America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 20: Time Machine (21 page)

“I get you. Just saying. Caesar is smarter than he looks. He’s not so easy to kill.”

“If Brutus could whack him, so can we.”

I wanted to add that Brutus didn’t actually whack him, but then remembered the timeline had been changed by my interference.
Shit!

* * * * *

Roman architecture is not only meant to last a thousand years, it is meant to intimidate, to tower over conquered subjects and mere people, showing off the power of Rome. The Emperor’s Palace Complex on Palatine Hill was no exception. Its tall columns, victory arches, and beautiful fountains merely added to the splendor that was mighty and powerful Rome, undisputed ruler of the known world.

The Praetorian Guard quickly ushered us in. Julius Caesar was glad to see me, clasping my wrists to shake hands Roman style. It was a sincere and prolonged manly grasp, kind of awkward. I was glad to be let loose of his grip.

However, one look at Guido Tonelli, and Caesar ordered him arrested. Tonelli drew his pistol, but Praetorian Guards were on him, giving the wise guy thug a good old-fashion Roman beat-down. Caesar adroitly scooped up the pistol as it slid across the shiny marble floor.

“I watched a lot of TV, passing the time in the Clark County slammer,” commented Caesar with a shrug. “I recognize a Mafia hit man when I see one. All those Sicilians have the same little beady eyes and mustache. So, Czerinski, you have joined the Cult of Assassins? It that what brings you back to my empire? Not a well-thought career change on your part. Too bad, so sad for you.”

“I’m just a tourist on vacation!” I pleaded on my knees, groveling at Caesar’s feet. “I was forced to bring Tonelli. You saw it. He had a gun on me! What could I do? At first I thought he was just a tour guide. Then he showed his true colors.”

“Get up and stop your sniveling,” admonished Caesar, kicking me away. “Can you activate my nuke? If not, I have no use for you. You will be cat food for the Circus lions.”

“Nuke? Are you nuts? I mean, of course I can activate your nuke. Just set the timer, push the button, and run. If that doesn’t work, cut the blue wire. No, I mean the red wire. Yes, that’s it. Have a trusted slave cut the red wire.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, of course. It’s so easy, a caveman could do it.
Badda bing, badda boom
!”

“Good man!” exclaimed Caesar, slapping me on the back like a longtime friend. “I knew I could count on you. When I’ve finished off those barbarian Krauts in Germania, and the Chinese, wherever the hell they are, we’ll visit those cavemen you talk so highly about. I could use a vacation, and the People’s Circus needs Neanderthals to give the lions a good fight.”

* * * * *

Caesar marched his legions north to meet the Hun, leaving Tonelli to languish, chained deep in a dungeon. I tagged along as Special Consul to the Emperor. At the Rhine River, he paused to build a bridge. Engineers winched up a large stone, ramming double timber piling into the riverbed. The bridge, a masterpiece of military engineering, was completed in just seven days. The legions could have crossed in boats provided by local allies, but Caesar wanted to demonstrate to marauding Germanic tribes the power of Rome, that they could cross in force any place any time, striking like a dagger at the heart of Germania.

The Legion, four thousand strong, followed overgrown trails from prior campaigns deep into the German forest. Word soon spread of the arrogant Caesar and his Roman legions. Barbarian tribes gathered from across the German heartland to confront Rome. Finally the forest got so dense, clearing a new road became impossible. With no German capital to lay siege, the Romans stopped.

“Make camp!” ordered Caesar. “We settle up with the barbarians here!”

“There is no room to maneuver,” commented Centurion Mark Antony, Caesar’s second in command. “We cannot bring our archers and catapults to bear, our cavalry cannot flank the enemy, and our formations cannot assemble in unison. Even our pickets cannot build perimeter barriers to protect our camp.”

“Build our camp fires high,” ordered Caesar, ignoring Antony’s sage warnings. “I want to draw the barbarians in.”

