Edward Crichton - The Last Roman

Cry.

Rome, Italy

August, 38 A.D.

Someone knocked on my door. It was a quiet sound, but the sudden and unexpected nature of it roused me from my thoughts. It startled me, and I pinched my nose and swore under my breath in response. I looked at my surroundings, trying to remember where I was.

The suites we had been given once Caligula reclaimed his position were luxurious, spacious, and far more comfortable than the dingy shack we stayed in those first few months in ancient Rome. I had a bedroom, a sitting room, a dining room, a study, and even my own bathroom, complete with running water for both bathtub and toilet.

Romans were so clever.

Lounging on a sofa shaped like a half bowl, my feet hanging over the one end, I had been sitting in contemplative silence for nearly an hour, the past year of my life replaying steadily in my head. I’d sped through most of it, skipping the boring stuff and the painful memories, focusing on the events just after the Battle for Rome, as Caligula had dubbed it once he had retaken control of the Senate.

Bordeaux had saved the day during those last few moments. He had spent the entire battle with the auxilia and their fight with the overwhelming plebeian army. The battle hadn’t gone so poorly for the German auxiliaries as everyone had thought, but it had been an excruciatingly arduous affair. As history could confirm numerous times, an undisciplined and under armed force of civilians simply could not stand against fewer men should they be better trained, armed, and focused.

Almost eight thousand of the eleven thousand strong militia had been wiped out, but of the infantry, cavalry, and archers of the XV Primigenia ’s auxilia, only three and a half thousand were lost. Once Bordeaux showed up, and seven fully loaded ammo boxes later, many of the enemy started surrendering, or trying to flee back to the city. I knew it had something to do with the orb’s disappearance, but in the end, it hardly mattered. With that part of the battle neatly wrapped up, Bordeaux had led the auxilia in a flanking charge. Their arrival had quickly tipped the scales in our favor.

Like their civilian allies, many Praetorians began surrendering as well at that point, confused expressions on their faces, with no idea where they even were. Their surrender occurred not a second too early. They had almost broken us. The only thing that kept us going was the thought of failing Caligula, who had been so brave risking his own life and killing his own uncle in open combat.

The knock came again, more insistently this time.

“All right, all right,” I yelled at the door as I swung my legs over the edge of the sofa, and rose to my feet. My head swam as I got up, dizziness almost dropping me to my knees. I’d been lying there for an hour, and had gotten up way to fast.

I shuffled across my marble floor, trying not to fall in the process when I finally reached the entranceway, and steadied myself. Giving my head one last shake, I cracked open the door to see Santino and his stupid grin waiting out in the hall.

“Ready to go?” He asked, pushing past me and letting himself in. He made his way to a bowl of fresh fruit in the dining room that was replaced every morning by loyal servants. Taking off one of his boots, he plopped himself down in a stiff backed chair and rested his bootless foot over his booted one as he propped them up on the table. He was wearing traditional Roman wear, a white toga, just as I was, but we still felt uncomfortable not wearing our boots and combat pants beneath.

After the battle, Caligula had granted each of us citizenship, and with it, the right to wear a toga. As Augustus had said, “Romans, lords of the world, the toga-wearing race,” only Roman citizens could wear them. I was honored.

Shaking my head, I shut the door and moved over to my table. I sat on it near Santino’s feet, and shoved them off, wiping away any mark he may have left with my sleeve, inciting him to give me a hurt look.

“Can’t have anything nice when you’re around, can I?” I asked rhetorically.

“No, probably not,” he replied.

I sighed. “Just give me a second.”

There had been many casualties in the battle, but of all the consequences resulting from it, at least Santino’s attitude hadn’t changed. After the past few months with him, I now knew that if there was truly one universal truth, it was that Santino would never change, and not that everything freezes.

As for the casualties, there were too many to recall.

Nisus had died, brought down protecting the aquila that was never dropped. It took three men to bring him down, but the centurion I had barely known, but had grown to respect during the battle, would not be returning to help retrain the XV Primigenia. His loss hit the legion hard, but he was just one of many.

As for the legion itself, it had been practically destroyed. Half of the auxilia were killed, and only two cohorts worth of legionnaires were left to walk off the field. Many of the experienced officers had been wounded or killed, and even Galba had sustained injury when he had tried to drive his cavalry squadron to aid Caligula during his duel with Claudius.

The survivors were to be sent back North in another month or so, after some much deserved rest and relaxation in Rome courtesy of Caligula. He had even offered each surviving legionnaire, none of whom were officially commissioned yet, full retirement packages, including discharge and retirement payments and a plot of land to any who desired it. Not a one accepted the gracious offer, and all would remain with the army.

Of the eight Praetorians cohorts that had fought in the battle, only fifteen hundred men survived. Once the dust had settled, Caligula interviewed each surviving tribune to determine exactly what happened after his escape from the city. Each had passionately denied any knowledge of his survival and claimed that Claudius had told them he had been appointed emperor by the senate, through Caligula’s own will. The deranged psychopath had even staged a phony funeral to cover his tracks.

When the tribunes were asked why they hadn’t ceased hostilities when they saw him on the battlefield, they replied that they couldn’t explain it. It was as though some unseen force was moving them towards combat, and it wasn’t until Claudius had been killed that they felt the effects slowly wear away.

Caligula had apparently accepted this explanation and hadn’t pressed that line of questioning further.

They were dismissed, pardoned, and reinstated into the guard. As for those who had fought the day we were forced from the city, the few that were left, they were lined up along the old siege trenches and crucified.

The Sacred Band had lost half its strength, but with the support and leadership of Quintilius, Gaius, and Marcus, whose wound had missed any vital arteries, it would be quickly reorganized and be as loyal as ever. From now on, the Sacred Band would never leave his side, and even remain housed with him. One half would be on duty at any given time while the other half would remain in the Castra Praetoria, and would be chosen from only the most loyal and able men available.

As for those of us formerly employed by the Vatican, many outcomes, decisions, and scars, both physical and emotional, were made and accumulated.

Just after Caligula’s duel with Claudius, Vincent had been severely wounded. He had been stabbed through his forearm, doing massive damage to his left arm. Wang had been there to do what he could, but he couldn’t save the arm. Roman surgeons had amputated it, just below the elbow, and Wang had done what he could to stave off infection and ease Vincent’s pain. His recovery time lasted a month, only minus an arm, and I remembered sad times when I noticed him automatically reaching out with his severed arm, only to realize it was no longer there. Hopefully, over time, he’ll get used to living a normal life without it.