
"Yes," replied Serge, "and if I were in command I should be here to
begin leading on my men. Think of that now," he whispered, sharply.
"Here he is!"
"Who? My father?"
"No, boy. He'd be in the rear upon one of these hills, directing the
advance of the legions, where he can look over the whole amphitheatre."
No more was said, for a thrill seemed to be running through the long
serried line of veterans extending to right and left, as, followed by a
group of his principal officers, Caius Julius rode close up to his
leading cohort, gave the order to advance, and turned his horse to ride
in front and lead.
Then as the heavy tramp of the armed men rang out and the advance with
shield joined to shield moved on over the stony ground, there was a roar
like distant thunder which rose and rolled and reverberated from the
rocks around, as the Gauls in one vast mass flashed forward to meet them
and sweep the van of the Roman army away.
The deep thunderous sound as of a storm was awe-inspiring enough to
daunt the stoutest, but it had no effect upon the Roman warriors who
steadily advanced close to the heels of their leaders' horses; and once
more with his heart beating fast the while, it all seemed to Marcus like
some grand pageant in which he was honoured by being allowed to play his
little part.
Fate had placed his rank almost within touch of their general, who rode
calmly, probably anticipating that the wild charge of Gauls as they came
tearing on would never be carried home, and that the enemy would melt
away to right and left before the steady pressure of that rank upon rank
of unbroken shields bristling with sword and spear.
But the general was deceived. The wild barbarian charge of
undisciplined Gallic warriors was carried home. Borne on by their own
impetuosity, and pressed forward by the crowd behind, the enemy came on
with a wild rush, and then came the clashing arms, the roar of the
fierce multitude. Then as the steady stride of the line of Roman
veterans was checked in the awful shock, Marcus was conscious of the
struggles of a charger which reared up, fighting fiercely with its hoofs
against the enemy which hemmed him in, and then of its sidewise fall, to
lie upon its flank, plunging feebly in its efforts to rise, before lying
prone and motionless with half a dozen spear thrusts in its breast and
throat.
Marcus was conscious of striking out fiercely with his keen, short
sword, and of the pressure on both sides amidst the roar and rush of the
fight in which he was taking part. But all seemed wild and confused, as
he stood with one foot planted on the fallen horse's side, the other on
the rock, holding his shield the while in front of the fallen rider, who
was striving vainly to free himself from the weight of the charger which
pinned him down.
It seemed to be some long space of time, all horror and death, during
which men fought and heaved and swayed, sometimes beaten back a few
feet, then recovering themselves, regaining the lost ground, and
pressing on, till in regular rhythmic pulsation rank after rank of
warriors tramped on, opening out as they reached the group of dead and
wounded men whose core was the spear-slain horse. But in fact it was
but a matter of minutes before the pressure ceased as the ranks passed
on and a big, heavy-looking man came up, and by signs--for no voice
could make itself heard--seemed to be urging other men to seize and drag
the dead horse off the prisoned officer, who was saving himself from
falling prone, possibly to be trampled to death by the advancing ranks,
by clasping his hands round Marcus' waist as he still stood over him
with ready sword and shield.
The start having been made, there were willing hands in plenty to drag
the horse away, and its rider stood up, holding on by Marcus' arms, as
once more a wave of the enemy seemed to rise up out of the tumultuous
sea of carnage, sweeping between the two Romans and their friends, the
former being left to face the bristling spears of the Gauls, and death
appearing inevitable for Marcus and the officer he had saved.
The boy was borne back by half a score of the hirsute semi-savages,
leaving his companion standing erect with nothing to defend himself but
his clenched hand, when, half maddened by the scene, Marcus uttered a
wild cry, recovered himself, and dashed forward to the rescue,
staggering the foe with astonishment by the fierceness of his onslaught,
as he literally hurled himself between the officer and his fate, the
upraised shield turning aside the spears gliding with deadly aim toward
his throat.
At that moment the deadly wave of destruction was checked in its onward
sweep by the rebound of a line of Roman veterans, the Gauls fell back,
and the officer drew himself up panting and waving one arm on high, when
a couple of officers rode up, one of whom dismounted and held his
stirrup, when, without a word, the companion of Marcus in peril sprang
upon the charger's back and dashed forward, the late rider holding on by
the mane.
"Well done, boy! Grand!" was shouted in Marcus' ear, as he stood there
wondering whether it was all real, that noise of men tramping by, the
clash of arms, and the roar as of muttering thunder ahead, and not some
horrible dream in which, faint and sick, everything was whirling slowly
round.
