Praetorian Series [3] A Hunter and His Legion (13 page)

***

I still have vivid memories of packing for long trips as a kid.

M
y mom and dad would spend hours, sometimes a few days, gathering up all of our stuff before packing it away in the car.  Clothes, toiletries, snacks, entertainment items, all that stuff.  The whole process always seemed excessively involved and tedious to me as a kid, but those excursions were
nothing
compared to what I was preparing for now.  Making matters even more difficult was that Caesarea was a disaster zone, and nearly devoid of any accessible supplies.  The streets were strewn with rubble, decaying bodies, stray animals, and any semblance of civilization was all but gone.  Residents were starting to rebuild, but there were only a few shops open that sold the things I now found myself in need of.

Without all the tribunes and magistrates normally associated with running a legion, I found myself quickly overwhelmed with all the administrative
and logistical needs that came with running two of the damned things.  Luckily, Brewster had volunteered her services to help oversee everything.  Her family apparently owned an import/export business back home, and she’d spent her entire childhood dealing with procurement, trading, and business dealings.

She was a godsend, and oversaw
the collection of everything from food to ensuring the Romans had appropriate attire for the coming wintry months in Britain, something I hadn’t even thought about.  She’d done a pretty good job so far, and since I had to basically finance this entire operation with the reward money Helena, Santino, and I had collected during our time as
Vani
, and since Vespasian had refused to pay me, I appreciated the fact that she was a shrewd businesswoman.

Despite her help, however, t
here was one item we needed that I couldn’t let her handle.  It was something I could barely bring myself to do, let alone ask someone else to do, because it was something I considered outright criminal: the purchasing of slaves to row our boats.

“Slaves?”  I’d asked Vespasian
a few days later after he had appropriated the vessels I needed, but without the needed hands.

“Of course.  Who else are you going to have row your ships?”

“Hired hands of course,” I said, the answer seeming obvious, not to mention historically relevant.

Vespasian shook his head.  “You will not find anyone
to do it.  Not here.  In normal circumstances rowers would be in fresh supply, but with so many displaced families and deceased locals, finding capable men will be near impossible.  Slaves… however, are in abundant supply.  Many have been with the legions since before Britain.”

“Why can’t we just use sails?
”  I asked, basically whining.

Vespasian shrugged.  “Sails will get you where you want to go, but the Mediterranean is a very dangerous place.  Many pirates still lurk
in its waters even after Pompey did his best to exterminate them decades ago.  You will need rowers to maneuver your ships should a time for battle arise.”

I’d
sighed, nodded, and moved on.

There was no getting around it.  I had to
purchase another human being – hundreds of them in fact, and it was a horrendous feeling.  It made me feel evil.  Even if the Romans didn’t discriminate their slaves based on any physical or other attribute, it was still…
wrong
.

As I’d toured the slave pens, doing everything I could to keep myself from vomiting at the very fact that I
was even there, I noted that most of the enslaved people were captured soldiers, but there were also many women, children, and families among them as well.  Most of them were Jews, captured right here in Caesarea, but others were from all over, following Vespasian’s legions as they traveled the empire, and it was with the families in mind that I did something no Roman would ever do when purchasing slaves: for every man I bought, I purchased a woman as well, and every preexisting family I could find.

The auction took place in the legion camp
, and was much as I imagined slave dealerships in the old South during the time of American slavery.  The location was muddy, dirty, grimy, and the stench of death was ever present in the air.  Individuals were asked to stand on a platform wearing practically nothing, and were as groomed and clean as they could be.  There they stood before potential buyers, and the auction would begin.

I was the only person in a
ttendance.

It seemed
slaves really weren’t high on a Caesarean citizen’s priority list these days.

My stomach churned when the first man was brought out for my inspection.  I looked at him, measuring his physical fitness, and decided he’d be perfect.  He was tall and broad in the shoulders, with long, curly red hair.  I figured he was German.  He stared at me coldly, and my stomach flipped over itself again as I turned to the dealer to announce my desire to buy him. 
Without anyone to bid against, I was given varying flat rates depending on the age and gender of the slave.  The dealer signaled for the man to be taken to a holding area for pickup, and I did everything I could to not hate myself in that moment, again trying to justify it all by thinking that I was doing that man an enormous favor in the long run.

And so went one of the worst days of my life.  I purchased hundreds of men and an equal number of women, passing over hundreds more.  I made sure the dealer was aware that I wanted to keep families together, and he didn’t s
eem to have any issue with that.

As
a petite, young, blond woman stepped off the platform – the last to be purchased – I felt better about myself, having made sure that every woman, besides the ones who were already mothers, seemed young enough to bare children.  Many were attractive as well, but there was no way I could bring myself to discriminate my purchases based on
that
qualifier, but finding ones able to start families seemed like the least I could do.

When she was out of
sight, I paid the dealer for the damages, tipped him grudgingly by throwing a few pieces of silver at his feet, and tried to keep my mind on the future: when I would free them all the moment we landed on the shores of Britain, timeline altering ramifications be damned.

N
o other Roman slave holder would have done the same.

By the third day, I had my slaves and I had my ships,
which were merchant vessels that Vespasian had ordered repurposed for military use.  They were large, sturdy, quick, and wide enough to stand fifteen men abreast and fifty from bow to stern.  Brewster began provisioning each ship as they became available, and by our seventh day in Caesarea, we were ready to go.  Fully provisioned, manned, and loaded, we set forth into the sunset, ready to begin our next adventure.

