Lost Republic

Author:Paul B. Thompson [Thompson, Paul B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Action & Adventure Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, Legends, Myths, Fables
ISBN: 978-1-62324-003-5
Publisher: Enslow Publishers, Inc.
Published: 2014-12-26T16:00:00+00:00

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.

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