Read Online The Last Roman (Praetorian Series - Book One) by Edward Crichton - Free Book Online Page A
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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must be immune to aging. Hopefully, he wouldn’t
mind sharing his secret.
“But what about you, mon ami ?” He continued.
“We’ve all had some time to get to know one another, but we know
nothing of you.”
“Me?” I asked, as I realized pathetically that there
wasn’t much to tell. “I’m just a country boy, I guess. Born in the
Midwest and raised by hardworking but well off parents, I enjoy
very bad movies, long walks on the beach, and love good 80s
music.”
The guys smiled at the lame and cliché attempt at
humor.
Wang coughed politely into a fist. “I hate to break
it to you, Hunter, but there’s no such thing as ‘good 80s music’ as
you call it.”
Santino leaned back in his chair and pointed at me
like a child. “See, Jacob, even the Brits don’t like it. I’ve been
telling you that since I’ve known you” He turned back to Wang. “He
even likes Duran Duran. Who likes them?”
Wang turned to look at me and shook his head very
slowly and completely deadpanned.
“Who’s Duran Duran?” Vincent asked.
“A rock band from the 80s,” I answered quickly
before Santino could bash them. “They’re good.”
Santino rolled his eyes and laughed to himself.
“I’m partial to the Beach Boys myself,” Vincent
commented.
“Really?” Santino asked skeptically.
Vincent looked hurt. “And what’s wrong with that?
Can’t an old man enjoy quality music as well?”
Santino smirked. The Beach Boys were about as
classic as music came in his opinion. I always enjoyed them
though.
“Of course, sir,” Santino replied as he held up his
hands near his shoulders, and raised and lowered them like a scale.
“It’s just that when I add together European and Priest, the Beach
Boys isn’t exactly the answer I get.”
It was my turn to smirk. Santino generally came off
as dimwitted as a retarded donkey, usually in one of his ridiculous
attempts at humor, but I knew better. The guy was Delta, the most
hardcore of them all, next to my SEALs, of course.
They were trained not just to infiltrate, but to
completely immerse themselves in a society, blend in, and
systematically take it apart from the inside. You wouldn’t know it
by looking at him, or especially speaking to him, but Santino was
one of the smartest guys I knew.
He spoke Russian, Arabic and Spanish fluently, and I
knew he had been in the process of learning Mandarin Chinese in
preparation for possible future operations in the area. The guy was
a ghost, able to slip past borders on a whim, mingle amongst the
natives, get the job done, and get home safely, making it all look
easy.
“I just thought,” Santino continued, “a guy like you
would stick to Mozart or Beethoven.”
Vincent leaned back in his chair, and grinned. “Ah
yes, I enjoy them as well, although Vivaldi is my personal
favorite.”
“The Four Seasons is one of my favorite
classical pieces,” I offered, nodding appreciatively.
Vincent smiled at my recognition of his favorite
composer’s most well-known piece, while Santino dropped his head
and shook it. Wang and Bordeaux chuckled at the interchange, and
the conversation quickly broke down into banter and debate about an
assortment of topics. I followed passively as I finished my
meal.
I was working on my so called dessert when Vincent
checked his watch.
“Okay, briefing room in five. Hunter, eat it or
leave it.”
“Yes, sir,” I mumbled around the goo in my
mouth.
***
The briefing room was small enough that creature
comfort was at a minimum, forcing everyone gathered to sit shoulder
to shoulder. In front were a podium and flat screen monitor. Other
than that, the room was completely empty, except that by the time I
arrived, the rest of the team was already in their seats.
McDougal was at the podium checking his notes, while
the rest of the team was seated amongst the chairs, which were
arrayed three across and two deep, just enough for the team.
Santino, Wang, and Vincent were in the first row and
mind sharing his secret.
“But what about you, mon ami ?” He continued.
“We’ve all had some time to get to know one another, but we know
nothing of you.”
“Me?” I asked, as I realized pathetically that there
wasn’t much to tell. “I’m just a country boy, I guess. Born in the
Midwest and raised by hardworking but well off parents, I enjoy
very bad movies, long walks on the beach, and love good 80s
music.”
The guys smiled at the lame and cliché attempt at
humor.
Wang coughed politely into a fist. “I hate to break
it to you, Hunter, but there’s no such thing as ‘good 80s music’ as
you call it.”
Santino leaned back in his chair and pointed at me
like a child. “See, Jacob, even the Brits don’t like it. I’ve been
telling you that since I’ve known you” He turned back to Wang. “He
even likes Duran Duran. Who likes them?”
Wang turned to look at me and shook his head very
slowly and completely deadpanned.
“Who’s Duran Duran?” Vincent asked.
“A rock band from the 80s,” I answered quickly
before Santino could bash them. “They’re good.”
Santino rolled his eyes and laughed to himself.
“I’m partial to the Beach Boys myself,” Vincent
commented.
“Really?” Santino asked skeptically.
Vincent looked hurt. “And what’s wrong with that?
Can’t an old man enjoy quality music as well?”
Santino smirked. The Beach Boys were about as
classic as music came in his opinion. I always enjoyed them
though.
“Of course, sir,” Santino replied as he held up his
hands near his shoulders, and raised and lowered them like a scale.
“It’s just that when I add together European and Priest, the Beach
Boys isn’t exactly the answer I get.”
It was my turn to smirk. Santino generally came off
as dimwitted as a retarded donkey, usually in one of his ridiculous
attempts at humor, but I knew better. The guy was Delta, the most
hardcore of them all, next to my SEALs, of course.
They were trained not just to infiltrate, but to
completely immerse themselves in a society, blend in, and
systematically take it apart from the inside. You wouldn’t know it
by looking at him, or especially speaking to him, but Santino was
one of the smartest guys I knew.
He spoke Russian, Arabic and Spanish fluently, and I
knew he had been in the process of learning Mandarin Chinese in
preparation for possible future operations in the area. The guy was
a ghost, able to slip past borders on a whim, mingle amongst the
natives, get the job done, and get home safely, making it all look
easy.
“I just thought,” Santino continued, “a guy like you
would stick to Mozart or Beethoven.”
Vincent leaned back in his chair, and grinned. “Ah
yes, I enjoy them as well, although Vivaldi is my personal
favorite.”
“The Four Seasons is one of my favorite
classical pieces,” I offered, nodding appreciatively.
Vincent smiled at my recognition of his favorite
composer’s most well-known piece, while Santino dropped his head
and shook it. Wang and Bordeaux chuckled at the interchange, and
the conversation quickly broke down into banter and debate about an
assortment of topics. I followed passively as I finished my
meal.
I was working on my so called dessert when Vincent
checked his watch.
“Okay, briefing room in five. Hunter, eat it or
leave it.”
“Yes, sir,” I mumbled around the goo in my
mouth.
***
The briefing room was small enough that creature
comfort was at a minimum, forcing everyone gathered to sit shoulder
to shoulder. In front were a podium and flat screen monitor. Other
than that, the room was completely empty, except that by the time I
arrived, the rest of the team was already in their seats.
McDougal was at the podium checking his notes, while
the rest of the team was seated amongst the chairs, which were
arrayed three across and two deep, just enough for the team.
Santino, Wang, and Vincent were in the first row and
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