Marcus: the Young Centurion

by George Manville Fenn

“Thanks,” said Marcus, sarcastically; and he turned to Serge.

“I shall not tell him why we have come,” he said, with his face of a deeper red than before.

“That’s right, boy,” growled Serge. “We don’t want him to be civil; all we want is for him to take us to the general. You can tell him why we have come.”

They were ascending a slope that grew more and more steep, and the morning would have seemed beautiful to Marcus, whose heart beat high at the prospect of being able to deliver his message to the general in command, whoever it might be; but the beauty of the scene and the approaching sunrise were marred by the traces left by the battle, which they were constantly passing: the dead here, wounded men waiting for help there; the trampled and stained earth everywhere. It was a pleasant relief when the top of the hill they were ascending had been reached, though it showed no trace of any camp till the descending slope came into view, and then the adventurers found that they had to cross a valley, beyond which, with the trench and banks showing in rich brown tints gilded by the rays of the rising sun, was the Roman camp, with its few tents and moving columns of men passing up the flanks of the steep hill upon which it stood, evidently returning in regular order from the pursuit of the scattered foes who had resisted the attack upon the invader during the past night.

In his eagerness Marcus gave an order to the driver for the chariot to advance down the slope and cross the valley at a trot; but the officer turned upon him angrily, and ordered two of his spear-armed men to take the ponies by the rein, and in this fashion Marcus and his companion were led right to the centre of the camp before one of the tents, up to whose entrance the officer marched, spoke to another who was on guard, and then entered.

“Got all you want to say ready?” whispered Serge.

“Yes,” whispered back Marcus. “Oh, if he would only be quick! This is all wasting time.”

The young officer was quick enough, for he returned directly, and his manner seemed changed as he stepped up to the chariot.

“Follow me, sir,” he said. “The generals will see you directly.”

Marcus’ heart beat quicker than ever now, as he sprang from the chariot, wincing slightly from his stiffness, while Serge limped and screwed up his face as he strove in vain to hold himself erect.