The three of us had stood around a map of Britain as Plautius raged, which was exactly when I realized I would never again hold a meeting of such importance around a table, but it wasn’t until Plautius had accused me of being a traitor – owing such suspicion to my odd accent, manner of clothing, and weaponry – that I’d punched him square in the jaw.
The strike may have hurt my hand more than it had his face, but damn had it felt good to put one of these Roman assholes in his place. I still didn’t know why I’d snapped at the accusation of being a traitor, especially since I really didn’t owe allegiance to anybody in this godforsaken time period, but laying him out had still felt like the right thing to do.
And Plautius had gone down hard.
I was a pretty big guy, especially when compared to most of these Romans, who were quite tiny in comparison. Obviously, each and every legionnaire was in impressive shape athletically, but I had two thousand years of evolution and modern strength training on my side, and had the mass and body strength to prove it, but I’d never considered myself a particularly intimidating person. I’d always considered my features too soft, almost boyish, but that had been five years ago. They’d hardened after my time as a Navy SEAL fighting in World War III, but the ensuing years in Ancient Rome had left me barely unrecognizable in the mirror anymore. Crow’s feet tugged at my eyes, laugh lines that didn’t seem so humorous pulled around my mouth, and my face seemed gaunter than ever before. While Helena never mentioned my changing complexion to me, I saw it almost every single day. Her own face may have remained just as lovely as ever, but over the past year especially, I’d watched my own grow hard and old and cold.
But even so, I still didn’t consider myself particularly intimidating, but the look Aulus Plautius had on his face as he stared up at me from the ground seemed so terrified, that it scared me in return. What had a confident, competent Roman general seen in my face that had caused him to look at me in such fright?
I didn’t know and I didn’t want to know.
All I wanted was to go home.
Galba had helped Plautius to his feet, and Plautius hadn’t been too proud to accept his help. He’d risen slowly, brushed himself off, and asked me to leave. I’d given the man a mock Roman salute, pounding my hand against my chest hard but then flinging an open hand with wiggling fingers at him lazily, before turning and leaving. Galba had caught up to me before I left and gripped my arm with an impressively powerful hand.
I looked down into his fat and ugly face and glowered at him. “What is it, Galba?”
The man stared up at me with his unusually hard eyes, no hint of concern present. Either he was too stubborn to be intimidated by me, or he just didn’t care anymore.
“What are my orders, Legate Hunter?” He asked, his voice professional and without emotion.
I blinked in surprise, having forgotten that I hadn’t yet decided what to do with him. I could have used him for my journey, his knowledge of the natives, general warfare, and diplomacy making him an invaluable tool, but I wasn’t even taking half a legion with me into the wild. It seemed like a waste of resources to bring him along, as he and Plautius together against the Britons would be far more formidable than just one or the other alone.
“Stay with the legions, Galba,” I ordered. “They’ll need you more than I do.”
Then another thought came to me as I stood there at the tent’s threshold.
The journey to the Isle of Mona and beyond had the potential for being the most dangerous thing I’d ever done. Even without Agrippina’s involvement for once, we were heading into uncharted territory where I suspected the natives were more likely to shoot first and ask question later, rather than the other way around. There was a good chance this was a one way trip; not a suicide mission per se, but one that had a number of possible endings attached to it, not all of them worth thinking about.
His hand was still gripping my bicep when I had this thought, and without thinking, I reached out to peel it off.
“Remember what I said back in your tent all those months ago?” I asked. “About your legacy in this world, or lack thereof really?”
His eyes widened at the question, and his expression seemed sad now rather than angry. “Such words are hard to forget.”
“Forget I said them,” I said, and his look turned confused. “Just forget I said anything, Galba. Make your own damned fate.”
I walked away with those words, not really understanding why I’d said them, and Galba hadn’t followed.
That was the last I’d seen of him before setting out.
After the entire ordeal in Plautius’ praetorium, which had only lasted fifteen minutes from entrance to exit, I’d been depressed and furious at the same time. I marched directly out of Plautius’ camp and trudged toward my own, which was still under construction, and went straight for my praetorium. I stormed my way inside and tore off my clothing, throwing everything but my boxer shorts into a corner.
It had been freezing that winter night in Britain, and my tent hadn’t offered much insolation, but I’d barely felt even the slightest chill. Helena, seated at my desk and writing something, looked up at my entrance but didn’t try to speak to me and I barely spared a look in her direction as well. It wasn’t that I was too emotional to communicate with her; it was just that I didn’t have a single thing I wanted to say.
Another thing I was sick and tired of were scenes in bed with Helena where we discussed her problems, our problems, or, especially, my problems. I wasn’t going to go down that road anymore either. I was almost convinced that her weakness, caution, and recent unsupportive nature had been why we’d failed to accomplish anything at all since our operation aboard Agrippina’s pleasure barge. I cared about her opinions, but I just didn’t need them anymore.
