The Last Roman (Praetorian Series - Book One) Read online

  The Last Roman

  Book One in the Ongoing

  Praetorian Series

  by Edward Crichton

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2012

  This ebook is licensed for your enjoyment only and is not to be shared, reproduced, resold, or altered in any way. The author thanks you for respecting his intellectual property. If you wish to share this novel with others, please refer them to Smashwords.com.

  Books by Edward Crichton:

  The Praetorian Series

  The Last Roman (Book I)

  To Crown a Caesar (Book II)

  Starfarer

  Rendezvous with Destiny

  (Forthcoming Spring, 2013)

  This novel is dedicated to those who helped make it what it is today; Alex, Amanda, Anita, George, & Taras. In particular, I would like to thank my wife, Michelle, whose devotion to making my story the best it could be ensured my characters became real people. Thanks, love.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  I – Hunter

  II – Praetorians

  III – Preparation

  IV – War

  V – Rome

  VI – Caligula

  VII – Claudius

  VIII – Betrayal

  IX – Legion

  X – Agrippina

  XI – Siege

  XII – Endgame

  Epilogue–

  Coming Soon

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Rome, Italy

  September, 37 A.D.

  The streets of Rome are not to be traversed carelessly by night, for all sorts of vagabonds dwell within the narrow alleyways and shadowed corners that dominate the city during its nocturnal hours. It is there where many a pickpocket and thief lurk in anticipation, hoping for an aimless passerby to wander their way, and be it known that there are professions far worse than these. But such thoughts were far from the mind of young Marcus Varus as he traversed Rome’s dangerous streets, as all he could think of was how brazenly stupid the learned men of Rome actually were.

  The thought dominated his mind as he approached the Palatine Hill and the great Temple of Lupercal located beneath. Now the home of the Caesars, legend told that this unassuming mound of earth was where the divine founders, Romulus and Remus, were raised by their adoptive she-wolf nearly eight hundred years ago. It was the place of Lupercalia, one of Rome’s most sacred rituals, and where Varus had come to lay down his life in its defense be it needed.

  Where are they? This is where the manuscript said to go.

  Varus, old at the age of twenty eight, was a scribe of the highest caliber. He was the personal documentarian, historian, linguist, and advisor to the Caesar himself, Caligula, but most importantly he was proud that Caligula also considered him a friend. As he entered the temple, however, Varus began to resent their friendship, as his most recent assignment to research a point of interest for the Caesar had led him to the precarious position he now found himself in.

  Documents of a very strange origin had been discovered deep beneath the Palatine Hill, buried in a hidden chamber that was found during Caligula’s most recent renovation project of the Domus Augusti. They were wrapped around a perfectly round orb the size of a melon and were composed in a shaky hand, as though transcribed moments before death’s cold grip seized hold of the author. They were written in an antiquated dialect of Etruscan, a tribe that had resided North of Rome centuries ago.

  When word of the discovery reached the Curia Julia, ambitious senators immediately sent word for both the object and the documents to be brought to the Senate building for inspection. But Varus had been overseeing the renovation project during the initial discovery, and was the first man to analyze both. In the short time he’d had with them, he’d held the sphere and attempted to translate the documents for himself, but it wasn’t long before the Senate’s sycophants forced them from his possession.

  Varus later learned that their linguists had transcribed a message that spoke of a treasure which Remus had hidden away beneath the Palatine upon hearing of his brother’s treacherous plan to execute him. Riches were expected that far exceeded anything Rome currently held in its coffers, effectively guaranteeing its fiscal stability for decades to come. The Senate had dispatched its lackeys to secure this treasure immediately, a plan that would help fund a private coup against the great leader of Rome, a plot Varus had suspected for months but had only just now confirmed.

  But the Senate had been wrong. Horribly wrong.

  Upon learning of this treachery from Varus, Caligula had sent him to reanalyze the documents and discover their true contents. What he had found hidden in the nearly dead Etruscan language was a message that told of something far more powerful than a simple cache of lost treasure. Where the Senate had read of a treasure in the form of gold, silver, and gems, its true potential was something entirely different.

  It hinted at Remus’ association with the Druids from northern Germania who, while currently simple priests, were once rumored to have possessed great power and mystical abilities. Although any magic they may have wielded in the past was long considered extinct and forgotten, the fact remained that those lost powers were still feared by many. If they could indeed summon aid from realms unknown to Rome’s wisest leaders, the empire’s very survival could be in question. Varus only hoped he was in time to stop the traitors from unleashing whatever untold evils the document hinted at.

  Finally, with the short run from the Curia Julia completed, Varus entered the temple, bowing in reverence to the sacred tombs ensconced on either side of the small dome, the final resting places of both Romulus and Remus. Early each calendar year, all of Rome would gather outside the small temple to participate in the rituals of Lupercalia, an event meant to promote fertility for young men and women. He thought back to his teenage years, running around the walls of Rome, whipping young girls with bloody goat skins, full of energy and vigor with nothing in front of him but the future.

