“She’s right,” Vincent replied, all business. “We need to secure our gear, and see to our dead and wounded.” He lingered on that last part, the impact of command finally sinking in. “Finally, we need to get out of here and get into contact with the local leadership and see if we can figure out where to go from here.”
It was good to see he was taking to command so smoothly. We were going to need some form of leadership if we were going to get out of here…
Get out of here?
What happens when we do get out of here?
We’re two thousand years in the past. Having studied no actual precedent for time travel, I had no idea how things worked, but I did have years of television watching to at least give me something to work with. I’d seen enough to know we were in an extremely dangerous position, not to mention totally uncharted waters. Everyone’s seen the movies where people travel backwards into the past and fuck up the future. Could that happen to us? Had we already messed something up with our mere presence alone?
I still couldn’t believe the fact we actually traveled into the past hadn’t really hit me yet.
“There’s another thing,” I added.
“Go ahead,” Vincent ordered.
“We can’t tell these people anything about who we are.”
“Why not?” Bordeaux asked.
“Well. We’re in the past, right? Our past. I’m no expert, and I’m sure Vincent can back me up on this, but in Roman history there is absolutely no mention of soldiers that fit our descriptions. That can mean one of two things. First, no one wrote it down because we either die real soon, or we don’t make any kind of impression on anyone, which is kinda hard to believe. Or, simply, we were never here, and what we do here and now, can potentially alter the future. Our mere presence may have already been enough to change something. We have to be very careful. We could accidentally kill our own ancestors just by forcing them to avoid walking into us, and then I have no idea what would happen.”
Again, they all just looked at me.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Santino repeated incredulously.
“Come on, Santino. You watch TV. As far as I know, we’re the first time travelers in recorded history. I have no idea how this shit works, but from what I think I know, I believe we have to be very careful. We can’t mention people, places, terms, dates, anything. It can completely change history.”
Before my words could completely sink in, the room started to shake.
Violently.
Cross beams and bracings started to drop and rocks began to fall from the ceiling. The room was about to collapse.
“Remember what I said about dying really quick?” I asked, twirling Helena away from a falling rock.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Santino said for a third time, maybe hoping his final repetition and the clicking of his combat boots might whisk us away from this nightmare version of Oz.
The Romans were already rushing out of the room, quick on their feet.
Vincent took control. “Quick! Bordeaux, help me grab one of the containers. You too, Santino.”
Wang came running over. “What about McDougal?”
“Don’t worry about him. He isn’t going anywhere.”
“But…”
“Shut up, Wang,” Vincent yelled. “We’re going to need those supplies.”
Helena and I were already limping our way out of the room. Santino, Bordeaux and Vincent had one of the containers hefted and out the door when Wang came rushing by us. With a last look at the crumbling room, we waited while Bordeaux and Vincent pushed the container up a hole while Santino’s dragged it out of the way. Next went Wang and Vincent, followed by Bordeaux and then me. I pulled Helena up through the hole just as the ceiling collapsed in on itself, with a plum of dust and dirt following behind her.
We exited a small domed structure, emerging into the night sky on top of a rather high hill, surrounded by a familiar, sprawling city. I couldn’t quite place exactly where we were, but the city was beautiful and majestic. If I had to guess, I’d say we were back in Rome.
But that was impossible.
Right?
So, not only were we transplanted into the past, but also transported half way across the Mediterranean?
“Well, that figures,” I said, still in disbelief.
“What?” Helena asked, from my shoulder.
“We’re back in Rome.”
Her only response was to look out confusingly over the huge city.
“Damn, that really kills my frequent flyer miles,” Santino said.
I would have punched him had Helena not been on my arm, but my attention was drawn down the street anyway. I saw the men from inside kneeling before a dozen armed men, wearing plain white togas and wielding swords and shields, torches illuminating their stone cold expressions. The sneaky man from the cavern was standing beside them, finger pointing accusingly in our direction.
This time, I couldn’t help have the last word.
“Aw, shit.”
***
The two sides did little except wait, stare, and see who would make the first move. The Romans were a hard looking group, short and lean, with stern faces and cold eyes. They looked bulky in their togas which, combined with their weapons, probably meant these guys were real Praetorians.
Army legions were not permitted in Rome, and only under a few historical circumstances had they ever entered the city. Such times were normally reserved for civil wars, such as the ones between Marius and Sulla, and more famously, Caesar and Pompey. If we were indeed in the days of Caligula, the military would definitely not be in the city.
That left the personal bodyguard established under Augustus, the only military unit stationed in the city. Unlike how modern film portrayed them, with their flashy black armor and billowing purple cloaks, these men wore simple white togas, and there wasn’t a stitch of purple on them. Only a few people other than the emperor were allowed to wear imperial purple, and Praetorians certainly were not some of them. They probably wore the typical lorica segmentata armor worn by most legionaries of this era beneath their togas.
