***
Helena and I rushed into our room, despite the fact that most of our gear was already ready to go, and donned our night ops combat fatigues. The past month had given all of us plenty of free time, so even though our weapons had been sitting idle, they were clean, loaded, and ready for use. Vincent’s order for a three day assault pack was basically code for bringing as much food and ammo as you can muster. Finding my small-go bag, I crammed in as many fully loaded magazines as I could. Thanks to the bag’s versatility, I was able to tighten the shoulder strap to the point where I could fit it around my waist for use as a butt pack. It would allow for quick access to as much ammo as I hoped I’d need, without needing to hassle with a cumbersome bag.
That thought in mind, I made sure to attach a dump pouch to my belt as well. Normally in the field, a soldier’s empty mag could simply be discarded on the ground and forgotten about. When they returned home, the military would provide them with replacements. Here, in ancient Rome, we no longer had that luxury, and while we had more than enough ammunition to supply the entire Normandy Beach invasion, we couldn’t afford to frivolously waste the magazines.
Finding my assault bag, I gestured for Helena to toss me her own. When she did, I ran to our supply room. I stuffed both of our bags with a half a dozen MREs, enough food to last a month if rationed very, very closely, as well as extra empty magazines, and a few boxes of additional ammo. To round out our supplies, I added an entrenching shovel, a few hundred feet of paracord, a survival gear, E&E kit, some bottled water, and plenty of extra batteries with a solar panel charger into my bag. Besides the food and ammo, I added two sets of night vision goggles to Helena’s pack, as well as a two man tent, which when packed was no larger than three pairs of jeans stacked on top of each other, and not much heavier. She had to travel light in case she needed to run off and play sniper. Plus she had to carry two weapons.
Just as I was about to head run back to my room, Bordeaux rushed in behind me, almost running me down with his bulky frame.
“Excusez-moi,” he mumbled mockingly. “Rush, rush, rush.”
Smiling at his own silliness, he shoved me into my room.
I stumbling through the doorway and shot him an ugly stare, which he, of course, completely ignored.
Helena noticed my clumsiness, and laughed. “Boy, you are quite the klutz, and not just around ‘attractive women’,” she said, batting her eyelashes at me. “I’m amazed you made it through puberty.”
Offering her a sarcastic smile, I threw her assault bag at her a little harder than I should have. She caught it with a “whoof.”
“And a temper too,” she said, pressing the back of her palm to her forehead. “Hold me back.” She continued smiling as she pulled on her vest, snapping it together before doing the same with her thigh platforms. She had her pistol on her right leg and magazine pouches for her DSR-1 on her left. She pulled on her bag, slung her DSR-1 over her shoulder, somewhat awkwardly with the large bag, and shouldered her P90. “I’ll meet you outside, Jacob.”
She tried to squeeze around me to get through the door but just before she could, instinct took over. I lashed out and grabbed her arm, swinging her around into my own arms. Before she could protest, which I was mostly sure she wouldn’t, I leaned her back, pressed my lips against hers, and waited for her to punch me again.
I felt her stiffen ever so slightly, not out of apprehension or protest, or even fear, but perhaps just from the novelty of the experience. Her lips were soft and tender, and I felt her resolve tighten quickly. Almost immediately I felt her arms snaking around my neck and I knew I’d avoided another excruciating black eye. Pulling her even closer, I drank in as many details as I could. The sweet scent of her hair, the subtle yet equally pleasing odor of her skin, and the texture of her delicate lips. The stimulation was so intoxicating that I didn’t want to let go; only doing so when I thought she might run out of air.
Backing away, I saw her eyes were closed and her lips still puckered. It was an expression as innocent as a young woman could wear after her first kiss with a new guy. Cupping her chin in a hand, I waited for her eyes to open.
When they did, I gave her a smile. “Just in case something happens.”
She looked at me, her mouth moving but with no words coming out.
