Edward Crichton - To Crown a Caesar

“Damn it, that’s not fair. You can’t put everything on my shoulders like that.”

She paused and let out a long breath, but I interrupted her before she could continue.

“Now you know how I feel, Helena.”

She looked speechless once again, but she was able to continue after a short while. “I do trust you, Jacob, I do. I told you I’ve always trusted your gut, and I feel no differently now. I just wanted you to know that you don’t always have all the right answers, and that’s okay.”

I smiled. “Well, now I know that…”

She smiled back, the most beautiful smile I’d ever seen. “You’re such a jerk, Jacob. Sometimes I wonder how I can still love you.”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

She smacked my chest. “You are that. More than you know, but if you go out of your way to ignore me again, you won’t be for much longer.” She continued smiling, and for the first time in months, hunkered down back in my arms, and in that moment I knew better than to ruin it by saying a word. As she got comfortable resting her head on my chest, I awkwardly moved my arm around her back to hold her. She noticed my hesitation and looked up at me.

“It’s all right, Jacob. I’m not going to bite you.”

“That’s not always so clear sometimes,” I replied, finally reaching around and holding her by the shoulder.

She blinked up at me, an oddly mixed expression on her face. She didn’t need to say anything more either, and I knew that look only confirmed her feelings that while we were reconciled, we weren’t done yet. She had no problem beginning the healing process with a little cuddling, but it was going to be a while before we shared the same level of trust and intimacy we did a few months ago.

We laid there in contemplative silence for a few minutes before I got bored.

“Want to play a game?” I asked.

“What kind of game?” She replied, curious.

“How about, I Spy?”

“Jacob,” she said with a weary sigh, “there’s not much…”

“I spy something… green.”

“Grass,” she said immediately.

“Damn. You’re good.”

She slapped my chest again, probably harder than she should have.

“Just go back to sleep.”

It was during times like these that I really missed home. Hours cooped up indoors would never have been a problem for Child Jacob, Teenager Jacob, or even Young Adult Jacob, each of which would find ways to keep himself entertained for hours on end. From movies to video games, music and books, and the wonders of the internet; 21st century Jacob was a man-child who knew how to keep himself busy. Many a girlfriend hadn’t been too thrilled by my ability to avoid boredom, but they’d come and they’d go, but Jacob always remained — entertained.

I’d grown out of such reclusiveness well before I had joined the military, but sometimes I wondered how Helena would have dealt with such habits back home. In some ways I was lucky we’d ended up here in Rome. Something told me she wouldn’t appreciate my MacGyver DVD collection as much as I did.

Instead, Helena and I boringly spent the next three hours lounging together on the floor of Galba’s tent playing chess on my wrist mounted LCD screen that was attached to a small computer in my MOLLE rig. It was either that or solitaire, and Helena proved a worthy opponent, even though I managed to edge her considerably in the win column.

We also chatted about inconsequential things, memories of the homes we had five years ago and more recent ones.

Our favorite story surrounded Santino, when the three of us had stalked a band of thieves to their hideout and he had triggered a simple snare trap that caught around his ankle and sent him flying into the trees. Helena and I had been on his flanks and hadn’t seen what had happened to him, but once we took care of the bandits, we realized Santino hadn’t participated in the take down. He’d contacted us over the radio and politely asked for us to find him via his GPS tracker to give him a hand.

We’d found him dangling from a tree, his head bobbing a few meters above the ground. His predicament wouldn’t normally have been a problem, but his knife had also fallen out of its sheath and imbedded itself in the ground just out of his reach. I’d picked it up and looked at Helena, and we both burst out laughing as Santino hung there with his arms crossed across his chest, a rare frown on his face.

Back when Santino had lost his favorite combat knife during our mission to rescue Nero four years ago, Helena had promised him she’d find him a better and bigger one. She’d come through on her promise months later when she purchased him a ten inch blade shaped like an Arabian scimitar during our time in New Carthage on the Mediterranean coast of Iberia. Santino had immediately fallen in love with it and claimed it would take either an act of God or, jokingly, an act of sheer stupidity to ever part him from it. Needless to say, we simply couldn’t contain ourselves when we found him hanging from a trap even a toddler could avoid; his knife having accidently escaped him.

It was after a few minutes of laughter at his expense that I finally handed him his knife back, and he cut himself down, falling to the Earth with a loud thump. He had stood and brushed himself off, replacing his knife, and in typical Santino fashion, acted like nothing had happened. He’d thrown an arm over Helena’s shoulder and my own, and led us towards the bandits’ camp to pick up what we had been tasked to retrieve.

Like most good stories, we’d told it a hundred times, but it never got any less funny.

Unfortunately, further storytelling was interrupted by the sound of the tent’s entrance flapping open.

I quickly pushed everything from my mind when the sound of footsteps inched closer to the bed. I freed my Sig P220 quietly from its thigh holster, the metal gun rasping quietly against its plastic sheath, and I felt Helena shift in my arms, just enough so that she wouldn’t get in the way if I needed to do something fancy. I saw the figure fall to his hands and knees, and I knew it was either Galba or someone I’d have to deal with messily.

When the sheet was ripped away from the bed, I pushed my suppressor equipped pistol into the intruder’s face. My finger on the trigger, I diverted my aim immediately when I noticed Galba’s dark eyes looking back at mine. I sheathed my pistol with a slow breath through my teeth, Helena’s head slumping against my chest, the adrenaline rushing out of her system as well.

“Galba,” I hissed. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Me too,” Helena said.

I felt her breathing heavily and hoped she wasn’t having another pain attack.

“I apologize,” Galba replied. “Please, come out. It is safe, but we only have a short time before you must hide again. I presumed you would enjoy an opportunity to stretch.”

I nodded and waited for Helena to move off of my arm, which had fallen asleep beneath her. Free from her weight, I hauled myself out from beneath the bed, my back stiff from hours of idleness. I turned and offered Helena a hand and we spent the next five minutes walking around the tent, stretching muscles that had been dormant for over eleven hours. Helena moved over towards the tent’s entrance, her back to me, and raised her arms high over her head and stretched. A second later she snapped them down, clutching her side. I turned away before she could notice I was watching. She’d been trying to hide the fact that she was still afflicted by her abdominal pains since they’d begun, and I didn’t want to make it worse by letting on like I noticed now.

By the time she turned around, I was already sitting on Galba’s bed, stretching forward and gripping my bootless toes, not paying her any attention. She came over and sat next to me while Galba poured some wine into three cups, handing us two of them.