We spent the next three days in transit heading southwest, relying on help from the random people we encountered for more precise directions. A half dozen pointed fingers later, we found ourselves atop a small mountain with a grand view of Caesarea, still miles away, but sadly no better in appearance than when we’d last seen it.
Even from this distance, we could see how its once pristine buildings had crumbled to nothing more than piles of rubble, and smoke plumes still wafted into the sky from innumerable fires set throughout the city. We could also just barely make out the various legion camps scattered around the city’s perimeter, but with my binoculars, I could make out the shapes of soldiers running about in controlled chaos. And as if the sight wasn’t bad enough, the stench of burnt garbage and decaying corpses was still strong, even as far away as we were.
Felix, my trusty black, Spanish stallion that I’d stolen from Agrippina all those years ago, grumbled beneath me.
I’d left Helena’s side the day before yesterday, always feeling more protected atop Felix’s strong back and sturdy legs, at least when I didn’t need a shoulder to cry on as I certainly had that night. He made me feel powerful and gave me a commanding position high above any man on foot, but even horses had nerves, and like most animals, could sense things humans could not. The city before us was a haunting sight, and the ghosts of countless dead must have tickled the senses of my poor horse.
I reached down and scratched his mane, but turned to Archer.
“Set up camp here,” I told him. “This shouldn’t take very long.”
He nodded and I led our away team toward the crumbling city.
Santino, Helena, Wang, Vincent, Artie, Gaius, and Marcus made up the team heading into the city, while the rest stayed behind with Archer in charge – for lack of a better option. We descended the low hill and made our way toward the legion camp we knew to be Vespasian’s. It wasn’t difficult to spot, right smack dab in the middle of a trench system that reached from shoreline to shoreline and around the city. Its appearance mimicked all the other legion forts I’d visited over the years, and would make for easy navigation once we breached its walls.
We made our way to the porta principalis dextra, where a legionnaire atop the gate’s rampart stopped us, a half dozen of his comrades threatening us with their spear-like pila at the ready. Gaius, always our go to guy when dealing with legionnaires, maneuvered his horse to the front of our group and made our case for us. Luckily, he and Marcus were well known to this particular legion, so it wasn’t long before the gates parted and we made our way inside.
As we led our horses through the camp, I was reminded of what death smelled like.
It had a rank and pungent odor that overwhelmed my senses and blurred my vision. I pitied these legionnaires for their chosen profession, especially since they were the only individuals I truly respected in this God forsaken land. Their dedication, professionalism, and martial prowess were arguably unmatched throughout all of history, so despite the dreaded atmosphere of the camp, in these men, I could at least find comfort and understanding. Gaius and Marcus were shining paradigms of this truth, and I found myself ironically at peace just now, surrounded by these thousands of automatons who knew little more than bloodshed and war.
But it was thoughts like those that reminded me how much this place in time and space affected me, reminding me of how much I hated it here and how much it had changed me for the worse. It reminded me that I had to do everything I could to protect Helena and my baby, as Varus had ordered me to do, and get all of us home.
Helena, always able to read my thoughts, tucked herself in close beside me after we’d dismounted and marched down the via principalis in the direction of the praetorium, any legion general’s command tent. She glanced up at me, a bleak expression on her face, but quickly smothered it and placed her hand on the stock of the sawed-off shotgun she kept strapped to her thigh.
Archer and his men had never even heard of the ammo variant Helena’s P90 utilized, so, drained of ammunition, she’d retired her trusty personal defense weapon and found our old shotgun, the one we had yet to fire in combat, and like in any good zombie flick, had sawed off the barrel and stalk, and had wrapped duct tape around its grip, creating a serviceable, quick draw blunderbuss of a weapon.
It didn’t take us long to reach the praetorium, but my entourage and I were stopped by a pair of guards and were told to wait outside while they announced our arrival. Seconds later, a number of officers and administrators streamed out of the tent, shooting us looks of annoyance as they passed. We must have interrupted a meeting, although I had no idea why they appeared so irked.
Santino smiled and waved at them as they left.
One final man exited the tent before the legionnaire who had initially stopped us waved us in. I nodded in thanks and lead our procession in to meet with Vespasian.
His tent was sparse and orderly, as any good general’s would be. It was furnished with a simple bed, a cabinet, a desk with three chairs, and was adorned with two spoils of war hanging from display stands: a five foot long longsword and a pair of twin bladed battleaxes, crisscrossed. As good a man as Vespasian was, he was still a Roman, proud of his endeavors and not beyond collecting trophies.
As for the man himself, he stood behind his desk, appearing as solid and impenetrable as a brick wall. Much like Santino in terms of height and build, Vespasian’s visage was impressive. He had a square jaw with small lips, and his cheeks were hard and taught, completely unlike the busts of the man that existed in the 21st century where his face had softened and grown round with age and a career of administration.
Another man stood in the room as well. He was lean and tall, with dark curly hair and a full beard. His features were even more striking than Vespasian’s, with a long pointy noise and small, predatory eyes, much like a hawk’s. His face was all the more intimidating at the moment because of the menacing stare he was directing at me.