  Varus felt sad that all that was left of those innocent days were distant and fading memories, but forced himself to focus on his duty.

  Creeping forward as quietly as he could, Varus found a small hole dug in the center of the magnificent structure’s marbled floor. Grabbing hold of a rope, he slowly descended several meters into the dark abyss before making contact with the floor. He then followed a narrow tunnel before emerging onto a slight ledge overlooking a vast chamber. It was large enough to contain the entire senate floor and Varus marveled at how it had remained undiscovered for so long.

  Then he discovered the object of his quest.

  Six men stood around two others facing a lone object at the far end of the chamber, their faces glistening in the dim flicker of their torches. It was too dark for Varus to identify any of them, but two were wearing their togas with a broad, purple stripe running along the seams, likely identifying them as augurs, Rome’s priests and seers. Their skills at interpreting and analyzing omens made them crucial for directing the future, and decisions were never made unless these omens were read favorably. Varus had never put much stock in their mystical abilities, instead trusting hard work and determination to drive his own fate.

  As Varus crept through the shadows, he noticed that the rushed dig project had resulted in weak bracings holding back the tons of dirt above the freshly dug tunnel. His eyes panned the walls and ceiling, looking for any way to bring down the hill to crush his adversaries, when the two augurs approached the simply adorned and seemingly harmless altar at the back of the room. They were carrying the orb-like object that had been found with the documents – which n
ow exuded a dim greenish-blue glow.

  Those below knew little about the object, except that it was adorned with illegible markings, but Varus knew better. His translation associating Remus with the Druids convinced him that the object was the key to unlocking whatever evil secrets the document described.

  Sorcery… Bah! If the Druids could utilize such powerful magic, how is it that they no longer possess such power?

  It was with this thought that Varus realized the Druids’ destruction perhaps had less to do with the overpowering might of the Roman war machine, and more with their own tampering in such dark realms.

  By the time Varus found a cross beam he was certain would collapse the makeshift cavern, the object’s glow suddenly flared into a brilliant blue. His eyes turned towards the incandescent glow, and he found himself unable to turn away from the alluringly beautiful object, for he had never before witnessed such a glorious sight.

  How could something so beautiful be used for such evils?

  As Varus stood there deep in thought, a magnificent blast emanated from the object as it shone brighter than the sun itself, accompanied by a sound louder than the roar of a thousand legions’ battle cry. The force of the eruption was enough to knock Varus back against the wall and he knew he was too late.

  When his vision cleared, he realized he was right. Emerging from the mist left over from the explosion were gigantic figures, rivals to the Titans of legend. He knew his last moments were upon him as he gazed upon the monsters, and when he closed his eyes, waiting calmly for his journey to Elysium, his last thoughts were of Caligula, and how he had failed him.

  Part One

  I

  Hunter

  C-130J Super Hercules(II), Over the Mediterranean Sea

  July, 2021 AD

  C-130J Super Hercules(II) aircraft have often been lauded by servicemen and women as the smoothest ride in the sky. First deployed only a year ago, the Super Hercules(II) was the most advanced military aircraft on the planet, and after only a few months of active service were practically considered luxury liners by those who flew in them.

  It was unfortunate then that the hurricane type conditions currently surrounding my particular C-130J didn’t care what people thought of them, and proceeded to toss and bounce my plane around like any other aircraft. But even prior to the storm, the ride was no smoother than my first HALO combat drop out of an old C-130 over Palestine three years ago, or the countless times since. I’d long ago concluded that people who named these things should really fly in one every once in a while.

  Perspective was, after all, a wonderful thing.

  I smirked at my wayward musings; my constant companion for years. They’d become a relentless presence in my life, a simple way to pass the time when nerves became most acute. While five years in the US Navy, the last three of which I’d spent as an elite Navy SEAL, had extinguished any ability I may have once had to feel fear over something as mundane as a flight through a thunderstorm, that didn’t mean I was completely steadfast. I could feel nervous before a mission and even anxious during them, but I was never totally afraid. Fear can compromise an operator’s initiative or lock him up in the heat of battle, and that can get people killed. The one thing that always hits a nerve, however, was the loss of control, like the fact that I knew I couldn’t do anything if something happened to the plane. I didn’t possess the skill set required to help, and that made me feel helpless, hence the wandering thoughts.

  Being in control has always been important to me, ever since I was a kid, which is what brought me on this trip in the first place, to retake control of my life. I was a fourth generation Navy man, following in the illustrious footsteps of men who had served in Desert Storm, Vietnam, Korea, World War II, and World War I, even if my career hadn’t started as early as it could have. Annapolis had accepted my enrollment straight out of high school, but I’d turned them down. Instead, I chose to attend Dartmouth to pursue a life studying history and the classics, much to my father’s intense disapproval. I’d never seen him more disappointed, and it wasn’t until a short time after I’d graduated that I finally redeemed a sense of honor in his eyes when I joined the Navy five years ago. I was his favored son once again.