As
my flotilla pushed off into the calm waters of the Mediterranean, I stood at the stern railing of the ship I’d chosen as my command vessel, looking out over the water at the retreating city, wondering if I would ever see it again.  It represented a dark place in my mind, a horrid reminder of my meddling in the past, and how I’d been responsible for so much death.  Even with all my comforting thoughts of how it was better than the alternative, I couldn’t help but feel extraordinarily sad.

I placed my
elbows on the railing and held my hands against my cheeks, choosing to just lean there for a while as the city slowly grew smaller.  I wasn’t sure how long I’d been standing there when Helena walked up behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist, thankfully avoiding my wound that was finally healing properly.  I was startled by her presence, but when she placed her head against my back, comfort returned.

“Vespasian’s
heading north,” Helena reported, her sniper’s eyes always sharp.

I
looked up and noticed a thin line of Roman troops marching northwards along the coast.  Barely the size of ants on the horizon, I saw what looked like a small contingent of horses, and wondered if Vespasian was there, hoping to God that he could pull the empire back together again if he was.

I
t was the only way I could ever really live with myself at the end of all this.

“Think we’ll ever see him
again?”  Helena asked quietly.

“
Probably,” I replied, pushing off the railing and turning so that my back was to the water.  I reached out and pulled Helena into my arms and held her tightly against my chest.

“Good,” she said.  “Because I still want to marry him.”

I squeezed her tighter and pressed my cheek against her flowing, black hair, unable to bear letting go in that moment for fear that she’d disappear forever.  Doing everything I could to keep such a horrible thought from my mind, I forced a smile and closed my eyes, wishing instead for this moment to last forever.

IV

Alexand
ria

The Mediterranean Sea

October, 42 A.D.

The seas were
cool this time of year, even this far south, which was especially true once the sun went down.  They were tranquil and placid, and on this particular night, the second since leaving Caesarea, there was no wind, so the slaves below were at their oars, methodically pulling the ship to the beat of a faint drum.  As moments went, this one was as peaceful as they came, and out over the open water with no visible threats nearby, I allowed myself to close my eyes and do little more than enjoy the wind on my face.

I stood at the helm, my favorite olive drab fleece keeping me warm, while
Santino stood nearby as well.  As legate of the legion, I was not only its general, but also admiral of the fleet.  I had free reign to do what I wanted, but the perks really were minimal.  My ship was neither big nor fancy, and my personal state room was nothing more than a secluded corner below deck, separated from everyone else by a drawn curtain.

Admirals in the U.S. Navy
back home were at least allowed pets with them.

Or was that just in the movies?  It’
d been so long, I couldn’t really remember anymore.

I di
d get to name my first mate, however, which was kind of cool, and I picked Santino of course.  He was competent enough, and his attitude made him good with the troops and sailors.  He didn’t have much of an official role, but his job was to make sure people were doing their jobs and to maintain morale.  He also made sure the slaves – and I hated that word almost as much as the word ‘fate’ – were kept well fed, respected, and given some semblance of their humanity back.  They wore no chains and their food was equal in portion and cleanliness to everyone else’s.  They’d been surprised by that, but I was trying to do everything I could to show them that their incarceration was only temporary, although I wasn’t sure anything could convince them of my intention to free them once we reached Britain.

A
t least their doubt would make the surprise that much more fulfilling when I actually did.

But
I would have to deal with that later, hoping simply that we arrived there in one piece.  The voyage to Alexandria would only take about a week, and the weather had been calm so far, but I knew the trip to Britain would be another story.  It would take at least a month to get there, and it was almost winter.  If we overstayed our welcome in Alexandria, the last leg of our trip to the British Isle was going to be choppy, cold, and treacherous.  While I may have been in the U.S. Navy and was therefore a ‘sailor,’ a seaman I most certainly was not, but at least we had a competent crew with us.  In the meantime, Santino, Cuyler, Bordeaux, and I were taking time at the helm to hone the craft of basic seamanship.

“Hey, Jake, what’s on your mind
, buddy?”  I heard Santino call over the faint sloshing noise of the ship cutting its way through the sea.

“
That it’s cold out here,” I said, reopening my eyes. “Hurry up with that blankie already.”

“It’s not a blanket,” he
said with a pout, setting his needle and thread to his piece of cloth again.

I had no idea what
he was doing exactly, only that he’d been sewing something onto a simple piece of black cloth about the size of child’s bed sheet for the past two days now.

“Besides,” he continued, “it’s almost finished.  Should be done tonight.”

“Well, what is it then?  Don’t keep me waiting in suspense.”

He smiled.  “Nope.  Gotta wait until tomorrow.  I thought you snipers were supposed to be patient?”

I peered at him through the darkness, hoping to catch a glimpse of what he was doing, but there wasn’t much to see.  I gave up and turned back to my duties, readying myself for another hour at the helm before Cuyler took over, hoping he’d have a better chance of deducing whatever it was Santino was doing.

For all our sakes…

***

I rolled out of bed
eight hours after Cuyler had relieved me, and I could see sunshine through the cracks in the hull and I knew it had to be around noon.  With a great stretch of my arms, I yawned and smacked my lips, realizing I was very thirsty.  I reached out and made for the wine jug that sat atop a cabinet next to my hammock, but while my hand encountered a hard object, it failed to find a grip on the carafe’s handle. Squinting blurrily through one eye, I tried to zero in on my target, but was too slow to pull my hand away when I noticed that where my wine jug should have been, the blue orb now sat.