Vincent took control. “Quick! Bordeaux, grab one of the containers. Santino help him.”
Wang came running over. “What about McDougal?”
“Don’t worry about him. He isn’t going anywhere.”
“But…”
“Shut up, Wang,” Vincent yelled. “We’re going to need those supplies.”
Helena and I were already limping our way out of the room. Santino and Bordeaux had one of the containers hefted and out the door when Wang and Vincent came rushing by us. With a last look at the crumbling room, we waited while Bordeaux pushed the container up a hole into Santino’s waiting arms. Next went Wang and Vincent, followed by me. I pulled Helena up through the hole just as the ceiling collapsed in on itself, with a plum of dust and dirt following behind her.
We exited a small domed structure, emerging into the night sky on top of a rather high hill, surrounded by a familiar, sprawling city. I couldn’t quite place exactly where we were, but the city was beautiful and majestic. If I had to guess, I’d say we were back in Rome.
But that was impossible.
Right?
So, not only were we transplanted into the past, but we were also transported half way across the Mediterranean?
“Well, that figures,” I said, still in disbelief.
“What?” Helena asked, from my shoulder.
“We’re back in Rome.”
Her only response was to look out confusingly over the huge city.
“Damn, that really kills my frequent flyer miles,” Santino said.
I would have punched him had Helena not been on my arm, but my attention was drawn down the street anyway. I saw the men from inside kneeling before a dozen armed men, wearing plain white togas and wielding swords and shields, torches illuminating their stone cold expressions. The sneaky man from the cavern was standing beside them, finger pointing accusingly in our direction.
This time, I couldn’t help have the last word.
“Aw, shit.”
***
The two sides did little except wait, stare, and see who would make the first move. The Romans were a hard looking group, short and lean, with stern faces and cold eyes. They looked bulky in their togas which, combined with their weapons, probably meant these guys were real Praetorians.
Army legions were not permitted in Rome, and only under a few historical circumstances had they ever entered the city. Such times were normally reserved for civil wars, such as the ones between Marius and Sulla, and more famously, Caesar and Pompey. If we were indeed in the days of Caligula, the military would definitely not be in the city.
That left the personal bodyguard established under Augustus, the only military unit stationed in the city. Unlike how modern film portrayed them, with their flashy black armor and billowing purple cloaks, these men wore simple white togas, and there wasn’t a stitch of purple on them. Only a few people other than the emperor were allowed to wear imperial purple, and Praetorians certainly were not some of them. They probably wore the typical lorica segmentata armor worn by most legionaries of this era beneath their togas.
One of the men, a centurion I would guess by his horizontally plumed helmet, the only helmeted man in the group, stepped forward, and extended an arm, palm upwards. Then, in a voice that would not accept “no” for an answer, I think I heard him say something about our weapons.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“Well,” Vincent answered, “these Romans speak so fast, it’s hard to keep up, but I think he said he wants our weapons.”
“What do you think?”
“We could take them out before they had any idea what was happening, but if what you said is true, these men may play integral roles in the future. We can’t just kill them.”
“I’m glad someone was paying attention.”
“Hey, I heard you,” Santino said. “I just think you’re nuts.”
“In any case,” Vincent said, ignoring him. “I say diplomacy is our priority. Everyone, put your rifles on safe, and take your mags out, don’t forget the chambered round. We don’t need these guys accidentally shooting each other.”
We all complied, securing our ammo, before laying our rifles on the stone road. The Romans gave our rifles a curious look, as well as each other, before gathering them up. One man picked up Helena’s curiously designed P90, trying to figure out if it was actually a weapon or a piece of art. Knowing they had no idea what exactly our weapons looked like, or did, we kept our side arms at the ready.
I noticed the man I had seen creeping in the sphere out of the corner of my eye. He seemed completely out of place. I couldn’t help but wonder what role he was playing here, and whether he could help us. The way his eyes panned over us suggested he was more interested than anything. They continuously focused on small details concerning our clothing and gear. Even when his attention focused on Helena, he only examined her gear and weapons, as well as her bandaged wound, and moved on.
That in of itself was impressive.
The Roman Praetorians, satisfied that we had relinquished our weapons, or at least anything we could hit them with, formed into a square around us, and started moving. I glanced at my watch, my compass indicating we were heading northeast.
“What do you think they’re going to do with us?” Helena asked.
“Well, hopefully, they don’t crucify us,” I replied, only half joking. “Romans made the process famous after all.”
“That’s a wonderful image. Thanks.”
“Anything I can do to help.”
“Seriously though. What are we going to do here? If everything that’s happened in the past twenty minutes aren’t actually a dream and we can’t risk changing the future by actually doing anything here, how are we supposed to find our way home? We’re going to have to interact with something if we’re going to figure this out.”
“That’s a good point, but again,” I said with a shake of my head, “I don’t know. Honestly, I think I would like it here, but we can’t stay. The longer we do, the bigger the chance we screw something up.
“Don’t you think meeting the emperor of Rome might change something?”
“What do you know about Caligula, anyway?”
“All Europeans aren’t history scholars, you know,” she said indignantly. “All I know is that he was crazy.”
“I guess that’s more or less true, but he wasn’t always crazy. In fact, when he was young, he was a very inspired and hopeful young man. His uncle and foster father, Tiberius, emperor at the time, would bring him along on campaign when he was barely a teenager. He spent much of his youth learning the ways of war first hand. In fact, the legionaries loved him so much, they called him “little boots,” which is where his nickname, Caligula, comes from. The Roman word caligae, which means shoes, or sandals, or boots, or whatever.”
“So what happened?”
“Well, that’s the thing with history. Since so much has been lost, we’re not exactly sure. Little information contemporaneous with his life exists, except for a few historians, most of whom wrote after his death. Suetonius, for example, wrote extensively on the Caesars from Julius to Domitian. However, as a source of historical fact, he’s not so helpful. He’s great at describing the drama and debaucheries of the crass imperial families, but I can’t remember a single date offered in his writings. It reads more like gossip. A soap opera. He’s not considered a very reliable source, but he’s still one of the main providers of information we have on the time period. People like Claudius wrote extensively on many subjects, including his family tree, but unfortunately, none of his work survived. Suetonius quotes it at least once, but has the nerve to describe it as tasteless. Claudius is Caligula’s
