“A Work In Progress” - part 4

*Mike’s DMCST-induced dream*

Mike Stoker stood in a dank, dimly lit room, staring rather dazedly at his strange surroundings. 

Torches burned in metal brackets that were mounted high on the cold room’s concrete walls.  Their flickering light barely illuminated the large, open space.  The stench from their oily smoke filled both the air and his nostrils. 

He noticed that his upper body seemed to be weighed down, for some reason, and his lower body felt a bit drafty.

His right hand was grasping a tall, slender, wooden pole.  He passed the pole into his left hand and started reaching for his head.  He seemed to be wearing a rather weighty metal helmet of some sort.  He supported the heavy headgear, to prevent his neck from snapping forward too quickly, and then took a look down.  His already gaping jaws opened even further, as his dazed eyes discovered the cause for his legs’ mild discomfort.  They were both bare!  The doubly stunned engineer heard a scraping sound, and immediately spun around.

Station 51’s entire A-shift crew was standing there!   

Wherever ‘there’ was…

He and four of his friends all seemed to be wearing the same ridiculous-looking, rather elaborate costume. 

Their bronze helmets, topped with royal blue plumes, had hinged cheek-plates that made them sort a’ look like they were wearing metal sideburns. 

Their bodies were barely covered with white smocks, made of finely woven linen. The narrow, bronze-stripped leather belts, fastened snugly about each of their waists, made their garments ‘appear’ two-pieced. The short, flared sleeves of their ‘blouses’ protruded from their armored shoulders, and their ruffled ‘skirts’ rode just above their bony knees.

Their backs and chests were also protected with thin, waist-length, plates of bronze, which buckled together at their sides.  The breastplates of their armor were both highly polished and ornately engraved. 

Frontlet bands, consisting of six silver-plated strips of metal, hung just below their belts.  So that even their ‘family jewels’ were protected!

The scabbards of three-foot long swords were strapped to their right sides, and the sheaths of ten-inch-long daggers were strapped to their left sides.

Their forearms were encased in leather sheathing.

Long, flowing, floor-length cloaks clung to each of their backs. The thin tunics were fastened to the tops of their bronze shoulder pads by silver chains and buttons. 

They were all wearing open-toed leather sandals.  The sandals were secured to their feet by long laces that crisscrossed up their legs and then tied at their knees.

Both the wool of their tunics and the leather of their wrist sheaths and sandals had been dyed a royal blue, to match the plumes on their helmets.

The long wooden poles they were carrying turned out to be spear-tipped lances.

His fifth friend’s costume differed somewhat from the rest. 

Captain Stanley’s helmet’s plume, tunic and sandals were all dyed a bright, yellow gold and each piece of his bronze armor had been plated with silver.  His belt was a bit broader and even more ornately decorated and his cloak hung from only one of his armored shoulders—his left.  Each of the Captain’s forearms, and both of his shins, were also shielded with silver.  In his right hand, in place of a lance, there was a three-foot-long wooden staff.

All six—completely flabbergasted—firemen stood there in stunned silence for quite a long, quiet while.

“Must’ve been some party,” Hank Stanley finally stated, being the first to find his voice.  “It’s a shame I don’t remember any of it…”

It had to have been some party and they all had to have had waaaaay too much to drink.  They had to have been drunk at the time, because none of them would have ever donned these wild get-ups while they were sober! 

On the other hand, they couldn’t’ve been drunk at the time. 

The Captain knew himself and he knew his crew, too.  And what he knew was, that they all drank responsibly.

A knot formed in Stanley’s stomach and his confusion was quadrupled.

Perhaps he’d received a blow to the head and was suffering from temporary amnesia? “Do any of you guys happen to remember how we got here?” the Captain questioned his responsible companions.

The guys glanced at each other—again, and then turned back to their leader, looking equally at a loss.

Hank’s brow furrowed and that knot suddenly tightened.

“I got an even better question, Cap…” one of his paramedics finally piped up.  “Where is here?  An’ what are we doin’ in these ridiculous get-ups?”

“That was two questions, Gage.” Kelly corrected, with a roll of his eyes.  “Sheesh!  Can’t you even count past one?”

Gage gave his smart aleck shift-mate an annoyed glare and then turned back to his Captain, hoping—er, praying that he would hear a reasonable explanation.

“I don’t know, John…” Hank regrettably replied.  “But I intend to find out.” 

There were six tall, curved, shields resting against a long, wooden, bench-banked table, in the center of the room they were in.

Stanley tossed his staff onto it.  He slid his heavy helmet off, placed it down on the table, too and then started heading for the doorway.  “C’mon, guys!  Let’s go find out what’s goin’ on.”

The guys emptied their hands and ditched their weighty headgear and quickly followed their Captain from the room.

The crew of 51 continued following their Captain, down a long, torch-lit, concrete corridor and a treacherously steep, twisting flight of concrete stairs. 

At the bottom of the steps was an enormous, high-ceilinged entry hall filled with ancient pieces of military armament.  Assorted swords, spears, shields and lances were bracketed to its concrete walls, along with dozens of large bronze plaques, that had been engraved with profile portraits of extremely solemn-looking soldiers.

Stanley and his men stood in the center of the hall and stared wonderingly around at all the ancient relics.

“We must be in some kind of a museum,” Marco reasoned.

The men nodded thoughtfully.

Now that they had some idea of where they were, they could concentrate on how they got there.

The firemen jerked, startled by the sudden opening of an enormous door.

A young man, dressed equally as weird as they were (dressed being the operative word, as he was wearing an off-white, sleeveless, floor-length gown, woven of silk and bordered with bands of purple) appeared in the open doorway.  An elegant lavender cloak, also of floor-length, draped from his left shoulder.  The guy was sporting a shiny gold headband and carrying a short wooden staff, similar to one the Captain had recently discovered in his hands.

The stranger entered the hall and stepped right up to Stanley.  He struck his clenched right fist against his breast and then extended his right arm.  The guy just continued to stand there like that, obviously waiting for something to happen.  It eventually dawned on the young man that the officer had no intentions of returning his greeting.  The fellow frowned and lowered his tiring limb.  “Quaestor Ceasaris, Praetor and Consul, Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secondus to see Prefect Augustus Lidicus,” he announced, sounding almost as aloof as he now looked.

Hank exchanged knowing glances with his crew, and a slight smile played upon his previously pursed-in-thought lips.  “I’ll bet…” he replied, his voice filled with sarcasm.  “Look.  If this is some kind of an elaborate joke, we don’t happen to find it very funny.  Now, where are we?  Who are you really?  And what the heck’s goin’ on around here?  What’s with these ridiculous get-ups?” he further demanded and motioned to their odd attire.

Their young visitor ignored all of his questions but one.  He seemed to have found the officer’s second question highly insulting.  “I am who I claim to be!” he stated firmly.  His icy, blue eyes narrowed shrewd slits.  “I see by your rank that you are a Centurion.  I have been formally introduced to all of the Centurions.  Why is it, that I do not recognize you?”

Stanley exhaled an annoyed gasp.  “Okay, pal.  If you wanna go on with the gag—fine!  But we’re not gonna stick around here and play with you!  We’re getting out of here…wherever the heck ‘here’ is…” he added beneath his breath and began heading for the exit.

The stranger latched onto the departing officer’s arm and pulled him to a stop.  “Centurion, perhaps we should start all over again…” he suggested.

“All right!” the officer declared, sounding as delighted as he now appeared.  He spun back around and extended his right hand, palm slightly up and open.  “Captain Hank Stanley.  LA County Fire Department…”

The young man stared down at the officer’s proffered appendage in complete confusion.  “What are these strange words that you speak?”

Seeing that the guy made no move to shake hands with him, the Captain dropped his arm and gasped—again.  “I thought you meant you were gonna drop the gag!” he stated and turned to leave—again.

“Wait!” the young man urged and grabbed onto the officer’s armored shoulder.

But Stanley, whose patience had just been spent, brushed the guy’s hand off and went striding out the open, sunlit doorway.

When the others tried to follow him, the stranger stepped in front of the doorway and then stood there, blocking their path.

“Who are you men?” he cautiously inquired.

“Who do you think we are?” Kelly wondered right back.

“Imposters!” the young man determined.  “Enemy spies!  Here to infiltrate the Roman Army!”

The ‘enemy spies’ glanced at each other and rolled their eyes.

“What is this place, anyways?” Roy asked, anxious to change the subject.  “An old movie set…left over from Ben Hur?”

“We are standing in one of the main barracks of the Praetorian Guard,” the stranger informed them.

