“So now what?” She asked.
“We wait,” I replied, shrugging off the pain.
We didn’t have to for long. A replacement centurion was quickly brought to the front, and after a little pep talk, ordered his men to charge. Casting pila as they came, and receiving a single volley in return, the men sprinted towards our position as though the forces of Olympus were urging them on.
Their first volley incoming, I grabbed Helena and held her close. We squeezed ourselves behind her original column, while Bordeaux hid behind my old one. As soon as the missiles fell to the ground, many flying through the air we had just vacated, we stepped around the corner, and started firing.
Helena’s first target was the replacement centurion, while I went for the standard bearer, the soul of every legion. While another man would pick it up after it fell, the continuous falling of it would quickly dishearten those who noticed. After that, I went back to my practice of only shooting those who were immediate threats to my allies below. Helena did the same, while Bordeaux used his elevation to pour fire into the middle of the crowd, thinning it from within.
Despite our help, our line started to horseshoe inwards almost immediately, with the center of the enemy’s line extending well through our own. I still saw no end to the enemy’s forces, while ours were wavering. They would never break, but their fatigue was starting to show. Many of our people were hacked to pieces because of it. The reserve century tried to move around the left to get along the enemy’s flank, but while a good idea, they just didn’t have enough room to maneuver in the ways that made the Roman legions so effective. It would do little except stall the enemy a little longer.
I decided to abandon my selective targeting policy, and flicked my rifle’s selector switch over to fully automatic, and began spraying the most densely populated areas I could see. I mowed down dozens of men before my magazines finally ran out of ammo. I glanced over at Helena, who was likewise digging for loaded magazines that didn’t exist.
I threw a rock at her to get her attention. The rear of our formation had backed itself up the stairs at this point, blocking clean shots, and making it hard to hear each other. When she turned to look, I pointed inside, and waggled my middle and pointer fingers, communicating my decision to fall back.
She nodded, and ran for the door. Bordeaux noticed her retreat, looked at me and nodded. He backed his way into the doorway, ready to fall back at moment’s notice, but sticking around to provide as much support as he could.
Passing him, I thumped his shoulder to get his attention, before yelling into his ear, “hold the line. I’ll report to Vincent. Don’t forget to fall back.”
He gave me a wide grin, and turned back towards the fighting while I ran as fast as I could towards the back of the house. When I arrived, I discovered that Caligula’s room had completely changed. It was littered with bodies, Caligula was now on the floor, and Santino had his combat knife implanted through a man’s chin, extending it into his skull. Pulling the blade free, he wiped it clean on the dead man’s toga just before he slumped to the ground, and placed it back in a sheath. He started to whistle as he left the balcony, waltzing back into the room as though nothing had happened, tiptoeing and skipping over maybe thirty men. I observed that most of the bodies in the room had died from similar knife wounds to the face, neck, and chest. Noticing my appearance back in the room, he pulled up short, as if surprised to see me. He appeared as carefree as a father tucking in his kids.
“Jacob! Nice to see you. How are things?” He asked as nonchalantly as a gossiping golden girl. He pointed at my arm.
“Oh, you know… had to play the hero and all that.”
“Ah. Slayed the dragon, rescued the damsel in distress, and saved the world did you?”
“Something like that.”
Helena rolled her eyes, before offering her own sit rep. “The situation is rapidly deteriorating outside. We’re going to need to hold in the hallways soon before falling back completely.”
I nodded. “She’s right. How’s our patient?”
Each of us turned to Wang. He had his fingers around Caligula’s feverish wrist, checking his pulse. I glanced at my watch, surprised to see that only forty five minutes had elapsed since the fight had begun. Wang said we’d need at least an hour.
When he looked up, his face looked satisfied. “He’s surprisingly well. His temperature has dropped and his pulse is steadying. I think it’s safe to assume that he’s made it through the worst of it. He should make a full recovery, but he could easily relapse. Let’s give him another twenty minutes before we move him.”
