Roman versus Roman.
It happened more times than one would think. After the fall of the Julio-Claudian family, in about thirty or so years from now, very few emperors would elevate to that position without the use of their legions. It was fascinating how willing Romans were to fight each other, their sense of honor and duty leaving little room for moral sensibilities or even peaceful negotiations. They were a barbaric and warmongering, no matter how many roads, aqueducts, poets, laws, and countless other wonders of the world they created.
I loved these guys; their contradictions being so overwhelmingly ironic.
As the gate buckled and fell, dozens of plebeians poured through the gap, a smart tactic on the part of the rogue Praetorians. Send in the cannon fodder first. The shock troops. It forced our Praetorians to expend their supply of spears on them, and wear them down as much as possible. When the two factions met, the rebels would be fresh, and able to just waltz up to the lines, literally on the coattails of their human shields. Or so they hoped.
As I predicted, the maniple of Praetorians arrayed before me unleashed a volley of pila, a Roman legionnaire’s choice spear, immediately followed by a second. The air filled with spears, and row upon row of civilians fell to the ground, bleeding and dying from numerous wounds.
I had never seen such bloodshed in all my time as a SEAL. War was so distant and impersonal back home, but not here. I watched, not fifty yards before me as men were staked to the ground by falling spears, pierced through eye sockets, abdomens, necks, and everywhere else. Some were stuck together due to the powerful force of the heavy Roman spear.
My thoughts immediately went to Homer’s, The Iliad, and the gore and bloodshed he described there. Homer, who had no issue showing war as the despicable and inhuman event it was, never left a man to die without explaining how it happened, whether he be a king or common foot soldier. He described men being impaled through their groin and genitals, ears being stripped from their heads, limbs amputated, eye balls plucked from their skulls, and sword thrusts that ran straight through men’s mouths. Unlike those Homeric men, at least these retained some of their dignity after they had fallen. Homer’s heroes would carry away their kills, all in an attempt to maximize the spoils and riches they obtained while on campaign, by stripping the fallen of their arms and armor.
None of those men even cared about Helen, the so-called face that launched a thousand ships. Not even Menelaus, her husband, or least of all her so-called “lover”, Paris, who was cavorting with Trojan handmaidens soon after Helen’s arrival. King of kings, Agamemnon couldn’t care less, nor did god-like Achilles, even crafty Odysseus, my favorite Homeric character, was there for the wrong reasons. Although, in Odysseus’ defense, he was tricked into going when he was forced to choose between going to war or killing Telemachus, his baby son.
All they cared for was money, spoils, and land, and even their so called desires for arete, or personal perfection in life, specifically on the battlefield, palled before their greed. At least the Romans were honest with each other about why they were fighting.
When the lines finally clashed, the slaughter ensued.
Our Praetorians stabbed with their short swords, adhering to their training of thrusting with the tip, as opposed to slashing wildly and cutting with its edge. The tactic worked well. Praetorians would cower behind their large shields, or scuti, before emerging to impale a nearby foe. Slowly, despite the mass of weight arrayed against them, our loyal Praetorians began pushing the enemy back towards the gate.
Like the three hundred Spartans at Thermopylae, the narrow gate and the short distances forced the advancing enemy into a narrow corridor, minimizing their numerical advantage. When they realized their tactical deficiency, small groups of men began scaling the walls in an attempt to flank our position. Gunfire from inside the house indicated that some men were indeed trying to work their way in through the rear of our position. All those who attempted to come over the walls were summarily put down like those who had tried earlier.
So far we weren’t running through too much ammo, only taking pot shots at the climbers, not wasting our time on low priority targets presenting themselves at the gate. Only a few times did I need to fire into the crowd when I saw a Praetorian in desperate need for aid.
So far the battle was going well. The enemy’s tactic of sending in the civilians first had backfired. Our soldiers had practically pushed them back to the gates, and now the rebel Praetorians would not have the opportunity to push into the courtyard and form their lines before charging at us, a full complement of pila at their disposal. Now, they had to push through the gates on an equal footing. If only they didn’t outnumber us by so much, we might have had a chance of standing our ground, instead of just fighting a delaying effort.
Then, a dozen feet or so from the gate, I saw the first major snag in our plan.
Smack dab in the middle of both sets of Roman Praetorians, the enemy ones just beginning to show their faces outside, stood Marcus Varus, poorly attempting to blend in with the angry mob around him.
I saw him, and he saw me, and I knew he was only trying to reach his friend, Caligula.
The ballsy bastard was going to get himself killed.
I mumbled in frustration as I turned to Marcus. “Get ready, my friend. It’s time for a rescue operation.” Unsure as to what I meant exactly, his eyes narrowed in confusion, but he made ready to follow me all the same.
Waving my hand, I grabbed Helena’s attention. “Cover me. I forgot my smiley face boxers back in our room.”
“Wait, what are you…” Helena began as I took off down the stairs. I heard her call out behind me, but her words were drowned out in a roar of voices.
Running along the flank of my allies, I was doing my best to think of a plan on the move. I had grenades on me, but knowing Varus was in there, I couldn’t just toss them in. In close quarters, my pistol was my best bet, but against sword and shield, I had little to protect myself.
As I made my way to the front line, I got an idea.
Grabbing Marcus and four other Praetorians, I started issuing orders. “About six rows into the enemy is a friend of mine. We need to get him. He’s Caligula’s friend as well.” That was all they needed to know. “What I need you to do is form a loose semicircle in front of me, and just push through the enemy’s line, a little left of center. You’re going to have to trust me, but do not stop to engage unless someone gets in your way. When I give the word, duck behind your shields and wait. You’ll know when to fall back.”
The men looked at me bravely, only partly understanding their orders.
“You hear that, Strauss?” I radioed Helena.
“Are you fucking nuts? You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“You know, you sound really cute when you swear.”
“Jacob…”
“Just shoot the guys behind me. I’ll be fine.”
Pissed off, the only response I received from her was a double click. At least she wouldn’t let me die. At least not on purpose.
“Okay, Praetorians. Form up.”
The five men, Marcus at the tip of the formation, pulled in front of me, and waited for my order.
“Go!”
My escorts took off, not running, but quicker than anyone else on the battlefield. Our front line opened just enough to let us through, and we began pushing the mob aside. The insanity of our attack worked well enough to both confuse, and distract the mob as we pushed through. I heard the familiar cracking noise of shattered skulls coming from behind me, as well as the touch of warm liquid splashing against my neck, hapless men who paid me too much attention, catching Helena’s. Three fourths of the way there I took a sword blow to my right shoulder, luckily protected by my shoulder armor. It would bruise, but I wasn’t cut. My attacker was rewarded with two rounds through his chest, compliments of my Sig. After another blunted sword blow across my lower back, and one of my guardians beaten down, Varus was in arms reach. Hauling his ass beside me, I grabbed a grenade with my free hand, pulled the pin with my teeth, counted to three, and tossed it over my human shield’s heads in the direction of the enemy Praetorians, mere arm lengths away.
Pulling Varus to the ground, I shouted, “Down!”
My men went to their knees, and locked their shields, their backs to mine. Within the few seconds that followed, I took a club to my side and a slash against my underarm, missing the gel pad, that one drawing blood.