“Okay.  We’ll by that,” DeSoto decided.  “Are we on the back-lot of some Hollywood movie studio?”

“We are on Palatine Hill.”

“I’ve never heard of Palatine Hill,” Marco confessed.  “Is it anywhere near Beverly Hills?”

The stranger was stunned.  “Surely, you men must have heard of Palatine Hill!  It is one of the Seven Hills of Rome!”

“Ro-ome?” Roy numbly repeated.  “As in Rome, Italy?”

“Rome—as in Capital of the Republic!”

“That does it!” Stoker suddenly declared, looking and sounding completely disgusted.  “Cap’s right!  We ain’t gonna get any straight answers outta this guy.”  Immediately upon making that determination, the engineer brushed by the body blocking the door and stepped out into the sunlight.

The rest of the guys pushed past the two-legged obstacle, too and followed their friend outside.

Lopez was the last one out the door.  He stepped out of the building and promptly proceeded to bump into Kelly…who had bumped into Gage…who had bumped into DeSoto…who had bumped into Stoker…who had bumped into their statue-like Captain.

Stanley hadn’t made it very far.  The Captain was standing, just outside the door, staring—in stunned silence—at the unbelievable view that presented itself before him. 

In place of the museum parking lot, or the movie studio back-lot, he’d been fully expecting to find there had appeared an enormous, ancient—yet new—looking city!

Marco gazed out at the unfamiliar, ancient architecture for a few moments and then dazedly pondered, “What is this place?”

His Captain closed his gaping mouth, swallowed hard and softly said, “I don’t know…but it sure ain’t no studio back-lot.”

The guy with the fancy, purple cloak had followed the officer and his men out into the barracks’ redbrick courtyard.  He scrutinized the strange men…as they scrutinized the strange city.  “Centurion—or whoever you are—I cannot understand it…but I believe that you honestly do not know where you are.”

Stanley shifted his completely bewildered gaze in the understanding stranger’s direction.  “Do you…know where we are?”

The young guy grinned and then waved an arm through the air.  “Behold!  The City of Rome!  Capital of the Republic!”  He motioned for them to turn around.

They did.

A palatial looking building had been built into the top of the hill, behind the barracks they’d just exited.

“The Emperor’s Palace!” their guide pointed out, and then he motioned to their right, to a ridge with an even bigger building sitting on its peak.  “Capitoline Hill and Jupiter’s Temple!” he proclaimed and then motioned to their left, to a series of similar monument and temple-topped ridges.  “Rome is situated upon seven such hills.”  He motioned to the view below.  “That river, down there, is the Tiber. It flows through the city, east to we—”

“—Hold it!” Hank suddenly requested.  “Just.  Hold.  Everything!”

Their young guide held it.

“This can’t be real!” the Captain quickly continued.  “It can’t!  What ‘time’ is this?” he asked the stranger.

Stanley and his men turned to the guy with the lavender cloak and then stood there, almost dreading his reply.

The young man glanced up at the position of the sun.  “A little before noo—”

“—Not that time, yah twit!  I meant, what period in history is this?”

The stranger gave the officer a cold stare, which said that he did not appreciate being interrupted.  “It is the 18^th day, of the seventh lunar month—Julius, in the year 64 ad dominus,” he obligingly replied, the tone of his voice matching the temperature of his stare.

Hank exhaled a huge sigh of relief and then grinned from ear to ear.  “I was right!  This can’t be real!  None of this is really happening!  Heck!  We won’t even be born yet for another nineteen centuries!”

The firemen glanced uncertainly at one another. Their Captain’s logic seemed sound.

DeSoto studied the ancient city that surrounded them.  He tapped his finger on metal breastplate that covered his chest and stomped his sandal on the redbrick courtyard beneath his feet.  Everything certainly ‘looked’ and ‘felt’ real enough.  Roy finally formed his deeply troubled thoughts into words.  “If we’re not even born yet…how do we account for the fact that we are here?”

His Captain’s frown returned.  “I don’t know.  I can’t explain it…yet!” he quickly clarified.

Stoker stared out at the strange vista, looking completely lost.  “What about our families, Cap?  Will we ever see them agai—?”

“—So-o, Cap,” Kelly quickly cut in, hoping to change the touchy subject,  “what’s the plan?”

“Yeah, Cap,” Marco joined in.  “I’m getting hungry.”  Seeing his associates all staring back at him in disbelief, he defensively added, “We-ell…you heard the guy…it’s nearly noon.”

His friends gave him a ‘group eye-roll’.

“What about our families, Cap?” Mike repeated.  The engineer was not easily deterred.

“I hope we’ll see them again,” his sad Captain came back.  “But, to be perfectly honest, right now?  I just don’t know…”

The guy with the lavender cloak continued to stare at the officer and his men in utter disbelief.  “You not only do not know where you are…you also seem to have no notion as to how you came to be here.  I am deeply puzzled by this strange set of circumstances.  I am even more puzzled as to why I should believe you.  By all rights, I should have you seized as enemies of the State!” The speaker noted the fear and uncertainty in the eyes of his audience and smiled, reassuringly.  “Instead, I am going to try to assist you.  Come!” he urged.  “The first thing we must do, is to get you back into your complete uniforms.  You do know where your helmets, shields and lances are?”

Stanley nodded.  “Upstairs.”

Their ‘helper’ appeared to be both pleased and relieved.

All seven men turned and headed back into the barracks, with the Captain leading the way.

Back in the room where it all began…Five informative minutes later…

Mike Stoker was standing in the doorway, watching the hall.

The rest of the men were sitting on the benches that lined the large wooden table.

The young man with the lavender cloak was seated across from Stanley, thoughtfully stroking his chin.  “Let me get this straight…You do not know how you came to be in this room…and you do not know how to get back to where you were…because where you were does not yet exist?”

The officer and his men nodded.

“If this is, indeed, the case…then I can see no way in which I can help you to return there.”

“And that’s the way it is,” Chet Kelly exclaimed, performing a pretty good, but bitter, impersonation of Walter Cronkite, “Tuesday, July 18^th, 64 A.D.”

The young man saw how terribly sad and lost the strangers looked and flashed them a sympathetic smile.  “I can, however, help you to adjust to your new life—here.  I can instruct you in the Imperial Law and secure you citizenship papers…”

“I don’t want to ‘adjust’,” Stoker stated, sounding even more bitter.  “I just want to go home…to my wife and son!”

Stanley stood and crossed over to the door.  “We all want to go home, Mike.”  He placed a supportive hand upon his engineer’s sagging shoulder.  “And we are never going to give up trying to get back there.”  Hank gave the discouraged man’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze and then turned to the rest of his crew.  “But, right now, we have to make the best of the situation we’re in.  And that means we’re going to have to try—awfully hard—to fit into a time and place we don’t belong in—or know anything about.  It’s going to be hard—but not impossible.”  He flashed his men a weak smile.  “So I want each of us to give it our best shot—” he stopped speaking, as something suddenly dawned on him. “Would yah listen to me…” The fireman’s gaze shifted to the floor and he managed another smile, this time, a bitter one.  “To hear me talk, you’d think I was still your Captain…”

“You are, Cap!” all five of his shift-mates quickly chorused.

Hank gave ‘his’ guys a grateful grin, along with a look that told them how much he appreciated their vote of confidence.  “In that case…What d’yah say we get started, gentlemen!” he ordered—er, suggested.  “After all, THEY say: When in Rome, do as the Romans do!”

The Captain’s last statement was partially drowned out—by his guys’ groans.

Stanley gave them an unrepentant grin and then reassumed his seat, across from their young ally.  “Where do we begin?”

“I believe it will be best, for now, if you were to remain soldiers in the Praetorian Guard.  I will arrange the necessary papers.”

“Excuse me,” Kelly interrupted, unable to contain his curiosity.  “But what—exactly—is the Praytorion Guard?”

“Yeah,” Lopez joined in.  “And how is it that you can arrange our papers?  Who are you?”

The young man beamed.  “I shall answer your last question first.  My name is Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus.  I am the Quaestor Caesaris of Rome.”  Gaius saw the men remained confused.  “I am Praetor and Consul…”

The officer and his men still looked at a complete loss.

So Gaius exhaled a sigh and then gave it another try.  “I am a very important judge and magistrate…” He saw his audience nodding and sighed again—in relief.

Gage had judged their host to only be about in his mid-twenties. “No offense,” he assured the guy, “but aren’t you a little young to be a judge?”

The man looked positively radiant.  “Indeed, I am!” he declared, sounding every bit as proud as he appeared.  “It is considered a tremendous honor to be appointed a Statesman at my age.”

