Valerius bowed his head in passing. So did the soldiers. A few even removed their helmets in respect.
“What’s that, the emperor’s palace?” Leigh wondered.
Without conferring, everyone looked not to Hans, but to Emile. He smiled and said, “That is the temple of Mercury Illustro, Mercury the Illuminator.”
“Never heard of him,” said Hans. “How do you know what it is?”
“I don’t. Just joking.”
Eleanor linked her arm in Linh’s and got her moving before the soldiers decided to prod her.
Not long after passing the lit temple, they arrived at the firelit legion camp. They crossed over a bridge (water flowing underneath) and stopped at the neatly finished wooden stockade surrounding the camp. High watchtowers bristling with torches overtopped the wall. Some official-looking men met Valerius at the gate. They consulted privately for a moment, and then the noble Valerius issued crisp orders.
The Carleton people were divided again, not by sex this time, but by age. The oldest people, led by Mrs. Ellis and Chief Steward Bernardi, followed a Latin man bearing a blazing brand. Another clerkish-looking fellow led away the middle-aged adults, and a third took charge of those in their twenties and thirties. Kiran Trevedi, the American navy men, and the Irish footballers departed without a word of protest. Mothers and fathers left their children, who waited by themselves and did not cry.
Leigh stayed tense all through the process. He’d seen old movies about the Holocaust, where children and parents were separated like this. It always meant bad things were going to happen. He was ready to join any brawl that started when parents protested, but none did. The entire procedure was less exciting than taking the London Underground. Nobody pushed or shoved, yelled or wept. Leigh found himself standing there, keyed up with no one to fight.
The teens and younger children were a small group, only sixteen of the one hundred fifty survivors. A Latin woman, about thirty, appeared to guide them. She had a plain, pale face. Her dark hair was pulled back and tied in a simple ponytail.
“Children,” she said. “I am Sylvia Alumna. Please follow me.”
“Where are we going?” said Jenny.
“To bed,” the Latin woman said. “It is late.”
To bed in a military camp? What did that mean? Julie looked around for the kind of men who had bothered her before. There were soldiers about, but officers, too, so maybe it was okay.
The Sylvia woman led them to a barnlike barracks, a long single-roomed building with a dirt floor and rows of cots. Some of the cots were already occupied by kid-sized humps covered in scraps of dark blanket. Sylvia Alumna put the girls on one side of the hall and the boys on the other. She pointed out chamber pots and pitchers of fresh water if anyone was thirsty.
“Good night,” she said. “May Somnus guide you to your rest.”
“Somnus?” muttered Leigh.
“The god of sleep,” said Hans.
She left. The young children crawled onto their cots, covered up with blankets, and went to sleep.
Leigh couldn’t believe it. He checked the door. No guards. He could see all the way to the torchlit stockade gate. It was wide open.
“We can leave anytime we want!” he declared in a loud whisper to his friends.
“And go where?” France said. “We’re in the middle of an armed camp, in the capital city of these people. Where can we go?”
Leigh’s shoulders sagged. “Are you all giving up?”
“I’m not,” said Jenny. “But I am going to sleep.”
Hans groaned a bit when he lay down. His knee was throbbing, but lying down helped.
“Sleep sounds good to me.”
“We’ll fight ’em tomorrow,” said Julie, yawning.
No one wanted to escape with him? Leigh sat down heavily on his cot. It was just a rectangle of canvas stretched over a wooden frame, but he was so tired, it felt like a zero-G bed in an orbital spa.
“Where the hell are we?” he said, holding his head in his hands. His face was sore from his misadventures.
France lay down and sighed heavily. “Right now, I don’t care.” Hans was already gripped by Somnus.
Leigh raised his head. The girls’ side of the hall showed nothing but lumpy shapes under blankets, snoozing. The only other person awake was Emile. He sat on his cot on the other side of Hans, gazing curiously at the rafters overhead.
“Hey, chocolate boy, aren’t you tired?”
“Yes.”
“Go to sleep, then.”
“This style of architecture is not authentic,” Emile said, sliding his feet onto the cot. “More medieval than Roman.”
“Who cares?” Leigh certainly didn’t. He lay down on his side, and though he was stiff with exhaustion, he kept watching Emile until his eyes collapsed shut. The Belgian boy sat on his cot staring at the ceiling for a long time, long after everyone else had succumbed to sleep.
France had odd dreams. He saw a tall figure glowing faintly blue like the temple they saw, walking slowly along the row of cots, eyeing each of them in turn. Someone else followed behind the tall figure, hidden by shadow.
It paused at the foot of France’s cot.
“The patterns here are indistinct,” murmured the tall being. The phantom trailing behind said something France didn’t make out. “No, let them alone. They have been chosen for other purposes.”
The shadowed figure asked a question. The glowing figure leaned over France, who saw the stranger was very tall, abnor-mally so. He felt the blue aura on his face, like static electricity. It made his skin prickle like the touch of a hundred tiny needles.
“He’s awake!” declared the voice quite close to France.