I heard someone clear their throat, and for a second I thought the moment would be ruined by a horrible joke from Santino. Instead, I looked over to see Bordeaux, still standing there, smiling in our direction. Catching my eye, he just shook his head with a smile and left the room.
Helena smiled as well and gave me a playful shove away from her. “Just don’t get yourself killed, Lieutenant. I’ve decided I like you after all.”
“Knowing there’s someone to come home to makes surviving that much more important. Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t.” She said as she left. I watched her go for a half second wondering if I’d just won something. Like an Awesome Contest or something. Helena’s affection was a prize any man would die for, but it wasn’t that. It wasn’t that kissing her was some grand victory, but it made me remember I had something to fight for again. Like I said. Someone to come home to. Trapped in Rome kind of took away that luxury, and I nearly kicked myself for almost depriving myself of it. Grabbing my own gear and snapping everything together on the run, I rushed out of my room, a grin worthy of Santino himself on my face.
Upon arrival, I noticed the front door was still open where Gaius stood guard, and the rest of the team had just started to file into the room. Helena was standing near the door and gave me a smile. Santino seemed to notice her joyful expression and arched an eyebrow in my direction. I gave him a shrug, and left it at that. Let him figure it out for himself.
Vincent was last out of his room, clipping his belt together as he rounded the corner. Not one to waste time on endless speeches, he moved toward the door. “Here we go. Remember, we don’t know what’s going on out there, so don’t get trigger happy. We don’t need to be the cause of an uprising that would never have happened had we not gotten involved.”
I had to laugh at the hypocrisy of that statement. We’d already caused more than our share of problems that wouldn’t have happened had we not been here. The riot most probably included.
Following Vincent, we made our way to the Palatine, with Gaius in the lead. Night had fallen, and we immediately noticed the glow of numerous fires popping up near the outskirts of the city. It looked as though Quintilius couldn’t do much to stop the rioters after all.
With the riot in mind, I was having trouble understanding why this was happening now. Caligula had ruled for a number of years before he was finally deposed by his own Praetorians, and that was well after he had gone insane. So, why was this happening now? The only theory I could come up with is that our presence sped up someone’s timetables, and instead of letting Caligula’s insanity do the hard work of turning his own people against him, they were going to force the issue.
It didn’t matter. We were on our way to the Domus Augusti, and I didn’t have time to think about it. We double timed it and made the trip in less than fifteen minutes. Greeting us was a small unit of Caligula’s bodyguards, fifty strong, guarding the front door. Seeing Gaius, they waved us through.
The home was sparsely furnished but majestic, inherited from Tiberius, and before him, Augustus. Moving through the atrium and main foyer, complete with a simple, but elegant fountain, we made our way into Caligula’s bedroom, which, like the rest of the house, was nearly empty. His bed dominated the room, taking up almost half of the space, but leaving enough room to hold a hundred men. Moving inside, we immediately took up defensive positions. Bordeaux posted up on the main doorway we had just entered, and Helena moved to a balcony opposite his position, overlooking the city, pulling out her DSR-1. Santino and I moved to cover an adjacent hallway, the only other way into the room. Each of us pulled off our as
sault bags and tossed them in a corner.
Vincent and Wang moved toward Caligula with Gaius.
The could be great emperor of Rome lay in the center of his bed, with a light sheet covering his body. He was sweating profusely and his skin was gray and clammy. His closed eyes were fluttering rapidly.
Vincent stepped to the left side of the bed while Wang went to the right, both looking down at the seemingly dying man. Wang placed his hand on Caligula’s forehead, as a mother would do her sick toddler. Shaking his head, he pulled out a stethoscope and a thermometer, while simultaneously checking his pulse. After using both tools and consulting his watch, his expression only seemed bleaker.
“What’s the diagnosis?” Vincent asked.
Wang shook his head again. “People don’t go from perfectly healthy to a bedridden fever in a matter of a few hours. If I had to guess, I would have to agree that poison is the primary suspect.”