 The Captain and his crew looked duly impressed.

“I possess a great deal of political power and influence in this Province,” Gaius announced. “For instance, I reside over Jurists, Lictors, Prefects, Tribunes and…” he turned to the officer, “Centurions.”

DeSoto leaned into his boss’ ear.  “And you called him a twit,” he quietly reminded the man.

“So,” Hank calmly whispered back.  “He probably doesn’t even know what a twit is.”

“For this reason,” Gaius continued, “you must always address me in public by my complete title.  It is considered disrespectful to do otherwise.”  He saw that his audience was not too happy to hear that and smiled.  “In private, you may address me by my first name—Gaius.”

The officer and his men gave him looks of undying gratitude.

“What are your names?” Gaius wondered.  “You do know who you are…” he teased.

The men were forced to grin.

The Captain leaned across the table and re-extended his right hand.  “Hank Stanley,” he re-introduced.

Again, Gaius just gazed down at the officer’s proffered appendage, looking puzzled.

“Where we come from, shaking hands is a form of greeting,” Hank explained.

Gaius could not concern himself with the strangers’ strange customs—at the moment.  There would scarcely be enough time to instruct them in his!  “The Imperial Greeting of the Roman State is such—” He demonstrated the ‘clenched fist against the chest and then arm extended’ technique.  “You must practice this greeting and perfect it!”  He witnessed their halfhearted attempts and frowned.  “If this greeting is not given or returned to a superior officer or Statesman properly, there could be serious consequences!”  He saw their efforts instantly improve.  Their instructor smiled and turned back to the officer.  “You will no longer be called—” he stared at the stranger, looking at a loss.

“—Hank Stanley,” the Captain reminded him and suppressed a smile himself.  He found it amusing that a guy with a name like ‘Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus’ should find a simple name like ‘Hank Stanley’ so difficult to pronounce.

“Ye-es.  Your Roman name shall be Lucius Octavius,” Gaius determined.  “And your men shall address you publicly as Centurion Lucius Octavius.”  He turned to the next man.

“Roy DeSoto.”

“Romulus Centavion.”

“Uhhh…John…John Gage.  John is a very common name.  Why can’t I just keep John?”

“Because you must have a Roman name, and there are no ‘Johns’ in Rome!”

Kelly looked thoughtful and then leaned into his companion.  “Makes yah wonder where they go…when they gotta go…don’t it.”

“You shall be called Julius Gagius,” Gaius finally decided.

Julius wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear that.

“Chester B. Kelly,” Chet proudly declared.

Gaius gave the mustached man a look of obvious approval. “Excellent!  You already look and act Roman!  All you need now, is a good Roman name…Claudius Licinius.”

“Marco Lopez.”

“Markus Aurelius.”

“Michael Stoker.”

“Michael Augustus,” Gaius promptly pronounced.  “You must master these new Roman names and absorb new Roman customs, as quickly as possible!  You see, spies are tried, sentenced and put to death—the same day they are discovered!”

The strangers glanced nervously at one another. Then they turned back to their teacher and looked even more attentive.

“Concerning the Praetorian Guard…” their instructor quickly continued.  “The main bulk of the Roman Legions are currently engaged in a bitter and bloody war with the Parthians, in the Armenian Province.  The rest of the Legions—consisting mainly of cavalry maniples and a few compliments of infantry—are three days march from here.  You—er, rather, the Praetorian Guard, are the only large permanent body of troops allowed in the city.

The Guard, which was founded by Emperor Gaius Julius Caesar Octavanius Augustus, consists of nine cohorts.  Each cohort consists of a thousand men, under the command of a Prefect.”

“So there are nine Prefects,” Stanley—er, Centurion Lucius Octavius reasoned.

Gaius nodded.  “Your cohort is under the command of Prefect Augustus Lidicus—” he stopped speaking suddenly and pointed a finger at Julius Gagius.  “What are the Roman names of your companions?”

John—er, Julius reluctantly rose to his feet.  He drew a deep breath in, and his slouching shoulders back. He raised his head erect and then gave his questioner the Imperial Greeting of the Roman State.  “Quaster Sesarus Prater and Consul Gayus Plinius Saysillias Secondus,” he replied in one lo-ong breath.  He hesitated a moment or two, looking thoughtful.  “Oh…yeah,” he muttered, sounding a wee bit embarrassed.  “I, uh, almost forgot the question,” he explained, with a grin.

The guys grinned.

Gagius saw that his questioner remained unamused and quickly continued. “May I present Senturian Lushious Octavious…Marcus Orelious…Romulous Sentavian…Michael Augustous…and Clodious…” he hesitated briefly, “Lysineous!” he finished with a flare and then stood there, looking tremendously relieved.

His impressed companions gave him a hand.

Julius gave them a grateful bow and Gaius another Imperial Greeting—before dropping back onto the bench.

Their young instructor remained unimpressed.  He had each of them give him their Roman names.

No one slipped up—not even once!

Gaius gave the group a look of approval.  “Centurion Lucius Octavius, you and your men are fast learners.  That is good, because there is very little time.  Aside from being the Emperor’s personal bodyguards, soldiers in the Praetorian Legion are also called upon to uphold the Imperial Law and maintain the Civil Order within the Capital.”

“Hey! Far out!  That makes us the Fuzz!” Chet—er, Claudius quickly concluded.   “Yah know,” the fireman quietly confessed, “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be a cop…”

His grinning friends just glanced at one another and rolled their eyes.

“The main contingent of the Guard will be returning from their morning patrols of the city any minute now.” Gaius stepped around the table and up to Roy—er, Romulus.  He motioned for the man to stand.

Roy—er, Romulus reluctantly rose to his feet.

Gaius saw how unsure of himself the stranger seemed to be.  “You must remember that you are Praetorian Guards!  You hold positions of great esteem and high honor!  You must conduct yourselves accordingly!  Romans are proud—vain people!” he paused to pull the cowering man’s shoulders back.  Then he lifted his chin up and handed him his helmet.  “Put this on!” he ordered.

Roy—er, Romulus cringed and began to don his heavy headgear.

“Romulus Centavian!” Gaius shouted.  “Roman soldiers never ‘cringe’!  If you are ever to convince Rome, you must first convince yourselves that you are totally fearless, extremely self-confident, terribly vain and sinfully proud!  Above all, you must act proud!  If you do not, your actions will give you away in an instant!”  He pulled Kelly to his feet.  “Claudius Licinius, show your companions how a Roman soldier conducts himself…”

Kelly looked thoughtful for a moment.  Suddenly, a very aloof look filled his face.  He picked up his helmet and placed it upon his head, as though it were the Emperor’s crown.  Next, he pulled his sword from its scabbard and examined its blade, admiring the sharpness of its edge.  He replaced the weapon and then picked up one of the wooden shields that were resting on the table.  He hefted the heavy object for a moment or two, to get the ‘feel’ of it.  Then he stuck his arm through one of its leather straps, grasped its handle firmly and flexed his fingers until he was satisfied with his grip.  He took the same amount of care in picking up and positioning his lance.  At long last, he seemed satisfied.  So he drew in a deep, relaxed breath and then stood there—proud and erect—looking down his nose at his companions—who were staring up at him in shock and disbelief.

Gaius was quite pleased with the outcome.  “Claudius Licinius, take over the watch!”

Claudius gave a very snappy Imperial Greeting with his lance.  Then he spun on his heels and headed for his post with broad, confident strides.

Gaius smiled approvingly.  “Excellent!” he commended.  “He could fool the Emperor himself!”

Gage raised an eyebrow and turned to his partner.  “I might a’ known he’d have a flare for this.  He always has been able to fake his way through anything…”

DeSoto smiled at his friend’s obvious jealousy.

“I want you all to practice ‘looking’ and ‘acting’ Roman,” Gaius announced and motioned the rest of the men to their feet, “before we leave for my insula,” he added.  “We must go to my home,” he explained.  “So that I may prepare your papers.  It will be safer there, anyway and…”  he turned to Markus Aurelius, “we may eat.”

Lopez looked delighted.

His grinning companions shook their heads…and then proceeded to practice.

Station 51’s Captain and crew were given a twenty minute crash course in the Political, Military and Social structures of Rome.

While the men kept up their acting lessons, Gaius drilled them in their other lessons.  “Marcus Aurelius, what is a Tribune?”

Marco stopped—right in the middle of one of his Roman soldier strides. ‘A Chicago newspaper,’ he thought to himself, but replied, “A Tribune commands two Roman Centuries.”