"That you, Serge?" someone said, for they did not seem to be his words.
"Yes, boy; grand, but we ought to be along with our cohort, and it's far
ahead, so we must join the ranks of one of these that are going by."
"Are we losing?" said Marcus, faintly, and still it was as if someone
else was speaking.
"Losing!" cried the old soldier. "Winning, you mean. But think of you
having such luck as that!"
"Luck?--Luck?" said the same voice, slowly.
"Yes, I never saw anything like you. Sprang forward, you did, just as
the general's horse reared up, and saved him from an ugly death by the
thrust you gave that Gaul."
"Who did?" said the same voice, feebly heard in the horrible dream.
"Who did? Why, you did, and covered him afterwards with your shield all
the while he was pinned down by his dead charger. Why, Marcus, boy, if
you were a man you'd be made a big officer at once. But what's the
matter with you, boy?"
"I--I don't know, Serge."
"But I do!" roared the old soldier, with a roar like a lion. "Why, who
did this?"
"That--that Gaul," said the boy, faintly, as he felt himself seized and
pressed back, to lie with his head pillowed upon the dead charger's
neck, while he was conscious of his old comrade's hands being busily
unbuckling his armour and then bandaging him tightly to stop the flowing
blood.
"Feel better now, boy?" cried Serge, at last, as he bent down close to
the wounded lad's face.
"Yes; not so sick," was the reply. "But tell me, Serge, about the
fight," and as Marcus uttered these words he was conscious that they
were his own.
"Tell you about the fight? Ah, that's a sign you are better. A nasty
cut, my boy, between the shoulder and the neck. But it's nothing to
hurt."
"But it does, Serge."
"Pooh! Only smarts. It hasn't killed you. Soldiers expect wounds, and
you've got yours."
"But the fight--the fight?"
"Oh, just what I told you it would be, boy. The captain has brought his
men down the pass, and the Gauls, taken between the two armies, are
breaking up and streaming away to right and left. There'll be no Gallic
army by the time the litters come to carry the wounded off the field,
and the first shall be for the lad who saved the life of Caius Julius."
"Oh, Serge, it is impossible that I could have done that," said Marcus,
feebly.
"That's what I should have said, boy, if I had not seen."
"But, Serge?"
"I look out sharp, boy, so don't doubt what I say. Your wound made you
forget. I wonder whether the general will."
"But you don't tell me about the fight, Serge."
"What, do you want to know more?"
"Of course."
"Well, the Gauls are taken in a trap, and after all is over I hope that
one of those snowstorms will come down from the pass to cover all that
the amphitheatre will have to show. It's terrible work, my boy."
"Horrible! Horrible indeed!" sighed Marcus, as he looked sadly round at
the traces of the fight that had taken place about the fallen horse.
"Yes, my lad, I can't help thinking just the same," said the old
soldier, as he stooped to pick up the spear he had laid down while he
bound his young companion's wound, and leaned upon the staff as he gazed
straight away in the direction where the fight seemed to be raging
still.
And the time passed on, till the tumult died away, and the old soldier
stood watching still and waiting anxiously, while Marcus lay silent in
the troubled sleep that came to dull his pain.
At last the boy stirred, and Serge bent over him.
"Awake, boy?" he said.
"Yes, Serge. Have been asleep?"
"Yes."
Marcus gazed around him, and shuddered at the traces of the fight.
"Horrible!" he sighed.
"Yes, boy," said the old warrior, gravely; "I suppose it is, in spite of
all the glory and triumph and the like; but," he continued, after a
pause, as he raised his spear, whose head glimmered in the pale light as
he pointed in the direction of the shining crest of one of the mountains
beyond, while far away lay Rome, "our country must rule the world."
Marcus sighed.
"And give up the bravest and the best of her sons to fight her cause!"
sighed the old soldier to himself. "But I hope the general won't forget
what even a boy can do."
Caius Julius did not, for a little later a group of mounted men
appeared, and the faint cheers of the wounded soldiery greeted them as
they passed.
"It was somewhere near here, Cracis," said one of the party, and then
pointing with his sword, "Ah, it must have been there. Yonder is my
poor horse. Yes, there lies your brave son not dead, for he has raised
and is waving his hand to you. Another great triumph for Rome, Cracis,
but I'd give up all the glory I have won to possess a son like yours."