Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The empty streets of New Rome echoed in Cassius’s mind. He ran through alleyways, across piles of brick and rubble, and over bodies of his comrades. Each time he came across a New Roman soldier, he did what he had always done, even in the Empire. This tradition dated back as far as his childhood, when he would join his father in skirmishes against rival tribes. Kneeling down beside each man and woman, Cassius said a short prayer and retrieved their neck tags. Even if there was no Graves Registration left, no fallen would be forgotten. His comrades at the Capitol would understand. They, after all, do the same thing.

The air had a heavy and warm feeling to it. The scents of gunpowder and blood mixed, creating a disturbing, yet all too familiar scent. No matter where Cassius was stationed, no matter where he traveled, these feelings and smells where his home. Born for battle, and bred for victory. A lesson taught to him every day by his grandfather and father. Whenever he asked his mother or sister about it, they simply said, “You have a reason, Gaius. Just know that we love you.”

“Damn.” Cassius had been crawling over the ruins of a small brick store, when he saw a squad of Empire soldiers walking across the street. He ducked down behind the windowsill, and held his breath. Mark of Caesar or not, they would still shoot him on site. Such was the price of secession. He could hear their boots scraping against rocks and fragments of pavement. The shelling was precise and devastating. The Empire, however, had mastered the act of screening. The wall of shells would always land in front of their infantry and kept away counter attacks.

Cassius had seen four foot soldiers, and a corporal. His Severus rifle could fire five shots with a bolt-action mechanism at 500 yards before he needed a new clip. It could also hold a ten-inch bayonet underneath the end of the muzzle. He carried fifty clips in his back satchel, and instead of an officer’s gladius he carried his b*****d sword from home. At his side was his 6-cylinder Cato revolver. Easy enough for him to wipe out the entire patrol in a matter of seconds. He chose, however, to try to keep the corporal alive. He quietly chambered a round, and over the top he went.

Cassius leaped up to the windowsill and slammed his rifle onto it. He fired a round into the neck of a soldier and quickly worked the bolt. Unfortunately, the squad was not too green, and dropped fast onto the ground. Before they could get a shot at Cassius, another took a round beneath his eye, blowing chunks upon the man behind him. The corporal and the clean soldier scrambled behind the remnants of a wall on their side of the street. The one covered in his comrade screamed and jumped up, trying to brush off the gunk. As he pumped a shot into the man’s chest, Cassius thought, I guess they are pretty fresh.

The two behind the wall began alternating fire at the windowsill. Cassius pulled down again, and counted the shots. “We use the same rifle. Ten hits and I’ll nail the first one up.” After he counted eight, he chambered a round. At ten, he twisted and rested his rifle across the sill again. The last foot soldier had neglected to duck down to reload and paid for that mistake by a quick death, exploding through his jaw. The corporal stayed down after that.

“Come on out. You’re under fire from Legate Cassius, commanding officer of the Republican Guard. Either you do as I say, or you and the rest of your platoon meet the same as your friends. You’d know not to doubt me.”

“Ah, damn. I-I-I don’t want to die. Please! I’ll come out. I’m tossing my rifle over. I’m yours!”

The corporal threw his rifle over the top of the wall, landing it in the street. He crawled around the side on his hands and knees. Cassius checked the street, making sure no other soldiers were around. The corporal was visibly shaking by the time Cassius walked over to him. Cassius shouldered his rifle, and placed one foot on the man’s back.

“Don’t bother telling me who you are. I don’t care. Normally, it’s custom to take prisoner any man who has surrendered. But then again, it’s normally custom to not slaughter everyone in your path like a rabid dog. And what do you do with a rabid dog? You put it down.”

With that, Cassius drew his revolver and fired a round into the back of the corporal’s skull. It was a clean kill, if only in the sense that it killed the poor man instantly. Cassius replaced the used round in the chamber and holstered the Cato. He knelt down and rummaged through the soldier’s pack. After a few moments, he found what he was looking for. Taking a packet of papers, he tucked them into his pocket and started walking north again. He had a lot of ground to cover, and all of it full of bombs, shells, and angry Legionnaires.

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Valencia stood the helm on a small landing craft. The vessel was only 30 feet long and half as wide. It could hold up to 10 fully armed soldiers, 4 horses, and enough supplies and ammunition for three days of constant fighting. As it were, the ship happened to be loaded as such. Valencia held the wheel firm as she steered towards the shores of Dakar. Caligula stood to her right, leaning on the railing eating a peach. He had just given her directions to their own landing zone, to the north of the main fleet.

The Empire had been at war with the Carthaginians for centuries. Battles would spark on and off, but neither side could seem to win a staggering enough fight to shut the other out for good. While the Romans had over time managed to push the Carthaginians out of Europe and secure a small portion Northeast Africa for themselves, it had all been done with the blood of millions. The current conflict had been ongoing for sixteen years, just the latest eruption in the centuries of warfare deemed “The Great Punic War.' While it mainly consisted of Carthage raids against Roman outposts, the last 5 years had seen a massive movement of man and power against the Romans. The Romans had lost all possessions in Northeast Africa and had they not sunk the bulk of the Carthage fleet, the Mediterranean would have been in danger. So instead the past two years had seen a movement to rid the rest of Africa of Roman imperialism. Dakar itself had been under siege for ten months until the Roman Navy was able to break break through with enough ships and men to start a relief landing.

The garrison at Dakar had numbered at fifty thousand soldiers, thirty thousand cavalry, six thousand artillery pieces, and various support personnel all contained in the massive defensive complex that was Fort Scipio. The ten months of siege, however, had reduced the garrison to five thousand infantry, two hundred cavalry, and seventy artillery pieces. They had fallen back into the final area of defense in the complex, the fortress proper. Their enemy had numbered around two hundred thousand infantry at the initial stage of the attack, support by five thousand war elephants and ten thousand field pieces. Unfortunately, they had been gathering troops so now a Carthage force of over one million infantry, five hundred thousand elephants, and one hundred thousand field guns were in the processes of making the final push into the city. The Roman reinforcements number at half a million infantry, two hundred and fifty cavalry, as well as seventy-five thousand artillery pieces. Although, only ten or twelve of those soldiers were expected to make a difference. As long as their boat made it to their landing site, and the officers on board could make it to their positions.

Valencia looked over towards the city of Dakar. In the midday heat, dust hazed her view, so she could only glimpse flashes of explosions. The faint chatter of machine guns could be heard if she strained, and the screams of men dying were there too. Yet she felt a surge of pride all the same. Roman troops had held out against massively superior numbers for months. Their training held the same standards as it had for centuries. Unrelenting, merciless, and rewarding. Soon, she would join them, whether on the field or in a grave.

Her companions were of an interesting sort. There was her, of course. She was chosen to pilot the vessel of Decurion Caligula as it made its secret landing. Caligula himself was leaning on the rail, tossing his peach pit to the fishes. The wind played with his cropped hair, making waves of brown to match the blue ones all around them. Hanging from his side was his gladius with its golden hilt and smooth finish. Valencia knew that it was far from just a shiny toy though. Caligula had been known to win his battles with blood, and lots of it belonging to his foes.

Sitting right below her were three cavalry officers, two majors and a captain. The majors were both stereotypical Roman soldiers. Short and wavy brown hair, sharp features, and blood lust in their eyes. Their names did not register in Valencia's mind, so she decided to leave them that way. Odds were, they would die just like the millions of others before them. She did the same for the four army officers, and the scientist from the Department of Weapons Development and Implementation. The tenth person in the boat, not counting herself, was the young soldier Cassius.