The Last Roman (The Praetorian Series - Book I) by Edward Crichton
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Our first stop along the way was Caere, a small town four hours’ march north. Stationed there were the two cohorts of the emperor’s Praetorians on training duty, as Quintilius had mentioned earlier. We only stayed long enough for them to realize the predicament we were all in, and gather up their gear. A half hour later we were on our way, headed north along the via aurelia. The ancient road followed the coast, where we hoped to hook up with the nearest legion we could find. Caligula woke up just long enough to mention he had received word that one of his legions was on a training march around the Alps, and had chosen their winter camp in Cisalpine Gaul. With no other options available, we headed there.
The only problem I had working with a legionary force was their pace. On a normal day, a legion could march for five hours and cover around twenty miles of ground. On a forced march, it was closer to thirty miles, and that was with sixty pound packs on their backs. We, on the other hand, unsure as to who might be tailing us and not burdened by heavy packs, did not take any chances. We marched straight through the night, taking an hour long break early the next morning, and covered another fifty miles, with intermittent breaks, before resting to make camp.
By the time we were done digging the square trench around the camp, posting defensive stakes and sprawling out on the open ground, I was beat. Normally, legions traveled with the materials needed to create small cities each and every night, but rushed as we were, we barely had anything. I slept in my gear, and woke up the next morning too tired to even feel my wounds. We broke down what little of the camp we had, pushed on, and finally reached our destination outside of Lucca, just north of the Arnus River, sometime that afternoon.
Everyone was exhausted by the time we reached the legion camp, all except the Praetorians, that is. Had I been fresh out of BUD/S, I would have been fine, but I hadn’t been forced to perform anywhere near this level of continuous activity for a long time. I legitimately felt like a lazy fat-ass. As for the Praetorians, they still possessed enough energy to set up defenses and seemed prepared for a lengthy engagement if need be. Approaching the gate, we called for the sentries to allow us access to the camp. They quickly obliged once Caligula had something to say about it.
He’d recovered well from his ordeals, and was the only person on the march lucky enough to enjoy the luxury of being drawn in a cart pulled by horses. He sat up in his stretcher and demanded entry by the power of Julius Caesar himself.
I couldn’t help but be awestruck at the Romans’ camp. I’d read about them in dozens of books over the years and knew just how efficient camp life was for a legion, but to witness it in person was a sight to see.
In both function and aesthetics, this fort was no different than the camp we had just left; simple in design, but strong in defensive capabilities. However, this one was made for long-term operation. There was a deep ditch, with the dug up dirt piled beyond it to make up the palisade, which had long wooden stakes protruding from it. Then came a large wood and stone wall, complete with thick gates, and as a last line of defense, enough room between the wall and the tents to keep the camp’s inhabitants out of arrow range. The camp also boasted gravel-lined roads, armories, a hospital, an altar of worship, and seemed… homier, more lived in, with men bustling about as though it were a city.
It struck me as an odd thing that this camp wasn’t built along the Roman frontier, but in Northern Italy, well away from any enemy force, and yet still boasted the same defensive parameters of any frontline bastion. Romans never missed an opportunity to continue their training, and were never caught with their pants down.
Well, almost never.
Each fort was constructed in exactly the same way. They were square, with four gates, one on each side. Cutting horizontally through the camp was the via principalis, or principal street. Situated smack dab at the center of that particular road was the praetorium, the legion commander’s tent. South of his tent came officer’s quarters, cavalry and auxiliary tents, tents for the legion’s administrators and bureaucrats, men almost as important as the legionnaires themselves, and a miniature forum. North of the praetorium came eight blocks of tents, four across and two deep, with small roads dividing them. These were tents meant for the legionnaires, and local allied forces. Entering through the northern gate, the porta praetoria, it was a straight shot to the praetorium. As we walked, we had the eyes of the legion all over us. They’d all seen Praetorians before, some maybe had attempted to join, but the sight of the rest of us got their attention. Especially Helena.
What really got them riled up, however, was the sight of their emperor laid out on a stretcher, looking healthier than he did a day ago, but still weak.
News of our arrival traveled fast, and even before we reached the via principalis, the legion’s commander emerged from his tent. A legate by rank, he was easily the highest ranking person in the camp, save Caligula himself.
The legate did not leave the immediate area of his tent, but waited, as any good commander would for us to approach his position instead. But when he noticed Caligula, he ran to meet him. Reaching the emperor’s side, the man looked down at his weakened form.
“Caesar,” he said. “What has happened? What has befallen you that requires your arrival here?”
Caligula managed to prop himself up on an elbow and offered the man a strong look. “There has been a coup. My uncle, the dog, Claudius,” he spat on the ground as he said the name, “has seized power by swaying many of my Praetorians to his cause. I should have put him out to pasture as soon as I became emperor.”
That was more interesting information to consider. Clearly there was bad blood between the two, but I couldn’t say why.
“Gather your advisors, Legate. We have much to discuss.”
“Indeed, Caesar,” he said, before looking up at me, having already noticed and ignored our presence, only now indicating in our direction. “Who are these people?”
Caligula smiled. “Pay them no ill will. They are allies, and you would do well to call them friends. We will need them in the days ahead.”