The teen opened his eyes and bolted upright, heart hammering. The barracks was completely dark and empty. Even Emile was sleeping, facedown on his flimsy cot. Breathing fast, France got up and looked around. There was no one like his dream around, but he did detect an odd smell—sharp and bleachy. He had been to his father’s manufacturing plant enough times to recognize ozone, which was made when ordinary air was exposed to high-voltage electricity.
Shaking, he went to the nearest chamber pot. It was on the floor below a glassless window. He stood there looking out. Someone was there, looking back at him. The light was poor, but he could see enough to know it was Sylvia Alumna. In the air above her was a slowly turning ball of pale blue fire the size of a basketball . . .
“He’s awake.”
France stumbled backward from the window. Was it a dream? Or had he interrupted some kind of nocturnal inspection?
There was so much not right here, but the great flash in the night, the blue glowing ball, and the lighted temple smacked of technology. There were strange forces at work here, things not part of ancient Rome or the modern world France felt so far from.
Cold fingers touched his neck. France yelped and drew away, only to find Linh standing behind him, pallid as a ghost.
“Damn, don’t do that!” he gasped.
“Did you see it? The light?” she whispered. France nodded. “What was it?”
“I don’t know. Some kind of surveillance device.” Police all over Europe used silent, electrically powered drones to keep watch for terrorists and other criminals. France decided the blue ball of light was a drone of some kind that had flown in the window to examine them while they slept. The figure he thought he saw was just a dream, imposed on the real object hovering over his bed.
He explained his theory to Linh. Instead of being frightened by the idea they were being watched, she actually smiled.
“Thank goodness!” she said. “Surveillance drones I can understand. I was starting to believe we were in the hands of sorcerers!”
She trembled, chilled in short sleeves and bare feet. France took the blanket from his cot and draped it over her shoulders.
&nb
sp; “What will you use?” she whispered. “You’ll be cold!”
He shrugged and lay down with his back to her.
“Good night.”
She didn’t answer, and for a moment nothing happened. Then France felt Linh settle on the edge of his cot. She raised her feet and lay down beside him, drawing the blanket over both of them.
He wanted to say thank you, but the words stuck in his throat. Linh’s breathing slowed, became regular, and she went to sleep. Looking up at the rafters, France stayed awake until the last traces of the blue glow outside faded away.
Chapter 14
All was noise and confusion. Sylvia Alumna appeared in the center of the barracks, beating a brass cymbal and calling, “Rise, rise! Sol has risen, and so must you!”
Men in short skirted tunics were in the hall, pushing wheeled carts along the aisle between the cots. The children and teens roused slowly, grumbling and rubbing their eyes against intrusive daylight. A few, like Julie Morrison, covered their heads with their blankets to keep out the light and noise. It didn’t help. Men from the carts snatched the blankets away.
Linh pried her eyes open. She wasn’t across the hall with the girls, but curled up on a narrow cot with someone else. Brushing long hair from her face, she saw François Martin, still dozing, about two inches from her face.
Linh jumped up, almost losing her balance. Sitting up on the next cot, Hans Bachmann said calmly, “Hello. Get cold last night?”
Linh put hands to her flaming cheeks.
“Y-yes,” she stammered, and fled to other side of the room.
France stirred. He looked around for Linh and, not finding her, sat up scrubbing his face. Bristles of beard scratched his hands. Normally, France took the usual depilatories for facial hair, but those had gone down with the ship. At this rate he’d have a beard in a month or two.
The cart-pushers turned out to be slaves whose job it was to feed everyone. With the manner of college lecture, Emile explained that in some eras of ancient Rome, slaves had to wear headbands or collars that marked them as slaves. The cart-pushers all wore brass collars around their necks.
In the carts were clay cauldrons of steaming white stuff they ladled into wooden bowls and shoved at the children. Jenny got a bowl and a wooden spoon. She tried the food. White beans, stewed with reddish shreds of meat—probably bacon. It was scalding, but didn’t taste too bad.
Leigh sniffed his bowl. He thought it was oatmeal until he tasted it. Peas porridge hot, he mused.
Behind the food carts came other slaves bearing armfuls of cloth. This proved to be Republic style clothing—sleeveless shifts for the girls, tunics and short kilts for the boys. When the bowls of porridge were empty, the teens and children were forced to stand by their cots, disrobe, and don the new garments. For the first time in days, the broad group of Carleton survivors resisted. Julie spoke for the girls when she flatly refused to give up her modern outfit for a shapeless shift, beaded thong belt, sandals, and no underwear.
Sylvia Alumna faced Julie. “You will change out of those barbarian rags at once,” she said calmly. “Or I shall summon the guard to do it for you.”
Outside the barracks there were hundreds, maybe thousands, of tough legionnaires. No one doubted for a minute Sylvia Alumna would do exactly what she promised—no one but Julie Morrison.
She glared right back at the older woman.
“Listen up, sweetheart,” she said. “I’m not dressing in that crap. This ain’t Mardi Gras, and I’m not pledging your stupid sorority!”
Leigh started to intervene. A grizzled slave put out an arm to stop him.