His teacher nodded approvingly and turned to the officer.  “What is a Centurion?”

Stanley was currently studying one of the weapons that he and his men had somehow been issued.  “A Centurion commands one hundred men, or one Roman Century,” he answered and then squeezed in a quick question of his own.  “Gaius…we’re not gonna actually hafta use these things,” he motioned to his drawn sword.  “Are we?”

His men all stopped what they were doing and turned to their instructor, nervously awaiting his response.

Seeing their dread-filled faces, Gaius was inclined to reply, “I certainly hope not!  For I doubt—very highly—if you would be inclined, or even know how, to!”

The officer and his men seemed tremendously relieved to hear that.

Kelly turned his gaze away from the hall for a few moments and raised his lance.  “Hey, Julius…with your background, you shouldn’t have any trouble handling one of these.”

The guys grinned.

Julius arched an eyebrow, in annoyance.

“Sure,” Chet continued, “you could even tie some feathers here at the tip and—”

“—Just watch the hall, huh, Clod?” Julius quickly cut in.

“Sure thing…Julie!” Clod taunted right back and angled his smirking face toward the hallway.

While Clod watched the hall, his companions watched Gage.  They wanted to witness his reaction.

Julie’s eyes narrowed into aggravated slits and he gave Clod’s back a disgusted sneer.

Gaius had also observed the pair’s little ‘exchange’.  “Good!  There is always a healthy rivalry amongst Roman soldiers!”  He flashed the Centurion a smile of approval.  “I believe you are ready to face Rome!”

“I hope you’re right!” Kelly called from the doorway.  “Cuz here it comes!” He turned to Stanley.  “And it looks like the BRASS, Cap!”

The men panicked and froze.

Gaius hurried over to the door and peaked out into the hall.  “Prefect Augustus Lidicus and three of his Tribunes,” he announced.

“The BRASS!” Stanley repeated and turned to his men.  “This is it, guys. Full dress inspection.  Just think of them as Battalion Chiefs…”

His guys rolled their eyes.

“Remember,” Gaius warned, “fearless, confident and proud!  Above all else, you must act proud!  Allow me to do all of the talking,” he advised and then sank onto one of the benches that lined the long table.  “Act casual!” he ordered, in a whisper.

Stanley saw that his men were still frozen and frowned.  “At ease!” he prompted his statue-like men, and they finally untensed.

Gage and DeSoto leaned their shields and lances against the wall and slid their heavy helmets off.

Mike and Marco set their equipment down, as well and then stood there, looking a whole lot more relaxed than they actually felt.

Kelly set his lance and shield aside and began fiddling with one of the leather laces on his sandals.

Their Captain slipped his helmet off and finally stood ‘at ease’ himself.

The sound of sandaled footsteps, rustling cloaks and clanking metal grew louder and louder and then stopped—abruptly—just outside of their room.

Stanley drew a deep breath and calmly turned toward the doorway. 

Four very official-looking men in their mid-forties were standing there, staring at them.

Hank acted surprised—but not impressed—to see them.

The men returned his look.

Young Gaius got calmly to his feet.  He stared one of the four men cooly—and directly—in the eyes and gave him the Imperial Greeting.  “Prefect Augustus Lidicus…”

The Captain and his crew calmly donned their ‘dress caps’ and gear, and did the same.

The man and his companions returned their greetings.  “Quaestor Caesaris, Praetor and Consul, Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secondus…” the Prefect cooly acknowledged and gave the strange soldiers a critical eye.

The men ignored their visitors’ intense, suspicious stares. 

Noting that the Centurion and his men were staring nonchalantly back, Gaius smiled—inwardly.  “Centurion Lucius Octavius and his men are my personal bodyguards.”

The Prefect cocked an eyebrow and glanced at his companions.

Their eyebrows raised, as well.

Lidicus riveted his gaze upon the Captain.  “You are not one of my Centurions.”

The Captain met the man’s gaze, but remained silent.

“You are correct,” Gaius replied.  “Centurion Lucius Octavius and his men are from another Cohort.  Now, shall we move on to the purpose for my visit,” he told, more than asked, the older officer. 

Lidicus reluctantly turned his attention away from the strange officer and his men and back to his very important visitor.

Gaius locked gazes with Lidicus again.  “I want Tribune Vaeus Seneculus’ resignation in my hand before this day is ended, or I shall personally see to it that he is brought before the Consul and forced to leave his office in public disgrace!”

Lidicus looked outraged.  “Surely this matter does not require such harsh discipline!”

“I will be attending the banquet at the palace tonight,” the younger man cooly continued.  “You may give it to me then.”  Gaius gave the Prefect and his Tribunes a parting Imperial Greeting and then strode boldly from the room.

His bodyguards performed the perfunctory greeting.  They then formed columns of two and filed silently from the room, matching the young Statesman—bold stride for bold stride.

Gaius didn’t stop until he had reached the redbrick courtyard in front of the building.  He turned and watched the Centurion and his men, as they came striding confidently out of the barracks—two abreast—carrying their equipment—and themselves—proudly!

The officer and his men strode right up to their instructor.  Then they stopped and stood there, giving him questioning glances.

Gaius grinned and gave the imposters a passing grade.  “Congratulations, Centurion!  You and your men are soldiers in the Praetorian Guard!” he determined, and, for the first time, he both looked—and sounded—genuinely impressed!

The Captain and his crew returned their teacher’s grin and exhaled various sighs of relief.  The men glanced at one another…then at their strange surroundings…and their grins gradually began to fade.

Gaius watched, as their faces became filled with looks of sadness and uncertainty—again.  “We-ell…” he declared, doing his level best to sound cheerful, “it is a lo-ong walk to my home.”  He tapped his stomach and gave Markus Aurelius a quick glance.  “And I must confess that I, too, am beginning to feel hunger.”

The men managed brave smiles.

“Come!” Gaius encouraged.  “Rome awaits you!”  He turned and headed toward the brick-laid street that ran down the hill past the barracks.

The Captain looked up at the barracks…and then down at his crew.  The sadness and uncertainly he felt was reflected in their eyes.  “You heard the man,” he encouraged them, and even mustered up a smile.  “Let’s not keep Rome waiting!”  With that, the fireman walked off, in pursuit of their vanishing guide.

Four of his men followed.

DeSoto suddenly noticed that Stoker was missing from their ranks and returned to the courtyard.

Gage followed his partner back to the barracks.

Kelly followed Gage, and Lopez followed Kelly.

Gage stood there in the courtyard, fidgeting with his helmet.  “I know the real reason Roman soldiers hold their heads like this,” he extended his neck and held his head up high.  “And it ain’t because of ‘pride’.  It’s because of ‘pain’.  If they don’t hold their heads like this, they’ll all get splitting headaches from wearing these doggoned heavy helmets!  We-ell…it is!” he insisted, upon seeing Kelly’s skeptical expression. “If you don’t keep your neck muscles rigid all the time, the doggoned thing is so heavy, it snaps your head forward,” he let his neck muscles relax.  The weight of the helmet snapped his head forward.  He winced in pain and pulled his head back up.  “See?  If you relax—even a little—you could break your neck!”

Chet sighed.  “Julius, that is the dumbest thing I’ve heard since…the last dumbest thing you said!”

Julius stood there, looking both annoyed…and insulted.

Marco managed an impatient sigh.  “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m starving!” He gave their non-moving friend a sympathetic glance and then hurried off down the hill, to catch up to Gaius and their Captain.

Roy had been watching Mike carefully.  He noticed that Stoker hadn’t taken his eyes off the barracks for even an instant.  “We don’t want to leave either,” the paramedic quietly confessed, and gripped the motionless man’s arm reassuringly.  “But I think we’ll stand a better chance of getting back, if we all stick together…”

Mike’s head slowly turned toward his shift-mates. The engineer re-riveted his gaze upon Roy. Stoker gave his friend a grateful smile, the barracks one long, last, parting glance…and then quickly left the courtyard, with his companions.

The four men caught up to their comrades about midway down Palatine Hill.

Gaius, Centurion Lucius Octavius and Markus Aurelius had stopped and waited for them.

All seven then continued down the steep red-brick roadway.

The firemen passed many people along the way, but none of Rome’s citizens paid them any attention.

Horse-drawn chariots kept careening down the steeply-inclined street, and—because there were no sidewalks—the firemen were forced to take evasive action, to avoid being trampled to death.

Julius and Claudius pressed themselves up against the wall of one of the buildings lining the street, just in time to avoid being struck by the wheel of another out-of-control chariot.  They gave its driver a couple of angry glares.