“You!” He shouted, his hand pointing threateningly. “How dare you present yourself before me!”
I almost smiled at his dramatic reaction. “It’s nice to see you too, Herod.”
***
“Bastard!” “King” Herod Agrippa shouted, taking a step toward me. “I should have you skinned alive before having the Romans crucify you!”
I knew his hollow threats of death were well intentioned and deserved, but I couldn’t help but finally allow myself that small smile.
“Isn’t it interesting,” I whispered, leaning in toward Helena, “how many people have said things just like that to me before?”
She looked at me blankly. “I really don’t think that’s a good thing, Jacob.”
I shrugged, turning back to Vespasian. “We need your help.”
The burly Roman traded looks with Herod, who was still fuming as he probed his shoulder where Santino had stabbed him a few weeks ago. He had his arm in a sling, but didn’t seem ill from infection. Gauging from the grimace on his face as he touched his arm, though, I could tell that the wound hadn’t yet healed.
“Quick to the point,” Vespasian remarked. “I should have expected as much, but why don’t you introduce your friends first, Hunter?”
I started with Artie, but made no mention that she was my sister, nor that she had only just recently arrived. Vespasian gave her a curious look as he grasped her hand, maybe noticing she wasn’t the military type or perhaps seeing the family resemblance, I didn’t know. I then introduced Wang, who Vespasian greeted warmly, and then Vincent. Vespasian looked at the older man happily and shook his hand enthusiastically.
He already knew Gaius and Marcus, who saluted smartly as he passed, but when he stood before Helena, he reached down, gripped her hand, and kissed it in the same manner as he had the last time they’d met, my frustration at the gesture the same now as it was then.
“Can I marry him this time?” Helena whispered to me in English.
I ignored her and finished by introducing Santino, who looked around
the tent distractedly, appearing as uninterested in life as he usually did.
Vespasian perked up at the name. “Ah, so you are the ‘funny one’ then.”
Santino turned to me and smiled. “I’ve always liked that Galba.”
I rolled my eyes. Santino was the only one of us our old Roman comrade, Galba, had seemed to like, but none of us had any idea why.
“I have something for you,” Vespasian continued causally as he walked to his cabinet.
Only taking a few seconds to rummage through his gear, he brought out a long, thin object wrapped in a heavy cloth. He held it out for Santino, who looked at it stupidly before finally accepting the gift. Noticing his hesitancy, Vespasian beckoned for him to open it. Gingerly, and with a sidelong look at me, Santino gripped the cloth and peeled it open with excessive care.
I too leaned in for a better look, but all I saw was something metallic beneath the final fold. Santino, however, squinted at it with the first bit of interest he’d shown all day. The entire process was agonizingly slow, and either Santino was acting particularly stupid, which wasn’t hard to imagine, or Vespasian’s gift was somehow familiar to him.
Finally, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Santino ripped open the cloth to reveal a long, fixed-blade knife. But not just any knife. His knife. The one he had lost all those years ago when we had tried to recover Agrippina’s son, Nero. He’d thrown it at the then-villain of this story, Claudius, but it had been intercepted by one of his Praetorians instead. He’d lost it that day, something that had bothered him ever since, but it wasn’t until just last year that we’d learned why.
I’d caught him one day staring longingly at the replacement knife Helena had bought for him years earlier. It was something he did occasionally when he had something on his mind, but I’d about had enough of his annoying sorrow over his lost knife at that point, so I’d confronted him about it. For someone who treated women like disposable paper cups, his attachment to the thing was disconcerting, and it was something Helena and I had been curious about for years.
His story had been surprisingly heartfelt.
I’d never known much about his childhood or his family, but he’d once told me about a younger half-brother who was still in high school back when we’d still resided stateside, which was about all I knew. If Santino even had a father, I wouldn’t have known, but it turned out that his father had been quite real, and he’d been a good one at that. He’d been a welder, a salt of the earth blue collar man who’d worked hard to put food on his family’s table every night, even if he hadn’t always succeeded.
The man’s only hobby had been the collection of knives. Everything from kitchen tools to ornate decorative ones, and even military grade hardware. His collection had been immense, but he’d never squandered his money at the expense of his family. It was his only vice, and one he acted upon responsibly, but it all ended when Santino was twelve years old and had discovered his father dead in his bedroom. Paramedics had later diagnosed it as a heart attack, something that happened to the best of people at the worst of times, and young Santino had lost something very special to him. The next day, a package came in the mail addressed to Santino’s father, containing the very same knife Santino had carried until the day he’d lost it during our botched rescue attempt of young Nero. It was the last in his father’s collection, and the only one he was allowed to keep when his mother had sold the rest to help pay for their move out of New York after she had remarried and given birth to Santino’s half-brother.
As the story finished in my mind, I glanced at my friend, who stood dumbstruck by what he saw balancing in his palm. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Santino speechless, but he was now, like he was seeing his father again after all these years.
