The Last Roman p-1

by Edward Crichton

  Well, that was a nice thing to say. During our months in the camp, I’d always gotten the feeling Galba never liked us much.

  “Unfortunately,” he finished, “their use in the battle will be limited at best.”

  Never mind.

  “I’ve been going over their tactics and strategy with Vincent and his lieutenant for months, and I see little use for them. Their strengths rely in small unit skirmishes, stealth, and ambush, not in a large scale battle between thousands of men. However, that is not to say they won’t have an important place in the upcoming battle.” He sighed. “Vincent has issued a concern over the amount of ammunition they can carry to field, so they will be used for another purpose.

  “Instead,” Galba said, pointing at the walls of Rome, “they will be used as our gateway to the city before any fighting even begins. While the army is still a day’s march out, Vincent and his men,” he paused, glancing at Helena who gave him a cold look, “his people, will infiltrate the city and place their explosives along key junctions around the walls.”

  “As we have all experienced this winter,” he continued, a hint of anger and annoyance in his voice, “these people are extremely efficient at reconnaissance, stealth, infiltration, and…” he hesitated, trying to find the appropriate wording, “… causing trouble, and should have no problem finding a way inside.”

  Standing before Galba, I forced myself to suppress a smile.

  During our winter vacation in the camp, we had spent time playing the ancient equivalent of war games against the legion. Galba would allow Vincent and the rest of us to leave camp and spend time observing his defenses, before trying to capture a flag placed on a tent pole of the praetorium. It was a basic game of capture of the flag, something the Romans never played during their training, but one most militaries of the 21st century used regularly. The last time I checked, the score was 8–0 in favor of the troops from the future.

  To be fair, the Romans never stood much of a chance. In one of our gear containers, we found a dozen air pistols and rifles. Also provided were hundreds of tranquillizer darts filled with a knockout agent capable of rendering a man unconscious for hours. Combined with Santino, as well as his UAV, sneaking in and getting out was as easy as boiling water.

  The Romans were smart, and their defenses top notch, but they were no match against a modern Special Forces unit. Most incursions followed a simple step by step series of procedures. Helena and I would crawl forward under cover of darkness until we were within range of the air rifles, around fifty yards, and easily take out the guards on the ramparts.

  Even though I had no desire to compete with Helena when it came to shooting, our war games inevitably proved who was the better shot, and it most definitely wasn’t me. In my defense, she had picked up her first high powered rifle when she was a kid, whereas I had to wait until I joined the military. Even so, I held my own, and I tried to not let those cocky smirks of hers bother me, even though all I wanted to do was smack them right off her face every time.

  Once the guards on the rampart were down, the rest of the squad would rush forward through the palisade and ditch, and scale the walls. Helena and I participated in the actual infiltration only once, so our AARs filled us in on how every other mission played itself out the rest of the time.

  Bordeaux and Wang would stay stationed on the rampart, ready to provide cover fire, while Vincent and Santino would descend into the camp. Once on the ground, Vincent would hang back by the rope, while Santino would sneak through the camp and capture the flag, undetected each time, except for on one occasion.

  For the most part, Galba arranged his defenses as strong as they would be on any regular night, not adding sentries or guards just because he knew we were coming. We wanted these games to accurately reflect the combat effectiveness each side could muster. Something we’d never actually determined of ourselves since we became a team.

  It came as a surprise one day when we realized that we’d only been a team for a few months, and that we never actually had a chance to perform any team training together. At first we were worried the professional Romans would actually beat us, but as it turned out, we had little to worry about. We performed fantastically, meshing together like a unit that had seen combat for years.

  So, on the one occasion that Santino was detected, it wasn’t because someone fouled up, but because Galba had stacked the deck that night. I suspected it was probably because he was a sore loser, but Santino didn’t seem to mind. It only made him change his style.

