A Hunter and His Legion (The Praetorian Series Book 3)

by Edward Crichton

  “Halt.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Leaders lead, Galba. From the front.”

  His eyes seemed to twinkle at my comment. “Unless you are Julius Caesar, which you most certainly are not, then a good leader stays in the rear where he can better direct his troops. He does not advance brashly into an awaiting horde.”

  “I’m pretty sure I’m better armed and equipped than Julius Caesar was. I’ll be fine.”

  “There is no question that you are, Hunter, but what you lack is his charisma, zeal, luck, and… everything else that constitutes a real leader. You will stay here. You are the key to getting your people away from my empire, and while you dead will certainly solve the problem of you, it won’t do anything for your friends.”

  His last words were dripping with condescension and anger, and I felt that bit of nervousness in my stomach turn into anger in my chest, but I did everything I could to suppress it. I was beginning to not like Galba one bit anymore, but I kept that resentment buried away in my chest for later use. I reminded myself that I needed Galba – for now – but such a fact was becoming harder and harder to remember.

  I kept my mouth shut, but turned to my right where every single time traveler from Helena right next to me, to Artie at the far end, sat atop horses in a long line. The newcomers had finally been given mounts upon landing in Britain, and I’d been shocked to learn that they were all quite competent with them. Apparently, mounted warfare atop horses hadn’t been very far removed in their timeline, and each of them was fully trained to ride into combat. It had only taken them a matter of minutes to acclimate themselves to a lack of stirrups, and the fact that they’d so quickly adjusted made me wonder if they’d even been invented yet in their timeline.

  I hadn’t asked because I didn’t want to know, but I tried to look at it as a positive since they could all act as quick reaction forces to augment the legion far more efficiently than local cavalry.

  I leaned forward so that I could look past Helena and caught both Vincent’s and Archer’s attention.

  They too leaned forward.

  “Take your men to the flanks and cover the legion and auxilia,” I ordered them both. “Galba doesn’t expect much of a battle so don’t shoot anyone unless they directly threaten you. It’s possible your gunfire will scare them more quickly than even the legion, but whatever you do, don’t shoot first.”

  Vincent nodded, but Archer had more to say.

  “Why not just kill them all, Hunter?” He asked. “Rome needs to conquer this territory anyway, so why not help them?”

  I shot him a look that would have burned him to ashes had I possessed the ability to create fire from my eyes.

  “I didn’t come to Rome to conquer it, Archer!” I yelled. “If I’d wanted to, I could have, believe me! But that was never the point! Never the goal! How could you possible think that?? I wanted to affect as little change as possible, but no… we had to get involved, and then it fell on me to fix everything! But that doesn’t mean…”

  “But, Hunter…”

  “Shut your fucking mouth, Archer!” I screamed, spittle flying from my lips. If not for Helena and Vincent between us, I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t have smashed his face in with the butt of my rifle. “Now do as I say! But leave Cuyler.”

  Helena and Vincent glanced nervously at each other, doing their best to remain inconspicuous but their presence barely even registered with me. My eyes were locked on Archer’s, and his eyes burned back just as intensely, but he wasn’t in a position to countermand my orders. I had two entire legions at my back, and I would turn them on him in an instant if I had too.

  The tension lingered for what seemed like hours, before he finally turned away and ordered his men to the right flank. Vincent did the same with our group, directing them to the left, but when Helena kicked her horse into motion, I reached out and gripped the reins, stopping her horse.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” I asked, unable to keep the edge out of my voice, still upset from my argument with Archer.

  She looked back at me angrily, her own voice unable to hide her anger. “Where do you think I…”

  “You’re going nowhere, Helena,” I said, the scorn voluntarily there this time. As I spoke, Cuyler rode up with his sniper rifle slung over his back, his dark clothing making him all but invisible atop his white horse now that night had settled in.

