he
best market. There is my market in the Emperor's own Guard. Say nothing,
daddy, for my mind is set, and if you weep now it will be to laugh
hereafter. I will to great Rome with the soldiers."

The daily march of the heavily laden Roman legionary was fixed at twenty
miles; but on this afternoon, though only half the distance had been
accomplished, the silver trumpets blared out their welcome news that a
camp was to be formed. As the men broke their ranks, the reason of their
light march was announced by the decurions. It was the birthday of Geta,
the younger son of the Emperor, and in his honour there would be games
and a double ration of wine. But the iron discipline of the Roman
army required that under all circumstances certain duties should be
performed, and foremost among them that the camp should be made secure.
Laying down their arms in the order of their ranks, the soldiers seized
their spades and axes, and worked rapidly and joyously until sloping
vallum and gaping fossa girdled them round, and gave them safe refuge
against a night attack. Then in noisy, laughing, gesticulating crowds
they gathered in their thousands round the grassy arena where the sports
were to be held. A long green hillside sloped down to a level plain, and
on this gentle incline the army lay watching the strife of the chosen
athletes who contended before them. They stretched themselves in the
glare of the sunshine, their heavy tunics thrown off, and their naked
limbs sprawling, wine-cups an baskets of fruit and cakes circling
amongst them, enjoying rest and peace as only those can to whom it comes
so rarely.

The five-mile race was over, and had been won as usual by Decurion
Brennus, the crack long-distance champion of the Herculians. Amid the
yells of the Jovians, Capellus of the corps had carried off both the
long and the high jump. Big Brebix the Gaul had out-thrown the long
guardsman Serenus with the fifty pound stone. Now, as the sun sank
towards the western ridge, and turned the Harpessus to a riband of gold,
they had come to the final of the wrestling, where the pliant Greek,
whose name is lost in the nickname of "Python," was tried out against
the bull-necked Lictor of the military police, a hairy Hercules, whose
heavy hand had in the way of duty oppressed many of the spectators.

As the two men, stripped save for their loin-cloths, approached the
wrestling-ring, cheers and counter-cheers burst from their adherents,
some favou