  Galba had left the rampart security the way it always was, his first mistake, but had added two dozen guards outside his tent. He tried to rationalize these guards by saying there were always roaming legionnaires in the camp, and these had simply decided to station themselves outside the praetorium that night. Galba would soon realize that we still had a few tricks up our sleeves, and sheer manpower wasn’t going to get him a quick victory.

  Other than the tranq darts, which the Romans quickly learned to hate, another weapon of the future we had plenty of were flashbangs. Flashbangs were non-lethal grenades, meant to blind, deafen, and disorient anyone who came into contact with them. Many a morning at BUD/S, they were used as alarm clocks, the most efficient ones I ever had. Santino had brought along two nine-bangers with him, basically flashbangs that went off nine times in quick succession, bouncing around with each bang, each concussive blast overwhelming and disorienting those near them.

  After sneaking to the edge of the via principalis, tranqing one legionnaire along the way, he quickly assessed the situation, determining he’d have to forfeit his perfect score of remaining unseen. Over the radio he asked Helena and Bordeaux to get ready, and once they announced they were, he transmitted a double click.

  Receiving his all clear, Helena launched a red flare. The bright red flare lit up the night sky, slowly drifting to the Earth on its small parachute, achieving its desired effect. Every man in the camp looked up at the magical red light that had spontaneously erupted in the darkness, giving Santino the opportunity he needed to pull the pins on his nine bangers, and toss them gently into the group of waiting guards.

  The following explosions were louder and brighter than anything the Romans had ever experienced before, all eighteen of them. To the unaware Roman, the nine bangers would seem like lightning strikes and thunderclaps going off right at their feet, only worse. Santino was prepared and insulated from the explosions, and he bolted for the flag as soon as the first bang went off. It all went perfectly until in his haste retreat, Santino managed to pull down one of the tent poles with the flag, collapsing the praetorium. Not wasting any time, he made a beeline for the porta praetoria, and didn’t look back.

  Those inhabitants of the camp who had been sleeping, weren’t any longer, but most were too afraid to leave their tent, not understanding the noises they heard, the flashes they’d seen, or the ominous read glare emanating through the thin linings of their tents.

  As Santino ran, Bordeaux detonated the C-4 charge he had set against the porta praetoria, blowing the gate clean off. Waiting for Santino at the gaping hole in the Roman’s wall, Bordeaux, along with Vincent and Wang fired blindly down the road toward the praetorium as fast as they could reload. When Santino reached the wall, each of them fled the camp. Only a few legionnaires tried to follow, but were quickly incapacitated by Helena and me, patiently waiting as snipers were trained to do. When the fugitives reached our position, Helena and I joined them in flight, made our way to the trees, and laid low for a few days.

  We didn’t want to return immediately, for fear of hurt feelings and angry legionnaires, so we spent the time celebrating our victory. We enjoyed some wine Santino had managed to pilfer during his short time in the camp and feasted on a deer hunted by yours truly.

  When we returned a few days later, waltzing nonchalantly through the newly under construction porta praetoria, we received a few glares and angry expressions, but most were happy. Even those few we had actually shot were aware
that the training exercise had been productive. We returned the flag to Galba, while Caligula stood next to him wearing an amused grin on his face. Galba on the other hand was not happy. One of the squad’s errant tranquilizer darts managed to find its way into his thigh, and he had not awoken pleased.

  In the end, every man in the camp, ourselves included, gained important knowledge, training, and insight into the ways of war. We had utilized our winter efficiently, and we all felt that much more confident about the upcoming campaign because of it.

  Reminded of the night that five men and one woman had successfully defeated over twelve thousand men, I couldn’t help but smile, despite my attempts not to. Galba must have noticed, because when I managed to snap myself from the day dream, I noticed he was glaring at me.

  I gulped and shifted on my feet, turning my attention back to the maps sheepishly.