“Quaster Saysarus Prater and Consul Gaius Plinius Saysilius Secondus,” Julius suddenly spoke up, in one long breathless breath.  “Do you always travel on foot?”

Gaius nodded.  “Whenever possible.  It is much safer.”

Julius and Claudius dodged another chariot and then turned to one another, looking incredulous.  “Safer?” they chimed together.

“Yes,” Gaius continued.  “I often witness three or four chariot accidents in a single day.”

“Why so many?” Claudius wondered aloud.

Julius shrugged.

“I suspect it is a combination of reckless driving and congested

 narrow streets,” their guide volunteered.

They reached the bottom of the hill and turned a corner.

Claudius nudged Julius and pointed to a street sign.  “I can just hear the dispatcher, now…Station 51…three chariot accident at the intersection of Mercury and Vesuvius…Oxcart responding…”

Julius—and the rest of the guys—grinned.

Gaius frowned.  “To make matters worse, the Emperor has decreed that the funds—originally set aside for the widening of the streets—shall be used to build four new forums.  Forums are large, open-air markets for the buying and selling of many goods, such as food, clothing, art works, household items…” he further explained and finally received several understanding nods.

“Sounds a lot like our shopping centers,” Markus commented to Michael.

Michael nodded glumly and then motioned to the crowded, unorganized, congested buildings that surrounded them.  “Where are THEY gonna fit four more shopping centers in this mess?  I think it’s safe to say that Rome can’t be employing any city planners.”

The time travelers passed row after row after row of three and four-storied concrete structures.

Romulus gazed up at one of them. “I wonder what all these buildings are…”

Michael stopped and stared up at the four-storied building beside them, at the evenly spaced open windows…and the balconies with fancy wrought iron railings, covered with bright green vines.  “They look like apartment houses.”

“What is an ‘apartment house’, Claudius Licinius?” Gaius wondered.

“Quaestor Caesaris, Praetor and Consul, Gaius Plinius Cecilius Secundus, an apartment house is a building in which many people live, where each person or family has their own apartment or group of rooms in which to live,” Claudius explained, in one unbelievably lo-ong breath.

Gaius gave Claudius an amused glance and then turned to Stoker.  “You are correct, Michael Augustus.  These are ‘apartment houses’.  Rome has over 50,000 such ‘apartment houses’.  The one I dwell in is located on Stabian Road…North of the Forum Romanum Magnum.”

The group came to another corner—and an unbelievably busy intersection.

Ox-drawn carts, chariots, wagons and pedestrians filled both of the narrow streets to capacity and traffic was barely moving.

“We must cross here,” their guide announced.

The firemen pressed their backs into a building and gazed out at the transportation tie-up in amazement.

The Centurion whistled softly.  “What a mess!  Looks just like an LA freeway during rush-hour!”

His men nodded glumly in agreement.

Stanley caught their guide’s look of confusion.  “Quaestor Caesaris, Praetor and Consul, Gaius Plinius Cecilius Secundus,” he breathlessly began, “we…uh…have things like this, back where we come from.”

Gaius seemed somewhat saddened. “I am sorry to hear that.”

The guys exchanged glances—and grins.

Julius stared at the congested streets—and the seemingly endless flow of foot traffic.  “I hope we’re not waiting for the light to change…”

Several of his companions shot him ‘oh brother’ looks, and then all eyes riveted back on their guide.

Gaius drew his shoulders back—and a deep breath in.  Then he stepped away from the building and headed boldly out into the mass of pushing, shoving, shuffling bodies.

The Centurion turned to his men.  “Time to forge ahead,” he simply said, and followed their leader into the squirming throng.

The guys stared distastefully after their Captain for a few seconds and then, reluctantly, stepped into the steady stream of humanity, as well.

Rome’s visitors were shoved and elbowed and pushed and pressed from all sides.

The firemen put up with it—for awhile—but then began shoving, pushing and pressing back, using their shields and lances to clear their way.

“Ahh-ahh!” the Centurion suddenly shouted out, in agony.

Romulus Centavian heard the cry and saw Stanley grimacing in pain.  “What happened, Ca—Centurion Lucius Octavius?”

“Ahh,” the Centurion gave the citizen closest to him a not too gentle nudge.  “Some twit just stomped on my foot!”

“Centurion Lucius Octavius,” Mike called a bit breathlessly up to his Captain, “sounds like you could use…a pair of safety sandals!”

The Centurion’s grumpy look vanished, as he was forced to smile.

The rest of the firemen swapped grins—again—and kept right on forging.

The Centurion glanced back over his shoulder and discovered, much to his dismay, that they had moved down the street about twenty yards, but across it barely two.  Station 51’s usually patient Captain suddenly lost his cool.  “All right!” he shouted, in a most authoritative manner.  “Make way!  Give us some room!”

Gaius and the rest of the guys gazed in amazement as the citizenry promptly parted, and an open alley formed before them.

Nobody was more surprised than Stanley.  “Well, I’ll be…” he mumbled beneath his breath.

He and his men quickly stepped through the opening.

“Bold!  Arrogant!” Gaius determined, once they’d regrouped on the other side of the street.  He flashed the foreign fellows’ leader a smile of approval.  “Centurion Lucius Octavius, you shall have no problem rising in the ranks!”

Hank shot their grinning host a grateful glance.  The Captain then established direct eye contact with each member of his five-man crew.  “We don’t plan to hang around here long enough to be promoted…do we,” he told—more than asked—his friends.

The guys all replied anyway, shaking their heads in a unanimous ‘No!’

The Centurion flashed each of them a reassuring smile, and then gave their guide a questioning glance.

Gaius saw the look and used a pointed finger to direct the way.

“Step aside!” the Centurion advised the bodies that were blocking their path.

They did.

“Quaestor Caesaris, Praetor and Consul, Gaius Plinius Cecilius Secundus,” the Centurion breathlessly began, several unimpeded blocks later, “just what did Prefect Augustus Lidicus’ friend do, to warrant his resignation?”

Gaius scowled.  “Tribune Vaeus Seneculus has abused the privileges of his office for the last time!  It is public knowledge that he has accepted bribes, and used blackmail and extortion, to benefit himself financially—for years!  Many officers in the Third Cohort practice such things.  Prefect Augustus Lidicus is the worst of the lot!”

Julius exchanged grim glances with his partner.  “Even ancient Rome is plagued by corrupt politicians…”

“Eh…” Romulus replied with a shrug of his shoulders.  “No Prefect is perfect.”

Julius Gagius groaned and rolled his eyes.

Their still scowling guide resumed his rant.  “But then, Tribune Vaeus Seneculus was caught stealing from the State Treasury!  A crime even his political allies do not take lightly.  It could cost them many votes in the coming elections.”

The group started across a long, narrow, concrete bridge.

Michael Augustus and Markus Aurelius stopped to peer over the railing.  The pair stared down at the putrid, murky water of the Tiber River.

“The city’s sewage system,” Michael disdainfully determined.

Markus frowned and nodded.

They turned away from the unpleasant looking—and awful smelling—river and quickly caught up with their friends.

As the firemen forged and fought their way through the streets of Rome, Gaius pointed out sites of interest, and explained the various functions of the many buildings and shops they passed along the way.

They entered a large open courtyard, filled with circus performers and exotic caged animals.

“The people are given free food to satisfy their stomachs, and free circuses to satisfy their minds,” Gaius sadly explained.  “But very little is ever done to improve the condition of Rome’s poor masses.  The wealthy upper classes seem content to just keep the poor contented.”

They exited the courtyard and started to stroll past more business establishments. 

Once again, their guide patiently explained the purpose of each of them.

“Humph,” Romulus Centavian suddenly grunted.  “Mostly renecs, temples and liveries.  Yah know, it’s actually amazing how similar ancient Rome is to LA!”  He saw his partner’s confused look and quickly continued.  “A lot of the buildings in LA are bars, churches and gas stations, too.”

Julius gave his confusing friend a strange stare and walked on.

About one mile—and four street changes—later, the group turned yet another corner.

An enormous oval structure appeared.

Gaius was disappointed to discover that the visitors were not impressed by the awe-inspiring sight.  “The Collosseum Romanum Magnum!” he proudly declared.  “Built for the purpose of viewing gladiatorial and pugilistic combats, fights of wild beasts and various other spectacles!  Seats close to 45,000 citizens!” he tacked on and was even more dismayed, as the foreigners remained seemingly unimpressed.

 The Centurion took note of their guide’s unhappy expression. “Quaestor Caesaris, Praetor and Consul, Gaius Plinius Cecilius Secundus,” he began, in one long breath, “we have such a thing where we come from.  The Los Angeles Coliseum.  Seats over 75,000 citizens.”

