***
Days later, I leaned up off my bedroll after a sleepless night, resting my arms on my knees, and hanging my head between them. I felt horrible, and I had no idea why, but I suspected it had something to do with that beef patty MRE I’d had for dinner last night. Lifting my head, and rubbing my hand over my face and through my hair, which was getting much longer than I’d ever grown it, I looked over at the empty spot where Helena normally slept.
I sighed. Maybe I was just getting lonely since I never seemed to see her these days.
“Ah, get up, Jacob,” I said to no one in particular. “Today’s too big a day for this shit.”
I got to my feet, pulled off my shirt and looked around for a fresh one. Once I found one I thought was mostly clean, I snatched up my web belt, which held my tactical thigh holster holding my pistol and a few extra mags, and strapped it around my waist. My morning ritual completed, I unzipped the tent, stepped out into the frigid weather, and headed toward a trough of water. Normally used as the legion horses’ drinking water, I dunked my head as deep as I could into the freezing liquid, a scene I’d seen a dozen times in Wild West movies. Whipping my head out of the icy cold bath just as quickly as I had dunked it, I sent a stream of water flying behind me, accidentally splashing Bordeaux as he walked toward his tent.
I stood and dried myself off as well as I could before I turned to see Bordeaux still standing there, a wet scowl on his face.
“Oh, sorry, Jeanne. Didn’t see you there.”
He walked up to me angrily, and snatched my dry shirt from my shoulder to dry his face with, then he shoved a loaf of Roman bread into my hand, fresh off the fire. It was tough and chewy, thanks to the gluten-rich wheat they used, but it offered enough sustenance to be the backbone of a legionnaire’s diet, which was good enough for me.
“You all right, Jacob?” He asked with a mouthful of bread. “Today’s a big day.”
“I’m fine,” I said, taking a bite of my own and mumbling around the food, “jus dinnt sweep swell.”
He looked at me pathetically. “Well, get yourself cleaned up. We’re expected in Galba’s tent in a few minutes.”
“Okay,” I finished after gulping down my meal.
With that, I turned and headed back to my tent. I found the zipper and gave it a pull, only to find it stuck and refusing to budge. Gripping it with both hands, I tugged harder, only to have it stubbornly remain jammed. I started yanking furiously on the zipper. Never a morning person, my annoyance quickly turned to rage, and I couldn’t stop myself from kicking the tent, unplanting one of the stakes in my tirade. Wang, emerging from his own tent, noticed my predicament, and came over to help, a steaming cup of tea in his hand.
“Here, Hunter. Let me try.”
I conceded the zipper, throwing my hands up in frustration, and backed away.
Wang gripped the zipper lightly, gave it a yank to further close it before sending it on its way to open the flap, which it did easily.
He turned to look at me, taking a sip from the steaming mug. “You all right, Jacob? Today’s…”
“…a big day. Right. I got it.” I tried to breathe through my nose, hold it, and exhale through my mouth, an old Zen calming technique. “Thanks for your help. I’ll see you in the praetorium.”
He pulled his cup from his mouth to speak, but just as quickly replaced it to take another sip. The look on his face indicated he wanted to say more, but he knew how I was in the mornings. Shrugging, he turned toward the praetorium without another word.
Entering my tent, I threw off my web belt in anger, and tried to find a shirt to wear.
Could this day get any worse?
Finding a shirt that I assumed was clean, I slipped it on, replaced my web belt, and retrieved a fleece jacket I had found in our supplies. It was festooned with pockets, and could be worn in freezing temperatures, as well as in moderately cool days. It was even colored in olive drab. My favorite color, a good choice for any military man. Good camouflage.
As I left my tent, I closed the zipper with excessive carefulness, hoping to avoid any further complications. Checking my watch, I realized I only had a minute before I was late. Luckily, the praetorium was only a twenty step jog away. When I entered I was annoyingly rewarded with the fact I was the last to arrive.
My always punctual mother would have been disappointed.
At the center of the tent were two large tables, with two large maps displayed on top. The first was a rudimentary topographical map of the Italian peninsula, and rudimentary was putting it nicely. It was a far cry from the satellite imagery we used in our own time, but it would do. The map was only mostly identifiable, with the general shape of the country present, along with Sicily, Corsica, Sardinia, and plenty of landmarks, rivers, mountain ranges, and cities, most of which were close enough to where they were supposed to be.
The second map was a simple diagram of the city of Rome. It wasn’t as detailed as the one I had framed and hanging on my wall back home, a diagram I’d hoped to use in my classroom once upon a time, but even so, it showed the city’s largest buildings, walls, and gates accurately.
Arrayed around the tables were the usual suspects: Caligula, Galba, his primus pilus Maximus Nisus, Quintilius, Gaius, Marcus, Varus, three of the legion’s tribunes, and a few slaves and freedmen administrators.
Santino and Wang stood next to each other, mugs of steaming liquid in their hands, probably debating their preferences for either coffee or tea again. By yet another grace of God, MREs included ground coffee, and we also found tea bags in the cargo as well. Teas weren’t new in Rome, but coffee beans were indigenous to the Americas, resulting in some very jealous Romans. Centurion Nisus, in fact, had grown addicted to the stuff after his first taste, enamored by its caffeine content like so many college students. He and I had worked out a deal that sent my MRE coffee bean packages his way, for a portion of his salted pork rations. I had to side with the Brits on this one, as I had never really enjoyed coffee, and the idea of fire roasted bacon made me very happy.
