I shrugged my shoulders as I lay prone, trying to get comfortable. I loosened my grip and relaxed the muscles in my biceps, neck, and my thighs, absorbing myself into the roof, becoming one with my surroundings, practically and realistically becoming in tune with everything going on around me. I tried to visualize my place in a 3-D representation of the city of Byzantium, situating myself in a strategy video game like the ones I used to play as a kid.
Calm and comfortable, I looked through my scope again. It was equipped with night vision capabilities and its zoom was fully adjustable between 10-25x powers, making objects at extreme ranges feel like they were right at my fingertips. I shifted my rifle west, and pinpointed Helena’s exact position, easy thanks to the infrared glowstick she had attached to her back. It wouldn’t bother her, but it allowed me to check in on her quickly. I had a similar glowstick on my back as well, in case she wanted to find me.
Satisfied she was fine, I panned my scope at its widest setting, scanning a city that may soon become a war zone. The night was quiet, warm, but not muggy. Perfect. I looked at a torch mounted on a wall. The flames didn’t even flicker. The wind was still, making shots a breeze, no pun intended. The dryness of the air kept bullets on target as even the slightest amount of moisture could alter its trajectory. I couldn’t have asked for better conditions.
I glanced at my watch.
0130.
Showtime.
I shifted my perspective towards a street that ran southeast towards the Hippodrome, focusing on another brightly lit infrared glare through my night vision scope. That would be Santino, approaching the target site, acting as our buyer.
He was the obvious choice for the job, and not just because the other two choices were qualified snipers. He was Delta, a clandestine outfit that specialized in societal infiltration and intelligence gathering, on top of the normal operational duties akin to what other Special Forces did.
After five years here in the Roman Empire, he had picked up Latin almost instantaneously, and was already fairly proficient at Greek. I had to admit, he was far more studious than I was on the subject, and had made good progress. For some reason he had an innate skill with linguistics, languages and accents. Helena and I, on the other hand, still spoke Latin with our native intonations behind it. I had a distinctly Midwestern, American accent, whereas Helena still retained a hint of German. Santino, however, could now successfully pull off Spanish, Gaulic, Greek, and Italian accents when speaking Latin perfectly. I remember reading that there were hundreds, maybe thousands, of English dialects, just in America alone, and the case was the same in the Roman Empire. Santino was so good at it, he could even make himself sound like he was from Southern Italy, Northern Italy, or Rome itself, the latter’s dialect possessing a very haughty emphasis at the end of some words.
Santino…
One of the most asinine, dimwitted, and sarcastic asshats I knew was also a world class linguist, on par with any number of geniuses back home. Just thinking about his stupid grin and bad jokes pained my soul, but I couldn’t deny that he had a knack for it. I guess it proves that people, like ogres and onions, have layers.
Even Santino.
But he wasn’t showing any of that cocky bravado tonight.
Tonight, he was a totally different person.
I shifted my aim, a process snipers refer to as “glassing,” and focused on the meeting area, a simple plaza near the entrance to the stadium, about the size of a basketball court. There were ten columns in two rows, running away from the entrance at ten foot intervals and benches within the gaps. Those columns may prove tricky to shoot around, but I’d deal with them when I had to.
There were torches along every wall that encased the plaza, walls that were the rear ends of residential homes. The entire city was so dense I could jump off my rooftop onto this building’s neighboring rooftop, and run all the way to the plaza if I had to. Except for the main throughways, the streets were exceptionally narrow, a blessing and a curse as well. If potential targets decided to remain at street level, we’d have a tough time targeting them. Santino was well aware of this fact, so if he had to run, he knew to get to high ground fast.
As a final check, I pulled out my flashlight, equipped with a red lens, and gave my range card one last look.
Last night, Helena and I had done a little extra prep work that took the better part of the night. We began by scouting the hippodrome, plotting its most likely entry points and escape routes from it. Once we completed that task, we then identified the arena’s surrounding landmarks: towers, temples and other high points. We marked them with a series of infrared patches to identify which landmark was which and, more importantly, which landmark belonged at what distance from both my hide and Helena’s. A simple glance at each landmark’s group of IR patches would correspond to a prearranged distance we had already measured. Two patches meant three hundred yards, eight patches equated to six hundred and fifty yards, and so on. Should an enemy pass by a set of these patches, I wouldn’t have to calculate my distance from him; my range card would tell me.
We were ready to go.
I focused on the entrance to the Hippodrome, where a man was already standing in a hooded robe that concealed his face. It was dark, and I could see he was wearing very durable sandals beneath his feet. He looked like he was ready to take off if need be, something I could appreciate, but also took note of. He was exactly 625 yards away, so I twisted the appropriate dial on my scope to zero in my mark.
Santino was just rounding the corner, making his way between the rows of columns. He was wearing a long dark robe as well, which pooled around his feet. The worst thing that could happen to him right now was that he tripped over his cloak, which concealed his boots and combat fatigues beneath.
Santino stopped in front of the man and bowed slightly. His radio, hidden beneath his robes, was set to VOX so that Helena and I could keep track of the conversation.
“Greetings,” Santino said, opening his arms in a wide gesture. He sniffed the air haughtily and looked up. “Such a fine night. I have always found the stars to be a wondrous backdrop when dealing in such unique items.”
I rolled my eyes, as I continued to observe them through my scope.
Santino’s cover was that of a roving Greek salesmen of unique goods and items, a cover Gaius had concocted when convincing the dealer to negotiate with him. Apparently, Santino owned a store in Corinth that specialized in obscure and expensive items, the kinds that would go great with whatever frivolous decoration the excessively rich already had. But while Gaius had provided the cover, Santino had developed the character all on his own. His beard was overgrown and bushy and he had slicked back his hair with some kind of product.
I suspected it was lard, but I didn’t really want to know.
Finally, Santino had stood in front of the mirror earlier today and rehearsed his demeanor, facial contortions and dialect for hours, and by the time he was done, he’d become a completely different person. When we’d departed a few hours ago, Santino’s Latin had a distinguishable Greek dialect, his eyes suggested he was a born haggler, his smile was nowhere to be seen, and he had the personality of a trader who thought he was much better at his job than he really was, even if had the repertoire and eclectic inventory to back it up. He was arrogant and cocky, natural for Santino, but also an unprepared nincompoop, someone who’d lucked his way through life… also probably natural for Santino.
I zoomed in my scope just a bit to get a better look at their figures.