  With a shake of his head, Galba continued. “Once night has fallen on the following day, they will bring down the walls and our army will rush through, hopefully catching the enemy asleep and disoriented. The auxilia will attack the Castra Praetoria directly, while the legion itself will head straight for the Forum Romanum and the Domus Augusti, subduing any opposition in their path and capturing the rebel leadership, especially Claudius.”

  Galba pointed to Vincent. “They will be our Trojan Horse, our key to the city, and like the Trojans, we will hit the enemy while they are at their most vulnerable. But,” he said sternly, looking at each of us in turn, “once the walls come down, and my men enter the city, you will stand down, and take a defensive stance only. Let us handle the suppression of the city, and only use force to defend yourselves. In fact, I’d prefer if you stayed out of the way completely.”

  Even after all this time, Galba still didn’t trust us. Fight with us, use us, respect us, yes, but not rely on us. Galba was a tough man to please, but I couldn’t fault him for how he felt. It was hard to trust that which you couldn’t understand, and from a Roman’s point of view, there was nothing that could explain us.

  Galba was about to continue when we heard a commotion outside the tent. Caligula and Galba remained at the head of the table, waiting for a report to be made to them. When the tent opened, I expected to see one of the legion’s junior centurions burst in with news. A woman entered instead, and every head in the tent turned to look, jaws dropping all around.

  The woman was strikingly beautiful, dare I say, just as beautiful as Helena. Her slender neck connected to a face with full lips, high cheekbones, and an olive tanned complexion. Blond hair and royal blue eyes were an interesting contrast to her skin tone, but an alluring one. She was also tall, only a little shorter than Helena, and had a fullness to her slender frame that suggested a recent pregnancy. Adding to her beauty was her clothing, cut in a way which produced a slit along her left leg that ran nearly to her waist. It wasn’t a style I’d seen amongst Rome’s town women, but it definitely had an effect on all of us present, save probably Helena. It was also cut in a low fashion along her chest, revealing ample cleavage.

  I thought I recognized her from somewhere, but I couldn’t put my finger on where.

  Santino rubbed his eyes, as though she was some figment of his perverted imagination.

  I wasn’t so easily fooled. There was something off about her. Her beauty was so unlike Helena’s, which conveyed warmth and tenderness. Instead, she seemed devious, insistent, and cunning. Like so many bleach blonde, bimbo clones back in 2021, this woman knew she was beautiful, and used it only to achieve her own ambitions and goals.

  The only man in the room not drawn to the woman’s beauty was Caligula, who surprised us all by crying, “Sister!” and rushing to her side.

  “Sister?” Santino repeated, giving me a look.

  The realization hit me like a truck. “Oh, no…”

  Vincent understood. “Agrippina.”

  X

  Agrippina

  Rome, Italy

  April, 38 A.D.

  I knew all about this beautiful, young, vile woman.

  Agrippina, or Agrippina the Younger, as she is better known to history, was the oldest of Caligula’s three sisters. In my undergraduate thesis about the Julio-Claudian family, I had spent ample time researching her in particular and, if I had learned anything about her, it was that she was trouble. If I remembered my dates correctly, she should be about twenty two, a very mature looking twenty two, if I were to judge. Pliny the Younger, a different Younger, recorded she had canine teeth, a sign of good fortune amongst Romans, and that physical detail allowed me to confirm this woman was indeed her.

  Agrippina had been more than a mere seductress, but a very ambitious woman as well. Perhaps one of the most ambitious throughout Roman history. After Caligula went insane, rumors began circulating of an incestuous affair between him and all his sisters. In 39 A.D. she was involved in a plot to murder Caligula and replace him on the throne with someone she could control. When it failed, she was exiled, only to be recalled by her paternal uncle, Claudius, after he had become emperor.

  In regards to Claudius, he went through three marriages, and Agrippina, two, before they themselves wed. The incestuous marriage between Claudius and Agrippina was creepy enough, but then there was also the age difference, which seemed paltry by comparison. After they were married, she rose to an unprecedented level of power, becoming an empress of Rome, bestowed with the title Augustina, sharing joint power equally with Claudius on some levels. She became a force to be reckoned with. While not a policy maker herself, she held considerable influence with her husband-uncle, as well as those he ruled.