“Twenty minutes it is,” Vincent replied. “Prepare to defend the room.”
As if to capitalize on his words, Bordeaux came rushing in with Gaius and Marcus, who had lost track of Helena and I in the battle.
“They’re breaking through,” Gaius reported. “We have five minutes before our troops must retreat to the atrium.”
Vincent nodded, turning to Bordeaux. “When I asked you to line the halls with demo, tell me you placed more than you were ordered to.”
Bordeaux gave Vincent a look that suggested he’d be crazy to think anything but. “Of course. I have a backup detonator which should bring down the front structure of this house, but preserving this room.” He paused as he surveyed the room. “Hopefully.”
I sighed. Demo-guys.
“Great. Detonate the small charges at your discretion, but bring down the house only on my order.”
“Sir,” I spoke up. “I’m not all that fond of blowing up Augustus’ house.”
“Deal with it,” he replied, moving to the doorway. “They’ll rebuild it.”
Around the time I said the word “house,” loyal Praetorians began streaming into the hallway outside the room, clogging the space and creating a perimeter. They were a distraction. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadowy figure emerge from the balcony, and sneak up behind Santino. I couldn’t tell if he was a Praetorian or a civilian, but the knife he held told me enough. I shouted a warning to my friend as I brought my rifle to my shoulder only to realize I was too late.
Before I could bring my barrel to bare and enact some facet of revenge on the interloper, I felt a whoosh of air over my shoulder, and I saw a spear fly towards Santino’s head. Not enough time to move, Santino froze as the spear flew straight and true, right past his own shoulder and into the skull of the sneaking intruder.
I turned to see Gaius hold out a clenched fist, which was summarily punched by Marcus’ own.
Well there’s one for the history books. Roman soldiers showed signs of appreciation and congratulations by pounding fists, just as we did in our own time. And me without my camera.
Santino had a look of complete shock on his face as he twisted at the waist to see the dead man behind him, pila protruding through the man’s skull. The would be assassin was so close to Santino that the spear vibrated over my friend’s shoulder. Santino pressed his finger against the spear and gave it a nudge and watched as the man dropped to his knees and fell to the ground. Returning to his original position, he looked over my shoulder at the Romans.
“I love you guys,” he said to them in English.
Marcus smiled and waved, clearly the one who threw the spear.
Breathing a collective sigh of relief, everyone in the room save Wang and Caligula made their way to the quickly collecting force of loyal Praetorians outside in the atrium. We had them line up, about twenty wide, and as many rows as we could deep. In these enclosed spaces we could hold out for a while, but not forever. I’d hoped to stall longer outside, but there were just too many, and I estimated we only had about a third of our original strength left. I was happy to see Quintilius had survived, but was bleeding from a head wound. At least the men would have the benefit of a centurion to coordinate them.
Minor skirmishes were still being waged near the courtyard, while loyal Praetorians were separated from the rest of the group. Their sacrifices gave us the time we
needed to set up a defensive wall of interlocking shields.
I saw the last of our men, cut off from our position, butchered by three rebel Praetorians. When he fell, the rebels stopped and looked in our direction. They looked tired and out of breath, but their faces revealed only the bloodlust I knew consumed them. I knew that even if we could somehow lay out the situation peacefully, they would continue fighting unabated. A minute passed, each side starring the other down, before the rebels roared in challenge and rushed us.
The two sides collided in a clamor of swords and armor and blood. Each side, professional to the core, began the long arduous process of outlasting their opponents. This kind of warfare only lasted as long as one side could continue fighting. Not through loss a loss of men, but the loss of energy. Ancient battles could take days, and while this one wouldn’t last that nearly that long, I did everything I could to even up the sides.
