The Last Roman (Praetorian Series - Book One) (34 page)

We were getting desperate.

I noticed a pair of enemies attempt to engage
Quintilius. I sighted one through my scope and sent a burst of fire
towards him. The trio of rounds ripped through the man’s neck and
sent a stream of blood and gore towards his buddy. Distracted by
the arterial spray, the other man went down with a sword thrust to
the chest by Quintilius’ steady hand.

By now, I couldn’t tell the two groups of Romans
apart. Both loyalist and rebel looked the same. They only fought
each other based on who they didn’t know, which would be very few
people outside their own cohorts. The only Romans I could identify
were Quintilius, fighting bravely while trying to maintain order
for his few remaining soldiers, and Marcus and Gaius, fighting back
to back.

“Fall back!” Vincent ordered his squad in English.
He didn’t have to tell me twice, and I began to strategically
withdraw from the battle, making sure not to grow complacent on the
way out and take a
gladius
to my back. I thought I was the
last one out when I noticed Helena still blazing away with her P90,
oblivious to our retreat.

I ran over and grabbed her arm. “Let’s go!” I yelled
over the noise. “We are leaving!”

Without protest, she let me drag her away, still
firing when she found an opening. For a woman who had never seen
war before, she was certainly taking to it like a tamed lion who
finally found its wild side. I guess war was actually a pretty good
way to release an entire life’s worth of frustration and anger, and
she had plenty to burn. Kind of like a giant stress ball, only it
was too slippery to squeeze because of all the blood.

Running into the room, Santino and Vincent took up
positions near the entrance, while the rest of us fanned out into
the room. Vincent also signaled for Quintilius to order his own men
to fall back, which they did in as orderly a fashion as they could
manage. When the last line reached the doorway, Vincent gave the
signal, and Bordeaux triggered his detonator.

The first explosion sent debris flying from the
walls, hurling towards the enemy. All those in the room were hit
with chunks of the house, and not one man escaped completely
unscathed. It was the window the one hundred odd loyal Praetorians
and my team needed to get the hell out.

“Marcus. Gaius,” Quintilius bellowed shakily. “Pick
up the Caesar and move him over the balcony.”

The two men, still disoriented from the explosion,
made their way towards Caligula and Wang. Each man grabbed an edge
of the stretcher, interested by its superior design over their own
versions, picked him up and moved towards the balcony. Quintilius
ordered his surviving men to follow, while Vincent, Bordeaux, and
Wang were the last ones out. Vincent, the very last over the
balcony, ordered Bordeaux to destroy the home. Not even turning to
admire his handiwork, he triggered the explosion, burying hundreds
of rebel Praetorians in rubble.

Two managed to squeeze through the explosion,
leaping over the balcony in an attempt to follow us. Wang spotted
them first and put them down with a few bursts of fire from his
UMP.

“Feel better?” I asked him.

He cracked his neck. “Playing doctor can be so
boring…”

I smiled and patted him on the shoulder while we
followed our allies through the dark streets of Rome. The city was
unusually quiet for the early hour, only a few before midnight, and
while usually the streets were bustling with nocturnal activity, a
battle taking place in the home of the emperor would be more than
enough to keep me inside as well.

Reaching the walls of Rome, we found a small,
unguarded postern gate, and fled the eternal city under cover of
darkness.

***

Our first stop along the way was Caere, a small town
four hours march north Stationed there were the two cohorts of the
emperor’s Praetorians on training duty, as Quintilius mentioned
earlier. We didn’t stay long, only enough for them to realize the
predicament we were all in, and gather up their gear. A half hour
later we were on our way, headed north along the
via
aurelia
. The ancient road followed the coast, where we hoped
to hook up with the nearest legion we could find. Caligula woke up
just long enough to mention he had received word that one of his
legions was on a training march around the Alps, and had chosen
their winter camp in Cisalpine Gaul. No other option available, we
headed there.

