Lost Republic (16 page)

Abdica called Julie sharply.

“Gotta go. Where are you staying?”

Linh said, “The house of Livius, on Messenger Street.”

Just then, Gaius dived under Linh's gown and wriggled between her feet to escape the wrath of his sister Drusilla. Linh gasped and stepped back quickly, bringing her knees tightly together.

“Behave yourself!” she said, voice quavering.

“Can we talk again?” asked Julie.

Before Linh could answer, Abdica stomped through the forum crowd and seized Julie by the braid in her hair. Julie yowled. She didn't fight back. If she did, Luxuria would have Ramesses beat her.

“Bye, Linnea! We gotta talk again!”

“Have you seen any of the others?” Linh called as Julie skipped backward, painfully drawn by her own hair.

“No! Ow, damn it, stop—!”

She disappeared into the crowd. After solemnly warning the Livius children to behave, Linh walked on. Helen had flute lessons with a music master in the park by the temple of Mercury. After that, Drusus had rhetoric and mathematics with a tutor at the Academy of Philosophers in the Silent Forum. Gaius and Drusilla were along simply because their mother wanted them out of her hair for the morning.

With much cajoling, she got the Livius children to the park. Officially it was called the Field of Mercury, and it was used by teachers, philosophers, and other learned types as an open-air classroom. Linh delivered Helen to her teacher, Master Mediatus, and looked the other way when Drusus snuck off on his own. He was probably going off to peep in the girl's bathhouse or harass other people's sisters in the park.

She sat down on a marble bench. Gaius and Drusilla chased each other in and out of the shrubbery. As long as no blood was spilled, Linh didn't care. This was the first time she'd been able to sit down since waking up this morning.

It wasn't long before a familiar face walked by, reading a scroll.

“Elianora!”

Eleanor Quarrel looked up from her reading. She regarded Linh blankly.

“Do I know you, citizen?”

Linh blinked in surprise. “It's me, Linnea. From the—from the ship.”

She let the scroll crawl shut. “What ship, citizen?”

Linh bit her lip. Most of the
Carleton
people had lost all memory of their former lives, but the teens who had witnessed the great flash of light that night at the farm seemed immune to memory loss. Now here was her friend Eleanor, acting like she had no idea who Linh was or how they'd gotten here.

“Don't you know who I am?”

“A girl of good family, I can tell by your manners and speech. Where did we meet before?”

Linh drew in a breath. “On a ship. You had to sail without your mother. We played games together on the voyage.”

Mention of Eleanor's mother caused a ripple of recognition. “My mother is . . . dead,” Eleanor said slowly. “She died in the provinces of . . . plague.”

Linh leaned out and took her by the hand. Drawing the unresisting Eleanor to her, she said in a low voice, “Do you remember the boy in black? Aemilius?” That was how Emile's name came out in Latin.

Eleanor slowly sat down. “I remember . . . a boy who wore black. He bothered me, then he—he—”

“He saved you when the ship was sinking!”

Her eyelids fluttered. “Yes.”

“Have you seen him? Or anyone else we used to know?” Linh asked. From the mulberry bushes, a loud squall erupted. Gaius or Drusilla had finally hurt themselves.

“I work in the pharmacy of Dr. Dioscorides,” Eleanor said. “I've seen no one.”

Linh glanced at the scroll as she rose. It was a list of recipes for medicines, with things such as rose petals, six drachms; oil of olives, two digits, handwritten in columns.

“I have to go,” Linh said, pressing the fallen scroll on her friend. “I hope to see you again.” At least she knew where Eleanor was living, with a druggist named Dioscorides.

She dashed off to find the children. Drusus came loping across the green park, pursued by a pair of glaring scholars. There was no telling what he did to offend them.

Alone on the bench, Eleanor said aloud to no one, “That was one of my friends.”

Beside her a handsome young man about twenty years old appeared out of thin air. He wore a short kilt and loose tunic that displayed a lot of his lean, muscular chest. A circlet of green laurel leaves crowned his head.

“Yes, that one,” he said. “I've been watching her and the others.”

“They do not seem at home here.”

The beautiful young man frowned. “No, they don't. I wonder why?”

“Something protected them,” said Eleanor vaguely.

Sharply her companion replied, “What protected them? Or who?”

“I don't know, but they do not seem at home here . . .”

He took hold of her wrist tightly. The scroll fell to the grass.

“Who am I?” he demanded.

“Apollo, god of light, bringer of music, and lord of the Future.”

He released her. “Very good. Whom do you serve, Elianora?”