Their guide looked amazed—and more than a little skeptical.

The strangers nodded.

Gaius was even more astonished.  “For what purpose was your Collosseum built?”

Hank looked thoughtful.  When it came right down to it, football wasn’t really all that different from gladiatorial and pugilistic combats.  Except that the players fight until the time runs out—instead of to the death.  He thought of the Bears/Rams game that he and a buddy were planning to attend that weekend, and smiled.  “Fights of wild beasts,” he finally replied.  “In which occur tackles, penalties, passes, huddles, touchdowns, fumbles and…various other spectacles.”  He paused to exchange grins with the rest of the guys.  “And, in which—hopefully—nobody gets hurt.”

Gaius was now completely flabbergasted.  “B-Bu-ut,” he finally managed to stammer, “if no injury is inflicted, what is the purpose of the combat?  What declares the winner?”

“Quaestor Caesaris, Praetor and Consul, Gaius Plinius Cecilius Secundus,” Stanley began—again, “the, uh, purpose is to carry an air-filled oval ball of pigskin over the other guys’ goal line…and the winners are the ones who do this the most—without allowing the other guys to do it back.”

Their guide’s confusion was quadrupled.  “Centurion Lucius Octavius, my amazement over the details of these contests is exceeded only by my disbelief over the fact that the builders of your Collosseum actually felt that 75,000 citizens would ever care to witness such a thing!”

The Californians couldn’t help but chuckle.

The Captain recalled how difficult it had been for him to secure his two tickets.  The Coliseum was sometimes sold out—weeks in advance. “Yeah,” he mumbled, just beneath his breath, “it does seem sort a’ ridiculous, don’t it…”

Gaius aimed another pointing finger and the still-grinning group started striding off, in the newest direction.

After walking for what felt like hours, Gaius finally came to a halt in front of an ‘apartment house’ and breathlessly announced, “My insula is on the fourth floor.”

The firemen shielded their eyes from a bright, early afternoon sun and looked up at the four-storied concrete building.

“Looks a little classier than the rest,” Claudius quietly commented. “No pun intended.”

His skeptical-looking companions couldn’t help but grin.

“Not only is it classier,” Markus contributed, “but he happens to have the penthouse.”

A blast of trumpets suddenly sounded.

Six of the seven men jerked, in startlement, and then began glancing around for the sounds’ source.

Stanley watched, as a flood of citizens immediately exited their insulas, and began hurrying off down Stabian Road. “Quaestor Caesaris, Praetor and Consul, Gaius Plinius Cecilius Secundus, where is everybody going?”

“To the Forum Romanum Magnum,” Gaius responded. He motioned for his strange visitors to follow him into his building and they started heading up a steep, narrow, curving concrete stairway. “The Emperor is dedicating a Triumphal Arch in honor of Governor Suetonius Paulinus, who recently suppressed an insurrection against the State, in the Province of Inceni. I must attend the banquet tonight in his honor. The Emperor has called for a gathering of all the important political figures—in the entire Republic! He has also declared a general celebration in honor of his Consul, Senator Markus Annaeus Seneca’s retirement to private life.”

The group reached the top of the long stairway and then stood there, panting from exertion.

“Come!” Gaius invited. “We may watch the proceedings from my balcony.” He threw a heavy, wooden portal open and they stepped into a spacious, neatly furnished and modestly decorated 8-room apartment. Their host motioned for the Centurion and his men to set down their shields, helmets, breastplates and lances.

His guests gave him various looks of undying gratitude and quickly relieved themselves of their cumbersome armor. The guys viewed their new surroundings approvingly.

“This is a nice insula yah got here, Gaius,” Kelly came right out and told him.

The others all nodded their agreement.

Gaius smiled, pleased that his home had met with his guests’ approval. The young man’s smile broadened, as a beautiful young woman—wearing an elegant white, empire-waisted, floor-length silk gown with a matching cloak—entered the room, and stole the six strangers’ attention.

“Oh, Gaius!” she exclaimed and threw herself into her husband’s arms to give him a welcoming embrace. “I was so worried! I do wish you would not travel about the city at this time of day,” she chastised. “You could be trampled!” With that said, she stood on the tip of her toes and planted a passionate kiss upon her spouse’s still-smiling lips.

Gaius noted that his guests had averted their gazes. The young man’s smile broadened back into a grin. “Gentlemen,” he said, calling their complete attention back to the lovely young lady that was locked in his arms. “May I introduce my wife…Vanessa.”

The six men grinned and nodded their greetings.

Vanessa gave the group a gorgeous, warm smile and nodded in return.

“Father! Father!” a young five or six-year-old boy blurted, as he came bursting into the room, grinning from ear to ear.

Gaius smiled and swooped the child up into his arms, to give him a huge hug. “My son,” their host proudly declared. “Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus…the Younger.”

The firemen flashed Gaius, Jr. some warm smiles and waved ‘Hello’.

Gaius set his young son down and then turned to his wife. “Centurion Lucius Octavius and his men will be staying with us for…awhile,” he informed her.

Everyone stiffened, as more trumpet blasts filled the air.

“Come!” Gaius urged. “We are just in time to view the dedication. We shall take our meal on the balcony!” he called back over his shoulder and then disappeared through an open, sunlit doorway.

Vanessa studied the Centurion and his men rather thoughtfully for a few seconds, before grabbing the boy by the hand and vanishing herself, in the direction of her kitchen.

Station 51’s crew of six joined their hospitable host out on his broad wrought iron railed balcony. The group gazed out over the clay-tiled roofs of several lower buildings, at an enormous open-air marketplace.

Tens of thousands of people were crowded around the countless marble statues, altars, arches, memorial columns and various other odd-shaped monuments that filled the Forum.

Gaius pointed off into the distance. “Those tall buildings, behind the Forum Romanum Magnum, are the Temples and Basilicas where the Senators meet for General Debate.”

The firemen stared disbelievingly down at the scene below them.

“How did they ever find room for another arch?” Marko asked in amazement.

Gaius was forced to smile. “When the center of the Forum becomes so cluttered—so as to seriously obstruct the transaction of business—a general clearance is ordered, and the dedications to past victors and battles are removed…and quickly forgotten.” He stopped speaking and pointed to a group of people climbing a tall wooden scaffolding, to a speaker’s platform. “That man leading the procession is my good friend, the distinguished Senator and Consul to the Emperor, Markus Annaeus Seneca. The older couple, just behind him, are the Emperor’s parents, Romun Consul, Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus and his wife, Agrippina the Younger, daughter of Germanicus Caesar, sister of the Emperor Caligula, and great granddaughter of the Emperor Augustine.”

Stanley and his men did their darndest to appear appropriately impressed.

Chet leaned up against the balcony’s wrought iron railing for a closer look. “Who’s that scrawny little guy, at the very end there?”

Gaius suppressed a smile. “That is Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Germanicus,” he calmly replied. “The Emperor of Rome.”

Kelly gulped. “Oh.”

The guys all glanced at each other and grinned.

“That Forum must cover thirty acres,” Mike determined. “Where are they going to cram four more?”

Gaius’ grin quickly turned upside-down. “The Emperor has ordered it done. So it shall be accomplished. They will tear down entire blocks of buildings to accommodate them, if they must. It seems that both destruction and construction are always going on, somewhere in this city…”

Stanley arched an eyebrow in thought. “No wonder THEY say ‘Rome wasn’t built in a—”

The remainder of Hank’s comment was drowned out, by the loud groans of his men.

One Triumphal Arch dedication—and one memorable meal of roasted leg of lamb, some unidentified steamed vegetables, several loaves of fresh real Roman Meal bread, and a few bottles of fine red wine—later…

Gaius’ young wife stepped back out onto the balcony.

The lady said nothing, as the Centurion and his men thanked her—profusely—for preparing such a fine meal for them. Why, the soldiers couldn’t seem to stop raving about the quality of her cooking.

But, when two of the men actually volunteered to help her clear away the empty plates, Vanessa could no longer contain herself. The woman waved off their offer of assistance and then smiled, rather wryly. “It is so refreshing to witness such a display of gratitude and gracious behavior from members of the Praetorian Guard,” she said, not sounding the least bit sincere. She eyed each of the refreshing fellows critically for a few seconds and then calmly inquired, “What are your real occupations?”

Their hostess’ question caught Station 51’s undercover crew completely off-guard. The firemen exchanged anxious glances and then turned to Gaius.