One of the men, a centurion I would guess by his helmet, which possessed a plum that ran from ear to ear, the only helmeted man in the group, stepped forward, and extended an arm, palm upwards. Then, in a voice that would not accept “no” for an answer, I think I heard him say something about our weapons.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“Well,” Vincent answered, “these Romans speak so fast, it’s hard to keep up, but I think he said he wants our weapons.”
“What do you think?”
“We could take them out before they had any idea what was happening, but if what you said is true, these men may play integral roles in the future. We can’t just kill them.”
“I’m glad someone was paying attention.”
“Hey, I heard you,” Santino said. “I just think you’re nuts.”
“In any case,” Vincent said, ignoring him. “I say diplomacy is our priority. Everyone, put your rifles on safe, and unload your mags, and don’t forget the chambered round. We don’t need these guys accidentally shooting each other.”
We all complied, securing our ammo, before laying our rifles on the stone road. The Romans gave our rifles a curious look, as well as each other, before gathering them up. One man picked up Helena’s curiously designed P90, trying to figure out if it was actually a weapon or a piece of art. Knowing they had no idea what exactly our weapons looked like, or did, we kept our side arms at the ready.
I noticed the man I had seen creeping in the sphere out of the corner of my eye. He seemed completely out of place. I couldn’t help but wonder what role he was playing here, and whether he could help us. The way his eyes panned over us suggested he was more interested than anything. They continuously focused on small details concerning our clothing and gear. Even when his attention focused on Helena, he only examined her gear and weapons, as well as her bandaged wound, and
moved on.
That, in of itself, was impressive.
The Roman Praetorians, satisfied that we had relinquished our weapons, or at least anything we could hit them with, formed into a square around us, and started moving. I glanced at my watch, my compass indicating we were heading northeast.
“What do you think they’re going to do with us?” Helena asked.
“Well, hopefully, they don’t crucify us,” I replied, only half joking. “Romans made the process famous after all.”
“That’s a wonderful image. Thanks.”
“Anything I can do to help.”
“But seriously. What are we going to do here? If everything that’s happened in the past twenty minutes aren’t actually a dream, and we can’t risk changing the future by actually doing anything here, how are we supposed to find our way home? We’re going to have to interact with something if we’re going to figure this out.”
“That’s a good point, but again,” I said with a shake of my head, “I don’t know. Honestly, I think I would like it here, but we can’t stay. The longer we do, the bigger the chance we screw something up.
“Don’t you think meeting the emperor of Rome might change something?”
“What do you know about Caligula, anyway?”
“All Europeans aren’t history scholars, you know,” she said indignantly. “All I know is that he was crazy.”
“I guess that’s more or less true, but he wasn’t always crazy. In fact, when he was young, he was a very inspired and hopeful young man. His uncle and foster father, Tiberius, emperor at the time, would bring him along on campaign when he was barely a teenager. He spent much of his youth learning the ways of war first hand. In fact, the legionaries loved him so much, they called him “little boots,” which is where his nickname, Caligula, comes from. The Roman word caligae, which means shoes, or sandals, or boots, or whatever.”
“So what happened?”
“Well, that’s the thing with history. Since so much has been lost, we’re not exactly sure. Little information contemporaneous with his life exists, except for a few historians, most of whom wrote after his death. Suetonius, for example, wrote extensively on the Caesars from Julius to Domitian. However, as a source of historical fact, he’s not so helpful. He’s great at describing the drama and debaucheries of the crass imperial families, but I can’t remember a single date offered in his writings. It reads more like gossip. A soap opera. He’s not considered a very reliable source, but he’s still one of the main providers of information we have on the time period. People like Claudius wrote extensively on many subjects, including his family tree, but unfortunately, none of his work survived. Suetonius quotes it at least once, but has the nerve to describe it as tasteless. Claudius is Caligula’s uncle and the next emperor, by the way. I’d actually love to meet him.”
“Thanks for the history lesson, but what about Caligula?”
“Well, when Tiberius died, Rome was very excited. Tiberius went down in the history books as a rather mundane ruler, but in reality, he was a very successful military commander, and while his time as emperor was uneventful, Rome hardly suffered from it. So when Caligula took the reins, big changes were expected. All for the better.”
“Any reason why it’s taking you so long to get to the point?”
“I’m just trying to provide context,” I sighed. “Yeesh. It’s always the pretty ones. Anyway, Tiberius introduced Caligula to more than just warfare during his formative years. On his island retreat of Capri, Tiberius immersed Caligula in debaucheries that made the ones in Rome seem like tea parties. Ever see the movie Caligula?”
“No,” she answered.
I grimaced. “Probably for the best. It’s one of those movies you have to see to believe, and while probably more farfetched than reality actually was, it definitely portrayed Tiberius as the sick bastard he, again, very probably was, and Caligula was raised around all this sex and degeneration and violence. Many historians credit this upbringing as the cause of his eventual insanity, but it wasn’t until he became very sick that his mind was finally warped. Supposedly, he started doing things like appointing his horse consul, Rome’s highest elected position, and started an incestuous affair with his sisters. All three of them. Historians are conflicted on the matter, though. They’re conflicted on everything.
