The Last Roman p-1

by Edward Crichton

  The knock came again, more insistently this time.

  “All right, all right,” I yelled at the door as I swung my legs over the edge of the sofa, and rose to my feet. My head swam as I got up, dizziness almost dropping me to my knees. I’d been lying there for an hour, and had gotten up way to fast.

  I shuffled across my marble floor, trying not to fall in the process when I finally reached the entranceway, and steadied myself. Giving my head one last shake, I cracked open the door to see Santino and his stupid grin waiting out in the hall.

  “Ready to go?” He asked, pushing past me and letting himself in. He made his way to a bowl of fresh fruit in the dining room that was replaced every morning by loyal servants. Taking off one of his boots, he plopped himself down in a stiff backed chair and rested his bootless foot over his booted one as he propped them up on the table. He was wearing traditional Roman wear, a white toga, just as I was, but we still felt uncomfortable not wearing our boots and combat pants beneath.

  After the battle, Caligula had granted each of us citizenship, and with it, the right to wear a toga. As Augustus had said, “Romans, lords of the world, the toga-wearing race,” only Roman citizens could wear them. I was honored.

  Shaking my head, I shut the door and moved over to my table. I sat on it near Santino’s feet, and shoved them off, wiping away any mark he may have left with my sleeve, inciting him to give me a hurt look.

  “Can’t have anything nice when you’re around, can I?” I asked rhetorically.

  “No, probably not,” he replied.

  I sighed. “Just give me a second.”

  There had been many casualties in the battle, but of all the consequences resulting from it, at least Santino’s attitude hadn’t changed. After the past few months with him, I now knew that if there was truly one universal truth, it was that Santino would never change, and not that everything freezes.

  As for the casualties, there were too many to recall.

  Nisus had died, brought down protecting the aquila that was never dropped. It took three men to bring him down, but the centurion I had barely known, but had grown to respect during the battle, would not be returning to help retrain the XV Primigenia. His loss hit the legion hard, but he was just one of many.

  As for the legion itself, it had been practically destroyed. Half of the auxilia were killed, and only two cohorts worth of legionnaires were left to walk off the field. Many of the experienced officers had been wounded or killed, and even Galba had sustained injury when he had tried to drive his cavalry squadron to aid Caligula during his duel with Claudius.

  The survivors were to be sent back North in another month or so, after some much deserved rest and relaxation in Rome courtesy of Caligula. He had even offered each surviving legionnaire, none of whom were officially commissioned yet, full retirement packages, including discharge and retirement payments and a plot of land to any who desired it. Not a one accepted the gracious offer, and all would remain with the army.

  Of the eight Praetorians cohorts that had fought in the battle, only fifteen hundred men survived. Once the dust had settled, Caligula interviewed each surviving tribune to determine exactly what happened after his escape from the city. Each had passionately denied any knowledge of his survival and claimed that Claudius had told them he had been appointed emperor by the senate, through Caligula’s own will. The deranged psychopath had even staged a phony funeral to cover his tracks.

  When the tribunes were asked why they hadn’t ceased hostilities when they saw him on the battlefield, they replied that they couldn’t explain it. It was as though some unseen force was moving them towards combat, and it wasn’t until Claudius had been killed that they felt the effects slowly wear away.

  Caligula had apparently accepted this explanation and hadn’t pressed that line of questioning further.

  They were dismissed, pardoned, and reinstated into the guard. As for those who had fought the day we were forced from the city, the few that were left, they were lined up along the old siege trenches and crucified.

  The Sacred Band had lost half its strength, but with the support and leadership of Quintilius, Gaius, and Marcus, whose wound had missed any vital arteries, it would be quickly reorganized and be as loyal as ever. From now on, the Sacred Band would never leave his side, and even remain housed with him. One half would be on duty at any given time while the other half would remain in the Castra Praetoria, and would be chosen from only the most loyal and able men available.

  As for those of us formerly employed by the Vatican, many outcomes, decisions, and scars, both physical and emotional, were made and accumulated.