Gaius’ shoulders sagged and he exhaled an exasperated gasp. “Woman, is there no secret which may pass you unrevealed?”

The woman’s wry smile turned smug and she shook her pretty little head.

Her smugness caused Gaius to gasp—again. “Relax,” he advised his now nervous guests. “Vanessa would never betray you.”

The firemen exchanged glances—again and untensed…some.

Vanessa gave the gracious group another warm smile. “For some reason, as yet unknown to me, my husband has decided to risk both his political reputation—and his life—to help you. He obviously feels that you are worth the risk, and I trust his judgment—implicitly. After all, he was wise enough to marry me…” she paused to give Gaius an adoring glance. “Was he not?”

The wise man couldn’t help but smile.

Their guests grinned and became totally at ease once more.

“You are correct,” Hank confessed. “We’re not soldiers. We’re firemen.”

Gaius and Vanessa turned to one another, looking at a total loss.

“We fight fires,” the fireman further explained. “Surely a city of this size must have firemen…”

A look of dawning understanding came over Gaius and he opened his mouth to speak.

However, before he could say anything, the insula’s front door flew open. There was a flurry of sandaled feet across the apartment’s floor. A few seconds later, a rather distraught looking Gaius the Younger came bursting out onto the balcony. The child threw himself into his mother’s comforting embrace and then clung to her, crying his little heart out.

“What is it, Gaius?” one of the boy’s panicked parents quietly inquired.

“Gaius, what has happened?” the other demanded, a little more loudly.

The boy proceeded to blurt out an unintelligible tale, between sniffles and heart-wrenching sobs.

“His young friend has fallen into the river and drowned,” Vanessa interpreted, upon seeing their concerned guests’ questioning stares.

The firemen sprang to their feet.

“How long ago did it happen?” Hank asked their hostess.

Vanessa questioned her son and then looked up. “It just happened a few moments ago. He has just come from the riv—”

“—Gaius,” Stanley interrupted, “you must take us there!”

Gaius just stood there, in a state of utter confusion.

The fireman gripped their young friend’s shoulder. “Please? There’s no time to explain! Just take us to him!”

Gaius stooped back down to his son’s level. “Where did this happen?”

Station 51’s A-shift listened as the child gave his father the ‘call’ address.

Their guide straightened back up and then beckoned the strangers to follow him. “Bring your helmets, shields and lances!”

The firemen reluctantly snatched up the heavy, awkward equipment and then followed Gaius down the insula’s long and twisting flight of stairs.

Less than a minute later, they reached the incident scene—one of the many bridges that crisscrossed the Tiber.

A small group of people was huddled at the near end of the bridge, where a young woman was kneeling beside a young boy’s motionless body, alternately screaming hysterically…and weeping bitterly.

Hank and his Engine crew quickly moved everybody back.

Gage and DeSoto dropped their awkward gear and then themselves down onto the red bricks, beside the boy.

“Ma-am,” John gently eased the sobbing woman off the child’s motionless chest. “Ma-am, we’re gonna need a little room to work here, okay?”

The woman gazed at the soft-spoken soldier in blurry-eyed confusion for a bit, but then reluctantly allowed two of the other Guards to gently ease her to her feet and away from her son’s lifeless body.

Gage glanced up from palpating their drowning victim’s corotid. “Weak and thready! Better get ‘im ventilated, or we’re gonna lose ‘im!”

DeSoto nodded. “Pupilary response is excellent. If we can get him breathin’ again, there shouldn’t be any brain damage.”

John extended the boy’s neck and pinched his nostrils closed. Then he covered the child’s mouth with his and forced air into his no longer functioning lungs.

His partner paused in his initial patient assessment. “His abdomen is rigid and distended. We prob’ly got a lot of water down there.”

“I’m getting…a real good…air exchange,” Gage announced, between breaths. “I don’t think…he’s aspirated…yet.” He gave their victim another life-giving breath of air.

Suddenly, the boy’s body wretched.

The small group of spectators had grown to a rather large crowd of onlookers. The group gasped—in unison, startled by the sudden movement of a dead child.

The paramedics immediately rolled the kid onto his side, to keep him from aspirating.

The victim vomited a great deal of filthy river water onto the red bricks of the bridge.

The moment the boy stopped heaving, he was eased over onto his back and given more forced ventilations.

Gage saw the child’s chest heave and halted his AR.

Their victim coughed—violently—for quite some time. The coughing gradually subsided and his short, labored gasps for air became longer, more relaxed breaths.

The dark-haired paramedic placed an ear against the child’s chest. He listened to their drowning victim’s lungs for about a half a minute. Then he picked his head up and locked gazes with his partner. “Both sides sound relatively clear,” he was pleased to report.

The no longer coughing kid’s big brown eyes finally fluttered open. He gazed rather dazedly up at the two smiling strangers who were hovering over him for a few moments. Then his peepers widened even further and his face filled with pure panic. He lifted his head and glanced furtively around. The little boy caught sight of his mother and immediately began to cry.

Gage and DeSoto exchanged triumphant grins. Gawd! But that was a glorious sound!

Roy stood stiffly up and then pulled his equally stiff partner to his feet. The pair dusted their bare knees off and then stepped back from the boy. It was now their turn to give the mother some room.

The woman scooped her young son up into her arms and then hugged him so tight he nearly went into respiratory arrest again. She opened her tear-filled eyes and stared up at the two strange soldiers, looking somewhat astounded. “He had no breath!” She pulled back and stared disbelievingly down at her sniffling offspring. “Yet he lives!” She glanced back up and gave her son’s rescuers looks of undying gratitude.

The firemen finished gathering up their gear and flashed the young woman back some ‘You’re welcome’ smiles.

Mike and Marko assisted both the mother and the boy to their feet.

The woman picked the still whimpering child up and began carting him off down Stabian Road, all the while chastising him for disobeying her and playing on the bridge.

The large crowd of proud Roman citizens slowly started to disperse. The people gave the strange group of soldiers suspicious stares and began wandering off, whispering amongst themselves.

Gaius just continued to stand there—looking too stupefied to speak. He stared at the strange firemen as though he were seeing them for the first time. “You are physicians, also?” he wondered in amazement, when he’d finally found his voice.

“Quaestor Caesaris, Praetor and Consul, Gaius Plinius Cecilius Secundus,” Hank respectfully replied, “where we come from, all firemen are trained to administer Basic First Aid. Some—like Romulus and Julius here—have been trained to administer more advanced life-saving medical procedu—”

“—Never mind, Centurion Lucius Octavius,” Gaius interrupted, suddenly sounding anxious. “Come! We must move quickly! When word of this gets out, there will be many, many questions…” he and his words trailed off, in the direction of his insula.

The firemen glanced nervously at each other…and at their strange surroundings…and then quickly followed their fleeing guide back down the red brick road.

Later that same afternoon…

Stanley and his men found themselves back out on Gaius’ sunlit balcony. They’d been sitting out there for hours, squirming restlessly in their hard wooden seats.

Every once in a while, one of them would stand and pace up and down along the wrought iron railing.

Gage watched Kelly pace past him.

Chet reached the end of the balcony and immediately did an about face.

As he did so, his skirt flared out, causing John to smile.

“What’s so funny?” Kelly grumpily demanded, as he passed the still-smiling paramedic, again.

Gage opened his mouth to explain, but then changed his mind. “Watch,” he simply said and got stiffly to his feet.

Kelly watched.

The now-pacing paramedic reached the end of the balcony, spun quickly on his heels, and began heading back.

Chet’s grumpy look vanished, as he, too, was forced to smile.

“Everything is now in perfect order,” Gaius informed the foreign firemen, as he finally rejoined them on his balcony. “You are now officially citizens of the Roman State—free to come and go as you like…” He saw that his guests were not as excited by this bit of good news, as he had hoped they would be, and turned to their leader. “What is wrong?”

“Ah-ah...We don’t mean to seem ungrateful, Gaius. We really appreciate what you’ve done for us! It’s just that…” Stanley hesitated, struggling for the right words, “well, we don’t wanna be citizens of the Roman State. We just wanna go ho-ome!”

Gaius saw the others nodding sadly in agreement. He gave each of his home-sick houseguests a sympathetic glance. “I understand…and I am truly sorry…but this is the only way, that I know of, to assist you…” the young statesman finished his heartfelt confession and promptly proffered the important-looking parchment papers, that he’d been clutching in his hands, to the unhappy firemen. Speaking of firemen…Gaius suddenly remembered something and his gloomy countenance brightened—considerably. “I took the liberty of resigning you all from the ranks of the Roman Army. I sensed that your hearts were not really in your work. So you are no longer Praetorian Guards."

