recovery, but he could easily relapse. Let’s give him another twenty minutes before we move him.”
“Twenty minutes it is,” Vincent replied. “Prepare to defend the room.”
As if to capitalize on his words, Bordeaux came rushing in with Gaius and Marcus, who had lost track of Helena and I in the battle.
“They’re breaking through,” Gaius reported. “We have five minutes before our troops must retreat to the atrium.”
Vincent nodded, turning to Bordeaux. “When I asked you to line the halls with demo, tell me you placed more than you were ordered to.”
Bordeaux gave Vincent a look that suggested he’d be crazy to think anything but. “Of course. I have a backup detonator which should bring down the front structure of this house, but preserving this room.” He paused as he surveyed the room. “Hopefully.”
I sighed. Demo-guys.
“Great. Detonate the small charges at your discretion, but bring down the house only on my order.”
“Sir,” I spoke up. “I’m not all that fond of blowing up Augustus’ house.”
“Deal with it,” he replied, moving to the doorway. “They’ll rebuild it.”
Around the time I said the word “house,” loyal Praetorians began streaming into the hallway outside the room, clogging the space and creating a perimeter. They were a distraction. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadowy figure emerge from the balcony, and sneak up behind Santino. I couldn’t tell if he was a Praetorian or a civilian, but the knife he held told me enough. I shouted a warning to my friend as I brought my rifle to my shoulder only to realize I was too late.
Before I could bring my barrel to bare and enact some facet of revenge on the interloper, I felt a whoosh of air over my shoulder, and I saw a spear fly towards Santino’s head. Not enough time to move, Santino froze as the spear flew straight and true, right past his own shoulder and into the skull of the sneaking intruder.
I turned to see Gaius hold out a clenched fist, which was summarily punched by Marcus’ own.
Well there’s one for the history books. Roman soldiers showed signs of appreciation and congratulations by pounding fists, just as we did in our own time. And me without my camera.
Santino had a look of complete shock on his face as he twisted at the waist to see the dead man behind him, pila protruding through the man’s skull. The would be assassin was so close to Santino that the spear vibrated over my friend’s shoulder. Santino pressed his finger against the spear and gave it a nudge and watched as the man dropped to his knees and fell to the ground. Returning to his original position, he looked over my shoulder at the Romans.
“I love you guys,” he said to them in English.
Marcus smiled and waved, clearly the one who threw the spear.
Breathing a collective sigh of relief, everyone in the room save Wang and Caligula made their way to the quickly collecting force of loyal Praetorians outside in the atrium. We had them line up, about twenty wide, and as many rows as we could deep. In these enclosed spaces we could hold out for a while, but not forever. I’d hoped to stall longer outside, but there were just too many, and I estimated we only had about a third of our original strength left. I was happy to see Quintilius had survived, but was bleeding from a head wound. At least the men would have the benefit of a centurion to coordinate them.
Minor skirmishes were still being waged near the courtyard, while loyal Praetorians were separated from the rest of the group. Their sacrifices gave us the time we needed to set up a defensive wall of interlocking shields.
I saw the last of our men, cut off from our position, butchered by three rebel Praetorians. When he fell, the rebels stopped and looked in our direction. They looked tired and out of breath, but their faces revealed only the bloodlust I knew consumed them. I knew that even if we could somehow lay out the situation peacefully, they would continue fighting unabated. A minute passed, each side starring the other down, before the rebels roared in challenge and rushed us.
The two sides collided in a clamor of swords and armor and blood. Each side, professional to the core, began the long arduous process of outlasting their opponents. This kind of warfare only lasted as long as one side could continue fighting. Not through loss a loss of men, but the loss of energy. Ancient battles could take days, and while this one wouldn’t last that nearly that long, I did everything I could to even up the sides.
I tossed my last grenade ten rows deep into the enemy’s position, but they learned quickly. Even though they hadn’t figured out they could just throw it back, they did turn their shields to help block the explosion. Most weren’t quick or smart enough to so, but some were. When the grenade exploded, a sizable hole opened up in their formation. Following my example, those of my friends who still had them threw their own grenades, each with similar results. Chipping, chipping, chipping away.
Five minutes elapsed.
Our lines started to buckle under the sheer weight of the rebel mass. Quintilius tried to rotate fresh troops to the front line regularly, but in the cramped and confused atrium, he was having trouble coordinating the effort. The enemy had no such problem, and were steadily streaming into our flanks and driving right through the middle of our lines. On the right, Bordeaux mowed down an entire line of the enemy with a hail of gunfire from his SAW. On the left, a Praetorian swung his sword towards Helena’s head, but she managed to bat it aside with her P90. She pulled out her side arm, and shot the man in the stomach. Somewhere in the middle, Santino swung his rifle like a club and shattered a man’s face.
We were getting desperate.
I noticed a pair of enemies attempt to engage Quintilius. I sighted through my scope and sent a burst of fire towards the first man. The trio of rounds ripped through the man’s neck, and sent a stream of blood and gore towards his buddy. Distracted by the arterial spray, the other man went down with a sword thrust to the chest by Quintilius’ steady hand.
By now, I couldn’t tell the two groups of Romans apart. Both loyalist and rebel looked the same. They only fought each other based on who they didn’t know, which would be very few people outside their own cohorts. The only Romans I could identify were Quintilius, fighting bravely while trying to maintain order for his few remaining soldiers, and Marcus and Gaius, fighting back to back.
“Fall back!” Vincent ordered his squad in English. He didn’t have to tell me twice, and I began to strategically withdraw from the battle, making sure not to grow complacent on the way out and take a gladius to my back. I thought I was the last one out when I noticed Helena still blazing away with her P90, oblivious to our retreat.
I ran over and grabbed her arm. “Let’s go!” I yelled over the noise. “We are leaving!”
Without protest, she let me drag her away, still firing when she found an opening. For a woman who had never seen war before, she was certainly taking to it like a tamed lion who finally found its wild side. I guess war was actually a pretty good way to release an entire life’s worth of frustration and anger, and she had plenty to burn. Kind of like a giant stress ball, only it was too slippery to squeeze because of all the blood.
Running into the room, Santino and Vincent took up positions near the entrance, while the rest of us fanned out into the room. Vincent also signaled for Quintilius to order his own men to fall back, which they did in as orderly a fashion as they could manage. When the last line reached the doorway, Vincent gave the signal, and Bordeaux triggered his detonator.
The first explosion sent debris flying from the walls, hurling towards the enemy. All those in the room were hit with chunks of the house, and not one man escaped completely unscathed. It was the window the one hundred odd loyal Praetorians and my team needed to get the hell out.
“Marcus. Gaius,” Quintilius bellowed shakily. “Pick up the Caesar and move him over the balcony.”
The two men, still disoriented from the explosion, made their way towards Caligula and Wang. Each man grabbed an edge of the stretcher, interested by its superior design over their own versions, picked him up and moved towards the balcony. Quintilius ordered his surviving men to follow, while Vincent, Bordeaux, and Wang were the last ones out. Vincent, the very last over the balcony, ordered Bordeaux to destroy the home. Not even turning to admire his handiwork, he triggered the explosion, burying hundreds of rebel Praetorians in rubble.
Two managed to squeeze through the explosion, leaping over the balcony in an attempt to follow us. Wang spotted them first, and put them down with a few bursts of fire from his UMP.
“Feel better?” I asked him.
He cracked his neck. “Playing doctor can be so boring…”
I smiled, and patted him on the shoulder while we followed our allies through the dark streets of Rome. The
