The Last Roman (The Praetorian Series - Book I)

by Edward Crichton

  ***

  Five minutes later, we saw the tip of the mob, led by rebel Praetorians, still clad in their ceremonial white togas. As I guessed, the plebeians were armed with pitchforks and torches, but some had clubs, axes, old swords, and other simple tools. They wouldn’t be an issue, but the Praetorians, as powerful as any military group, were another matter.

  “Sir,” I called to Vincent. “Tangos inbound. ETA two minutes. Permission to engage?”

  “Granted.”

  And with that, Helena and I rained fire down upon the unsuspecting Romans.

  At first, they took little notice of the fact that many of their co-conspirators were dying around them. I let Helena do most of the work in the beginning, her DSR-1 and 10x scope far more accurate than I was with my ACOG. With it, she was able to surgically pick off men marching along the exposed flank of the column. She never shot two men standing next to each other, and so far, was only targeting soldiers.

  After a few dozen Praetorians had fallen over the stretch of a few blocks, the rebels seemed to catch on to what was happening around them and started to panic. Most had no idea that we, and not the gods, were to blame for the deaths, and many civilians fled out of fear.

  But not too many.

  The vanguard’s next step dissuaded far more, as they triggered the first of Santino’s claymores. Each claymore was designed to explode in a hundred and forty degree arc, and was loaded with tiny pieces of shrapnel. Within seconds, dozens more were either dead or on their way toward the pearly gates. Crazily, the mob pushed on, still thousands strong despite the casualties and desertions. No longer hindered with the need to preserve the element of surprise, I opened fire in controlled bursts that sent maybe a hundred men to the grave. Combined with Helena’s pinpoint strikes, we racked up an impressive kill count before they even reached the house’s courtyard.

  “What is it Americans say? Like shooting fish in a barrel?” Helena observed, disgust emanating from her voice.

  “Yah, or like ancient Romans in the street. Real heroic.”

  Helena mumbled an agreement but didn’t stop firing.

  By the time the second claymore exploded, the mob had just reached the house’s gated courtyard. Even so, their line still snaked around behind the house, offering Helena and me a few stragglers to pick off.

  We left the civilians.

  Without any more targets of opportunity remaining, I patted Helena on the shoulder, letting her know that I was falling back.

  “Stay here and watch out for a flank. I’m going to see if I can help out front. If you need me give me a shout on the radio.”

  She turned and gave me a smile and a nod, but quickly focused in on her sights again, one hand on the trigger, the other reaching for a bag of ammunition.

  I turned and headed back toward Vincent, checking my ammo as I went, and hearing a third claymore go off in the background. I had carried ten loaded magazines in my vest, but found each lying empty in my dump pouch. As smoothly as I could, I replenished my empty magazine pouches with fresh mags from my go-bag. Hopefully, I’d have time to reload my empty ones before the main assault.

  Vincent and Santino were still standing in the doorway, waiting for the action to come their way. Since the area was still calm, I made a quick detour to the assault bag I had thrown in the corner, and retrieved a small box of ammo. Walking over to the swim pair, I started reloading empty mags.

  “What’s the situation on your front, Hunter?” Vincent asked.

  “Between our sniper fire and claymores, I’d estimate around three hundred dead or injured,” I reported, securing one of my freshly reloaded mags back in my go-bag, and retrieving another empty one from my dump pouch. “Maybe another hundred have fled. Most of the casualties are Praetorians, and the deserters, civilians.”

  “Anyone trying to sneak in?”

  “No, sir. I think we’ve effectively scared the shit out of them.”

  “So far, so good then,” he said offhandedly. “Wang says we still need to hold out for an hour or so before we can move Caligula. He’s breathing easier, but little else has changed.”

  I nodded, apathetic.

  Santino spoke up next. “When I was out planting claymores, only three by the way, I managed to send up my drone. We should be receiving aerial footage any second now.”

  My eyepiece flashed indicating new intel.

  “Bingo,” Santino said.

  Sighing at my friend, I tapped my sleeve, and called up the information. Displayed on my eyepiece was a thermal video of the street below. It showed a huge mass of whites, oranges, and reds, indicating live bodies, but trailing behind it was an intermittent string of cooling corpses colored green, blue, and black. We had done more damage than I thought, but I also saw there were many more bad guys than we had originally estimated as well.