I tossed my last grenade ten rows deep into the enemy’s position, but they learned quickly. Even though they hadn’t figured out they could just throw it back, they did turn their shields to help block the explosion. Most weren’t quick or smart enough to so, but some were. When the grenade exploded, a sizable hole opened up in their formation. Following my example, those of my friends who still had them threw their own grenades, each with similar results. Chipping, chipping, chipping away.
Five minutes elapsed.
Our lines started to buckle under the sheer weight of the rebel mass. Quintilius tried to rotate fresh troops to the front line regularly, but in the cramped and confused atrium, he was having trouble coordinating the effort. The enemy had no such problem, and were steadily streaming into our flanks and driving right through the middle of our lines. On the right, Bordeaux mowed down an entire line of the enemy with a hail of gunfire from his SAW. On the left, a Praetorian swung his sword towards Helena’s head, but she managed to bat it aside with her P90. She pulled out her side arm, and shot the man in the stomach. Somewhere in the middle, Santino swung his rifle like a club and shattered a man’s face.
We were getting desperate.
I noticed a pair of enemies attempt to engage Quintilius. I sighted through my scope and sent a burst of fire towards the first man. The trio of rounds ripped through the man’s neck, and sent a stream of blood and gore towards his buddy. Distracted by the arterial spray, the other man went down with a sword thrust to the chest by Quintilius’ steady hand.
By now, I couldn’t tell the two groups of Romans apart. Both loyalist and rebel looked the same. They only fought each other based on who they didn’t know, which would be very few people outside their own cohorts. The only Romans I could identify were Quintilius, fighting bravely while trying to maintain order for his few remaining soldiers, and Marcus and Gaius, fighting back to back.
“Fall back!” Vincent ordered his squad in English. He didn’t have to tell me twice, and I began to strategically withdraw from the battle, making sure not to grow complacent on the way out and take a gladius to my back. I thought I was the last one out when I noticed Helena still blazing away with her P90, oblivious to our retreat.
I ran over and grabbed her arm. “Let’s go!” I yelled over the noise. “We are leaving!”
Without protest, she let me drag her away, still firing when she found an opening. For a woman who had never seen war before, she was certainly taking to it like a tamed lion who finally found its wild side. I guess war was actually a pretty good way to release an entire life’s worth of frustration and anger, and she had plenty to burn. Kind of like a giant stress ball, only it was too slippery to squeeze because of all the blood.
Running into the room, Santino and Vincent took up positions near the entrance, while the rest of us fanned out into the room. Vincent also signaled for Quintilius to order his own men to fall back, which they did in as orderly a fashion as they could manage. When the last line reached the doorway, Vincent gave the signal, and Bordeaux triggered his detonator.
The first explosion sent debris flying from the walls, hurling towards the enemy. All those in the room were hit with chunks of the house, and not one man escaped completely unscathed. It was the window the one hundred odd loyal Praetorians and my team needed to get the hell out.
“Marcus. Gaius,” Quintilius bellowed shakily. “Pick up the Caesar and move him over the balcony.”
The two men, still disoriented from the explosion, made their way towards Caligula and Wang. Each man grabbed an edge of the stretcher, interested by its superior design over their own versions, picked him up and moved towards the balcony. Quintilius ordered his surviving men to follow, while Vincent, Bordeaux, and Wang were the last ones out. Vincent, the very last over the balcony, ordered Bordeaux to destroy the home. Not even turning to admire his handiwork, he triggered the explosion, burying hundreds of rebel Praetorians in rubble.
Two managed to squeeze through the explosion, leaping over the balcony in an attempt to follow us. Wang spotted them first, and put them down with a few bursts of fire from his UMP.
“Feel better?” I asked him.
He cracked his neck. “Playing doctor can be so boring…”
I smiled, and patted him on the shoulder while we followed our allies through the dark streets of Rome. The city was unusually quiet for the early hour, only a few before midnight, and while usually the streets were bustling with nocturnal activity, a battle taking place in the home of the emperor would be more than enough to keep me inside as well.
Reaching the walls of Rome, we found a small, unguarded postern gate, and fled the eternal city under cover of darkness.