  Just after Caligula’s duel with Claudius, Vincent had been severely wounded. He had been stabbed through his forearm, doing massive damage to his left arm. Wang had been there to do what he could, but he couldn’t save the arm. Roman surgeons had amputated it, just below the elbow, and Wang had done what he could to stave off infection and ease Vincent’s pain. His recovery time lasted a month, only minus an arm, and I remembered sad times when I noticed him automatically reaching out with his severed arm, only to realize it was no longer there. Hopefully, over time, he’ll get used to living a normal life without it.

  Santino’s wounded leg only needed a dozen stitches, while Bordeaux had fought a substantial part of the battle with an arrow sticking out of his back. It found itself lodged in his trapezius muscle, near his neck, an errant missile from an archer. Bordeaux’s overly muscled physique had probably saved his life, and the arrow hadn’t made it past his dense muscle structure. Wang, not trained in arrow removal, had allowed a Roman doctor handle it, using ancient forceps, a tool developed in Greece specifically for arrow retrieval. Both had recovered easily.

  I was fine for the most part. My arm needed stitching and would leave another scar that would bisect the last one that had just healed there. Add to that another dozen or so scrapes and gashes; I was a mess but had survived relatively unscathed.

  As for our decisions, Vincent made his to leave Rome and Caligula’s employ to tour the empire about two weeks ago. He voiced an interest in heading East to find the origins of Christendom. He’d sworn, his remaining hand raised in a promise gesture, that he would not do anything to affect its development, and I hoped he’d keep his word.

  Wang had decided to leave as well, indicating he would go to Greece, and perhaps teach their doctors a thing or two about modern medicine. A month ago, as he prepared to leave, I’d clapped him on the shoulder and told him he’d have a fun time learning Greek, and that he’d sooner enjoy Duran Duran than the annoyingly complex language. He gave me a smile, said his goodbyes to everyone who had gathered to see him off, and left.

  Bordeaux, another old timer, only a handful of years younger than Vincent, had lived many lives. He’d admitted that the only one where he had been truly happy was the short year he had spent with his wife. He hoped he could find that kind of companionship again, and with no more use for fighting, he too had set off, going North, with no real destination in mind.

  They’d all taken plenty of supplies and gear, and despite retiring, brought their weapons and plenty of ammo. They’d be fine out in the wilderness of ancient Rome, and I hoped I crossed paths with them again someday.

  “These olives are stale,” Santino reported, his mouth half full.

  “I thought you didn’t like olives?” I asked, my hand on the door to my room.

  “Eh,” he muttered, inspecting one in the light, “they’re growing on me.”

  I rolled my eyes. Unfortunately or fortunately, I was still trying to decide which, Santino had chosen to stick around.

  That left just one person.

  I tried not to think about my own personal last moments on the battlefield. They had easily become some of the most horrific ones I’ve ever experienced. I had nearly given up myself, wondering if I could ever have been happy living while she didn’t, but I endured.

  I sighed. I tried not to think about it.

  Re
aching for the door, I paused when it seemingly opened on its own accord. Curious, I quickly pressed my hand against it and shoved it open, hoping to catch any interloper off guard. I was still pretty jumpy considering the kind of reception we’d had in Rome over the past year.

  I took a tentative step inside as my hand hovered near my Sig. I crept forward and was surprised to notice a figure step out from behind the door, surprising us both. I nearly dropped to a knee for a better firing position, before recognition dawned on me.

  I looked across at a set of brilliant green eyes, the same set that had haunted and loved me for nearly a year. Her skin looked paler than normal, and she’d lost some weight during her lengthy recovery, but the lovely face of Helena stared back at me with the same angry expression I’d grown to love in return.

  She leaned against the door and clutched her chest with a hand. “For Christ’s sakes, Hunter! You nearly gave me a heart attack bursting in here like that,” she told me, slightly out of breath.

  “Me?!” I responded with a frown. “What the hell are you doing out of bed?”