Vincent nodded, understanding the Romans’ penchant for poison. “What can you do for him?”
“Well, I don’t have the equipment to perform a full spectrum analysis of his blood, so there is no way to determine exactly what’s wrong with him. However, I suspect that the poison isn’t what’s killing him.”
“Then what is?”
“The fever,” he said instantly. “A high grade one. I’m not the history buff you or Hunter are, but I know enough about medicine to know that poor sanitation is, and always has been, the leading cause of disease. As we’ve experienced, clean water is scarce here and people aren’t aware of proper dietary habits either. I suspect the poison is very simple, because it doesn’t need to work itself around the wonders of modern medicine. Instead, it attacks the immune system, shutting it down to the point where you easily contract the first disease you come across. It’s like cancer. It doesn’t kill you, but something as benign as a bloody cold that you contract and can’t fight because your immune system is destroyed does.”
“So what can you do for him?”
Wang sighed. “Well, treating a fever is not hard. Hunter said that when this happened the last time, or this time, or…” he looked confused, “…or whatever, when he recovered he went crazy. That’s because they had no way to treat it, and the fever lasted long enough to cause brain damage. It can even cause you to go blind, or lose your hearing, or both.”
“That means you can treat him?”
“I can, but it’s going to take some time.” Wang faltered for half a second.
He had just spoken more words in the past five minutes than he had over the past two months. Interestingly, combat medics go through some of the most intense training the military can throw at them. They sometimes end up more combat qualified than even some of the most elite operators. It was with that training, and every medics’ ingrained primary instincts as a healer, that Wang was hopefully able to finally find something worth focusing on.
“Even in our own time,” he continued, “kids who have a fever have to stay home from school for a few days depending on how tough they are. I can give him an IV drip of liquids, provide him with painkillers, give him some of our water to drink, keep him cool with ice packs, and place a damp, cool cloth over his forehead. Very basic stuff. We probably shouldn’t move him until I have everything set up and give him at least a few hours to react to the treatment but after that, we can load him in my mobile stretcher platform and take him wherever we need to go.”
“Good. Get to work. Hopefully, we’ll just stay here and leave when he’s better, but make preparations for immediate evac.”
“Aye, sir.”
Pulling off his bag, he extracted his stretcher, which he expertly unfolded next to Caligula’s inert form. Attached to it was a pole, so that IV drips could be used during transport. Just as Wang pulled an IV pouch from his bag, I heard the clacking sound of hobnailed Roman boots running along the marble flooring.
It was the centurion, Quintilius.
Sweating only slightly, the man was breathing easily. He had his legion training to thank for that, as long marches and years of training transformed those men into triathletes. Stopping short near Vincent, he laid out the situation in an overly melodramatic fashion.
“We are undone. The mob is on the move, and will be here within the hour. They’re marching with most of the Senate’s approval.”
“Damn it, Quintilius,” Vincent growled. “How did this happen?”
“I am not certain” he said, shock evident on his face. “Even before your arrival, there had been grumblings in the Senate about Caligula’s ascension, but never to the point where open rebellion would result. Many favored Claudius over Caligula, and while he has stirred up trouble during Senatorial sessions, I cannot believe he is involved.”
“Excuse me,” I said, approaching the two commanders, “but did you say many wanted Claudius as Tiberius’ successor, and because he didn’t get the job, he’s been causing trouble?”
“Basically, yes.”
“What are you thinking, Hunter,” Vincent asked, no longer skeptical about my reasoning abilities.
“Two things.” I said, holding up two fingers. “First, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we not only went back in time, but also jumped into a parallel universe. The theory of…”
“Hunter!” Vincent put some force behind the name.
“Sir?”
“Do not start!”
“Sorry, sir. Anyway, number two. What if Claudius was behind this, or was even the mastermind? I got nothing but a bad vibe from him earlier, and if what Quintilius says is true, he’s got the means and the motive to perform a coup.”