Sylvia turned to one of the slaves and told him to fetch the centurion of the watch. Leigh tried to stop him, but he was held fast by two strong slaves.
No one moved. No one spoke. A few of the young children started undressing. France heard sobbing from that end of the hall.
A perfectly massive Latin soldier returned with the slave. His crest was sideways, indicating he was a centurion. His broad shoulders looked like they would burst through his armor, and his arms were covered with tufts of rusty red hair.
“Where’s the trouble?” he said. His voice sounded like a piece of heavy furniture falling down stairs.
“That one.” Sylvia Alumna pointed at Julie. Without another warning, the centurion seized her by the wrist and twisted her arm behind her back. Leigh shouted for him to stop. Two more slaves grabbed him and threw him to the floor.
Julie yelped in pain, adding some sharp comments about the centurion’s ancestors. Quite casually, he slapped her, and with the same hand tore the New York DeZiner blouse off her with one powerful yank.
As one, the other teens moved as if to help their comrade. The slaves paired off against them. Three circled Jenny, as she was a head taller than any of them.
With no effort or emotion, the centurion stripped Julie. She collapsed to the floor, angry and ashamed. The soldier tossed the Latin clothing on her saying, “There. Get dressed.”
He strode out. Sylvia Alumna looked at the frightened faces around her and said, “Does anyone else require help?”
France turned his back on the room and undressed. The male outfit at least had an undergarment, a kind of diaperlike cloth wrapped around the waist and between the thighs. He pulled on the kilt and tunic, then squatted to fit the sandals on his feet. By the time he stood up, most everyone was dressed. Leigh had tears shining on his face. France glanced at Julie. She was tying the sash around her waist. Her left arm was scarlet from being wrenched. She knotted the belt with a savage tug and stood, arms folded, staring at the floor.
The slaves gathered up the modern clothing. Hans fingered the hem of his skirt. It was some kind of thick homespun, too coarse for linen and too light for wool. It struck him as he looked at his new clothes and sandals how well it all fit. A quick check of the others showed that their outfits all fit, too. He would expect somebody to have gotten sandals too small or shift too large, especially in a group as mixed in size as theirs, but everyone was neatly dressed.
All their accessories were taken—PDDs and Info-Coaches (which didn’t work anyway), watches, rings, even earrings.
“You will follow me,” Sylvia said. “We are going to the Forum Diluculo.”
“Are we to be slaves?” Jenny demanded.
“Be quiet and no harm will come to you.” She turned and walked out. The slaves stood back, waiting for the teens and children to go.
Leigh tried to put an arm around his sister’s waist. She pushed him away with a snarl.
France found himself walking between Hans and Linh. She was distant, embarrassed no doubt. Hans limped on his bad knee and talked steadily in a low, confidential tone.
“We mustn’t forget this experience is real,” he said. “Strange or ridiculous as it might seem, it is real and very dangerous.”
“We’re going to be slaves,” France said darkly.
“Maybe not.”
“What else would they want us for?”
“I’m not sure,” Hans said. “We’ve been treated too well to end up as slaves.”
“You think this is good treatment?” asked Linh.
“In the context of ancient Roman culture, yes. There’s more in store for us than simple slavery.”
That scared Linh more than thoughts of cruel servitude. Were they to be killed or sacrificed in some horrible way? She had vague memories of her middle-school history class reading about how in some ancient societies sacrificial victims were treated gently up to the moment they had their hearts cut out . . .
They left the military camp and crossed a green, parklike area in brilliant sunshine. The sun was warm. Beyond the park, buildings resumed, but they were larger and more individualistic. There were names chiseled into marble pylons out front of these mansions: CALLIDVS, OPVLENS, GNARVS, PRISCVS, PERICVLOSVS. At one point, Emile
wandered off from the group to finger the gold inlaid letters of the name PRISCVS, only to be guided back into line by one of the escorting slaves.
The mansions faced a grand square. This was Forum Diluculo, one of the main squares in Eternus Urbs. Though the hour was early—only an hour or so past dawn—the square was rapidly filling with the people.
Jenny was alert, but quite calm. She was used to wearing light clothing while running, though the lack of underclothes was kind of disturbing. The crowd of people around them thickened. It was a more diverse crowd, too. Many people were dressed like them, in simple homespun, but there were others more richly dressed in well-colored gowns or bright white togas. She saw farmers and merchants, white-haired old folks and handsome young people. The air was alive with chatter.
“A denarius is too much for a dozen chickens—!”
“Wine is good today; try the red!”
“Bread, bread, bread—”
“I heard she left her husband for that charioteer in the circus—!”
“—Not a speck more! Half a denarius is all I will pay!”
Things were so lively and natural, Jenny almost forgot how impossible it all was. It was the twenty-first century, not 200 b.c. She glanced to either side at Eleanor and Linh, who were also taking in the market square with wonder. Traders and shoppers jostled past them without a second glance. In their bland Roman clothing, they already fit in, at least outwardly.
In the southwest corner of the forum stood an elaborate stone platform. About three feet high, it was about fifteen feet on each side and faced with false half-columns. A wide set of steps led up to an open, empty stage.
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