  I ignored Helena completely and turned to him. “Take Helena and follow behind the legion. Hang back and out of harm’s way and provide sniper support, but just as I ordered Archer, don’t shoot unless you need to and don’t go anywhere near the fighting.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied with a salute, waiting for Helena to fall in with him. When I failed to release her reins, his normally stalwart expression grew uncomfortable before he urged his horse to trot away without her.

  I turned back to Helena, and was too angry to be surprised at the fact that, for once, she wasn’t looking back at me in the same way. Normally, she never put up with my shit, but in this instance she just looked terrified. Her attention was on my hand, the one that gripped her reins, and I too took notice of just how tightly I squeezed the rough cords, so much so that they were cutting into my palm and causing blood to drip to the ground. My heart beat against my chest like a jackhammer as I turned my eyes back to her uncompromisingly.

  “Go with him,” I ordered, “but don’t you dare go near the fighting.”

  Normally, she may have smacked me or even punched me for talking to her like that, but not this time. All she could do now was hold her eyes on me as I let go of her bloody reins, letting them drop against her horse and paint her fur a dark crimson red. I didn’t take my eyes off Helena’s as she slowly reached down to take the reins in her hands and guide her horse toward where Cuyler waited.

  And I didn’t care.

  I no longer even felt upset anymore, only caring about completing this battle as quickly as possible and moving on toward our true objective. When Helena met up with Cuyler, I turned away and returned my attention to the battlefield, realizing that we had already wasted more than enough time.

  Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Galba looking at me.

  “What?” I asked, not bothering to return the look.

  “I know not what that conversation concerned, but I never expected you capable of directing such anger toward your woman, nor has it ever seemed possible for her to seem frightened of you either. What has happened to you, Hunter? The man in my tent months ago seemed desperate, but what I see in you now is something far worse.”

  I turned as menacing an expression on him as I could manage, and he flinched.

  I was finished with people claiming I was a changed man, claiming that they could see how different I was than when I had last met them. Helena, Agrippina, Archer, Vespasian, Artie, Galba… who did they think they were?

  The things I’ve seen…

  The things I’ve done…

  The world I’ve been forced to live in…

  How can a man not change? How can a man remain the plucky, idealistic, jovial protagonist everyone can get behind and root for? That naïve shit was for people like Santino.

  Galba’s goddamned right I’ve changed.

  It was well past time for me to find my center. To focus on more important things, even when others didn’t understand. And most importantly, it was time to start doing what was necessary, no matter the cost. It was time I did whatever I needed to get home. My home. Not Artie 2.0’s home, or any other bizarre variant. My home! Where my dog is named Argos not… fucking Rex.

  What kind of asshole names his dog Rex?? Fuck you Rex! Fuck all of that!

  And especially…

  “… Fuck you, Galba.”

  ***

  The battle, and I use the term loosely, was over before it even began.

  Like Galba had predicted, the sight of two legions, its accompanying auxilia and cavalry, and a dozen armed people with rifles were just too much for the besieging
barbarians. Thirty minutes after we’d arrived, their entire attacking force dispersed in an unorganized mess. Everything about their attack had already indicated a lack of leadership, but their retreat had confirmed it. They’d scattered in a dozen different directions, not waiting around long enough to fall prey to a thrown spear or a rifle’s bullet.

  I’d asked Galba about their lack of leadership a few minutes after the “battle” had begun, and while he’d been reluctant to talk to me – for whatever reason – he’d responded grudgingly that it was certainly possible that the men attacking the legion had been little more than a group of sub-chieftains and their ilk. Were that the case, it was highly probable that this attack hadn’t been sanctioned by whoever was still in control of the local tribes, or it had been little more than a probe of the legion’s capabilities.

