XII
Endgame
Plains outside Rome, Italy
June, 38 A.D.
The following morning, I prepared for war.
It would be the kind of war I’d never seen before, and for the first time in my military career, I was truly afraid. Not just nervous like I had been many times before a mission, but genuinely scared shitless. This was the kind of random warfare that left almost no room to control your own fate. That worried me. A random spear here or a wayward sword thrust there. Each could end your life before you even knew it. Back home I was always on the offensive, choosing the time and place for battle and the how and why shit went down around me. Those would not be options available today.
I had slept well that night, capitalizing with Helena on the idea that we might not survive another day. It amounted to a good sleep, despite the predawn wake up time.
However, prior to our nocturnal activities, facing a completely novel way of waging war, we prepared our gear as well as we could for the unfamiliar battle ahead. The versatility of my combat vest really showed itself as I removed every single pouch, pocket or other modular item already applied, leaving it a bare canvas for me to work on.
The key to our effectiveness was the ability to maintain our weapons fire as long as possible. To help neutralize the fact that I had limited space on my vest to carry loaded magazines, I opted instead to carry a shoulder hoisted messenger bag. The bag allowed me to carry forty fully loaded magazines for my HK416, more than twelve hundred rounds of ammunition. On my vest, I attached dump pouches to catch my spent mags and a CamelBak on my back. Additionally, I set up my thigh mounted holster for my Sig on my right thigh, and prepared a similar thigh holster for my opposite leg that held pistol mags. Those added another forty eight rounds of ammunition.
I felt like Jesse Ventura wielding a minigun.
Last night had been productive, both emotionally and from a preparation standpoint, so I got up this morning feeling good. There were very few who could voluntarily face their own deaths and not feel even the slightest twinges of fear. Those of us who did took solace in good preparation and the companions we surrounded ourselves with. Between Helena, Santino, the rest of the guys, and an entire legion at my side, I felt confident, but not overly so. Overconfidence could be just as detrimental as ill preparation. Even so, I knew as the battle inched closer the fear would return with it.
Donning the rest of my gear, I kept myself light, but did all I could to offer my vulnerable spots as much protection as possible. My vest protected my chest, abdomen, sides, back, and shoulders, and would easily turn away thrown spears and most sword thrusts, but it still left vulnerable spots beneath my vest. The precision stabbing of a Roman with his gladius might be enough to find a way through my defenses, but I was still better protected than a legionnaire with his lorica segmentata armor.
The combat fatigues I wore would offer the most amount of protection. Its gel layers and Kevlar lining protected the majority of my body. Finally, I opted to forgo the optical lens and computer for the battle. I didn’t expect to have much time to send E-mails today.
The last piece of equipment I retrieved was the only one I dreaded having to use. It was thirty inches long, double sided, and had a tip which could skewer a wild boar. It wasn’t a gladius, like a standard legionnaire would use, but it would do the trick. During training, I’d found the smaller gladius simply too diminutive. It just didn’t work very well with my tall frame and long reach. The instructing centurions had noticed my awkwardness, and ordered a longer sword furnished for me with all the other design features its smaller counterpart boasted. I had quickly learned to use it well, and soon Bordeaux had been given one as well.
Satisfied, I looked over at Helena, who was dressed nearly identically to myself, as she pulled her own ammo bag over her shoulder. I almost expected her to wear her breast-molded legionnaire armor, knowing what it would do for morale, but she chose the more protective route, something everyone, especially myself, understood.
“Ready?” I asked her.
In response, she slapped a magazine into her P90, leaned over, and gave me a kiss.
I smiled and jerked my head toward the tent’s entrance. She left first, and I gave the tent one last look before I followed.
Outside, Vincent and Santino were already sitting on logs, warming their hands over a dying fire. Even though we were deeper in Italy than we had been during our time in the winter, and summer was quickly approaching, mornings were still chilly.
Each man was dressed similar to Helena and I, their swords strapped to their waists and their shields at their feet. We took a seat on a particularly long log lying on its side, and tried to warm up as well. A few minutes later, Bordeaux and Wang emerged from their tent. Bordeaux carried nothing on his chest rig, but had his three day assault bag in one hand, his SAW in the other. Sitting on another log, I noticed he was inserting the last few rounds of ammunition into one of his box magazines. The box magazines were large, about the size of a brick, and could carry two hundred rounds each. I estimated he had at least ten in his bag, with another already loaded into his weapon. He noticed my inspection and flicked his eyebrows in rapid succession.
The man loved his firepower.
Wang was geared up more traditionally, with most of his vest looking much the same as it always did. He had half a dozen magazine pouches with a few other miscellaneous ones, but he also had his large medical bag as well. It consisted of enough supplies and modern feats of medicine to provide more care for a century of men than a traditional Roman doctor could provide for an entire army. Even though he wasn’t equipped to care for the entire legion, he’d still save more lives today than any other doctor. He’d hang back and do what he could from the rear.
They joined the rest of us as we warmed our bones.
It was an unusually chilly morning.
Quiet and contemplative, the squad sat and enjoyed our own personal calm before the storm, barely paying attention to the hustle and bustle of the active camp around us. Everyone had their eyes on the fire, their gazes glossed over, each of them running through the possible outcomes of the battle in their minds. They were nervous, but I had nothing but confidence in each of them.
Helena laid her head on my shoulder, her own gaze staring blindly into the fire. I wrapped an arm around her waist and looked over at Santino, who had broken his stare to offer me a supportive smile. I returned it, and tracked my attention over to Vincent, who had pulled his hands away from the flames, stuffing them into his pockets, and stood up.
“Everyone get something to eat?” He asked.
We nodded. Helena and I had shared the breakfast egg burrito MRE earlier, which had always surprised me as being exceptionally delicious.
Catching each of our nods, he nodded back. “Good. Today is going to be an interesting day.” He sighed, and kicked a small amount of dirt into the fire. “That said, I have something important I need to say.”
I straightened, feeling Helena take her head off my shoulder, interested as well.
“No matter how today’s battle goes, afterwards, I am officially disbanding our unit. We will no longer be Praetorians. Considering our situation, I feel it is only appropriate. I will not become a mercenary captain and order you around in our new home. It hardly seems fair. I’ve spoken to Caligula, and he’s agreed to retain each of you as centurions in his own Praetorian Guard, probably attached to his Sacred Band. Nobody is forcing this on you. I want each of you to choose for yourselves.”
No one said anything, but it occurred to me that his decision was an acceptance of our fate in this world, and that he must have little faith in our ability to get home. I wasn’t about to give up hope quite yet, but at least now we had a choice. He was giving us the freedom to make our own lives in the world fate had delivered us to. We couldn’t change the fact that we were here, but at least now we weren’t forced to live by
the decisions made in another lifetime.
I stood. “Sir. I believe I speak for all of us when I say,” I looked around for support, “that I think you made the right choice, and that we’re very happy you did so.”
Everyone else stood as well, offering their own agreements and positive sentiments. Vincent opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut off by the bellowing blast of a Roman trumpet blaring a call to arms. I looked over Wang’s shoulder and saw hundreds of scampering men, each trying to find their place in the marching column that would lead them to the battlefield.
“Party time,” Santino said.
The Last Roman (The Praetorian Series - Book I) Page 63