“You will get your wish, Caesar. Every barbarian in Europe will join us soon.”

* * * * *

Bored, and to humor an increasingly cranky Caesar and Antony, I passed out marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate bars to make S’mores. I soon had battle-hardened sergeants eating out of my hand, singing ‘Kumbaya’ by the camp fires.

“My men are not accustomed to such luxury,” thanked a sergeant. “You must be very rich to acquire such a wonder as chocolate, yet I have not heard of the Czerinski family. Are you Greek?”

“I am American,” I explained, not explaining anything.

“Ah, the Land of Milk and Honey, Starbucks coffee, and kudzu – it covers the forest trees everywhere. Many have fallen off the edge of the world, seeking a passage to your precious America. Rumor has it that Admiral Tiberius is not coming back from his voyage. I fear we are not coming back, either. The barbarians draw close.”

As if on cue, barbarians yelled insults from the forest to provoke the Romans, fierce German fighting words from antiquity.

“Your grandma masturbates standing up!”

“Your mother goes whoring in the city!”

“You are the sons of sluts!”

“You Roman sons of bitches!”

Only the famous Roman discipline and extensive military training kept legionnaires in check in the face of such provocation. Even I reached for a grenade hidden in my pants.
Those Kraut bastards!

“One thing you can be assured of is that the great Julius Caesar knows what he is doing and will lead us to even greater victory and glory for Rome!” I assured everyone, loud enough for listening ears. “Caesar will never be beaten in battle!”

Officers quickly made their way through camp, ordering legionnaires to pack gear and withdraw. Slaves were left to stoke the fires, creating the illusion we remained in camp.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, Archimedes attended to the nuke, setting the timer as he had been instructed. He pushed the button. Nothing happened. He kicked the nuke. Still nothing happened. Not being one to panic, Archimedes pulled out the blue and red wires from the control panel. He snipped the red wire. Nothing. He snipped the blue wire. Nothing.
Damn!
Then, in a moment of inspiration, Archimedes touched the two bare wires together.

* * * * *

From beyond the next ridge, the skyline turned to day, followed by the blast. An entire forest was flattened. Surrounding forests caught fire. The barbarian army perished in the hell storm. For decades, Southern Germania was cursed by radiation sickness. Even Julius Caesar was awed by the destructive power of just one nuke.

“What is the point of conquering the world if the world is destroyed in the process?” lamented Caesar as he rode south, victorious. “It’s better for us to use nukes than for the barbarians to possess such weapons, but I shalt not use nukes ever again.”

“There will be repercussions,” I warned, shaken by the enormity of the blast. “It’s against the law to explode nukes in the past. I think it’s even written into the Constitution somewhere.”

“I’m not worried. Life isn’t about weathering the storm, it’s about learning to dance in the rain.”

“That’s very profound, but see where it gets you when the time cops arrest your ass.”

“It’s not whether you win or lose, but how you place the blame.”

“Tell that to the judge at your war crimes trial.”

“Next time I will use chemical or biological weapons,” replied Caesar contritely. “Less mess that way. As it is, my legionnaires will be upset by the lack of booty on this campaign. They won’t readily accept this new way of waging war. Maybe I’ll appease them by sacking a few barbarian villages on the way back to Rome. Even professional legionnaires need to be thrown a bone once in a while to keep them happy.”

Chapter 30

Guido Tonelli prepared to die in the arena, sport for returning legions and the Roman public. Upon Caesar’s triumphant return from Germania, Rome was a party town tonight. Gladiators were issued ample wine. Sword in hand, Tonelli trooped the center of the circus with the other condemned prisoners.

Tonelli was grouped with scantly armed Christians against heavily armed gladiators equipped as Carthaginians riding in chariots. It did not seem like a fair fight, and it was not. Bladed hubcaps glistened in the bright sunlight as the chariots circled. First blood would be drawn soon. Tonelli and the Christians were told to die gallantly and to put on a good show, or else. Really? Tonelli had other plans.

