To Crown a Caesar (The Praetorian Series: Book II)

by Crichton, Edward

  “No, that’s not it,” Santino managed finally. “Something else.” He tapped his chin in thought. “Isn’t your birthday coming up?”

  “Nope,” I said honestly. He was late by a week

  It hadn’t been as horrendous as I’d thought it would be, now that Helena knew about it. Although, she did force me to admit how old I was, just so she could carve a number into the MRE dessert cake she gave me. At least she reluctantly agreed with my theory that I was now thirty one, and not thirty two due to the lost months during our trip through time.

  It took some doing though.

  “Then what? I haven’t seen you this pleased with yourself in years. Helena wear something sexy to b…”

  “No,” I answered quickly. I wasn’t going to let him have the pleasure of forming the mental image.

  “Just tell me! It’s not like we’re really doing anything right now. Just waiting. Like always.”

  I wrapped up my journal and dropped it in the bag I’d bought in Byzantium, and turned to survey my surroundings. Santino and I were sitting in a nice café on a balcony overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. We had a beautiful view, and even though it was at least ninety degrees Fahrenheit outside, the dry air made it bearable and the sea breeze, comfortable.

  “This isn’t exciting to you? Get your blood boiling?” I asked him, pumping my fists. “We’re done sneaking around. Done not knowing what to do next. We’re taking control for once. It’s like we’re on some grand adventure now instead of just half-assing it. I’m instigating an open rebellion against one of the most dominant world powers to ever grace civilizations, usurping an empress with my own emperor, pitting two political sides against each other, and possibly changing the course of world history!” I paused for dramatic effect. “And looking good doing it.”

  I brushed my hands through my newly cut hair to emphasize my point. I’d let it grow almost to my shoulders in Byzantium, but now it was back to my preferred length of short, but still longer than Navy regulations. It was much more comfortable this way and Helena really liked it too.

  Santino had cut his hair as well, along with shaving his beard. His new hairstyle was popular throughout the empire these days, stylized after how Julius Caesar wore his hair: short, with tiny little curls for bangs. His freshly shaved face was also a local Roman grooming standard and set him apart from many of the local Jews who sported bushy facial hair. Combined with his stupid grin and myriad of dashing scars, he had even more luck with the ladies these days, a fact he let few forget, especially Wang. Helena’s little joke a month ago had spawned some kind of competition between the two, apparently the only objective of which being to sleep with as many women as possible.

  Santino was winning, and whenever he wins at anything, is generally pretty annoying about it.

  Santino yawned. “Some grand adventure. All we’ve been doing is sitting on our asses for three weeks.” He looked out over the Mediterranean. “Nice view, though.”

  “You’re worthless,” I commented. “Only you couldn’t get caught up in all this.”

  “This isn’t a Dan Brown book, Jacob. This is real life.”

  I tilted my head to the side. “You can read?”

  He smiled. “I’ve seen the movies.”

  I sighed, resigning myself to Santino’s mood. He was right. We were doing a lot of waiting these days, but political scandals took a long time to work themselves out.

  “Will you two please stop bickering,” the faint voice of Helena said in my ear piece. “Try and stay focused.”

  “What?” I said, pretending her words were somehow shocking and insulting. “No way. Are you telling me it’s okay if you and I bicker, but I can’t even argue with my best pal?”

  “Yeah, mommy,” Santino chimed in, the both of us on VOX. “I’m just hanging with my besty. Gee, Hunter, you sure can pick em. Always the needy, clingy, bitchy ones.”

  I nodded my head in agreement. “You know what, John? You’re absolutely right. Maybe I should listen to you more often”

  “Been sayin it for years.”

  “Of all the…”Helena said, anger now clearly evident. “You two know I can shoot you right…”

  “Stop,” the drawn out voice of Vincent interrupted in an obviously annoyed manner.

