Lost Republic by Paul B. Thompson Page A

the
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people shrank from both sides. The legionnaires deployed in close formation with their archers out front. The medieval French soldiers clustered together nervously. They had no bows, and they had seen the strangely powerful effect the arrows had.
    A mounted officer in a gilded helmet appeared among the Romans. He rode out front of his men, ignoring the cowering
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survivors.
    He boomed,
“Abscede! Vos es in Res publica tractus!”
    â€œDon’t ask me—that’s not French!” Emile said to all inquiring eyes.
    Hans said, “It’s Latin, I think. He’s telling the French to go away.”
    â€œI could have told you that,” said Gilligan.
    One of the knights replied in an insolent tone. At that, the Romans advanced. Their archers showered the French with arrows. They stood up under the fire until a second knight was felled. With that, the last rider ordered his men away. He trotted off, peering nervously over his shoulder. His men paused long enough to pick up the bodies of the chevalier de Sagesse and the other knight and backed away in a tight mass, leaving several of their comrades sprawled on the beach.
    Like a many-legged machine, the legionnaires churned past the amazed
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castaways. At a stately pace, they chased the retreating medieval soldiers until they were out of sight. The officer and a squad of twenty men and twenty archers remained.
    He rode up quite close to the
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survivors. When he removed his helmet, they saw he was a rather rugged, handsome man of forty, clean-shaven, with short, curly gray hair.
    Clearing his throat, he said,
“Vos es iam captus of Latium Res publica. Ego sum Titus Macrinus, tribus of XVII Legio. Vos mos pareo mihi, quod totus ero puteus.”
    Hans struggled to understand. One of the Irish team members, Shannon, knew some Latin, too. Together, they pieced together what the officer said.
    â€œWe’re prisoners,” Hans said unsteadily.
    â€œOf the Latium Republic—whatever that is,” Shannon added.
    â€œHis name is Titus Macrinus. We won’t be harmed if we do as he says.”
    â€œDamned if we will!” said one of the Navy men. “Bunch of geeks running around playing Roman! Who do they think they are?”
    Just then, two legionnaires dragged a fallen French soldier past by his heels. His face was dead white save for a bright red welt in the center of his forehead where the arrow struck. It didn’t penetrate his skull but killed him by touch alone.
    â€œI think they’ve made their point,” said Kiran Trevedi. “We’d better do as they say.”
    Everyone got up. Mrs. Ellis, whose lifter chair was not working, had to be carried. Mr. Chen and one of the Navy men carried her in their arms, fireman-style.
    They formed a long double line, flanked on either side by stern legionnaires. Titus Macrinus sat on his horse, watching the
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people file past with an appraising eye. Linh Prudhomme, like everyone, wondered why they were being held prisoner. As she passed the mounted officer, their eyes met.
    Who was he, this mature man in the garb of an ancient Roman tribune? An actor? Some kind of cultist, or a crazy survivalist? Linh had read about people who secluded themselves in some remote part of the world in order to live according to the deranged rules of a cult. She’d never heard of anyone choosing to live like Romans—or medieval Frenchmen, either.
    He had a cool, measured glance. She wanted to speak up, to say, “Stop this, people have gotten hurt. What kind of game are you playing?” But she didn’t. Looking into those exacting gray eyes, Linh realized something surprising and really terrifying.
    Titus Macrinus was not a cultist or an actor. He believed he was just as he appeared to be—an officer in the army of ancient Rome.

Chapter 10
    Not far away, Julie Morrison was flat on the sand, keeping her head down. One of her captors