***
Our first stop along the way was Caere, a small town four hours march north Stationed there were the two cohorts of the emperor’s Praetorians on training duty, as Quintilius mentioned earlier. We didn’t stay long, only enough for them to realize the predicament we were all in, and gather up their gear. A half hour later we were on our way, headed north along the via aurelia. The ancient road followed the coast, where we hoped to hook up with the nearest legion we could find. Caligula woke up just long enough to mention he had received word that one of his legions was on a training march around the Alps, and had chosen their winter camp in Cisalpine Gaul. No other option available, we headed there.
The only problem I had working with a legionary force was their pace. On a normal day, a legion could march for five hours, and cover around twenty miles of ground. On a forced march, it was closer to thirty, but that was with a sixty pound pack on their back. We on the other hand, unsure as to who might be tailing us, and not burdened by heavy packs, did not take any chances. We marched straight through the night, taking an hour long break early the next morning, and covered another fifty miles, with intermittent breaks, before resting to make camp.
By the time we were done digging the square trench around the camp, posting defensive stakes, and sprawling out on the open ground, I was beat. Normally, legions traveled with the materials needed to create small cities each and every night, but rushed as we were, we barely had anything. I slept in my gear, and woke up the next morning too tired to even feel my wounds. We broke down what little of the camp we had, pushed on, and finally reached our destination outside of Lucca, just north of the Arnus River, sometime that afternoon.
Everyone was exhausted by the time we reached the legion camp, all except the Praetorians that is. Had I been fresh out of BUD/S, I would have been fine, but I hadn’t been forced to perform anywhere near this level of continuous activity since. I legitimately felt like a lazy fatass. As for the Praetorians, they still possessed enough energy to set up defenses and seemed prepared for a lengthy engagement if need be. Approaching the gate, we called for the sentries to allow us access to the camp. They quickly obliged once Caligula had something to say about it.
He’d recovered well from his ordeals, and was the only lucky person on the march with the luxury of being drawn in a cart pulled by horses. He sat up in his stretcher, and demanded entry by the power of Julius Caesar hi
mself.
I couldn’t help but be awestruck at the Roman’s camp. I’d read about them in dozens of books over the years and knew just how efficient camp life was for a legion, but to see it in person was a sight to see.
In both function and aesthetics, this fort was no different than the camp we had just left, simple in design, but strong in defensive capabilities. However, this one was made for long term operation. There was a deep ditch, with the dug up dirt piled beyond it to make up the palisade, which had large wooden stakes protruding from it. Then came a large wooden and stone wall, complete with thick gates, and as a last line of defense, enough room between the wall and tents, to keep the camp’s inhabitants out of arrow range. The camp also boasted gravel lined roads, armories, a hospital, an altar of worship, and seemed… homier, more lived in, with men bustling about as though it were a city.
It struck me as an odd thing that this camp wasn’t built along the Roman frontier, but in Northern Italy, well away from any enemy force, and yet still boasted the same defensive parameters of any frontline bastion. Romans never missed an opportunity to continue their training, and were never caught with their pants down.
Well, almost never.
Each fort was constructed in exactly the same way. They were square, with four gates, one on each side. Cutting horizontally through the camp was the via principalis, or principal street. Situated smack dab at the center of that particular road was the praetorium, the legion commander’s tent. South of his tent came officer’s quarters, cavalry and auxiliary tents, tents for the legion’s administrators and bureaucrats, men almost as important as the legionnaires themselves, and a miniature forum. North of the praetorium came eight blocks of tents, four across and two deep, with small roads dividing them. These were tents meant for the legionnaires, and local allied forces. Entering through the northern gate, the porta praetoria, it was a straight shot to the praetorium. As we walked, we had the eyes of the legion all over us. They’d all seen Praetorians before, some maybe had attempted to join, but the sight of the rest of us got their attention. Especially Helena.
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