  Santino and I exchanged smiles and traded air high fives. Having everyone back together brought out the worst in us, and the past couple of weeks had been just like those first few weeks in Rome, with Santino cracking jokes, me backing him up, and Helena hating every moment of it.

  Of course, back then all she would do is playfully punch me when I annoyed her. Now, she was denying me more recreational and… fun things.

  But like Santino earlier, she had a point. Santino and I weren’t enjoying lunch together to annoy her, as much as we wished we were, but to meet our contact. Because we had extensive knowledge of the current and near future socio-political atmosphere of the area, I knew King Herod was the key to our plans, as opposed to his Roman equivalent. That’s why we were waiting for one of his top tier administrators to meet us for lunch.

  To have a little chat.

  I glanced around the café. It was just as nice as the one in Byzantium, but the view alone made it far superior. It added such grandeur to the spot, and the amount of space and open area available made the location much more beautiful than anything Byzantium had to offer. Most of the buildings were tan in color, and the flooring was constructed out of a creamy sandstone. Combined with the sandy beaches, the bright blue water and crystal clear sky, I could almost imagine we were in the Bahamas.

  It looked like a grander version of any Middle Eastern city, just without the centuries of decay and war, long before the infighting and squabbling would tear it apart. I’d never been to Dubai, but I could almost picture this place as a two thousand year old equivalent, just without the palm tree shaped islands.

  The plaza where our café was situated was huge, easily the size of a football field. It had outside seating for hundreds, and it was beautiful. I hadn’t known much about the city coming into it, except that its port had been recently renovated, but all in all, even Rome wasn’t quite as stunning. Vincent told me it had taken Herod the Great twelve years to rebuild the city, and it was certainly worth it. The city boasted a theatre, a hippodrome, perhaps the finest port in all antiquity, and the entire city appeared to have been chiseled by the skilled hands of a sculpture, like Michelangelo, out of some kind of pure white stone. A material so wonderful it could have been a city sized chunk of ivory for all I knew. Arches, towers, turrets, multistory buildings, aqueducts, temples, small palaces… the city had it all, and it was breathtaking.

  It’s a shame that it was destroyed at one point and probably will be again.

  The table I was sharing with Santino was directly in the center of the café, and sat right next to the low wall that separated patrons from the cliff that dropped off to the beaches below, only a few meters below us. Bordeaux and Madrina sat a few tables away, sharing their own meal, wearing local clothing that looked almost identical to the indigenous clothing of Middle Eastern townspeople in the present day. Vincent and Titus were near a vending stall for exotic weaponry a few dozen feet behind Santino, effectively pulling off a father and his eldest son out for a day of shopping. Wang was hiding in an alley, out of sight, ready to deploy as a quick reaction force if something horrible went down. Finally, Helena was posted in an abandoned lighthouse, very far away.

  The shoreline behind me ran for about four hundred yards before jutting out into the sea at a right angle for another hundred yards. Helena’s lighthouse hide was at the end of the little peninsula formed by the shoreline’s shift seaward. Utilizing a little Pythagorean Theorem know how, that put Helena at 412 yards out, not accounting for her elevation, which wasn’t that high.

  Santino and I were well covered, and I couldn’t think of a time or place where I’ve ever felt safer. We were about to do something both smart and stupid, and it was nice to have the bac
kup. I wasn’t going to let the feeling shift to overconfidence like it had with Agrippina, but it was still nice.

  Secure in my friends’ presence, I was watching a flock of seagulls fly over the water when a long shadow fell across my face and I noticed Santino put his feet down in readiness. I turned my head to see a bearded man stop next to our table. He wore long brown robes, with a thick sash of a belt colored in dark red, and the robe had two thick stripes running around the edges of his sleeves. He had dark features, craggily skin, black hair with a salt and pepper beard, and he looked pissed.

  Santino pulled out a chair, brushed it off with his sleeve, and offered it to the newcomer.