  Until today.

  After turning down the appointment to Annapolis, I’d wondered if my father would disown me. He hadn’t, but after the events of a few hours ago, I wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t now. To him, boarding this C-130J Super Hercules(II) was paramount to high treason.

  Treason to family, to country and to code.

  But not to God. I had my mom to thank for that.

  I rubbed my eyes to cleanse the contentious thoughts from my mind. There was no sense in continuing to go over it in my head now. My decision was made, and the plane wouldn’t turn around anyway.

  I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

  We would be in Rome soon.

  ***

  “Commander Hunter? Do you copy?”

  My eyes snapped open, but it took me a moment to realize who was actually being addressed through my earphones. I must have dozed off.

  “Yes, Captain,” I replied, addressing the aircraft’s skipper. “I read you Lima Charlie.”

  “Good. We’ll be reaching your drop off point soon. Keep yourself strapped in until we reach it. Turbulence is expected to continue.”

  “Copy. Wake me when we get there.”

  “Yes, sir,” finished the Captain, clicking off the intercom.

  Newly promoted to the rank of lieutenant commander, I couldn’t help but smile, still not comfortable being addressed as “sir” by a captain. Navy captains were two ranks higher than lieutenant commanders, but Army captains were about the equivalent rank of a Navy lieutenant, which I had just been promoted from earlier today. I was barely used to hearing the formality from the men under my own command, let alone half the military.

  It didn’t matter. I wagered that when I joined my new unit, it would be back to “yes, sir” this, and “no, sir” that. I suppose I couldn’t complain too much. Leading men into combat was always more stressful than being responsible for only yourself, and the enemy in your gun sights.

  ***

  Forty minutes later, the captain came over the radio again. “Sir, we’re minutes from drop off. I suggest you get ready.”

  “Thank you, Captain. And thanks for the ride.”

  “No problem, sir. Good luck.”

  “Yeah right,” I mumbled.

  Stick jockeys always acted like they had brass balls, but I knew the only time they’d actually grow a pair and jump out of their own aircraft was when it was shot up, on fire, and dropping out of the sky like a flightless bird. And even then I questioned if they would. Jumping out of airplanes in the middle of the night during a bad storm was generally reserved for the certifiable. And people like me, of course.

  The entire trip would have been far easier had I been allowed to land with the plane and walk off the ramp onto solid ground, but not today. America may have possessed military bases on the Italian peninsula that I could have used, but my trip required slightly more discretion than even your regular black op. My plane would remain on its scheduled route, but not before taking a slight detour towards my drop point.

  I heard a sudden whirring noise, and looked to the rear of the plane, noticing the rear door begin to open, revealing a gaping maw into the dark void beyond.

  I tried to repress the chill I felt trickling down my spine but failed.

  Getting to my feet, part of my parachute reassuringly bumping against my ass, I made my way to another member of the crew, standing near a light mounted on the hull, currently illuminated in red. When it turned green, I would jump.

  HALO jumps were nothing new. The first were performed by the Air Force way back in the sixties, but that didn’t mean they were easy. Currently, we were traveling near our maximum altitude of around forty thousand feet. As a result, I had to carry my own oxygen supply with me on the way down. In fact, I had been sucki
ng on a tank of one hundred percent pure oxygen for the past half hour to help ready my circulatory system for the quick transition to the surface.

  Moving to the end of the craft, I bumped my head on the ceiling. Glaring at the low hull, I swore about my height for the millionth time since joining the military. I was just shy of six and a half feet which left me feeling cramped in aircrafts and pretty much ensured I’d never be a fighter pilot.

  I was still rubbing my head when I made it to the crewman at the end of the plane who attached a carabineer to my belt, securing my small go-bag on a rope so that it wouldn’t get in the way. He patted me on the shoulder and threw me an okay sign with his hand, indicating all was ready on his end. I returned the gesture with a thumbs-up, and pulled on my helmet, brushing brown hair out of my eyes. Always the rebel, even as an officer, I kept my hair slightly longer than military regulations permitted.

  I shifted my oxygen mask for a more comfortable fit and slid my helmet’s visor into place, blinking a few times when a digital readout projected itself on its interior. The heads up display was just one of the fancy new Future Force Warriors items slowly being redeployed by the U.S. military. My HUD displayed numerous mission critical details in bright, blue lettering scattered around every inch of the display. It boasted items such as a clock, compass, altimeter, barometer, targeting information, GPS, and night vision capabilities. Satisfied each of its functions were working properly, I bent my legs and waited for the light.

  It wasn’t long before it turned green and the crewman shouted, “Go! Go!”