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 towards Vincent, checking my ammo as I went, 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 replaced 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 lens 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 lenses, 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 be owed 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, 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 chests. 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’ve ever done were the times 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, as even though it wasn’t large by the opulent standards of many celebutantes back home, 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, and a triangular centerpiece resting above. The entrance was wide, and there was a patio where the columns extended towards the ceiling, with six steps leading down towards a path through the courtyard. The gate acted as a natural funne
l into the courtyard, easily the best place to bottleneck the enemy. The walls were a dozen feet high, and a foot thick of concrete, so unless the mob wanted to continue being shot off them, their best bet was to come through the gate. Once it was down, they 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 towards 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 started to splinter at about the time we had killed the last of the climbers. By the time we took cover behind the columns, the gate faltered completely.
What took place before me was one of the most amazing sights I had ever seen.
Roman versus Roman.
It 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 plebeians 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 as 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, palled 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 towards 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 paid me too much attention and catching 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 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.
The Last Roman (Praetorian Series - Book One) Page 24