  “Shit,” I said. “I didn’t think the road was that wide. There may be twice as many men out there than we originally thought.”

  Santino and Vincent were likewise looking through their eyepieces, their faces grim.

  “We’ll deal with it,” Vincent said. “When Bordeaux reports contact we’ll...”

  The radio crackled to life. “Sir,” Bordeaux’s voice came in strained and distant. “Enemy contact at the gate. The mob has a ram, but many are attempting to scale the walls. We could use Strauss and Hunter up here.”

  I looked at Vincent.

  “Go,” he said. “Strauss…”

  “I’m on my way,” she called as she passed by, having already heard the transmission.

  We passed through the atrium together, which we found packed with loyalist Praetorians. Most had worried expressions on their faces, looks of defeat and an utter lack of hope, but as we walked by, many perked up at the sight of us. While some of it could have been attributed to Helena’s presence alone, I would bet many found us to be more than just symbols of hope, but agents of the gods themselves, sent to protect them in a time of crisis.

  Sadly, the truth wasn’t that we were sent to help stop the crisis, but that through our own blunderings, really just mine, we were one of the primary causes of it. No sense telling them that.

  Near the entrance, I noticed Gaius and Marcus watching the ever-growing mob of protestors outside the gate. Unlike many of the Romans inside, these two were stoic and confident. Their eyes still showed they were willing to fight to the death if need be. They saw us approach and turned to speak.

  “Lieutenant Hunter. Lieutenant Strauss,” Gaius greeted, as the slightly senior ranking of the two.

  I smiled at their use of our ranks. Over the past few months, my friends and I had spent lots of time chatting with our Praetorian guards, mostly about each other’s cultures and peoples. One of the few things we did speak openly about was our military, along with our ranking system. Romans, no strangers to the chain of command, used a very similar hierarchy of command ranks. During our discussions, we managed to lay out the foundation that a lieutenant was of equal rank to a centurion, a captain was about equal to the highest ranking centurion in each legion, a colonel would be a tribune, and a general was known as a legate. Having synced up our chain of commands, the Romans insisted on treating us as though we were their own officers.

  Flattering, to say the least.

  Stopping a few feet from them both, I tapped a fist against my chest. Helena did nothing. A part of her still found this whole situation ridiculous, and scoffed at how the rest of us tried to fit in. Besides, it was even more of a boy’s world here than it was back home. Needless to say, she was finding it difficult to fit in.

  “Marcus. Gaius,” I greeted them. “You two look like you’ve lost something. Forget your swords at home?”

  The men chuckled, as they pulled their gladii half way out of their scabbards, proving they had in fact remembered them.

  “No, sir,” Gaius answered. “We merely wished to speak with you before you went outside.”


  “Battle’s not getting any younger.”

  “With your permission, we would like to assist you in any way during the coming battle. Your weapons are indeed far superior to our own, but you cannot hold the enemy back forever. We would ask to serve as your sword arm when the battle gets too close.”

  I looked at them. Any man willing to place themselves in one of the most dangerous parts of a battlefield, just to protect a superior, or a friend, was someone impressive indeed. I’d be a fool to turn them down, especially since the only sword handling I’d ever done was when my friends and I would hit each other with sticks back when we were kids.

  It would be nice having someone cover our backs.

  “Of course,” I answered. “Marcus, you’re with me. Gaius, don’t let anything,” I emphasized my point by jabbing a finger at him threateningly, “happen to Lieutenant Strauss.”

  Marcus frowned ever so slightly, while Gaius smiled, nodded his head, and looked at my partner. She scowled at me.

  It was only fair that I rewarded the guy who stepped up by letting him guard the prettier one, but I had more selfish reasons. Gaius was older, and a slightly better soldier. He’d be able to offer more protection, and I wasn’t going to take any chances with Helena.

  Our bodyguards in tow, we made our way to the palace grounds to come face to face with the invading horde.

  Bordeaux’s announcement of Romans scaling the walls became immediately obvious. Four had already reached the ground, while more were in the process of descending their rope ladders. The first man I targeted was the quickest on his feet and was already approaching our lines. Taking a step forward, I sighted him through my ACOG, and shot him in the head. Another step, and two more men went down with three round bursts to their chests. The last man went down with a head shot from Helena. The immediate threat taken care of, we picked off the rest of the unlucky souls descending into the courtyard or waiting on the ledges. Ten seconds later, the ropes were cleared of about twenty intruders. Smacking home a fresh magazine, I scouted the area for a good spot to post myself.