  The kicker was that Agrippina had a son from her first marriage, which she manipulated Claudius into adopting and appointing as his own heir, superseding his own genetic son, Britannicus. A few years later, Claudius began to favor his own son again, and grew a pair by condemning Agrippina. Not long later, in 54 A.D., Claudius was poisoned by a plate of mushrooms and died. Many historians credit the assassination to none other than Agrippina herself, and her son, Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Germanicus, better known simply as Nero, became emperor as a mere teenager.

  I wondered where Drusilla was, another of Caligula’s sisters. They had always been the closer ones. Granted if Agrippina was here, Drusilla was probably not far behind. Regardless, Agrippina had to have brought trouble with her, and if anything at all went right today it would be her leaving me out of it.

  After quickly embracing his sister in a way any brother would, no sign of incest present, Caligula led her to his position at the head of the table. “My friends,” he addressed to us all, making me actually feel important. “For those of you who do not know, this is my sister, Agrippina. Introductions can wait until later, dear sister, but these are my closest friends and advisors. Now, tell me, what brings you here?”

  Since her arrival, Agrippina had been putting on a display of contained desperation, as though she were just barely containing a fit of sadness and rage. When Caligula finally asked her what was wrong, she released her emotions in a stunning performance that I should have expected from the woman.

  “Caligula, brother! It is my son! Lucius!” She wailed the name, falling into Caligula’s arms, weeping and pounding lightly on his chest. Her voice was high pitched, but despite the wailing, had a gentle purr to it that was easy on the ears. She was playing the part of the grieving mother well. Whether any emotion she was conveying was real or not was any man’s guess.

  “Lucius?” Caligula asked. “I was wondering whether you had given birth. I was horribly worried. Lucius.” He repeated. “A good name. He will become a fine man.”

  Santino elbowed me in the ribs, whispering, “New mom, huh? I can tell.” He emphasized his point by puffing out his chest subtly and shaking it from side to side. “Lost that baby weight quickly, too. Nice.”

  I turned towards him as inconspicuously as I could, a blank expression on my face. Smiling, he shrugged, and turned back to continue gawking at our guest.

  Calig
ula kept his attention on his sister. “What has happened to him? Tell me.”

  “Claudius.” She said the name with disdain in between bouts of tears. “Our uncle has murdered Gnaeus and taken my son hostage, saying that he will adopt him as his own to make him emperor one day. He plans to give him a new name. Nero he says. But he has forced me out of his home. I am not allowed to see my own son. Claudius has gone mad with power. Mad! He’s always been a scoundrel, but something has changed him. Broken his mind. I’m afraid he may hurt my son!”

  I looked at Vincent, and we both realized another piece of the puzzle had clicked into place, hopefully the last. Claudius must have the orb in his possession. That would explain his odd behavior.

  Caligula tried to console her. “Sister. Do not worry. I will take care of it. Tell me. Are you expected back in Rome?”

  “Yes. I told Claudius I was visiting Mother and our sisters in Arretium. I’m expected home in a few days.”

  “Did you come with anyone?”

  “Yes. Two bodyguards.”

  Caligula looked at Vincent. “This seems like something well suited to your skills.”

  “Caesar,” Nisus interrupted, raising a finger, “perhaps we should think about…”

  Caligula snapped his head and glared at the senior centurion. Nisus lowered his hand, and glanced awkwardly around the table, shutting up.

  Vincent nodded. “Indeed, Caesar. It would be the perfect cover to sneak us inside the walls of Rome. We can easily accomplish our task with only two of us, and it would prove far less dangerous to go in this way.”

  Galba huffed to himself, not really caring how much danger we had to deal with. He may have been a good general, but definitely a sore loser.