“Maybe,” Vincent agreed reluctantly, “but even though things have changed slightly, that theory really isn’t in sync with our own knowledge of history.”
“Right. But like you said, things have changed. Maybe Claudius really ordered the assassination of Caligula in our history, and made up the story of hiding in the curtains to throw off historians. Hell, from what I’ve seen, he’s done a fantastic job of rewriting history already. Nothing seems right. I think that when Caligula originally got sick, Claudius was behind the poisoning, just as he is this time. Except this time, since we’re here, Caligula is here too. Not out of the city. Also, since we’re here, we can stop him from getting so sick he never fully recovers.”
“Doesn’t that go against your policy of interference?”
“We’ve already fucked things up as it is. If we don’t do something, who knows what will happen. We need to work on putting things right,” I paused, another thought growing in the back of my head. “By the way, we’re going to have a conversation about this when we get out of here, because I’m starting to formulate another theory, and it has nothing to do with Roman politicking.”
Vincent stared at me.
He was hiding something from me. I knew it and he knew it. Something had been nagging me from the very beginning, ever since we were told about an equipment cache. Vincent’s look was almost daring me to confront him, to create some kind of altercation, but this wasn’t the place. I would have to deal with it later. Our other legion friend, Marcus, appeared out of nowhere and approached the three of us hastily.
“Sir,” he said, likewise glistening but not breathing heavily. “We couldn’t hold them back. The mob will be here in minutes.
“Gods…” Quintilius muttered.
“There’s more, sir,” Marcus continued. “Claudius is at the head of the formation, and he’s somehow enlisted the aid of Praetorians.”
“How is that possible?” Quintilius asked sharply. “There has been no talk of dissension. Our loyalty has been unquestionable.”
I snorted. Yeah right.
Praetorians were notorious for their direct involvement in the ascension of nearly every emperor, save Augustus and a few later ones, but Augustus was the only emperor to maintain complete control over his bodyguards. Even Tiberius had to pay a tribute to them just to keep
their loyalty, which later became a tradition for all newly appointed emperors. They would soon become political juggernauts with immense power over who might become emperor. They were known to have done away with numerous emperors they didn’t agree with. That said, from what I knew at this point in history, they should have been devoutly loyal to Caligula. Their current prefect, Macro, had been essential to Caligula upon his rise to power, and even though Caligula should soon have him executed while spending time in the East, for now, he was loyal.
If the Senate and Praetorians did have plans to overthrow Caligula, they’d need a considerable amount of firepower just to get past us, so what better to use than an entire city? I suppose it made sense. Armor, training, and Roman stubbornness wouldn’t to be enough for Praetorians to stop us. Twenty Roman Praetorians would be no more effective against us than twenty civilians, unless they got close, and then things would even up very quickly, but there would be a lot of bodies on the ground before they got that close.
Marcus didn’t respond to Quintilius’ question right away. Instead he tried looking around, maybe in the vain hope that Quintilius would find someone else to question. But Quintilius was not in the mood for tentative subordinates.
“Marcus!? How has this happened? Where is Macro?”
Marcus’ head snapped around and he looked at his centurion squarely. “He’s dead. He was stabbed in his sleep in the Castra Praetoria.”
Vincent and I shared knowing nods once again. Macro had played an essential role in the ascension of Caligula to the position of Imperator. But years later, as the emperor’s obsession and paranoia grew, he’d had Macro banished, where he and his wife took their own lives. But now, he was a staunch ally of Caligula. He was an important puzzle piece to remove if any potential coup was to succeed.
Quintilius didn’t appear saddened by the loss of his boss, but he knew the implications involved in his death. He shook his head in disbelief.
“Just how many of your Praetorians have gone rogue,” I asked.
Marcus paused, not even trying to hide his fear. “Of the two cohorts in the city, only the three centuries here are still loyal. We’re outnumbered seven to one.”