  The large house boasted an equally large courtyard. Large, of course, being a relative term. It wasn’t large by the opulent standards of many celebutantes back home, but it was still big enough to easily accommodate two hundred Romans, three time travelers, and enough room for a bloodbath between twice that many.

  The front façade of the home looked like a miniature version of the Pantheon, with columns, Ionic in style, with a triangular centerpiece resting above. The entrance was wide, and opened on to a patio where the columns extended to the ceiling. Six steps then lead down to a path through the courtyard. The gate acted as a natural funnel into the courtyard, easily the best place to bottleneck the enemy. The walls were made of concrete, a dozen feet high and a foot thick, so unless the mob wanted to continue being shot off them, it’s best bet was to come through the gate. Once the gate was down, the mob might reattempt to scale the walls while we were distracted.

  With no concealment in sight, and not wanting to use Romans as meatshields, I made my way toward the nearest column, signaling Helena to follow me. Taking position behind the center-right column, I indicated Helena should stand behind the opposite one. Bordeaux came and calmly stood between us, ready to lay down suppressing fire while Helena and I chose our targets more carefully.

  Even before we arrived in the courtyard, we’d heard the steady beat of a battering ram hammering against the gate. Made out of thick, wooden beams, it had started to splinter at about the same time we had killed the last of the climbers. By the time we took cover behind the columns, the gate gave way completely.

  What took place before me was one of the most amazing sights I had ever seen.

  Roman versus Roman.

  It had happened more times than one would think. After the fall of the Julio-Claudian family, in about thirty or so years from now, very few emperors would elevate to the position of Caesar without the use of their legions. It was fascinating how willing Romans were to fight each other, their sense of honor and duty leaving little room for moral sensibilities or even peaceful negotiations. They were barbaric and warmongering, no matter how many roads, aqueducts, poets, laws, and countless other wonders of the world they created.

  I loved these guys; their contradictions being so overwhelmingly ironic.

  As the gate buckled and fell, dozens of men poured through the gap, a smart tactic on the part of the rogue Praetorians. Send in the cannon fodder first. The shock troops. It forced our Praetorians to expend their supply of spears on them, thinning their ranks much as possible. When the two factions met, the rebels would be fresh, and able to just waltz up to the lines, literally on the coattails of their human shields. Or so they hoped.

  As I predicted, the maniple of Praetorians arrayed before me unleashed a volley of pila, a Roman legionnaire’s choice spear, immediately followed by a second. The air filled with spears, and row upon row of civilians fell to the ground, bleeding and dying from numerous wounds.

  I had never seen such bloodshed in all my time as a SEAL. War was so distant and impersonal back home, but not here. I watched, not fifty yards before me as men were staked to the ground by falling spears, pierced through eye sockets, abdomens, necks, and everywhere else. Some were stuck together due to the powerful force of the heavy Roman spear.

  My thoughts immediately went to Homer’s, The Iliad and the gore and bloodshed he described there. Homer, who had no issue describing war as the despicable and inhuman event it was, never left a man to die without explaining how it happened, whether he be a king or common foot soldier. He described men being impaled through their groin and genitals, ears being stripped from their heads, limbs amputated, eye balls plucked from their skulls, and sword thrusts that ran straight through men’s mouths. Unlike those Homeric men, at least these retained some of their dignity after they had fallen. Homer’s heroes would carry away their kills in an attempt to maximize the spoils and riches they obtained while on campaign by stripping the fallen of their arms and armor.

  None of those men even cared about Helen, the so-called face that launched a thousand ships. Not even Menelaus, her husband, or least of all her so-called “lover”, Paris, who was cavorting with Trojan handmaidens soon after Helen’s arrival. King of kings, Agamemnon, couldn’t care less, nor did god-like Achilles, and even crafty Odysseus, my favorite Homeric character, was there for the wrong reasons. Although, in Odysseus’ defense, he was tricked into going when he was forced to choose between going to war or killing Telemachus, his baby son.

  All they cared for was money, spoils, and land, and even their so called desires for areté, or personal perfection in life, specifically on the battlefield, paled before their greed. At least the Romans were honest with each other about why they were fighting.

  When the lines finally clashed, the slaughter ensued.

