Read Online The Last Roman (Praetorian Series - Book One) by Edward Crichton - Free Book Online
Authors: Edward Crichton
Tags: Rome, History, Roman, Military, Time travel, special forces, Legion, Caesar, navy seal, Ancient Rome, ancient artifacts, praetorian guard
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the bet.”
I glanced over at the aging priest accusingly, who
smiled, raised his fork in a toast and continued to eat.
“He said she’d throw a punch. I said she’d knee you
in the balls, and the boxing twins over there thought she’d go easy
on you, but I knew you’d do something stupid to get her all worked
up. So what happened? Strike out swinging?”
My response was delayed as the group noticed our
female comrade exit the armory and head directly towards another
set of doors, opposite the ones she emerged. She spared a single,
distant look in our direction, glowering.
“Didn’t even make it to the on deck circle,” I
reported as we all watched her leave.
Santino stood up, placing a hand sympathetically on
my shoulder while some of the other guys snickered at me.
“Don’t worry, my friend. Maybe it’s still the off
season.”
***
Grabbing a tray of food, consisting of Salisbury
steak, tater tots, and an unknown gelatinous substance, I joined
the rest of the team at their table. Needless to say, I was
famished. I hadn’t eaten a proper mean since I left for Washington,
at least twenty four hours ago. I continued receiving jeers from my
teammates, but took them in stride, knowing that the “Strauss”
situation had been a good ice breaker.
The guys were conversing as I ate my meal, but I
started growing restless not knowing a thing about them. Popping a
few tater tots in my mouth, I decided my stomach was full enough to
start a conversation.
“So, Wang,” I started, mumbling with my mouth full,
“what’s your story? How long has your family been in England?”
Wang waited until he finished chewing his food
before answering. It may have seemed like a culturally insensitive
question to, but those in the military didn’t take such things
personally. In the American armed forces, any given unit may be
comprised of an African American from East Harlem, an upper class
white guy from New England, and the product of illegal parents from
south of the border. In these units, each of those men became
brothers, trained to care for and do anything they could to protect
each other. While it was true racial slurs and ethnic jokes ran
rampant, but everyone shrugged them off, fully aware that they were
only meant in good fun.
If only the rest of the world was so culturally
accepting we wouldn’t be here.
Mouth clear, Wang leaned back in his chair, and
spoke in a heavy Welsh accent.
“My grandparents fled the Great Cultural Revolution
in 1966 and made their way to England with my father. My
grandfather ran a dojo in a quiet countryside, but when local Red
Guard members came to the area, he knew it was time to leave. My
grandparent’s life was a quiet one, and they despised the
Communists and their hope to wipe any memory of old China from the
history books. So they took up residence in Cardiff, Wales, and
opened a new dojo. My father took over when my grandfather died a
few years back.” He paused, and took a quick drink from his mug.
“And, aye, before you ask, my father married a local lass and I was
but a wee product of both worlds.” He smiled. “And a jolly good
product at that.”
I chuckled at his intentionally overdone accent, and
quickly determined I liked Wang. He seemed level headed and
dedicated, but a little cocky, typical for elite operators. A good
man to have at your back.
I glanced over at the large Frenchman. “What about
you, big guy? Any interesting stories?”
Bordeaux put a hand over his chest in a sarcastic
gesture. “ Moi ? But, of course. I have many stories. Besides
McDougal and Vincent here,” he said pointing at the aging priest
who was sipping a cup of tea, “I almost have more years on me than
any two of you combined, with plenty of stories to go with
them.”
I inspected the man’s face, but couldn’t find any
evidence to prove he was any older than thirty five. Remembering
what he looked like with his shirt off, if he was as old as he
claimed to be, he
I glanced over at the aging priest accusingly, who
smiled, raised his fork in a toast and continued to eat.
“He said she’d throw a punch. I said she’d knee you
in the balls, and the boxing twins over there thought she’d go easy
on you, but I knew you’d do something stupid to get her all worked
up. So what happened? Strike out swinging?”
My response was delayed as the group noticed our
female comrade exit the armory and head directly towards another
set of doors, opposite the ones she emerged. She spared a single,
distant look in our direction, glowering.
“Didn’t even make it to the on deck circle,” I
reported as we all watched her leave.
Santino stood up, placing a hand sympathetically on
my shoulder while some of the other guys snickered at me.
“Don’t worry, my friend. Maybe it’s still the off
season.”
***
Grabbing a tray of food, consisting of Salisbury
steak, tater tots, and an unknown gelatinous substance, I joined
the rest of the team at their table. Needless to say, I was
famished. I hadn’t eaten a proper mean since I left for Washington,
at least twenty four hours ago. I continued receiving jeers from my
teammates, but took them in stride, knowing that the “Strauss”
situation had been a good ice breaker.
The guys were conversing as I ate my meal, but I
started growing restless not knowing a thing about them. Popping a
few tater tots in my mouth, I decided my stomach was full enough to
start a conversation.
“So, Wang,” I started, mumbling with my mouth full,
“what’s your story? How long has your family been in England?”
Wang waited until he finished chewing his food
before answering. It may have seemed like a culturally insensitive
question to, but those in the military didn’t take such things
personally. In the American armed forces, any given unit may be
comprised of an African American from East Harlem, an upper class
white guy from New England, and the product of illegal parents from
south of the border. In these units, each of those men became
brothers, trained to care for and do anything they could to protect
each other. While it was true racial slurs and ethnic jokes ran
rampant, but everyone shrugged them off, fully aware that they were
only meant in good fun.
If only the rest of the world was so culturally
accepting we wouldn’t be here.
Mouth clear, Wang leaned back in his chair, and
spoke in a heavy Welsh accent.
“My grandparents fled the Great Cultural Revolution
in 1966 and made their way to England with my father. My
grandfather ran a dojo in a quiet countryside, but when local Red
Guard members came to the area, he knew it was time to leave. My
grandparent’s life was a quiet one, and they despised the
Communists and their hope to wipe any memory of old China from the
history books. So they took up residence in Cardiff, Wales, and
opened a new dojo. My father took over when my grandfather died a
few years back.” He paused, and took a quick drink from his mug.
“And, aye, before you ask, my father married a local lass and I was
but a wee product of both worlds.” He smiled. “And a jolly good
product at that.”
I chuckled at his intentionally overdone accent, and
quickly determined I liked Wang. He seemed level headed and
dedicated, but a little cocky, typical for elite operators. A good
man to have at your back.
I glanced over at the large Frenchman. “What about
you, big guy? Any interesting stories?”
Bordeaux put a hand over his chest in a sarcastic
gesture. “ Moi ? But, of course. I have many stories. Besides
McDougal and Vincent here,” he said pointing at the aging priest
who was sipping a cup of tea, “I almost have more years on me than
any two of you combined, with plenty of stories to go with
them.”
I inspected the man’s face, but couldn’t find any
evidence to prove he was any older than thirty five. Remembering
what he looked like with his shirt off, if he was as old as he
claimed to be, he
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