Edward Crichton - The Last Roman

They didn’t.

That’s not to say that I missed out on any important part of the speech. Caligula simply rode back and forth along the line, making sure that he hit on important points, never repeated himself, and made sure everyone heard something inspirational. I heard him speak of honor and duty, and how Claudius had defied an institution that had existed long before their ancestors had overthrown the ancient kings of Rome. When he came back, he finished his speech by declaring that what occurred on the battlefield today would affect the outcome of history and that it would have ramifications hundreds of years later.

I wasn’t sure if I hoped he was right or not.

Finished with his speech, Caligula reared his horse on his hind legs, a difficult feat without stirrups, and he roused his troops with his upraised sword arm. Every man around me raised their spears in salute before pounding them against their shields, yelling at the top of their lungs. I found myself swept up in the moment and had to raise my rifle as well, yelling indecipherably. I was hard pressed to deny my urge to fire my rifle into the air. It was one of the most surreal moments of my life.

Caligula rode his horse down towards the right flank, receiving louder cheers from those he was passing, before turning back and heading towards his Praetorians. I watched him go, confidence swirling through me after his speech and gallop across the lines.

I looked over at Helena. “Not bad, huh?”

“He’s got my vote.”

“You know they don’t vote, right?”

She rolled her eyes. “I have been paying attention to your little history lessons.”

“Really? Then how do you explain the snoring?”

“I’m awake for most of it,” she argued. “You just need to pick a better time to start lecturing than when I’m trying to fall asleep.” She paused. “I don’t snore.”

“Yah. Sure you don’t,” I told her with a chuckle.

She attempted a response, but was cut off by a chorus of legionary horns, sounding off in tandem. Just before the march order was bellowed, I leaned in and gave her a quick kiss.

“Remember,” I told her. “No getting hurt. I’m too lazy to carry you around all the time.”

She looked up at me, a look that suggested she wanted to punch me again, but her expression betrayed her true feelings. She didn’t want to offer the loving gesture she reserved only for me because she knew it could be the last. If she did it, she would go into battle with that thought in the back of her mind. She tried to force a smile instead, turning to face the awaiting horde.

***

As the marching order blared, we moved in step with the legion. Claudius’ troops held their lines, content to watch us move against them. I remember reading Julius Caesar’s Commentarii de Bello Civili, literally, Commentaries on the Civil War, as a high school sophomore, and his description of the Battle of Pharsalus. There, he had his men charge against Pompey the Great’s numerically superior troops because he understood a soldier’s impetuousness of spirit when it came to battle. His argument was that Pompey’s stationary troops wouldn’t have the same kind of anger, confidence and zeal his own troops had because of the adrenaline rush they received from the charge.

Caesar’s reasoning couldn’t be universally confirmed. It may have worked for him, but that didn’t mean it would for us. Either way, we had no intention of rushing upon Claudius’ vigiles anyway.

As we marched, Helena and I concealed any evidence of our weapons and tried our best to blend in with the legionnaires. We walked behind the 4th cohort’s signifer, who held his century’s personal standard, different from every other century’s, with markings to identify which cohort, of which legion, it belonged to. It was adorned with an open palmed hand surround by an olive wreath.

We hadn’t marched long when the officers called for a halt. Vincent had probably signaled from the left that we were ready. With no further prompting, Helena and I took a knee, steadied our aim, and opened fire.

We were only a hundred and fifty yards away, and at this range, even the lowliest of marksmen in basic training would have scored good numbers. Helena lay prone, firing her P90 precisely from the ground. I assumed she was still targeting officers first and I followed Helena’s example of selective targeting and took my time with every shot.

As I went through one magazine, five, ten, twenty magazines, I saw the body count start to build. Fifteen minutes later, I had fired nearly six hundred rounds and I was just starting to see the line of vigiles start to shift and maneuver, and I knew they were getting ready to counter attack. I looked to my right and saw the bodies of the militia heaped into mounds and being used as cover from the hailstorm of lead Bordeaux must have been throwing at them. To my left, Vincent and Santino’s kills seemed to mimic my position’s, and I figured the urban cohort must have taken especially heavy losses.

Ten minutes later, I dropped my thirtieth magazine, which I had to stuff in a cargo pocket because my dump pouches were full, and saw the line of vigiles finally thunder forward. Their lines were so thin in places I could see the occasional Praetorian lined up behind them, walking forward at a more reserved pace. To my right, I saw the civilians charge, along with our auxilia. That was my cue to prepare for a strategic withdrawal.

As planned, the counter charge floundered slightly when they hit the mine field.

Helena and I had been exceptionally busy last night.

After securing our gear for today’s battle, we retrieved the ghilli suits we had been working on for the past two months, and went to lay the field. Ghilli suits were the epitome of camouflage. Designed by its wearer to mimic the exact contours of the earth they were trying to replicate, a well-made ghilli suit could make its wearer look like nothing more than a bump on the ground.

So, under the cover of darkness, around 2300 hours, still rather early, we slowly crawled out of the perimeter of trenches our legion had created and spent an hour crawling inch by inch towards our target location. Claudius’ note had indicated the battle was to be fought on the terrain next to the via aurelia, decent of him to give us the exact coordinates to set up our demo. Only a hundred feet from the walls, Helena and I laid down a zigzag pattern of the few claymores we had, and the mines. It took us an hour to accomplish the layout, and another to sneak back to the trenches.

The first claymore’s explosion sent fifteen or so men flying backwards towards the Praetorians. Each was probably dead within seconds. The antipersonnel mines took a few seconds to go off when tripped while they were launched in the air. Those did the most damage, killing dozens of men in all directions. I was beginning to see large holes opening up in their formation, but not as big as I had hoped.

Standing, I tapped Helena on the shoulder who was still focused on her sights. I looked towards the advancing lines to see the survivors getting closer, but I also saw an enemy Praetorian go down as well, shot through the lines of vigiles. She pulled her head away from her scope and smiled.

I shook my head.

Grabbing the carry handle for her MOLLE vest, I yanked her to her feet. She squealed in surprise, but quickly recovered and continued firing her rifle as I pulled her back into formation. The enemy were only about fifty yards away when I heard the nearest centurion yell for the first pila volley.

About ten feet in front of the legion, I looked up to see a cloud of spears dim the sky above me before they fell into the vigiles ’ ranks. The three thousand or so spears, only half of the first volley, did practically just as much damage in one effort as my squad had done in fifteen minutes. The only difference was they had three thousand guys, whereas we only had six, not exactly a fair comparison.