  Our Praetorians stabbed with their short swords, adhering to their training of thrusting with the tip, as opposed to slashing wildly and cutting with its edge. The tactic worked well. Praetorians would cower behind their large shields, or scuti, before emerging to impale a nearby foe. Slowly, despite the mass of weight arrayed against them, our loyal Praetorians pushed the enemy back toward the gate, step by gradual step.

  Like the three hundred Spartans at Thermopylae, the narrow gate and the short distances forced the advancing enemy into a narrow corridor, minimizing their numerical advantage. When they realized their tactical deficiency, small groups of men took to scaling the walls in an attempt to flank our position. Gunfire from inside the house indicated that some men were indeed trying to work their way in through the rear of our position. All those who attempted to come over the walls were summarily put down like those who had tried earlier.

  So far we weren’t running through too much ammo, only taking pot shots at the climbers, not wasting our time on low priority targets presenting themselves at the gate. Only a few times
did I need to fire into the crowd when I saw a Praetorian in desperate need for aid.

  So far the battle was going well. The enemy’s tactic of sending in the civilians first had backfired. Our soldiers had practically pushed them back to the gates, and now the rebel Praetorians would not have the opportunity to push into the courtyard and form their lines before charging at us, a full complement of pila at their disposal. Now, they had to push through the gates on an equal footing. If only they didn’t outnumber us by so much, we might have had a chance of standing our ground, instead of just fighting a delaying effort.

  Then, a dozen feet or so from the gate, I saw the first major snag in our plan.

  Smack dab in the middle of both sets of Roman Praetorians, the enemy ones just beginning to show their faces outside, stood Marcus Varus, poorly attempting to blend in with the angry mob around him.

  I saw him and he saw me, and I knew he was only trying to reach his friend, Caligula.

  The ballsy bastard was going to get himself killed.

  I mumbled in frustration as I turned to Marcus. “Get ready, my friend. It’s time for a rescue operation.” Unsure as to what I meant exactly, his eyes narrowed in confusion, but he made ready to follow me all the same.

  Waving my hand, I grabbed Helena’s attention. “Cover me. I forgot my smiley face boxers back in our room.”

  “Wait, what are you…” Helena began as I took off down the stairs. I heard her call out behind me, but her words were drowned out in a roar of voices.

  Running along the flank of my allies, I was doing my best to think of a plan on the move. I had grenades on me, but knowing Varus was in there, I couldn’t just toss them in. In close quarters, my pistol was my best bet, but against sword and shield, I had little to protect myself.

  As I made my way to the front line, I got an idea.

  Grabbing Marcus and four other Praetorians, I started issuing orders. “About six rows into the enemy is a friend of mine. We need to get him. He’s Caligula’s friend as well.” That was all they needed to know. “I need you to form a loose semicircle in front of me and just push through the enemy’s line, a little left of center. You’re going to have to trust me, but do not stop to engage unless someone gets in your way. When I give the word, duck behind your shields and wait. You’ll know when to fall back.”

  The men looked at me bravely, only partly understanding their orders.

  “You hear that, Strauss?” I radioed Helena.

  “Are you fucking nuts? You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  “You know, you sound really cute when you swear.”

  “Jacob…”

  “Just shoot the guys behind me. I’ll be fine.”

  Pissed off, the only response I received from her was a double click. At least she wouldn’t let me die. At least not on purpose.

  “Okay, Praetorians. Form up.”

  The five men, Marcus at the tip of the formation, pulled in front of me and waited for my order.

  “Go!”

  My escorts took off, not running, but quicker than anyone else on the battlefield. Our front line opened just enough to let us through and we systematically pushed the mob aside. The insanity of our attack worked well enough to both confuse and distract the mob as we pushed through. I heard the familiar cracking noise of shattered skulls coming from behind me, as well as the touch of warm liquid splashing against my neck, hapless men who, by paying me too much attention had caught Helena’s. Three-fourths of the way there I took a sword blow to my right shoulder, luckily protected by my shoulder armor. It would bruise, but I wasn’t cut. My attacker was rewarded with two rounds through his chest, compliments of my Sig. After another blunted sword blow across my lower back, and one of my guardians being beaten down, Varus was in arms reach. Hauling his ass beside me, I grabbed a grenade with my free hand, pulled the pin with my teeth, counted to three, and tossed it over my human shield’s heads in the direction of the enemy Praetorians, mere arm lengths away.

  Pulling Varus to the ground, I shouted, “Down!”

