’I knew nothing about it.  Aglaia never taught us the history of our own country.  She was so full of her ancient Greeks.

’"There is no hope for Rome,” said the Pater, at last.  “She has forsaken her Gods, but if the Gods forgive us here, we may save Britain.  To do that, we must keep the Painted People back.  Therefore, I tell you, Parnesius, as a Father, that if your heart is set on service, your place is among men on the Wall—­and not with women among the cities."’

‘What Wall?’ asked Dan and Una at once.

’Father meant the one we call Hadrian’s Wall.  I’ll tell you about it later.  It was built long ago, across North Britain, to keep out the Painted People—­Picts, you call them.  Father had fought in the great Pict War that lasted more than twenty years, and he knew what fighting meant.  Theodosius, one of our great Generals, had chased the little beasts back far into the North before I was born.  Down at Vectis, of course, we never troubled our heads about them.  But when my Father spoke as he did, I kissed his hand, and waited for orders.  We British-born Romans know what is due to our parents.’

‘If I kissed my Father’s hand, he’d laugh,’ said Dan.

’Customs change; but if you do not obey your Father, the Gods remember it.  You may be quite sure of that.

’After our talk, seeing I was in earnest, the Pater sent me over to Clausentum to learn my foot-drill in a barrack full of foreign auxiliaries—­as unwashed and unshaved a mob of mixed barbarians as ever scrubbed a breastplate.  It was your stick in their stomachs and your shield in their faces to push them into any sort of formation.  When I had learned my work the Instructor gave me a handful—­and they were a handful!—­of Gauls and Iberians to polish up till they were sent to their stations up-country.  I did my best, and one night a villa in the suburbs caught fire, and I had my handful out and at work before any of the other troops.  I noticed a quiet-looking man on the lawn, leaning on a stick.  He watched us passing buckets from the pond, and at last he said to me:  “Who are you?”

’"A probationer, waiting for a command,” I answered. I didn’t know who he was from Deucalion!

’"Born in Britain?” he said.

’"Yes, if you were born in Spain,” I said, for he neighed his words like an Iberian mule.

’"And what might you call yourself when you are at home?” he said, laughing.

’"That depends,” I answered; “sometimes one thing and sometimes another.  But now I’m busy.”

’He said no more till we had saved the family gods (they were respectable householders), and then he grunted across the laurels:  “Listen, young sometimes-one-thing-and-sometimes-another.  In future call yourself Centurion of the Seventh Cohort of the Thirtieth, the Ulpia Victrix.  That will help me to remember you.  Your Father and a few other people call me Maximus.”