She should consider herself lucky, really, since I hadn’t found much to care about anymore as I’d climbed into bed. Not about the chill that crept through my bones or the impending march to the Isle of Mona. Not about Aulus Plautius or Galba. Not about the fate of Ancient Rome, my timeline, or Archer’s skewed and freakish one. Nor even Agrippina, who I often thought about, wondering what she was up to. Honestly, I barely even cared about Helena anymore, especially not when she’d stared at my back as I tried to grow comfortable in my bed. I hadn’t needed eyes in the back of my head to feel her discomfort or know she was looking at me, because I could actually feel those green eyes of hers on me.
And I’d felt a lot of things recently, most of it not good, but there was something subtle dangling in the deep recesses of my mind. Something elusive, meandering, but undoubtedly present. I couldn’t quite understand what it was yet, but it was enticing. Alluring. It was a powerful feeling, one that could lead me to do great things if I could just find some way to harness it.
I’d thought of little else that night, our final night in the comforts of Roman civilization, and while it had been hours before I’d finally fallen asleep, I had been quite content to think and ponder on the potential of that great power I may one day wield. Even after Helena had slid into bed behind me, the warmth of her body close but not against me, I’d thought of nothing else. It had only been because of severe exhaustion and mental decay that I’d finally drifted off to sleep well into the morning, but I’d been quite content with my last thought:
That I would soon have all the power in the universe needed to fix it.
VII
Wilderness
Central Britannia
December, 42 A.D.
“This sucks.”
“Yep.”
“No, really; this really, really sucks.”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“I mean, this sucks so much that I think I’m beginning to hate you.”
“Join the club, John.”
There was a pause this time.
“It’s really fucking cold out here, Hunter.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Another pause.
“For Christ’s sakes,�
� Santino pleaded, “at least pretend like I’m annoying you. Not only does this suck and not only is it colder than a polar bear’s asshole out here, but I’m also bored out of my mind. Help me out here!”
I glanced over at Santino as he strode beside me, pulling his horse along behind him just as I did. “Sorry, buddy.”
“Buddy?” He asked mockingly. “Buddy? Well, I suppose that’s progress. I wasn’t even sure you cared anymore.”
I sighed, but was interrupted from answering when one of Felix’s legs sunk deep into a small puddle of mud, forcing me to coax him out of it. He was certainly a good horse, but he was still an animal, and the thought of being stuck in mud terrified him. It terrified me as well, having been one of a billion kids who had cried when Artax from The Never Ending Story had died from exactly the same issue. Luckily, this story wasn’t nearly as bleak as that one, at least not yet, so I managed to get him under control and pulled him free.
Such occurrences had been normal over the past week since leaving Camulodunum. The ground wasn’t quite frozen yet, although it was getting close, and treacheries along the underdeveloped roadways we’d been traversing were numerous. To even call them roads at all was a grand overstatement, and the Romans in my reconnaissance force had grumbled often about the lack of efficient and sturdy Roman roads in the area, and I couldn’t blame them. We were slopping our way through Britain right now, and it was slowing us down more than I wanted.
To make matters worse, as Santino had just complained about, it was damn cold outside, but apparently not cold enough to freeze the ground beneath us. It was like Mother Nature was playing a silly joke on us, but it was bound to get colder as we progressed deeper into the winter months and into Britain itself, so the ground would eventually freeze and our progress would accelerate –at least until the inevitable heavy blankets of snow arrived. Unfortunately, until then we had little choice but to march through the worst combination of weather conditions I’d ever encountered.
Felix and I quickly caught up to Santino once I’d calmed him down with a bribe in the form of a nearly frozen carrot. Both Santino and his horse were covered in mud, and both seemed exhausted. It was late in the day on this seventh day of our estimated two and a half week journey, and all four of us were due for a break. Santino and I were currently on picket duty for the marching recon force, while other groups were responsible for our flanks and rearguard, but we had the worst duty, as we were the ones responsible for discovering the most suitable terrain for the rest of our force to travel upon, so we were in turn the ones who blundered into the worst of it.
When I finally caught up, I glanced at Santino and shrugged apologetically.
“I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”
He looked at me quizzically before shaking his head and turning back to the direction we were marching. “You always have something on your mind. Always… and why the hell do I have to keep reminding you of that?? That’s not a fucking good excuse anymore!”
“Sorry?”
“That’s better,” he said with a sigh. “God damn, Hunter, you’re going to drive me into an early grave at the rate you’re going. And I can’t believe you and Helena used complain about me all the time.”
I couldn’t help but smirk. “Do you blame us?”
“Of course not,” he said proudly, “but I’ve always been the way I am. That’s my excuse. You don’t have one.”
“Ah, right,” I said, chuckling. It seemed like only Santino could talk to me these days and not get my blood boiling. He never minced words around me, and I appreciated that. He said what was on his mind – just in his own unique way – and it didn’t hurt that he rarely let life get him down. He was an eternal source of childish optimism, something we could all use more of.
