“There seem to have been plenty of people here,” said Marcus, pointing to where the soft, moist earth was full of imprints. “There have been wheeled carriages here.”
“Yes,” grunted Serge. “Those are ox waggons. See?”
“Yes,” said Marcus. “But those others are different.”
“Yes,” said Serge. “Chariot wheels, those.”
“How do you know?” said Marcus, sharply.
“Look at ’em,” grunted the old soldier. “Can’t you see they are light? They are made to gallop. Those others were made to crawl. Why, it’s printed all about that they were chariot wheels. Look at the marks of the horses’ hoofs.”
“Oh yes, I see,” cried Marcus. “The waggons show nothing but the feet of oxen. But how come there to be chariot wheels about here?”
“How did that Roman general, Caius Julius, come to the farm?”
“I don’t know,” said Marcus, starting. “I never thought of that.”
“I did,” said Serge, with a grunt which might have been copied from one of the swine he had so often driven.