The only problem I had working with a legionary
force was their pace. On a normal day, a legion could march for
five hours and cover around twenty miles of ground. On a forced
march, it was closer to thirty, and that was with a sixty pound
pack on their back. We on the other hand, unsure as to who might be
tailing us, and not burdened by heavy packs, did not take any
chances. We marched straight through the night, taking an hour long
break early the next morning, and covered another fifty miles, with
intermittent breaks, before resting to make camp.

By the time we were done digging the square trench
around the camp, posting defensive stakes and sprawling out on the
open ground, I was beat. Normally, legions traveled with the
materials needed to create small cities each and every night, but
rushed as we were, we barely had anything. I slept in my gear, and
woke up the next morning too tired to even feel my wounds. We broke
down what little of the camp we had, pushed on, and finally reached
our destination outside of Lucca, just north of the Arnus River,
sometime that afternoon.

Everyone was exhausted by the time we reached the
legion camp, all except the Praetorians that is. Had I been fresh
out of BUD/S, I would have been fine, but I hadn’t been forced to
perform anywhere near this level of continuous activity since. I
legitimately felt like a lazy fatass. As for the Praetorians, they
still possessed enough energy to set up defenses and seemed
prepared for a lengthy engagement if need be. Approaching the gate,
we called for the sentries to allow us access to the camp. They
quickly obliged once Caligula had something to say about it.

He’d recovered well from his ordeals, and was the
only lucky person on the march with the luxury of being drawn in a
cart pulled by horses. He sat up in his stretcher and demanded
entry by the power of Julius Caesar himself.

I couldn’t help but be awestruck at the Roman’s
camp. I’d read about them in dozens of books over the years and
knew just how efficient camp life was for a legion, but to see it
in person was a sight to see.

In both function and aesthetics, this fort was no
different than the camp we had just left, simple in design, but
strong in defensive capabilities. However, this one was made for
long term operation. There was a deep ditch, with the dug up dirt
piled beyond it to make up the palisade, which had large wooden
stakes protruding from it. Then came a large wooden and stone wall,
complete with thick gates, and as a last line of defense, enough
room between the wall and tents, to keep the camp’s inhabitants out
of arrow range. The camp also boasted gravel lined roads, armories,
a hospital, an altar of worship, and seemed… homier, more lived in,
with men bustling about as though it were a city.

It struck me as an odd thing that this camp wasn’t
built along the Roman frontier, but in Northern Italy, well away
from any enemy force, and yet still boasted the same defensive
parameters of any frontline bastion. Romans never missed an
opportunity to continue their training, and were never caught with
their pants down.

Well, almost never.

Each fort was constructed in exactly the same way.
They were square, with four gates, one on each side. Cutting
horizontally through the camp was the
via principalis
, or
principal street. Situated smack dab at the center of that
particular road was the
praetorium
, the legion commander’s
tent. South of his tent came officer’s quarters, cavalry and
auxiliary tents, tents for the legion’s administrators and
bureaucrats, men almost as important as the legionnaires
themselves, and a miniature forum. North of the
praetorium
came eight blocks of tents, four across and two deep, with small
roads dividing them. These were tents meant for the legionnaires,
and local allied forces. Entering through the northern gate, the
porta praetoria, it was a straight shot to the
praetorium
.
As we walked, we had the eyes of the legion all over us. They’d all
seen Praetorians before, some maybe had attempted to join, but the
sight of the rest of us got their attention. Especially Helena.

What really got them riled up, however, was the
sight of their emperor laid out on a stretcher, looking healthier
than he did a day ago, but still weak.

News of our arrival traveled fast, and even before
we reached the
via principalis
, the legion’s commander
emerged from his tent. A legate by rank, he was easily the highest
ranking person in the camp, save Caligula himself.

The legate did not leave the immediate area of his
tent, waiting for us to approach his position as any good commander
would instead. But when he noticed Caligula, he ran to meet him.
Reaching the emperor’s side, the man looked down at his weakened
form.

“Caesar,” he said. “What has happened? What has
befallen you that requires your arrival here?”