  The man turned to stare at Santino, his eyes steady and angry. It took ten seconds before Santino’s wide smile faltered and another five after that before it fizzled away completely. He looked at the table in embarrassment. I found myself shocked anyone had the power to do such a thing. Clearly, this guy wasn’t one to screw around with.

  Satisfied Santino was now secure in his place at the bottom of the food chain; the bearded man took his offered seat, crossed his left leg over his right and appraised the two of us intently. I didn’t flinch at his perusal, doing my best to return his stare coolly.

  “This guy doesn’t look too happy,” Helena’s reassuring voice commented in my ear, no anger from earlier remnant in her observation.

  I nodded just enough so that she could catch it through her scope. She was right for the second time today. This guy was a Zealot. He hated Roman authority and their overreaching disregard for anything Jewish. In the original timeline, almost twenty five years from now, men like him would form the nucleus for the uprising against Roman Rule, resulting in one of the bloodiest rebellions in Roman history, and over a million Jewish casualties.

  “You are Vani,” he said, more of a statement than a question.

  “We are,” I answered. “My name is Burt, and this is my friend Ernie.”

  “I wanted to be Burt,” Santino mumbled in English.

  “Shut it.”

  It had surprised us to learn upon our arrival that our reputation had greatly preceded us. Even here in Judea, people had heard the stories of a mysterious band of do-gooders who went around helping those who couldn’t help themselves. Everyone knew the highways of Rome weren’t safe from the likes of Madriviox and all the other scum we’d eliminated over the past four years, and to hear of people who tried to help others was unusual.

  Nearly every day since we’d been here, whether we were just walking through the markets or eating in a restaurant, stories of our endeavors circulated through Caesarea like they were headline news stories or the most recent episode of a modern day hit television program.

  Humorously, most of the stories were outlandish versions of what really happened, especially when they revolved around Helena. Told mainly by the young men of the city, one story was that of a nine foot tall, black haired Amazon, whose outfit was always described in a way that reminded me of the armor worn by female warriors in any number of geek fantasy stories.

  Not that I knew anything about those, of course.

  Apparently, this woman could shoot lighting from her eyes, decapitate men with a blink, and disintegrate them with the snap of her fingers. I joked with Helena that it seemed society knew her better than I did.

  Other stories weren’t nearly so ridiculous, but each carried a morsel of truth to them, and once people started noticing dark figures flitting about their rooftops during the night these past few weeks, the rumor mill had fresh material to work with. Like we’d done in Byzantium, we spent our nights scouting and mapping the city of Caesarea. It was twice the size of Byzantium, but with our added manpower and the help of Santino’s UAV, most of the work was done quickly and easily.

  “My name is Matiyahu Ben Yosef,” he continued a second later, which I translated as Matthias, son of Joseph. “Is it true that you… do things for people?”

  “It depends on what you mean by ‘do’,” Santino answered with a shudder.

  “I have also heard that you are honorable men,” Matthias rebuked, standing from his chair angrily. “Men who value human life above all else. If not…”

  I held out a hand and indicated he should retake his seat.

  “We are honorable,” I reassured. “Please excuse my friend. He is as loyal as a dog, but unfortunately not much brighter.”

  Matthias looked back down at Santino, probably wondering why the smiling idiot wasn’t enraged by my insult. He slowly retook his seat, probably figuring Santino had a child’s mind in a man’s body.

  “Fine,” he said, resettling in his chair. “If you are indeed men of honor, as you so claim, I wish to purchase your services. From the stories I’ve heard, you are capable of a great many things.”

  “We do what we can,” Santino said cheerfully.

  I kicked him beneath the table. We didn’t need him pissing this guy off with his stupid ass antics.

  “What would you have us do?” I asked.

  Waiting for him to reply, I took a second to scan the plaza, checking for foul play. I caught Bordeaux’s eye, only to receive a shake of his head in return. Helena must have noticed my shift in attention because she sent an all clear double click over the radio as well. Looks like this guy was playing ball. We’d told him through a number of intermediaries to come alone and during the middle of the day, ostensibly for his own protection, but really just because we didn’t trust anyone.

