_ CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. AFTER THE BATTLE.
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."
[THE END]
George Manville Fenn's Novel: Marcus: the Young Centurion
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