“Boys grow into men, captain,” he said, sharply, “and I’ve trained this one myself. He can handle a sword and spear better than I.”
“Hah!” cried the captain, as he looked critically at Marcus, examining him from top to toe, whilst, as if for no reason whatever, he slowly drew his sword, while Marcus, who stood spear in hand and shield before him, in the attitude he had been taught by Serge, quivered beneath the captain’s searching eye.
“Trained him yourself, have you?”
“Yes, captain—well.”
“He can use his weapons?”
“Yes, captain.”
To the astonishment of both Serge and Marcus, and as if without the slightest reason, the big, burly, war-like captain made one step forward and with it like lightning he struck a blow with his sword right at the comb of Marcus’ helmet, such a one as would have, had it been intended, brought the boy to his knees.
But Serge had spoken truth when he said that he trained Marcus well, for, quicker in his action than the deliverer of the blow, Marcus had thrown up his shield-bearing left arm, there was a loud clang upon its metal guards as he received the sword blow, and, the next moment, the captain drew back as sharply as he had advanced, to avoid the boy’s short spear, directed at his throat.
“Good!” he cried. “Well done, boy!” And he began to sheath his sword. “Your teacher, an old hand, no doubt, could not have done better. Why, boy,” he continued, “you are a soldier, every inch,” and he grasped the lad by both arms. “But this won’t do; you must lay on muscle here, and thicken and deepen in the chest. That helmet’s too heavy for you too. Yes, you are quite a boy—a brave one, no doubt, and well-trained; but you are too young and slight to stand the hardships of a rough campaign. I should like to take you, but I want men—strong men like your companion here—and I should be wronging your parents if I took you. Whose son are you, boy?”
“My father is Cracis, sir, a friend of Caius Julius, and he is at the front.”