  I reached out to take her hands in my own, and led her to our bed, the most comfortable thing I’ve slept on since my childhood one. She moved slowly, and I sat her down next to me before I rested a hand on her forehead.

  “You know you’re not supposed to exert yourself,” I told her, my hand still pressed against her skin. “At least you don’t seem to have a fever.”

  She brushed my hand away. “Hunter, will you please stop? You’re worse than my mother. Wang said I could start walking around weeks ago, and I wasn’t going to miss this for the world.”

  I frowned again.

  In those last few moments after I had broken down, Helena had hung to life by a thread. Perhaps by divine intervention, a wandering Roman medic from the legion had spotted his fallen Mater, and rushed to her aid. The man had been efficient, quick, and thorough. Recognizing that the sword had done no, or little, damage to any internal organs, he had gently removed the blade, and gone to work cleaning, and containing the wound.

  I remembered the field doctor roughly push me aside as I tried to hold her, and go to work patching her up. There had been so much blood. So much. It had driven me to the point of helplessness even with the Roman medic there.

  I sat beside him for what seemed like ages, but my mind forced my body from the scene. I’d gotten up and wearily stumbled around until I found a rock to sit on. The battle was just starting to wrap itself up around me, and after a few seconds of rest, I started to weep. Just like Odysseus in his opening scene in The Odyssey, I sat on that rock, overlooked nothing in particular, and cried for the one I loved the most. Odysseus had sat there every day for years, and my suffering felt just as long. His salvation came in the form of the fleet-footed Hermes who told him the good news that Zeus had convinced his brother, Poseidon, to lift the ban that had forced him from seeing his beloved Penelope. All I got instead was Santino, who slowly approached my rock, and placed his hands on my shoulders.

  Feeling his touch, I turned to see Wang. Santino had found him working on a fallen Praetorian who was too far gone to help. As soon as Wang heard Helena’s name, he dropped what he was doing and rushed to her side as fast as he could. He ordered the Roman medic aside, and his fingers danced with graceful care, and his presence offered the briefest seconds of hope.

  Then, she died.

  At least, her heart had stopped beating, but with a few hits of his mobile defibrillator, Wang managed to revive her, repair her internal injuries, put her back together, sew her up, and save her life. It had taken him almost two hours kneeling next to her on that battlefield, but he’d somehow managed to pull her from the jaws of death. Bordeaux had joined Santino, arrow still lodged in his back, kneeling around Wang as he worked, keeping vigil while I remained glued to my rock, too afraid to face the worst. Many other legionnaires came and kneeled with them. When Wang walked over and told me the good news, it took minutes for his words to sink in. When they finally did, I rushed to her side to find her unconscious and as pale as a ghost. But alive!

  I tried to thank him with a bear hug that launched him a foot off the ground, but nothing I said could truly convey how I felt. He’d smiled and told me our happiness would be thanks enough. After that, I’d spent the next three weeks in a field hospital with her, surrounded by thousands of other wounded soldiers. I rarely left her side before she was allowed to leave and brought to the beautiful home we had been given near the Palatine, interestingly on the spot where the Colosseum should be standing in about forty years or so. When I passed that bit of information on to Helena, she had coughed out a laugh and said she couldn’t make any promises she would survive if I kept lecturing.

  She’d grown weak and bed ridden over the next few weeks while she finished healing. She was trapped in bed, and even with modern antibiotics and Wang’s direct care, her recovery hadn’t been as graceful as it would have been in a modern hospital. She’d contracted a fever, and the wound on her back became infected, but she was resilient, and Wang was always there to help. A few weeks before he left for Greece, Wang finally gave her a clean bill of health and directions to start getting into shape. He never would have left Helena before making sure she made a full recovery. Total recovery time was over two months and she was still far from one hundred percent.

  Helena leaned forward slightly on the bed and looked up at me. “Are you all right, Jacob?”

  I smiled at her. “Me? I’m fine. I’m just glad you’re all right.”

  I patted her on the knee and leaned in for a kiss. She didn’t pull away, and I found myself lying on the bed next to her a few seconds later.