Bordeaux and Vincent were next to the two debaters, while Helena stood around the corner, quietly chatting with Varus. She’d struck up a friendship with him just as I had, and had learned that the scholar was in fact married and expecting his first child. When she told me the news, I immediately wondered if that child was another link in the possible genetic chain that connected the two of us.
Hoping to glide in under the radar, I quietly took an open spot around the table, between Santino and Vincent, opposite Galba and Caligula, and waited for the briefing to begin. Caligula and Galba had been conversing quietly prior to my arrival, and continued after I had taken my place at the table, completely ignoring my entrance.
Score.
I glanced at Helena and she gave me a concerned look, which I answered with a slight shake of my head.
Focusing on the maps, I only had to wait a few seconds before Caligula asked for attention.
“As you all know,” he started, raising his hand for silence, “we have received very little intelligence over the winter concerning Claudius and his hold on Rome. What we have learned, as Galba so astutely predicted, is that Claudius has not contacted any other legion to support his cause. We have to assume that he realizes his hold on power is only as strong as his ability to keep me from reclaiming it. Once I’m eliminated, no one will ask any questions as to his legitimacy, but until then, he’s vulnerable.”
He paused, looking each of us in the eye in turn.
“That said, I also face a problem. We, as well, cannot seek help. If we did, my own hold on power may slip, and we could see a series of attempted coups and power struggles for years to come. That would not be in the best interest of my empire. No. The best thing we can do is end this smoothly, quickly, and as quietly as possible.”
“Exactly what will happen when this rebellion comes to an end?” Varus asked, thinking beyond the immediate military
situation. “Even after we retake Rome, the news of Claudius’ betrayal will travel like a wild fire, and we may find recalcitrant members of the empire also wishing to play their own hands. The Germans are still beating their war drums since their victories thirty years ago and the Jews in the East, especially, have been grumbling for years. A power struggle in Rome may incite them to take up arms against our legions stationed in Judea.”
Nisus made a dismissive noise. “You’re point, Varus? Our Eastern legions would crush any insurrection in a matter of months.”
Some of the military men pounded their fists on the table in agreement. It wasn’t a surprise they didn’t think much of their Jewish protectorates in the East, since they hadn’t given much cause for concern in the past. I knew, however, that not too far in the future, a Jewish rebellion would take place and last for many bloody years.
“Both Varus and Nisus make valid points,” Galba interjected, raising his hands for silence among his men. “Our legions would have no problem dealing with open rebellion anywhere in the empire, but Varus’ point that we need to contain the news is valid as well. There is no way to stop those who have traveled from Rome since we left, but once we retake the city, we can control the spreading of any new.”
Caligula nodded. “Galba is correct. God’s willing, once we retake Rome and depose Claudius, we will quickly restore order and make it appear as though nothing happened. Remember, news travels slowly during the winter months. Any persons returning to Rome, or traveling to Rome solely on the basis of determining whether or not Claudius staged a coup, will arrive to find nothing of the sort.” Caligula paused, and looked as serious as I had ever seen him. “A seamless restoration of power is required. We can ill afford any doubt in the minds of patricians, equestrians, or plebeians alike. I am Caesar, not Claudius, and any who wish to challenge that claim will be dealt with.”
The men, and one woman, around the room nodded, myself included. Even if I hadn’t already known he was Rome’s true emperor, I wouldn’t have doubted it now. He spoke with such conviction and purpose, it was easy to see him as the leader of the known world, and not some mere mortal like the rest of us.
He looked around the tent again, seeing the hardened but confident expressions each person present had on their faces, and nodded. “With that, I turn this briefing over to the legate.”
Galba cleared his throat.
“The problem we face is that of besieging a city with minimal forces.” He indicated to the map of Rome with his hands. “The last few incidents of Roman military expeditions conquering Rome were the result of those in power fleeing and leaving the gates open behind them. We will not have that luxury. Additionally, a lasting artillery barrage is out of the question. We are not going to destroy half of Rome to simply knock down a few walls. That said, while our advantages are few, I believe they may be enough to retake the city.
“What we lack in experienced troops, we make up for in numbers. My legion and auxilia are at full strength, and alone consists of more men than the Praetorian contingent loyal to Claudius. Additionally, our auxilia are of German stock, men always itching for a fight. In my career I’ve never seen fiercer or wilder men. They will be very useful. Furthermore, Caligula’s Sacred Band, along with two thousand additional Praetorians, all seasoned veterans, will form the heart of our lines. Lastly, we have five men, and one resourceful woman, each with abilities far superior to our own, and perhaps worth a cohort of men, each.”
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 strategies with Vincent and his lieutenant for months, and I see little use for them. Their strengths lay 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 voiced a concern over the amount of ammunition they can carry to the 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 place their explosives at 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 bringing down the walls without ever having to enter the city.”
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 for 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’d 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 hasty 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 tents, not understanding the noises they heard, the flashes they’d seen, or the ominous red glare glowing 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 awakened 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 Greeks, 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. 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 home, 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 Agrippina!” and rushing to her side.
“Sister?” Santino repeated, giving me a look.
The realization hit me like a truck. “Oh, no…”
Vincent understood. “Agrippina…”
The Last Roman (The Praetorian Series - Book I) Page 52