“H-how?” He finally stuttered. “Wh-where?”
Vespasian smiled. “It was sent to me during my time in Germany. It had a note on it saying to deliver it to ‘the funny one,’ but I had no idea what that meant at the time since Galba hadn’t yet informed me of you people.”
“Who sent it?” He asked.
“The note was simply signed: Varus.”
Now Santino looked almost heartbroken. He dropped his hands to his lap and his jaw hung ajar. Every second Santino had spent around Varus, he had spent it pestering, annoying and bullying him. I wouldn’t have blamed Varus one bit had he in fact hated Santino, but it had been a tremendous gesture to retrieve and send Santino’s knife back to him, and while Santino knew Varus was dead, I wasn’t sure if the reality of what that meant had truly sunk in until just now.
Slowly, Santino looked back up at Vespasian.
“Thanks,” he said, his normally jovial disposition cast aside.
“You are welcome,” Vespasian said. “We have sharpened it for you.”
In response, Santino tossed his knife into the air and caught it in a reverse grip in preparation for a number of parlor tricks. He passed it from finger to finger before spinning it on a fingernail like a basketball, and then launched it into the air one last time, sheathing it as it fell. He’d removed his replacement blade mid toss, placing it in a bag once his old friend was secure.
His normal attitude returning, he threw a wink at Vespasian. “Thanks.”
Vespasian nodded and turned back to me. “Now that formalities have been taken care of, let us return to business.”
“I hope you mean the business of crucifying this man,” Herod remarked dryly.
Vespasian offered the man a derisive look. “Herod, I am sorry about your shoulder, but leave it be, man. There are forces at work here that are far beyond you.”
“Indeed?” Herod asked. “Please enlighten me.”
“Sorry,” I interrupted, “but you don’t need to know.”
“Do not speak to me, deceiver.”
I rolled my eyes but ignored him.
“We need to go to Alexandria,” I told Vespasian bluntly.
“Then go,” Vespasian said, waving a hand. “You do not need my help to get there, and it is one of the few peaceful portions of this empire remaining. If you leave now you could be there within a week.”
“Well...” I said, trailing off, “…Alexandria is only the first stop on a much longer journey, which is why we need your help.”
“Is that so?” Vespasian asked. “And where will you go next?”
I worked my mouth, debating whether I should tell him or not, but then figured I should.
“Britain.”
“And the help you desire?”
“The military kind.”
Vespasian stood bemused but quiet, so I continued. “I need a few cohorts of legionnaires, an equal amount of auxilia, enough equipment for three times that size a force, and enough naval vessels to transport it all.”
Vespasian snorted a sharp laugh. “Is that all?”
“What?!” Herod’s face grew redder with each passing second. “You are not actually considering this, are you?”
“I’m not considering anything,” Vespasian snapped. “Net yet.”
I considered the stalwart Roman’s words, not quite sure what he was thinking. My inability to read him had always unsettled me since our very first encounter, but I had to admit it was certainly a beneficial political tool. I tried to imagine his interactions with Agrippina, realizing that it must have been a bloodbath of wits.
“So, is that all?” Vespasian asked again. “I ask because you desire much, especially since you’ve returned to me without Agrippina, which we agreed you would do. And I would be most negligent were I not to mention that you have left this city, and this man here especially,” he said indicating Herod, “in quite a state of disarray. And of course, we must not forget that it was your actions alone that have fractured this great empire into pieces.”
I forced myself not to cringe. That very sentiment ran through my mind on a near hourly basis; I didn’t need to start hearing it from him as well.
“What’s happened?” I asked.
Vespas
ian didn’t reply, but casually made his way back to his desk while Herod moved to stand behind the Roman, his good arm folded across his chest, clutching his injured one. I was still amazed at how familial these two were. Up until a few weeks ago, I, and every other historian for that matter, had no idea Herod and Vespasian had ever even met, let alone been buddies.
“It seems you are the catalyst for a great many things, Jacob Hunter,” Vespasian said matter of factly. “I know little of what you consider ‘history’ from where you come from, but from what Galba told me, I assume Rome remained an empire for quite some time after the reign of Caligula, am I correct?”
“Yes, quite a while longer,” I answered. “Centuries longer. Fourteen hundred years longer even some would argue,” I finished, making the tired argument that Rome’s true existence lasted till the end of the Byzantine Empire in 1453, an obscure fact only a sad few college students ever learned back home.
“Well,” Vespasian said, “it seems we have quite the problem then.”
“Please get to the point,” Helena demanded, never one for historical digressions.
Vespasian smiled even though I suspected he had nothing to smile about.
“The vast empire of Rome has fractured,” he said. “Rebellions have flared up all over the empire. The ceasefire with Germany has come to an end, resulting in Sarmatian aggression as well, Gaulic and Iberian nobles are growing restless in the west, the Parthians are ready to invade Anatolia in the east, and the Senate is completely divided on how to contain the situation, all the while their empress hasn’t been present in Rome for over a year.”
A Hunter and His Legion (The Praetorian Series Book 3) Page 8
