Edward Crichton - The Last Roman

“Are you willing to do this?”

Helena looked at Vincent, who nodded, then at me. All I could do was offer a weak shrug. It wasn’t my place to decide for her. She looked down at her feet and thought it over before meeting Caligula’s face.

“I am,” she answered, mostly confident.

Caligula looked at Galba, whose face was unreadable. I knew what he was thinking, and it couldn’t have been an easy decision. Just because you had the power to end a life on a whim, doesn’t mean you should do so. Besides, enemy or not, crazy or not, Claudius was still Caligula’s uncle, and I’m sure that fact had to weigh heavily on his mind. He turned his back on his staff, and rested his chin on an upraised fist.

Five minutes passed and he still hadn’t made a decision.

“Caesar?” Galba queried tentatively.

Caligula’s head dropped, but he soon turned back to face us.

“No,” he said quietly. “No. Thank you, but I cannot condone that. He is my uncle, and both sides are aware of why they are fighting. Assassinating him at the onset of battle would do little to dissuade the troops. Whoever has more men standing at the end of the day will prevail, and will be able to maintain their hold on power through their own loyal troops. The less dissenters the better. This must be decided on the battlefield.”

Bravo, Caligula. I had to imagine emperors both before, and definitely after, would have jumped at the opportunity to wield the kind of power Helena possessed. Sure, he’d used her before for the exact reason, but it seemed as though the past few months had matured the man, his arrogant personality abandoned. If we could defeat Claudius, I saw a bright future for Rome.

As for Helena, she was obviously relieved. She’d gotten a taste for both combat and assassination lately, and had a definite knack for it, but I knew it didn’t come easy for her. I knew she didn’t like it. It had been a topic for many a late night conversation. I wondered if she would have cut it as a sniper back home. She had no choice here. Here it was kill or be killed, but it wasn’t so black and white back home. She wasn’t a bloodthirsty killer, and I had a renewed regret for bringing us here and causing all this shit.

“So, when the day comes,” Caligula continued, “I expect your people to be at my side. They will have a place of honor, right beside me.”

“It is indeed an honor, Caesar,” Vincent answered, “but I believe we would be put to better use in a more active part of the field.”

“Do not worry, I do not plan to loiter in the rear and stay safe in this battle. The troops will need their emperor guiding them, as much as their eagle. I leave it to you to keep me safe. Believe me when I say, I wouldn’t be so quick to do battle myself if you were not there.”

“We will do our best. Thank you, Caesar.”

Caligula smiled, and looked over at his Praetorian primus pilus. “Don’t look so glum, Quintilius. I would not be so eager to fight if you and your men weren’t there as well.”

Quintilius returned the smile, his dignity and pride restored.

“Let us talk strategy then,” he said.

Finding his favorite map of the walled city, he began explaining his preliminary battle plans. Before he could make any headway, a commotion from outside the tent forced us to stop.

“What now?” Santino asked.

I turned to Helena. “If it’s Agrippina, just shoot her this time.”

She flashed a toothy smile, but we breathed a collective sigh of relief when a simple messenger entered the tent instead, handing Caligula a sealed letter. The emperor thanked the man, and started reading. I saw his eyes grow slightly before he crumpled up the letter and burned it with a candle.

“General, alert the troops,” he ordered Galba. “Tomorrow we do battle. It seems Claudius has decided to come out and meet us in open combat. We’ll continue this when you return.”

Galba smiled, his expression itching for a fight. “With pleasure, Caesar.”

Plains outside Rome, Italy

June, 38 A.D.

The following morning, I prepared for war.

It would be the kind of war I’d never seen before, and for the first time in my military career, I was truly afraid. Not just nervous like I had been many times before a mission, but genuinely scared shitless. This was the kind of random warfare that left almost no room to control your own fate. That worried me. A random spear here or a wayward sword thrust there. Each could end your life before you even knew it. Back home I was always on the offensive, choosing the time and place for battle and the how and why shit went down around me. Those would not be options available today.

I had slept well that night, capitalizing with Helena on the idea that we might not survive another day. It amounted to a good sleep, despite the predawn wake up time.

However, prior to our nocturnal activities, facing a completely novel way of waging war, we prepared our gear as well as we could for the unfamiliar battle ahead. The versatility of my combat vest really showed itself as I removed every single pouch, pocket or other modular item already applied, leaving it a bare canvas for me to work on.

The key to our effectiveness was the ability to maintain our weapons fire as long as possible. To help neutralize the fact that I had limited space on my vest to carry loaded magazines, I opted instead to carry a shoulder hoisted messenger bag. The bag allowed me to carry forty fully loaded magazines for my HK416, more than twelve hundred rounds of ammunition. On my vest, I attached dump pouches to catch my spent mags and a CamelBak on my back. Additionally, I set up my thigh mounted holster for my Sig on my right thigh, and prepared a similar thigh holster for my opposite leg that held pistol mags. Those added another forty eight rounds of ammunition.

I felt like Jesse Ventura wielding a minigun.

Last night had been productive, both emotionally and from a preparation standpoint, so I got up this morning feeling good. There were very few who could voluntarily face their own deaths and not feel even the slightest twinges of fear. Those of us who did took solace in good preparation and the companions we surrounded ourselves with. Between Helena, Santino, the rest of the guys, and an entire legion at my side, I felt confident, but not overly so. Overconfidence could be just as detrimental as ill preparation. Even so, I knew as the battle inched closer the fear would return with it.

Donning the rest of my gear, I kept myself light, but did all I could to offer my vulnerable spots as much protection as possible. My vest protected my chest, abdomen, sides, back, and shoulders, and would easily turn away thrown spears and most sword thrusts, but it still left vulnerable spots beneath my vest. The precision stabbing of a Roman with his gladius might be enough to find a way through my defenses, but I was still better protected than a legionnaire with his lorica segmentata armor.

The combat fatigues I wore would offer the most amount of protection. Their gel layers and Kevlar lining protected the majority of my body, but I still lamented the fact that the entire outfit wasn’t covered in the stuff. Finally, I opted to forgo the optical lens and computer for the battle. I didn’t expect to have much time to send E-mails today.

The last piece of equipment I retrieved was the only one I dreaded having to use. It was thirty inches long, double sided, and had a tip which could skewer a wild boar. It wasn’t a gladius, like a standard legionnaire would use, but it would do the trick. During training, I’d found the smaller gladius simply too diminutive. It just didn’t work very well with my tall frame and long reach. The instructing centurions had noticed my awkwardness, and ordered a longer sword furnished for me with all the other design features its smaller counterpart boasted. I had quickly learned to use it well, and soon Bordeaux had been given one as well.