Caligula managed to prop himself up on an elbow and
offered the man a strong look. “There has been a coup. My uncle,
the dog, Claudius,” he spat on the ground as he said the name, “has
seized power by swaying many of my Praetorians to his cause. I
should have put him out to pasture as soon as I became
emperor.”

That was more interesting information to consider.
Clearly there was bad blood between the two, but I couldn’t say
why.

“Gather your advisors, Legate. We have much to
discuss.”

“Indeed, Caesar,” he said, before looking up at me,
having already noticed and ignored our presence, only now
indicating in our direction. “Who are these people?”

Caligula smiled. “Pay them no ill will. They are
allies, and you would do well to call them friends. We will need
them in the days ahead.”

***

The
praetorium
, no bigger than a small
classroom, was crammed with people. Its sole resident, Legate
Lucius Livius Ocella Sulpicius Galba, had not only the longest name
I’d ever heard, but was also one of the ugliest men I’d ever seen.
He had a bumped nose, a double chin, busy eyebrows, and a receding
hairline. Ugly wasn’t even the worst adjective one could use to
describe him, but his eyes contained an intelligence and
determination that demanded respect.

His looks weren’t the most intriguing thing about
the man, however, and were the last thing on my mind when I
realized he was actually Servius Sulpicius Galba,
the
Galba,
the one who became the first emperor during the year of four
emperors in 69 A.D. after the fall of Nero. I tried to remember
what little I had learned about the man from my Intro to Roman
History course at Dartmouth.

Born Servius Sulpicius Galba, he took the name
Lucius Livius Ocella from his step mother who had raised, cared,
and loved him. He didn’t officially reclaim his birth name until
after he became emperor, as short lived as that had been. He’d been
a praetor once before, and had served as consul, and I assumed was
taking on another command position now. He was known for his
excellent generalship in Gaul, Germany, Africa, and Spain, and I
thought I recalled he had become governor of the entire Iberian
peninsula later in his life, prior to becoming emperor. I didn’t
know why he was in northern Italy now, or why there was even a
legion stationed in northern Italy for that matter, but I assumed
he had a reason.

The only other fact I knew about the man was that
when Caligula died, he had been called upon by his friends to make
a bid to take over. He declined and had served loyally during
Claudius’ reign. He seemed well at ease around Caligula now, and it
wouldn’t surprise me to learn that Caligula had observed him on
campaign as a child.

To either side of Caligula, who now rested
comfortably in Galba’s bed, stood Marcus and Gaius, his dutiful
caregivers for the past few days. Continuing clockwise around the
room came Marcus Varus, Centurion Quintilius, myself and the rest
of the team, and standing near the entrance was a tribune from one
of the two Praetorian cohorts from Caere, Marcellus Pullo.
Continuing along the other wall from the entrance came Galba’s
retinue. First came two slave scribes, a junior magistrate, the
legion’s
primus pilus
, or “first file”, who was the first
and foremost centurion in the legion and served as the prestigious
1st cohort’s 1st century’s centurion.

Interestingly, I had always thought
primus
pilus
translated as “first spear.” I always thought that
pilus
was another derivation of
pilum
, or spear. It
wasn’t until today that I learned it was a common mistake even in
the Roman world.

Who knew?

To round out the group were the
praefectus
separatism
, the camp prefect, and five tribunes, some of which
were used for military use, others as administrators, and one who
was appointed directly by the Senate, their eyes and ears in the
legion. Lastly, standing by his desk next to the bed in which
Caligula rested, was Galba himself, looking very angry, and
rightfully so. The story we had just told him was not one that
inspired confidence in the loyalty of mankind.

“That diseased rat of a man!” He screamed, pounding
his fist on the table. “He isn’t fit to lick the shit from Pluto’s
boots, and to think I once called him a friend. And you!” He
continued, pointing an accusing finger in Quintilius’ direction. “I
suppose none of this is
your
fault. You damned high and
lofty Praetorians, with your fancy togas and leisurely detail, with
less loyalty than a rabid dog! How is it that you let this
happen??”