  We knew he was the head of the local Zealot movement, and that his rhetoric and speeches had been fueling the rebellious spirit of the city for months. We hadn’t known his name, just that he was looking for a way to topple Agrippina’s stranglehold on Judea and establish Herod as the legitimate sovereign of the territory.

  “There is a war coming,” he answered. “Rome is unfit to govern the Jewish people. We are followers of Yahweh, the one true God. Our people did not endure years of slavery in Egypt and the perils of reaching the Holy Land, here, only to find ourselves as no less of slaves now as we were then.”

  I nodded.

  Twenty five years from now, many in this area felt that their customs, religious views, and culture were constricted by Roman government to the point where they were losing their identity. This simply would not do for a sect of humanity like them.

  That said, the Jewish population was close, but not quite ready for war. It could take another two years or so before the rebellion began if left to its own devices. We couldn’t wait that long, and it seemed young Matthias couldn’t either…

  I paused

  Matthias…

  Ben Joseph?

  “Before we continue, I have a small personal question,” I interrupted, waiting for his nod before continuing. “Tell me, do you have a son?”

  Matthias tilted his head back in surprise. “Yes, in fact I do. A young boy, five years of age. His name is Joseph, after my own father.”

  I smacked my thigh beneath the table. I knew his name sounded familiar, but it wasn’t until he clarified he had a son named Joseph, that it clicked.

  Joseph Ben Matthias.

  Known as Titus Flavius Josephus later in his life, or simply Josephus, he was the pinnacle source of information concerning the war between Roman and Jew in 66 A.D. He’d fought for the Jews, only to become a client to Vespasian, hence the addition of Titus Flavius to his name after he was captured. Historians either loved him or hated him. Most admitted he was an invaluable contemporary historian, but others felt he was overly biased towards his Roman protectorates. I now know I couldn’t blame the guy. Living in Rome was a perilous affair, and if Josephus wanted to survive, he knew better than to piss of those who retained him to record the events.

  Either way, the thought was just plain cool. We’d met some pretty interesting and influential Romans over the years between Caligula, Claudius, Galba, and even Agrippina. While Joseph was still just a boy, the fact that we were very possibly interacting with his father was fascinating. It was al
most as though fate, and I hated that goddamned word, was driving us towards as many historical figures as it can.

  “Why?” Matthias pressed.

  I recovered well, pointing my finger at him. “You speak of war, yet you have a son. If you are instigating something of such magnitude, maybe you should be thinking of him more than us.”

  “I am thinking about him,” Matthias countered angrily. “It is for his very future that Roman rule must be questioned and dealt with. We are nothing but pawns in their political games. They care little of our values and practices, and desire only our servitude. They conscript our young men into their legions, over tax us with little thought to our survival, deny us the freedom to practice our religious ceremonies, and of all the cultures in their vaunted empire, despise, humiliate and degrade ours more than any other.”

  I heard the vehemence and power in his voice as if he were orating upon a rostrum even now, espousing his views with his fellow Jews. Not only did I hear his words, but I felt his emotions as they bubbled to the surface, realizing just how feverishly he believed in his ideals.

  The only thing I wondered is if he felt the same way twenty five years from now, in the original timeline, when things were quite different.

  “If you are Vani,” he continued, “defenders of the weak and champions for liberty, then you must understand our plight.”

  He made no indication that we should feel obligated to help him or that because of these supposed ideals, for us to not help them, would make us hypocrites in our own eyes. He knew he was dealing with powerful people and made no assumptions otherwise. He’d pleaded his case well, and knew without saying, that if we were who we say we are, we had no choice but to help him.

  I glanced at Santino before back at him.

  “What would you have us do?” I asked.

  “When the time comes. Stand with us. Help us defeat the Romans.”

  I forced myself from sighing in self-disgust.

  And here’s where I have to lie.