I glanced down at Santino’s hands, and noticed him tinkering with our UAV. He had his horse’s reins looped through his elbow, but in his right hand he held our small unmanned aerial device, little more than a sleek block with three little helicopter blades that stuck out from it, forming a triangle. And in his left hand was a multi-tool. While our UAV was a durable little device, even though solar power kept it working, it had been on the fritz ever since our time in Damascus.
“Still not working right?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Santino said as he turned it over in his hand, using the screw driver tool to pry at something near one of the helicopter blades. “I think it’s finished. This one rotor blade just won’t spin properly anymore, and I don’t have any more replacement blades to fix it with. I don’t think it’ll ever maintain a stable flight level again, and is more likely to crash into your face than fly properly.”
“There’s nothing you can do?”
“I’ve been MacGyvering this thing for years, Jacob. It’s an intricate piece of military hardware, one that hasn’t been properly serviced in over half a decade. I’ve done what I can, but I think it’s time we dig it a grave.”
I nodded, feeling a slight pang of regret at the loss of our little guardian angel. It had served us so well over the years, allowing us to pinpoint enemy troop movement or scout out areas before we even entered the area. The thing was practically invisible in the modern world, but to these ancient denizens, even if they saw it, they wouldn’t even know what it was, let alone how to bring it down.
But without it, we’d never have the ability to perform advanced reconnaissance or monitor our perimeter again. Other technical assets had already been lost to us, such as our snake cam, a number of our computers, a few wrist mounted interactive displays, and our IR optics among many others. But at least we still had our radios. All the advanced tech and sci-fi toys in the future could never really replace a good, old-fashioned radio. It was the most reliable piece of electronic gear we had, a testament made real by how they still worked while most of everything else had gone to shit, and was a device even Archer and his men utilized. Their durability was reassuring, but the continued loss of our technological edge only served to amplify my anxiety.
At least we had ammo again thanks to Archer’s arrival. It had been a miracle that their ammo was even compatible with our own, but despite different brand names and appearances, Archer’s ammunition worked just as well as our original stuff. Divided between us all, we didn’t have nearly as much as we’d brought with us initially, but at least we all had loaded magazines with some ammo to spare. All except for Helena’s P90, of course, which still rested comfortably in forced, early retirement. But unlike our ammo situation, the loss of Santino’s UAV was a reminder that once our modern tricks and fancy tools were depleted, we’d be no better equipped than a standard Roman legionnaire. Once we were reduced to nothing more than a sword and shield, we were as good as useless against Agrippina’s Praetorians or her ninjas.
A frightening thought.
“Just see what you can do,” I ordered Santino.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said as he went back to work.
I nodded and returned my attention to the path before us.
Dusk was not long off, and it was about time to send out a few centurions to locate a suitable location for our legion camp. The nice thing about Britain was that there was plenty of open ground, well-forested areas, and rivers. The same thing could have been said about anywhere in Europe around the turn of the most recent millennium, but it was still nice. It gave my scouts plenty of options to pick from, and they had done a good job establishing defensible locations every night this week, and I only expected the streak to continue.
I twisted at my waist to see the legionnaires of my three cohorts marching in unison behind me, their kit looking large and uncomfortable upon their backs, and signaled for the nearest centurion to rally his fellows in search of a fortifiable area. He saluted and went off to complete his orders.
The rest of us continued on our way.
Despite the cold, the mud, the random flakes of snow, and the walking instead of riding, the trip was relatively pleasant, at least in the sense that we hadn’t yet been attacke
d by locals who’d spotted half of a Roman legion marching into their territory, but our presence hadn’t gone completely unnoticed. Our flankers had spotted interlopers pacing our formation as we continued westward since day one. Even the Romans, well versed in marching orders in foreign territories, weren’t completely certain what our guests were up to, but it didn’t take Julius Caesar to determine that their intentions were probably not good.
The fact that we’d been unable to determine how large a force it was only made matters worse. My scouts could only breach the fog of war surrounding my contingent so far, meaning they could only recon what they could see, and what they could see was restricted to how far they were willing to venture from the protection of our main force. The distance wasn’t by any means negligible – they were professionals who knew what they were doing – but they couldn’t see the whole island of Britain. Had Santino’s UAV been operable, we would have been able to scout miles around our perimeter, penetrating deeper into the fog of war well beyond what the local Britons would expect out of us, but unless Santino fixed it, we would never have that blanket of security again.
Hence my growing apprehension.
But we didn’t have a choice in the matter. If Santino could fix his UAV, great, but until he did, we had to make do with what we had. I was determined to press on no matter what, and nobody seemed willing to turn back anymore either. We were too close.
Minutes passed as we continued our march, and a half hour later, a runner worked his way through the mud in my direction, Santino still fiddling with his poor UAV beside me. Like when his beloved knife had once been lost to him, I wasn’t sure he was ready to accept the death of yet another of his old friends.
The runner, in full legionary armor sans his marching kit, came to a stop a respectable distance from me and saluted. He didn’t seem even remotely winded.
A Hunter and His Legion (The Praetorian Series Book 3) Page 20