The Carthaginians charged, a solid phalanx of horse flesh and armor. Tonelli drew a secreted canister of pepper spray, dousing the lead horses. Blinded and panicked, the beasts reared up, causing a pile-up and carnage that would put an LA freeway to shame. Tonelli also sprayed survivors staggering from the wreckage. Christians rushed forward, stabbing and bludgeoning without mercy.

The crowd roared its approval for the underdog. They looked to Caesar for the thumbs up, to spare or pardon the victors. Caesar was in no mood to spare worthless Christians or Tonelli. “Those traitors cheated,” he grumbled, giving the thumbs down. Soldiers herded the Christians into a tight circle.

“Appease the mob,” cautioned Antony, at Caesar’s side. “Let them have their fun. That Sicilian wise guy can be killed at your leisure, anytime.”

Caesar magnanimously gave the thumbs up. The crowd approved, throwing coins to the victors. Beautiful gladiator groupies threw their villa room keys to Rome’s newest hero of the arena, Guido Maximus Tonelli, from the Bronx. Caught up in the excitement of the moment, Tonelli defiantly shook his fist at Caesar, not one of his wisest moves. Caesar merely shooed them away, making way for the next group of Christians to be slaughtered. Tonelli scooped up a fistfull of room keys as they departed.

* * * * *

That night, a beautiful slave girl led Tonelli to an orgy hosted by fat Roman aristocrats. Rich fat ladies poured wine for Tonelli. They gorged themselves on the finest meats and fruits. No excess was too great. Too much of a good thing can be a wonderful experience. Tonelli literally made love to a ton of Roman women. Satiating his hosts, Tonelli stole out a window into the warm night, fleeing Rome south to his ancestral home, Sicily.

* * * * *

I rented a pimped out chariot from Avis Chariot Rental, driving south on the Italian Boot, land of sunshine and good wine. Along the way I passed a curious sign advertising ‘Free Dirt,’ not a good omen in any country or empire. Sure enough, behind the billboard lurked a big bellied county cohort.
Chew tobacco, chew tobacco, chew tobacco spit.
Not again.
He waved a red flag for me to pull over.

“Boy, you’re in a heap o’ trouble
. I say, a heap o’ trouble, boy,” advised the cohort. “Do you hear me, boy? I don’t know how they do things up in Rome Town, but in this here part of Old Etrusca, we have laws about reckless driving. You must have been going at least twenty miles per hour!”

“I wasn’t speeding,” I protested. “Those two old nags aren’t capable of more than a trot on a good day, downhill.”

“When my horse snorts, it means you’re speeding,” explained the cohort, patting his mount affectionately. “Spot is never wrong.”

“But Spot is snorting now, and I’m not even moving!”

“Son, I don’t care much for your tone. You’ll show some respect, if you know what’s good for you. Have you been drinking?”

“Only two bottles of wine,” I confessed contritely. “With dinner. I’m not drunk.”

“I beg to differ. Spot can tell you’re drunk. You obviously have too much alcohol content in your blood system. See how he twitches his ears when you breathe his way?”

“What I have is too much blood content in my alcohol system. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on!”

In retrospect, I know now it’s never a good idea to aggravate the local constabulary in any time line. I’ve always known that, but at the time, talking trash to the cops seemed like a good idea. It was not. The end result of my flair of temper was an unexpected whack across the side of my head with the flat side of the cohort’s sword. I guess it could have been worse. He could have lopped off my head entirely. Instead, my world went dark.

* * * * *

I woke up in the drunk tank of an Etruscan dungeon. Beautiful Tuscany fresco art decorated the walls of my cell, depicting many ancient ways to be slowly and painfully executed. The detail was extraordinary. Guido Tonelli cheerfully greeted me, having thrown water in my face.

“What did you get busted for, Czerinski? Can’t say I’m surprised to see you.”

“Drunk driving,” I answered. “You?”