The Last Roman (Praetorian Series - Book One) (32 page)

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 funnel 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.