  At least they’d been smart enough to flee. Even if they had been an organized, cohesive unit instead of the unruly mob that they were, their force would have been annihilated. While Galba had sent our cavalry to harry the retreating Britons as they made their way back into the wilderness, and I had no doubt there would be casualties as a result of such action, it was a necessary strategy to keep the enemy from double backing and hitting us while we prepared our defenses. Since the legion fort was already situated on good ground – away from the nearest tree line and close to a fresh water source – it was a simple enough matter for my legions to begin construction of their own camps alongside the original, giving them an outlet for the adrenaline they’d built up in preparation for the battle that hadn’t happened.

  I, on the other hand, had more pressing business.

  With Galba, my time traveling companions, and two centuries of legionnaires from the XV Primigenia, I spurred Felix toward the gate that contained the XX Valeria Victrix and its legate, Aulus Plautius. Without a word, the gates parted, allowing us entrance through the porta principalis sinistra, the camp’s left gate, and instant access to the via principalis, that would take us directly to the praetorium and its owner.

  I rode through the gates at the vanguard of our procession with Galba behind me. Beside him was Vincent and Archer, but I was more surprised not to see Helena there as well. A quick glance behind me revealed that she was riding near the rear of our small group with Santino and Cuyler.

  I was about to wave the three of them forward, when I was distracted by a roar from the camp’s inhabitants. It startled me at first, but when I looked out at the gathered troops, instead of the horrific or frightening scene I expected, I was rewarded with the sight of the legionnaires yelling and screaming and waving in good cheer at our arrival. It seemed like a silly thing to do since little had occurred, but then I realized that many of them had no way of knowing how small the attacking force had really been. They may have expected a brutal, prolonged battle instead of the quick skirmish that had actually transpired.

  Our arrival had kept them and their friends alive.

  To them, it was something of a miracle.

  I appreciated their cheers and good natured shouts, but then I realized that most of the adulation was being directed at me and me alone. Every eye I met was already looking at me and the mass of assembled troops did seem to gravitate around Felix. I was being swarmed from all directions, and I grew concerned that they would scare poor Felix, but he was a good horse, and he ignored them as they pressed closer, their hands groping upwards. I gripped a few arms as I passed, wishing those who I came into contact with good health or tidings.

  A grin spread across my face at the adulation, and I found myself waving and flapping my arms up and down like an athlete trying to rile up a crowd. It worked, and the men cheered even louder. We were about a third of way to the praetorium when I let myself really bask in the glory and adoration I was receiving. Such appreciation was more than deserved after all I’d done in the past five years, and it was well past due. I was owed this like no one else knew, and I was ready to take it all in.

  But the crowed began to disperse as we neared the praetorium, giving us more room to maneuver. By this point, I could see a short man with hard features standing outside the central tent that I knew to be the legate’s quarters. Unlike the legionnaires around him, he did not seem particularly pleased to see me. Maybe it was a pride thing since we’d just bailed the guy out of a jam or perhaps my reputation preceded me.

  Mere feet away, I pulled back on the reins gently and Felix slowed to a stop. Galba rode up beside me and stopped as well.

  He saluted and initiated the greetings, as we’d decided on earlier. “Hail, Legate Plautius. You are well met.”

  The man nodded. “Well met, indeed, Legate Galba. I thank you for your intervention here,” the man said in a tone that suggested he was hardly thankful for anything.

  “Your thanks is unnecessary, Legate,” Galba said with a low bow from his horse. “We were merely acting in the best interests of Rome.”

  Plautius nodded. “As do we all, my friend, but regardless, it is good to see you again. After what happened to Legate Hosidius Geta earlier this year, I feared a similar fate would befall you. Things are not the same as they once were…”

  Galba nodded. “Exactly why we are here, Legate. Exactly…”

  I cut Galba off with the clearing of my throat. We’d agreed he’d make the initial greeting and introductions, not hold a conversation with his old war buddy. Besides, I was technically his boss here, not the other way around.

  Plautius clearly looked upset at the way I’d interrupted his friend, but held his decorum. “And you are, sir?”

  “Legate Jacob Hunter,” I replied. “Uhh… commander of the armies of the North, general of the Felix legions.”