“One of the earliest writings about Caligula claims he went insane as a direct result of his illness. There are many others, though, that feel too much emphasis is put on the illness, and shouldn’t be taken seriously. Either way, he rose pretty high on people’s shit list, including his own Praetorians. It wasn’t long before they assassinated him, and proclaimed Claudius emperor. The way things were going, it was definitely for the best. Claudius did a good job, and despite the hiccup with Nero, Rome prospered for quite a while before beginning its inevitable decline.”
“So…” she said, her voice dripping with impatience.
“So…” I mimicked, her impatience beginning to irritate me, “that’s about the gist of it. If we got here too late, chances are we’re fucked. Better expect to suffer a painful, painful death in some gruesome, grotesque manner. Hey, I once learned about a Roman execution method where they would have you stand on a platform above a ramp with a revolving buzz saw running down the center. Then, they would slice your Achilles tendons, causing you to fall off the platform because, you know... pushing would be too nice. Then, you’d fall from the platform down onto the ramp and slowly slide your way into the saw, slicing you in half. Right down the middle. There. Happy?”
Her stare was blank and I wondered if she was thinking about the execution method I’d just detailed or whether or not I really was crazy, like Santino suggested.
“So were you some kind of high school history teacher before joining the military?
I smiled, forgetting my tirade. “No, but I did go to college, and had to major in something. Double majored in history and classical studies. Mom was proud. I always figured I’d spend my life as a history teacher, not in the military. Hopefully, meet a nice, saucy Spanish teacher and settle down.”
“You really are a strange man, Jacob.”
“Hey. A guy can dream, right?”
She rolled her eyes.
“I was even working on my Masters when I was forced into the Navy,” I provided proudly, “and hoping for a PhD one day.”
“Why would you need a PhD to teach children?”
“Why not?” I asked with a look that suggested her question should have had an obvious answer.
She ignored the sarcasm, but I saw she had a small smile on her face. “So, why were you forced into the Navy then?”
“For a girl who couldn’t take a little history lesson a few minutes ago, you sure do ask a lot of question, but again, sorry, let’s leave that story for another time.”
That was another annoying story, and I wasn’t about to let it ruin the fantastic dream I must be having right now. Here I was, strolling through Rome with a beautiful woman on my arm, taking in the sights like a couple on vacation. It was something I’d always wanted to do, but never actually had the luxury to do.
I must be dreaming.
Granted, the woman was half unconscious, came close to losing a leg, we were under armed guard, and while we may be in Rome, we were somehow in a time when gladiator tournaments were still popular…
Even so, I couldn’t help but admire the view.
The landscape was almost completely unrecognizable from the city I had just driven through. St. Peter’s Basilica was gone, and many of the ancient ruins were either in perfect condition or not even built yet. Most of Rome’s landscape was due for a series of major renovations in the coming years, and most of what I was seeing would be gone in two thousand years anyway.
Nero would build his magnificent golden palace, along with a pool the size of a football field just a ways down the road to my right. It wouldn’t last long though, as Vespasian would later build the Flavian Amphitheatre, better known as the Co
losseum, on that spot. Later, Trajan would move half of a mountain to build his own forum, just because he needed more room.
But none of that was here at this point, and I found myself saddened we weren’t transported to a time when Rome’s more lasting structures existed. Sure that sounded superficial, but all the fun times of social and civil wars occurred well before we got here and the wonderful building projects were probably out of my life span, even if I had to stay here. I even missed Augustus, my favorite emperor, probably one of the top five most influential figures in all of western civilization. At least as far as I was concerned.
Oh, well. Looks like we’re about to meet another influential figure in history. I just hope we were sent back early enough. After all, he was only emperor a few months before he got sick.
***
Twenty minutes, a few drunken witnesses, and a number of reproachful charlatans later, we made our way to the Curia, Rome’s senate chamber. As we passed through the Forum Romanum, I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. I was walking through Rome’s political epicenter. The place where most of its major decisions were made. A thousand years of governance and policy were debated right here. Everything so was saturated in history, I felt drenched just thinking about it, and not just in my pants. Every debate settled by the men of this city affected the world in ways few truly appreciated. Without these walls and the men who filled them, my world would have been far different.
I saw the Curia, an unremarkable building, with its plain, brick façade, as well as the Rostra, on the other side of the forum. There was the source of it all.
“Take a look over there,” I told Helena, nodding off to our right. “That’s the Rostra, a speaker’s platform. Back during the Second Triumvirate, one of the greatest writers and orators of all time, Cicero, had spread some rather nasty propaganda about Marc Antony. It had something to do with how Antony should have been killed along with Julius Caesar on the Ides of March or something like that. Anyway, Antony, being the spoiled little shit that he was, had him killed, and had his head and hands cut off. He then had them placed on those poles to further insult him as if killing the most learned man of his time wasn’t enough. Those poles are actually called rostra, by the way, the Roman word for a ship’s prow, which is where the title for the platform came from.”
The Last Roman (Praetorian Series - Book One) Page 14