“Dr. Dioscorides.”

“That is true for now, but I have plans for you . . .”

Linh gathered the children of Antoninus Livius around her. Helen's lesson was over. It was time for Drusus's schooling. She cast a look back at Eleanor. She was still sitting on the marble bench, gazing at the monumental skyline of Eternus Urbs. Though alone, her lips moved now and then as though she was talking to somebody.

“I want you to see the girl Linnea again,” Apollo said, “and anyone else like her who is not at home here.”

“Why should I see them, God of Light?”

“I want to know what they think and do.”

“I will tell you all, lord.”

“You may remember, too. I wish to know more about you.”

Even as he said it, memories came flooding back to her. Eleanor remembered the condo in Cape Town with her mother, going to the beach, eating curry at the market, her mother's face. She remembered, but everything seemed distant and without meaning, like scenes from an old movie.

“Good. Recall everything. I would understand you newcomers and your ways.”

Apollo stood. His feet trod the air as he hovered a good five inches off the ground.

“Go now. I shall be watching you.”

He abruptly turned away, blurring into nonexistence. Shivering, Eleanor wrapped her arms around herself.Goosebumps covered her arms. The God of Light is with me, she thought over and over. Apollo is with me.

The Army of the Republic was a lot like a football team.

Leigh Morrison discovered this quickly, and it helped him a lot coping with the strangeness of the situation. He and other recruits were yelled at, made to run in groups, and fight in close formation. The only thing missing was a ball. Of course, none of Leigh's former coaches wore armor or beat slackers with a wooden rod.

“Quick time, quick time!” the centurion roared. A block of one hundred men, all recruits clad in dirty tunics and flimsy sandals, had to run as hard as they could without trampling on the man in front of them—or get trampled by the recruit behind. The red-haired centurion whacked every man on the outside edge of the formation as he passed him. Leigh got his share of “encouragement.” The drillmaster's name was Gordius, but everyone called him Rufus Panthera, the Red Lion.

“Worthless filth!” he bellowed. “None of you will last a day against the barbarians! Sword-fodder, that's what you are! Cordwood! No, cordwood is useful, you can burn it. You dungheads are corpses in waiting!”

That was typical of the abuse Rufus dealt out from sunup to sundown. Leigh's group was training to be infantry of the legion, the toughest job in the army. Only the biggest and strongest recruits were taken for the infantry. Lesser men became archers, cavalry, or skirmishers. The officers took one look at Leigh and passed him on to the infantry. It was a compliment, in a way. He soon regretted it.

Nothing he did was right. He was slow, Rufus yelled. He was clumsy. He was weak, no better than a woman. Why didn't he put on a dress and go home? Leigh gritted his teeth and avoided looking the centurion in the eye. Guys who did that lost teeth—or eyes.

Slowly the group of one hundred men shrank. After a few days, they were ninety. More drills in the hot sun, more route marches through swamps and hills, and the century lessened to eighty-one. Leigh wondered what happened to the men who were gone. Usually they vanished overnight, their bunks empty in the morning. No explanation was offered, and wise recruits did not ask questions.

He avoided making friends. Leigh was convinced he could get away at some point, and he did not want friendships getting in the way. It wasn't hard being alone. Like football tryouts, there was a lot of competition among the recruits. Some of them played the tough guy, trying to outman everyone else. Others were morose or miserable, homesick, or just plain terrified. Though Rufus and the other centurions casually beat them, real punishments were far worse. A man from the next century group was flogged nearly to death for insubordination. Desertion was punishable by decimation. Leigh heard about how entire units were punished by having every tenth man put to death. No one in Leigh's group ran away. If anybody tried, the other recruits would have dragged him back.

Leigh had to admit Roman methods were effective. He was in good shape, but after a couple weeks training, he felt stronger and tougher than he ever had in his life. They began to wear heavy leather armor and spar with wooden weapons. Rufus yelled a little less and hit them less often.

At the end of six weeks of training, Leigh's group was drawn up on the Field of Mars, outside the permanent camp. A ranking officer, introduced as the proconsul, gave a short, dull speech about honor and duty to the Republic. A battle standard was consecrated to the god of war and given to the group. Henceforth they were skirmishers of the XI Legion.

Rufus barked, “Levius Moro!”

That was Leigh. He doubled to the front of the line and stopped dead in front of the centurion and proconsul. Long before, Leigh learned the Romans didn't salute. That practice didn't start until the Middle Ages.