  “What??” He asked, his voice rising. “Just who in Tartarus is Legate… Jay-Kob Hoon-tar?” The man demanded. “I have never even heard of such a name, let alone one holding the rank of legate.

  Galba sighed loudly from beside me and Plautius turned to his old friend for clarification. The two met eyes and Galba shrugged wearily. “You don’t have to like him Aulus,” Galba clarified with a dismissive wave in my direction, “and believe me, you most likely will not, but he is a very important man and has important business that needs done here in Britain.

  “We have much to discuss.”

  ***

  I was sick and tired of meetings around tables.

  In fact, I hated them. Loathed them, really.

  I’d had more discussions around tables here in Ancient Rome than I cared to remember, but my deep-seated hatred of such things began well before life in Rome. Most civilians never realized just how much of a Special Forces operator’s time was spent planning an operation, which involved sitting in a conference room around a table, or in a small auditorium of some sort, watching, observing, discussing, and analyzing presentations detailing mission objectives and operating parameters. Often, thousand-slide Power Point presentations were created, many of them so intricate and information-heavy that they rivaled even the brightest seventh grader’s presentation on how to make a compass using basic household items.

  It was truly outstanding stuff.

  No really, it was.

  But I was done with them, and the truly glorious thing was that I’d never had the power to be done with them before.

  But I did now.

  If I had to sit through another meeting around a table with Vincent or Archer or Galba or Vespasian or Aulus Plautius or any other asinine Roman or other individual ever again, I was going to go nuts.

  At least… more nuts that I was already going.

  That’s why we were already back on the road again having only spent one night in Plautius’ legion camp, blazing our way through the hinterlands of Britain. I’d decided on our very first night in camp, that there was simply no way I could waste the next four months sitting on my hands before setting out to Anglesey, and even that one night seemed like too much wasted time already.

  While Aulus Plautius had seemed a decent enough fellow, I had no need to bring
him into my inner circle of friends or comrades. He seemed competent and humble in his position as legate of the sole legion left in Britain, and he came off as a good strategist and competent leader, but once Galba’s introduction had been completed and he’d politely invited us into his praetorium, he’d gone all Roman on me, as they always did, and I no longer cared if I ever saw him again.

  Vespasian’s drafted orders to Aulus Plautius had been to allow me free rein to do as I wished in Britain, although the unwritten interpretation was that I’d help Plautius first. At least, that’s how Plautius and Galba had understood my orders, but Vespasian knew I had no actual skill or experience waging mass warfare, so I never actually figured he wanted me to lead troops into battle personally. It seemed to me that he wanted me to deliver his troops to Britain safely, but then do whatever I needed to do as long as I had Rome’s best interests at heart.

  Granted, that was simply my interpretation of Vespasian’s orders, but my two Roman companions had disagreed emphatically. Not only had Plautius disliked the fact that Vespasian’s appointment had technically placed me above even him in the chain of command, but was also enraged that Vespasian had given me leave to pursue my own personal objectives at all. Plautius had no idea who I was and certainly had no reason to trust me, and even Galba’s backing hadn’t done much to ease his qualms. He’d been willing to accept my help and take my legions, but he hadn’t been willing to divide that force so that I could do what I needed to do.

  And he certainly hadn’t been happy with my final decision to take off toward modern day Wales with three cohorts of the XV Primigenia as backup – a reconnaissance unit in force, I’d called it. Nor had he been happy with his old friend Galba when he’d, reluctantly, backed my decision. I hadn’t asked him to, but either he must have empathized with our situation more than I’d thought, or else he felt he owed it to Vespasian.

  Plautius hadn’t understood in the slightest.

  He’d ranted and raved about military strategy, tactical acumen, common sense, and the immoral nature of knowingly leading fifteen hundred men to their deaths, as I surely would do by marching them into the Great British Unknown, as he’d called it like it was a proper name.