  “You know,” she said in between breaths and lip locks, “I still haven’t properly thanked you for taking care of me.”

  I smiled, and pushed her gently away. “Now, that, you definitely haven’t been cleared for! Let’s not push it.”

  She smiled back. “You are the most stubborn man I have ever met.”

  “I know. It’s why you love me,” I answered, getting to my feet. “Come on. We’d better make sure Santino hasn’t choked on an olive or something.”

  “We do?” She asked.

  I chuckled, gripped her hands again, and slowly pulled her to her feet. I handed her the cane fashioned for her, and held out my arm for her to rest against as well. We walked out of the room together to find Santino, feet back on the table, trying to toss olives into his mouth. Judging by the body count on the floor, he hadn’t been very successful.

  Putting his boot back on, he jumped to his feet when he saw us. “Finally! Let’s go. I’m starving.”

  I shook my head. “Just so you know I’m not going to let you crash on my couch much longer. You need to find your own place.”

  “I have one,” he said, information that I unfortunately already knew, “but your place is cleaner.”

  I shook my head, and looked to Helena for support. Over the past few months, Santino hadn’t just been freeloading, but helping care for Helena when I had to do things like sleep, eat or other daily necessities. Needless to say, she didn’t hate him anymore, and with a heart of gold, could never force him to leave, even though he had a perfectly fine place right next door.

  She shrugged at me and smiled.

  My shoulders slumped. “You’re lucky you’re my best friend, and my girlfriend actually happens to like you,” I told Santino. “When does that ever happen?”

  He smacked me on the shoulder. “Couldn’t have happened to a better guy. Now. Can we please go?” He asked, moving towards the other side of Helena and taking her other arm, tossing her cane on my couch.

  “Seriously, Hunter,” she said. “I’m starving!”

  I sighed, completely defeated. “All right. At least this should be an interesting evening.”

  Interesting? Maybe. At least I wasn’t exactly looking forward to it.

  Reclaiming an empire, even when you were the legitimate sovereign, wasn’t an easy task. When w
e had marched into the city, there were small pockets of resistance of little consequence. Stubborn senators with delusions of grandeur and dreams of a seat on the throne, defended their lives with hired servants and slaves. These were the men who had probably planted the seed of rebellion in Claudius’ mind to begin with, unaffected by the orb, their own egos fueling their quest for absolute power. Any remaining Senator who couldn’t prove his loyalty was likewise crucified next to their Praetorian allies. As for the orb, it was history. It was taken to an undisclosed position by Varus, and he hadn’t told us where it was. No one knew where the second one was either.

  The next step was a conscription, which was basically a list of names, and if yours was on it, you were a free target for any legionnaire, bounty hunter, or civilian alike willing to sell your ass to the State. Any and all assets were to be seized, and your life forfeited. Dictators like Marius and Sulla had abused the process to eliminate those disloyal to them, but Caligula only targeted those directly involved in the plot. Almost a fourth of the Senate was rounded up and crucified, order had been restored, and those who remained would think twice before ever crossing Caligula, especially with his devoutly loyal Sacred Band by his side.

  Finally, where the patrician families of Rome suffered, its lower classes prospered. After the siege, Caligula ordered immense grain supplies to be imported to the city from neighboring towns. Each were completely willing and happy to help. Some plebian families even found their way into new found wealth and power. Those who had rallied against Claudius during the siege were commended, and some offered vacant Senate seats, and with it, the honor of citizenship.

  To further benefit the people of Rome, Caligula had proposed plans to erect a stadium of epic proportions, one that could hold immense gladiatorial fights, races, and naval battles, all for the viewing spectacle of the people. It had been an idea whispered in his ear by Vincent, along with a suggested location, right in the vicinity of my current home. Caligula thought it was a good idea, and promised those residents they would be moved to better homes, and recruited a young, upstart architect to begin planning its design, with a start construction date in a year. The original Colosseum’s architect was lost to history, so for all I knew, Caligula’s chosen man may very well have been the actual designer, recruited decades earlier.