“Is this the man?” said the proconsul. He was an older man, with white sideburns and eyebrows, and a trace of white whiskers on his chin. From his heavy muscles and scarred hands, Leigh reckoned he'd been quite a fighter in his youth.

“Yes, dominus,” said Rufus.

The proconsul nodded, and Rufus thrust the standard into Leigh's hands. It was a pole about six feet high with a brass plaque on top shaped like an open scroll. The numbers XI were molded into the metal. Atop the plaque was a crouching animal. It looked like a dog, but Leigh figured it was meant to be a wolf, symbol of the XI Legion.

“For your steady work, your obedience, and your strength, Centurion Gordius has nominated you to be aquilifer of this century,” said the proconsul.

Leigh shot a quick sideways glance at Rufus. Like his JV football coach, Rufus yelled a lot but recognized Leigh's good attitude and hard work. The aquilifer was next in rank to the centurion. He carried the standard and protected it in battle. Now Leigh was corporal to Rufus's sergeant.

“You have the makings of a real soldier, Levius,” Rufus said gruffly.

“Thank you, centurion! And thank you, Proconsul!”

He went back to the ranks, carrying the standard. It wasn't light. Idly, Leigh wondered what kind of damage he could do if he swatted somebody with it. The standard wasn't only a physical burden. A legion's standards were sacred. The men were expected to die to protect it, and as aquilifer, Leigh was supposed to be the first man to fall defending that pole.

The proconsul and Rufus exchanged a few words, then the older man departed. Rufus called Leigh forward again. Apart from the other recruits, the centurion addressed Leigh in the most normal tone of voice the American teen had ever heard him use.

“You have a new task, Aquilifer. Pick a maniple of men from the recruits for duty in the city tonight.”

Sweat trickled under the rim of Leigh's leather helmet. He wasn't allowed to wipe it away while listening to a superior.

“I am to command a maniple?” That was one hundred twenty soldiers.

“No, imbecile. I will command, but you will lead a patrol in the streets.” In the Republic, soldiers also acted as police. Leigh was getting his first assignment to the city night watch.

“Any advice on who I should pick, centurion?”

“The idiots behind you will do. Wear full leather kit, swords, but no shields.”

Hmm, swords. Leigh asked if they were allowed to use them.

“What do you think, philosopher? Use your head for something besides a target! For brawlers and drunks, use the flat of the blade. Thieves you may kill if they resist. Women and slaves tie up and bring back to camp so they can be claimed later.”

Leigh vowed he would do his best. Inside, he tingled at the thought he might be able to escape the legion. Tonight would be the first time since arriving in Eternus that he would not be watched and guarded.

Rufus spat in the dust. “Remember, the laws of the legion still apply.” Leigh must have flinched because the centurion added, “Having made aquilifer, don't soil my name by deserting. I'll hunt you down myself and offer your carcass on the altar of Mars.”

Never was a threat more sincere. Clutching the standard, Leigh asked for permission to go. Rufus waved him off. Leigh did as he was told and chose all the men left in his training group.

Because they had duty all night, Leigh's maniple had the afternoon off from drill. They still had to police their barracks, clean and prepare their equipment, and so on, but compared to drilling under the tender direction of Rufus Panthera, the afternoon was like a day at the beach.

Before the sun set, they marched out. Leigh didn't have to carry the weighty standard in the city. To signify his rank, he was given the special uniform of an aquilifer, a lion's skin. The lion's open jaw fit over his helmet, and the dangling front paws were tied around his neck. Honor or not, the pelt was hot and heavy. Still, Leigh felt rather proud leading seventy-eight men out of camp. Rufus rode ahead of them on a stubby-legged pony. He looked ridiculous on it, but no one dared say so.

At the Field of Mercury, the maniple broke into separate patrols. Leigh had twenty men under his direct command. They were to patrol the ward around the Temple of Mercury, an area of twelve square blocks.

“There are temples, taverns, and shops in the area. Watch out for drunks and cutpurses,” Rufus told him. “There are also two brothels. Unless you are called, stay out of them. If I find any man in my century in a brothel with a woman, I'll cut his balls off.” Leigh believed him without question.

“Is the house of Luxuria in our ward?” Leigh asked, trying to sound detached. It is, Rufus declared. He gave Leigh a hard look.

“Remember what I said. I don't want my new aquilifer singing soprano.”

“Neither do I, centurion!”

The streets of Eternus were dark. Overhanging buildings blotted what starlight or moonlight there was, making the streets as murky as a Mumbai blackout. In Leigh's maniple they were allowed four torches, which were spaced two up front, one in the center, and one carried by a man in the last rank. Rufus told them not to tiptoe around. They were to clank along, talking loudly, to make it clear to anyone in the street that the army was out and on duty.