  My men went to their knees, and locked their shields, their backs to mine. Within the few seconds that followed, I took a club to my side and a slash against my forearm, that one drawing blood. The first man I shot in the head, but the second was taken off his feet by the force of the grenade that had just gone off.

  In such close proximity, the grenade did maximum damage. Men in a ten yard radius were either on the ground dead, or dying. I took full advantage and shouted for my men to run. Before I could flee as well, I had one more job to do. Twisting at my waist, I took careful aim with one of the last bullets in my pistol, and shot the lead centurion in the head.

  Thankfully, my Praetorians, while disoriented by the explosion, still had sense enough to run. Most of the civilian mob, however, were either still on the ground, shaking their heads clear, or fleeing in panic. Running on pure adrenaline, losing more blood than I thought from my arm, I quickly grabbed Varus, and rolled another grenade in the direction of the enemy soldiers. I was well within my lines by the time it detonated within theirs, taking out at least twenty more soldiers.

  Frightened and temporarily leaderless, the Praetorians outside the gates fell back, just enough to allow their fleeing civilian allies to run, leaving only the professional soldiers.

  Dragging Varus up the steps, I pushed him in the doorway.

  “Go! Caligula’s in his room. We’re trying to buy some time before we can move him out of here.”

  “Th-thank you. I…”

  “Just go! You can thank me later.”

  He nodded and ran inside.

  I watched him flee inside before stumbling against a column behind me, but I managed to slowly slide myself to the floor as I clutched my arm in pain. I pulled back my sleeve, revealing a nasty laceration that ran from mid forearm to my elbow. Looking over my shoulder at the battle, I didn’t see Helena crouch down next to me.

  I was rewarded with a slap to my face.

  “Ow!” I yelled, clutching my stung cheek. “That was the only thing that didn’t hurt!”

  “Don’t you ever do something like that again!” Her tone was angry but her expression relieved. “What were you thinking?”

  “I had to save Varus. He’s... important.”

  I guessed he was. For all I knew, he may be a direct ancestor of mine and I couldn’t let him get killed now. Who knew what kind of paradox I’d create then. A “great, great, great times one hundred grandfather paradox,” or maybe I’d just wink out of existence. The universe might just implode for all I knew. Or maybe I’d prove that grandfather paradoxes are nothing but shit science.

  “Well, he’d better be,” she said, grabbing my arm roughly. “This is bad. It needs to be treated.”

  I turned to look out over the battlefield again, seeing that both sides of Praetorians had not yet engaged. One was scared, while the other was just stalling for time. Once the enemy found another centurion to rally his troops, the fighting would reach a whole new level of bloodiness.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s just a scra…”

  I didn’t notice her pull out a package of QuikClot and pour it on my arm. I almost screamed, grinding my teeth together, settling for a painful moan to help maintain my dignity.

  “Quit being a baby. It’s just a scratch. Besides, I owed you one.” She pulled out a bandage and wrapped it around my arm, pulling it tight, forcing me to bit my lip again. “I’d recommend you take it easy, but that’s clearly not going to happen. Let Wang check it out ASAP.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I popped a few pain killers, enough to hopefully dull the pain but not cause me to lose focus. Helena offered her hand. I took it and let her help me up, wincing as I felt my back, shoulder, and the entire left flank of my upper body beginning to bruise.

  “So, now what?” She asked.

  “We wait,” I replied, shrugging off
the pain.

  We didn’t have to wait 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 toward 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, taking a moment to spray the most densely populated areas I could see. I mowed down dozens of men before my magazine 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 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 toward the fighting while I ran as fast as I could toward 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 clothing just before he slumped to the ground, and placed it back in a sheath. He started to whistle as he left the balcony, waltzing 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 seemed 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 toward 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, watching 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, although he 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 where loyal Praetorians had been 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 that consumed them. Even if we could somehow lay out the situation peacefully, I knew they would continue fighting without pause. A minute went by as each side stared 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 the other. This kind of warfare only lasted as long as one side could continue fighting. Not through 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 toward 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 attempting to engage Quintilius. I sighted one through my scope and sent a burst of fire toward him. The trio of rounds ripped through the man’s neck and sent a stream of blood and gore toward 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’d 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 toward the enemy. Everyone in the room was hit with chunks of the house, and not one man escaped completely unscathed. It provided the window of time 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 toward 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 toward 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.