“Ready to go?” He asked, pushing past me and letting himself in. He made his way to a bowl of fresh fruit in the dining room that was replaced every morning by loyal servants. Taking off one of his boots, he plopped himself down in a stiff backed chair and rested his bootless foot over his booted one as he propped them up on the table. He was wearing traditional Roman wear, a white toga, just as I was, but we still felt uncomfortable not wearing our boots and combat pants beneath.
After the battle, Caligula had granted each of us citizenship, and with it, the right to wear a toga. As Augustus had said, “Romans, lords of the world, the toga-wearing race,” only Roman citizens could wear them. I was honored.
Shaking my head, I shut the door and moved over to my table. I sat on it near Santino’s feet, and shoved them off, wiping away any mark he may have left with my sleeve, inciting him to give me a hurt look.
“Can’t have anything nice when you’re around, can I?” I asked rhetorically.
“No, probably not,” he replied.
I sighed. “Just give me a second.”
There had been many casualties in the battle, but of all the consequences resulting from it, at least Santino’s attitude hadn’t changed. After the past few months with him, I now knew that if there was truly one universal truth, it was that Santino would never change, and not that everything freezes.
As for the casualties, there were too many to recall.
Nisus had died, brought down protecting the aquila that was never dropped. It took three men to bring him down, but the centurion I had barely known, but had grown to respect during the battle, would not be returning to help retrain the XV Primigenia. His loss hit the legion hard, but he was just one of many.
As for the legion itself, it had been practically destroyed. Half of the auxilia were killed, and only two cohorts worth of legionnaires were left to walk off the field. Many of the experienced officers had been wounded or killed, and even Galba had sustained injury when he had tried to drive his cavalry squadron to aid Caligula during his duel with Claudius.
The survivors were to be sent back North in another month or so, after some much deserved rest and relaxation in Rome courtesy of Caligula. He had even offered each surviving legionnaire, none of whom were officially commissioned yet, full retirement packages, including discharge and retirement payments and a plot of land to any who desired it. Not a one accepted the gracious offer, and all would remain with the army.
Of the eight Praetorians cohorts that had fought in the battle, only fifteen hundred men survived. Once the dust had settled, Caligula interviewed each surviving tribune to determine exactly what happened after his escape from the city. Each had passionately denied any knowledge of his survival and claimed that Claudius had told them he had been appointed emperor by the senate, through Caligula’s own will. The deranged psychopath had even staged a phony funeral to cover his tracks.
When the tribunes were asked why they hadn’t ceased hostilities when they saw him on the battlefield, they replied that they couldn’t explain it. It was as though some unseen force was moving them towards combat, and it wasn’t until Claudius had been killed that they felt the effects slowly wear away.
Caligula had apparently accepted this explanation and hadn’t pressed that line of questioning further.
They were dismissed, pardoned, and reinstated into the guard. As for those who had fought the day we were forced from the city, the few that were left, they were lined up along the old siege trenches and crucified.
The Sacred Band had lost half its strength, but with the support and leadership of Quintilius, Gaius, and Marcus, whose wound had missed any vital arteries, it would be quickly reorganized and be as loyal as ever. From now on, the Sacred Band would never leave his side, and even remain housed with him. One half would be on duty at any given time while the other half would remain in the Castra Praetoria, and would be chosen from only the most loyal and able men available.
As for those of us formerly employed by the Vatican, many outcomes, decisions, and scars, both physical and emotional, were made and accumulated.
Just after Caligula’s duel with Claudius, Vincent had been severely wounded. He had been stabbed through his forearm, doing massive damage to his left arm. Wang had been there to do what he could, but he couldn’t save the arm. Roman surgeons had amputated it, just below the elbow, and Wang had done what he could to stave off infection and ease Vincent’s pain. His recovery time lasted a month, only minus an arm, and I remembered sad times when I noticed him automatically reaching out with his severed arm, only to realize it was no longer there. Hopefully, over time, he’ll get used to living a normal life without it.
Santino’s wounded leg only needed a dozen stitches, while Bordeaux had fought a substantial part of the battle with an arrow sticking out of his back. It found itself lodged in his trapezius muscle, near his neck, an errant missile from an archer. Bordeaux’s overly muscled physique had probably saved his life, and the arrow hadn’t made it past his dense muscle structure. Wang, not trained in arrow removal, had allowed a Roman doctor handle it, using ancient forceps, a tool developed in Greece specifically for arrow retrieval. Both had recovered easily.
I was fine for the most part. My arm needed stitching and would leave another scar that would bisect the last one that had just healed there. Add to that another dozen or so scrapes and gashes; I was a mess but had survived relatively unscathed.
As for our decisions, Vincent made his to leave Rome and Caligula’s employ to tour the empire about two weeks ago. He voiced an interest in heading East to find the origins of Christendom. He’d sworn, his remaining hand raised in a promise gesture, that he would not do anything to affect its development, and I hoped he’d keep his word.
Wang had decided to leave as well, indicating he would go to Greece, and perhaps teach their doctors a thing or two about modern medicine. A month ago, as he prepared to leave, I’d clapped him on the shoulder and told him he’d have a fun time learning Greek, and that he’d sooner enjoy Duran Duran than the annoyingly complex language. He gave me a smile, said his goodbyes to everyone who had gathered to see him off, and left.
Bordeaux, another old timer, only a handful of years younger than Vincent, had lived many lives. He’d admitted that the only one where he had been truly happy was the short year he had spent with his wife. He hoped he could find that kind of companionship again, and with no more use for fighting, he too had set off, going North, with no real destination in mind.
They’d all taken plenty of supplies and gear, and despite retiring, brought their weapons and plenty of ammo. They’d be fine out in the wilderness of ancient Rome, and I hoped I crossed paths with them again someday.
“These olives are stale,” Santino reported, his mouth half full.
“I thought you didn’t like olives?” I asked, my hand on the door to my room.
“Eh,” he muttered, inspecting one in the light, “they’re growing on me.”
I rolled my eyes. Unfortunately or fortunately, I was still trying to decide which, Santino had chosen to stick around.
That left just one person.
I tried not to think about my own personal last moments on the battlefield. They had easily become some of the most horrific ones I’ve ever experienced. I had nearly given up myself, wondering if I could ever have been happy living while she didn’t, but I endured.
I sighed. I tried not to think about it.
Reaching for the door, I paused when it seemingly opened on its own accord. Curious, I quickly pressed my hand against it and shoved it open, hoping to catch any interloper off guard. I was still pretty jumpy considering the kind of reception we’d had in Rome over the past year.