Lost Republic by Paul B. Thompson Page B

shoved her there roughly, and then he ran to join his comrades when the other party of armed men turned up. Leigh was beside her, still loopy from the blow he’d received. Poor guy, first he got a black eye when the ship ran aground, then he got whacked with the biggest baseball bat Julie had ever seen. He was not having a good couple of days.
    There was a lot of noise, shouting and the clatter of metal, then the sound—and smell—of the armored men faded. Julie dared to lift her face from the sand. To her relief, the dirty soldiers were gone. Her joy was short-lived. Her companions from the wrecked ship were marching away, guarded by a bunch of guys in short skirts with more funny helmets on their heads.
    â€œHey,” she said, shaking Leigh. “Hey, get up!” He just grunted.
    Julie grabbed handfuls of his shirt in both hands and hauled him to a sitting position.
    â€œGet up, quarterback! The team needs you!”
    â€œGive it a rest, will ya?” he groaned.
    â€œWe’re leaving! You want to spend the rest of your life on this ugly beach? Get up!”
    â€œLeave me ’lone . . .”
    Julie shook Leigh as hard as she could. She was not very big or strong, but she was mad. Her big brother was not giving up.
    She kicked him as hard as she could, right in the butt. Julie was wearing nylon Snappers, trendy deck shoes, so the blow hurt her toes as much as it hurt Leigh.
    He yelled. Some of the Roman types heard him and pointed the pair out to Titus Macrinus. At his command, two archers trotted over, pointing drawn bows at them and jabbering in some language Julie didn’t understand.
    â€œYeah, yeah,” she said, warding off the two bowmen with swats of her hands. “Don’t stick those things in my face!”
    Leigh’s head cleared enough to see the danger they were in. He staggered to his feet.
    â€œDon’t shoot!” he said. “We’ll come.” To his angry sister he hissed, “Shut up, dingy, before they put holes in us!”
    â€œDingy” was a childish insult at their house. Julie slapped Leigh smartly across the face. The archers grinned and prodded them toward the others.
    They fell into line with Eleanor and Emile.
    â€œWhat is this, Mardi Gras?” asked Julie. Taking turns, Eleanor and Emile tried to explain the confrontation on the beach and how the “Romans” had driven off the “French.”
    â€œThis is like one of those geeky Your/World games you used to play five or six years ago,” Julie said. Wincing from his hurts, Leigh only nodded.
    They trudged through the pines closely watched by their captors. France studied them as they went. The soldiers were all mature men, ranging he guessed from their late twenties to their mid thirties. He recognized the centurion, who was sort of like a sergeant, by the fact the plume on his helmet ran crosswise, while Titus Macrinus’s crest ran front to back. France was pleased he remembered so much about Roman soldiers. It all came from watching that series on the BBC ten years ago.
    The soldiers wore breastplates, helmets, and metal plates on their shins. Their kilts came down halfway on their thighs, with strips of thick brown leather covering what looked like white cotton underneath. Each man carried a sword, knife, and shield. The archers wore less armor and were generally more lightly clothed. They didn’t speak among themselves. Only Titus and the centurion spoke when they gave their troops orders.
    Though the woods broke up the soldiers’ line, there was not enough cover for the
Carleton
party to break and run. There were too many children and elderly people to worry about. Any attempt to escape might result in a bloodbath.
    Before long they reached the same road France and Hans had found. Titus guided his horse to the side of the path and pointed east. The centurion snapped an order, and everyone filed off to the left.
    It was late afternoon. None of