Not much happened at first. They caught a poor man who had robbed a tanner's shop. The soldiers roughed him up until Leigh made them stop, and then he was sent to the city prefect's building, escorted by two of Leigh's men. Some kids threw eggs at them from a rooftop. Leigh ignored that. They helped a man right a one-horse cart that had turned over while trying to make a sharp left corner. The driver seemed very surprised Leigh's maniple helped him. He was so grateful, he gave the men several squat clay bottles of wine.

“I don't think we can accept,” Leigh said doubtfully, holding a bottle in each hand.

“Nonsense!” insisted the driver. “Just be sure to give one to your centurion.” He winked. “Hide them from your officers. They can buy their own.”

Cheered by the gifts, Leigh's men continued their rounds. From a quiet shop street they marched into a well-lit boulevard. Torches and braziers burned at intervals all along the block. Revelers drifted from one side of the street to another. This was the street one of the local recruits called “Bucket of Blood Lane.” It was lined with wine shops and gambling dens.

“All right,” said Leigh, squaring his shoulders. “Maniple, close order by fours! Forward!”

They marched down the wide street in locked step, iron nails striking sparks when their sandals struck the cobblestones. People idling in the street moved out of their way, but they stayed to eye the approaching soldiers.

It was Leigh's intention to march the length of the street and go on. They didn't get the chance. A third of the way along, the door of a saloon burst open and a knot of cursing, struggling men rolled out into the street.

“Maniple, halt!”

Well-practiced, the Republic soldiers stopped as one. Leigh said in a loud, hopefully commanding voice, “You there! Break it up!”

The fight went on. One man got kicked in the face. He spit teeth on the street and punched his attacker savagely in the gut.

“Break it up!”

“That won't do it, son of Mars,” someone called from the sidelines. “You're going to have to get your hands dirty.”

Everyone was watching. The Latins respected bold, forceful action, so Leigh ordered the front four ranks, sixteen men, to break up the brawl. They waded in, kicking the combatants and whacking a few on the head with their sheathed swords. Sheathed or not, a Latin blade could crack a man's skull open. Some of the brawlers ended up lying faceup in the street, not moving.

“Somebody claim them, or I'll have to take them to the city prefect,” Leigh shouted. A few people shuffled forward to drag the unconscious men away.

“Aquilifer, should we go in the wine shop to investigate the fight?” one of Leigh's men asked.

He agreed. Backed by another three ranks of men, Leigh strode into the smoky, ill-lit shop. The rest of the maniple he ordered to stand fast in the street.

All talk ceased. A lot of hard faces stared at the soldiers over cups of dark red wine. Under his lion skin, Leigh sweated.

“Who started the fight?” he demanded. The only answer was a cough from the back of the room.

“Brawling is against the prefect's orders,” Leigh went on. He didn't know if this was true or not, but it sounded good. “Someone talk to me, or I'll clear the place and order it closed.”

A man in a long white apron—the owner—hurried forward.

“Noble warrior,” he whined, “don't shut me down! I'm a poor man, a humble man—”

“And a peddler of filthy wine,” said a thick voice behind them.

“Shut your hole! I know you, Arius, you started the fight! Talking religion in my shop! I won't have it!” Arius made an anatomically impossible suggestion to the groveling owner.

“Catamite! Get out of my shop and don't come back!” he shrilled.

In reply, a short, three-legged stool hurtled past Leigh's head. It hit the shop owner square in the face. Blood spurted from his nose. Down he went, spraying it all over Leigh's white leather breastplate.

“All right men!” said one of the soldiers behind Leigh. “Clear 'em out!”

Before Leigh could say anything, the room erupted. His twelve men attacked anyone within reach. Stools and clay cups flew, thudding off walls and skulls all around them. With his men committed, Leigh had no choice but to defend himself. He had a baton, mostly as a symbol of his rank. With his back to his own squad, he batted aside a stool and laid his stick hard on the neck of a Latin charging at him. The guy crumpled at Leigh's feet.

He felt a curious rush at his success. For weeks since coming to this crazy, backward place, people had been beating on him. It felt good—yes, good—to give back a little of what he'd been getting.

Unfortunately, there were more people in the shop than he had first thought. They kept coming out of the shadows, more of them, and some weren't armed with table legs or fists. Leigh saw the iron glint of knife blades among them.

“Knives!” he shouted. “Men, swords!”