The Last Roman (The Praetorian Series - Book I)

by Edward Crichton

  ***

  We walked the last few blocks in silence, both of us too tired to think anymore.

  My fatigue surprised me. I knew I had to be in better shape than ninety nine percent of humanity, but while the last few hours had been strenuous, I’d gone through way worse before, but I’d never felt this bad afterwards. Everyone else had to be feeling it as well. My only conclusion was that the trip through the orb taxed its travelers far more than the painful transition alone.

  A few feet before I collapsed out of exhaustion, the Praetorians slowed, and made their way to a wooden doorway, which opened to a small and simple house. It didn’t seem like a prison, but I assumed these kinds of clandestine operations were common practice in the backstabbing world of ancient Rome.

  The two men guarding the entrance saluted in greeting before opening the door. As they waved us through, one of the guards told Vincent to ask his counterpart stationed out front in the morning for food. It seemed like that bath was going to have to wait, but I’d settle for a meal.

  The guard shut the door behind us, and locked us inside with a wooden plank. The house was little more than a wooden shack, with four small rooms. A number of mattresses, made out of unknown materials, were scattered throughout. There were no windows or other exits, and a small fireplace was blazing away, with some additional wood nearby.

  And then there were the Pope’s Praetorians. Scattered, they looked the worse for wear. Beaten, demoralized, and completely cut off from the chain of command, not to mention home, a soldier couldn’t find himself in a more compromising situation.

  Wang was sleeping on one of the mats in the main room, while Bordeaux was out in the room opposite the entrance, only his lower half visible, and Santino was leaning against the door. I couldn’t see Helena, so I assumed she was probably asleep in one of the other rooms off to our left.

  Santino noticed our arrival and came to attention, managing to pull off a very weary salute in the process.

  He smiled. “Sorry, sir. I’m pretty tired, but I wanted to wait until you got here before sacking out.”

  Vincent put a hand on his shoulder. “We appreciate it, son. Don’t worry, you’ll be able to rest soon enough, but first I need a sit rep.”

  “Yes, sir. Our guards escorted us here as soon as you were taken inside. They even let us bring our gear container. We weren’t manhandled, but they were very persistent. When we arrived, we were given indigenous clothing and food. There’s some bread over there if you’d like.”

  He pointed to a small table, toward which Vincent and I headed immediately while Santino continued.

  “We’re in a small, square building, with four equally sized square rooms within. There are no windows or other forms of escape, save the fireplace, and each room is connected, except the back two,” he finished, pointing behind him toward Bordeaux, before shifting his attention to the room to our left.

  “The container is filled with explosives and ammo. We’ve got enough to hold out for a long time, and I’m pretty sure Bordeaux could level the entire city if he wanted to. Probably does, the sick bastard. Anyway, we restocked our magazines just in case. Then Wang got to work on our wounded. He set Bordeaux’s ankle, which as it turns out, wasn’t just sprained but fractured in two places. He’ll be out of commission for a few weeks.

  He took a deep breath, his fatigue worsening by the second. “In addition to her leg, Strauss has a dozen or so minor gashes over her body, some needing stitches. Her wetsuit is completely trashed and unusable. Wang finished with her by reopening the main injury on her leg and stitched it back together properly. It was pretty nasty. He said Hunter couldn’t have done a worse job setting the wound.”

  “Hey. We were in a bit of a rush.”

  “We know. He also said you saved her life. And don’t worry. He took extra care with the stitches so your girlfriend’s leg shouldn’t be too scarred.”

  “You know…”

  He cut me off with an upraised arm. “He also set her other ankle as well which has a minor sprain. Once Wang was finished, he cleaned his tools and passed out over here.” He prodded Wang’s body with his foot.

  I looked down at the young Brit, who clutched his UMP to his chest like a small child would his teddy bear. I noticed the weapon was at least set on safe, but still had a magazine loaded into the magazine well. Kneeling beside Wang, I gently reached out and removed the magazine, releasing the loaded round through his rifle’s ejection port as well. There was no sense risking the man shooting himself in the night by mistake. We were safe. For now.

  “As for me, it turns out I have a concussion,” Santino concluded, that fact quickly becoming more evident as he started swaying in place, forcing him to reach out and brace himself against the wall. “I must have hit my head when the truck flipped, so with your permission, I’m just gonna go ahead and pass out.”

  “Go ahea…”

  Again, Santino didn’t give Vincent a chance to finish before he collapsed onto the mattress, unconscious.

  Vincent checked his vital signs, just to make sure he was still breathing. He gave me a questioning look.

  I shrugged. “What can I say? He’s a tough son of a bitch.”

  “Well, he’s not the only one who could use some rest. I’ll go check on Bordeaux and sack out in his room. Go check on Strauss and get some sleep.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied, heading through the door on the left.

  “And, Hunter?”

  “Sir?”

  “Don’t blame yourself for any of this. You did well.”

  Nodding, unsure how to respond, I made my way into the next room. It was empty save for the cargo container. No room to sleep, and no sign of Helena, I continued through into the last room. I found her sprawled out on her back, her left leg propped up on a number of pillows, wrapped in a bandage. I looked away, noticing both legs were bare to the waist, exposing her injuries, underwear, and perfectly bronze skin.

  Turning my back to the near naked woman sheepishly, I searched for someplace to sleep. Vincent had probably taken the last mat in Bordeaux’s room, leaving just the one here in hers’.

  I probably couldn’t haul the mattress out of her room at this point even if I wanted to.

  Sighing, I removed my MOLLE rig before taking off the rest of my gear, placing it in the corner quietly. Once my shirt was off and I had my pants around my knees, I heard Helena shift behind me. Fearing the worst, I froze.

  “Nice butt, Lieutenant.”

  I shut my eyes, wishing she really couldn’t see me. My ability to make a complete fool out of myself on a consistent basis continued to amaze me.

  “Says the half-naked woman,” I replied, trying to make light of the moment.

  “Aw, I couldn’t resist. Especially with those smiley face boxers you’re wearing.”

  Now I did blush. I liked these boxers.

  Resigning to my humiliation, I took off my pants, and removed my undershirt, folding everything with military neatness. I crawled onto the mat next to Helena’s and pulled an itchy blanket to my chin. A few sniffs later, I removed it completely. I looked over at Helena to find her gazing in my direction.

  My voice lowered itself to a whisper, too tired to speak any louder. “So, how are you doing, Helena?”

  “I’ll live, but my leg really hurts.”

  “Looks fantastic to me.”

  “Cute, Lieutenant.”

  I smiled despite it all. “Well, rest up. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”

  I closed my eyes, feeling sleep’s hold creep up on me.

  “Anything I should know about?” Helena asked.

  “Not tonight,” I whispered, rolling onto my side and a bit closer to the warm body beside me, “not tonight.”

  Helena was quiet for a minute.

  “Hunter?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Don’t get any ideas.”