The firemen stared down at their citizenship documents were delighted to discover that Gaius had given them back their real names. They glanced up from their official papers, not knowing quite how to cope with the news that their undercover career status had also been altered.

Gaius’ eyes sparkled with mischief. “As Quaestor Caesaris, Praetor and Consul of Rome, I have—as of this day—instituted a new public service. This new service shall be known as the Citizen Guard. The Citizen Guard has been established for the following purpose: to assist Rome’s existing Vigilantes with the extinguishing of fires, and to provide Basic First Aid to the general public. This special contingent will be based at Rome’s Twelfth Vigil, which is located on Stabian Road, about a fourth of a mile from here, and it will be comprised of six men…” he flashed his six firemen friends a rather wry smile. “You men would not—by any chance—be seeking gainful employment?”

The six firemen grinned and—for the first time since their…arrival…in ancient Rome—appeared genuinely happy.

Gaius grinned as well. “I shall take that as a ‘Yes’. Citizen Hank Stanley, I shall see to it that you are appointed to command the new contingent. Your new title shall be Captain, and you shall be addressed, publicly, as Captain Hank Stanley.”

Hank looked a little overwhelmed.

His men grinned again and voiced their unanimous approval of Gaius’ appointment.

Citizen Kelly suddenly looked curious. “What, exactly, is a Vigil?”

“Rome is divided into fifteen Districts,” Gaius informed them. “There are seven Vigils scattered about these Districts. Vigils are the barracks of the Vigilantes—the firemen of Rome,” he stopped and turned to Citizen Stanley. “Yes, Captain,” he teased. “We have such men, where I come from.” Gaius turned back to the entire group. “I shall propose my plans to the Senators tonight, at the banquet. By this time tomorrow, the Roman Senate shall have issued the edict and appropriated the necessary funds. I shall take you to the Twelfth Vigil in the morning, so that arrangements may be made for your living quarters, uniforms and any equipment you may deem necessary to fulfill your duties as Citizen Guards. If there is anything to be discussed further, we may do so upon my return from the banquet.”

The six firemen gave their influential young friend grateful grins and then extended their hands toward him, palms up and open.

Gaius hesitated for an instant or two, but then took and shook each of their hands—firmly.

Hank grinned and then commented to his shift-mates, “Sheesh! He’s got a pretty good handshake for a politician, doesn’t he…”

The guys grinned and snickered and nodded their agreement.

Gaius returned their grins and then hurried off, to get bathed and dressed for the Emperor's banquet.

“Horses!” John Gage suddenly shouted, his voice shrill with excitement.

Their host and his wife had departed for the banquet. Gaius Jr. was spending the night with his young drowning victim friend, and the six time travelers were seated...back out on the insula’s balcony.

The dark-haired paramedic was pacing along the railing, waving his animated arms wildly through the air. “Of course! That’s it! We train a bunch a’ guys...and then station ‘em at the other six Vigils! That way, we could have mounted two-man squads of Citizen Guards patrolling the entire city!” The paramedic stopped, right in mid-pace and turned to Stanley. “What d’yah think, Cap?...Ca-ap?”

“Sorry,” his preoccupied Captain finally came back. “I wasn’t listening.” His body may have been on the balcony, but his mind was elsewhere. “Something about all this has been bothering me, ever since we got here. But I can’t quite put my finger on it...” Hank’s words wandered off, along with his attention.

Mike gazed glumly around the balcony. “I never thought I’d ever see the day when I would actually miss television.”

His companions grinned and squirmed restlessly in their seats. Stoker was not alone in his boredom.

“Hey!” Kelly suddenly leapt to his feet and stepped up to the railing. “Get a load a’ that!”

“Get a load a’ what?” John wondered, stepping up beside him.

Chet pointed off into the distance, in the direction of the setting sun. “Smoke! A whole lot a’ smoke!”

Gage rolled his eyes. “Well of course there’s a whole lot a’ smoke! There are no gas or electric ranges around. Every insula must have to burn wood to coo—”

“—I know! I know!” his finger-pointing friend assured him. “But that’s waaaay too much smoke for just a little wood stove fire!”

The rest of the firemen joined Kelly and Gage at the railing and then stared off into the distance, at an enormous plume of ascending smoke.

“There must be several blocks already involved!” Stanley surmised.

Stoker took note of the rather brisk breeze at their backs. “Yeah, and this wind is gonna whip that fire right through the city.”

Lopez nodded glumly in agreement. “And once it guts out the buildings’ wooden support beams...they’ll all collapse.”

An already restless John Gage was becoming antsier by the second. “What are we gonna do, Cap?”

Stanley stared helplessly off at the horizon, at the rising column of thick, black smoke. “What can we do?” he asked right back. “We have no trucks—which means, we have no water.” He motioned to their bare arms and legs. “We have no protective gear, no air masks...nothing!”

“The six of us couldn’t stop it—even if we had all our trucks and equipment,” DeSoto determined. “This wind will whip the flames through all those open doors and windows so fast, we wouldn’t stand a chance of fighting it.”

“Roy’s right,” Stoker stated. “History records that, during Emperor Nero’s reign, two thirds of Rome was destroyed by fire. The six of us can’t change world history.”

Stanley suddenly straightened and stepped back from the railing. “We may not be able to change the history of the world. But we might be able to change history for a few hundred people in the path of that fire.” He turned to his men. “Any volunteers?”

His fellow firefighters exchanged grins and then eagerly stepped forward.

“Great!” Hank flashed each of his willing companions a warm smile. “Then what do you guys say, we go assist the Vigilantes with their general evacuation of Rome’s citizenry?”

The guys nodded their readiness and then quickly followed their Captain from the balcony.

The firemen stepped briskly down the building’s steep, curved stairway and began jogging off down Stabian Road in the direction of the setting sun...and the fire.

A little over half an hour of alternately running and walking later, the rescuers finally managed to reach the section of the city that was burning.

With dusk rapidly descending, and the smoke steadily increasing, visibility upon their arrival was poor. Soon, it would be zero.

Torches illuminated many of the buildings’ entryways. The already coughing men snatched six of them from their brackets. Then they covered the lower half of their faces with their linen shirts, and continued to head toward the fire.

They passed a proud, Roman citizen, going in the opposite direction.

“Centurion, wait!” the man called after them. “You must go no further!”

Stanley stopped and turned in the concerned voice’s direction. “Why-y?”

The concerned citizen gave the strangely dressed—er, half-dressed Guards a suspicious stare. “Surely, you must know! The Emperor has forbidden entry into the Christian Sector of the city—upon penalty of death!”

Hank exchanged nervous glances with his men, before turning back to the guy. “Why-y?”

“The Emperor has declared Christians to be enemies of the Roman State!”

“Why-y?”

The citizen seemed to be astounded by the Centurion’s ignorance. “The Christians refuse to kill or take up weapons. They refuse to drink blood at the temples to the gods. They are meek, humble—disgusting—people!”

“Sorry to hear you feel that way,” the Centurion told him. “They sound like our kind a’ folks.”

That said, the rescuers went racing down the red brick street...and right into Rome’s Christian Sector.

The firemen finally reached the inferno’s smoldering fringe and halted.

The Captain frowned down at their bare arms and legs for a few moments and then began issuing orders. “Try to avoid buildings with any open flames visible. Mike, you and John and Marco—take the right side of the street. Roy and I, and Chester, here, will take the left. Okay, let’s move out and move quickly! We gotta try to stay ahead a’ this thing!”

The men moved out and moved quickly.

After sweeping a few buildings, both teams of evacuators regrouped in the street.

The Captain coughed and then breathlessly inquired, “Anything?”

His men shook their heads. They hadn’t found anybody to evacuate.

Kelly coughed. “Where could they have all gone?”

Stoker’s flame-lit face suddenly filled with dawning understanding and he stared down at the red bricks beneath his feet. “The catacombs!”

The rest of the guys glanced at each other and then down at the street.

“Well...they should be safe down there,” Hank determined. “C’mon! Let’s get back to work! This fire is about to enter the Pagan Sector!”

He and his men hurried off down the street, to where they’d last seen that ‘concerned’ Roman citizen.

Stoker, Gage and Lopez began evacuating the buildings on the right.

Stanley, DeSoto and Kelly started sweeping the buildings on the left.

Mike reached the top of another long, narrow, winding concrete stairway, and pounded upon another thick wooden portal with the butt of his already bruised, and painfully sore, fist. He winced and made a mental note to find some kind a’ blunt object to bang on doors with.

The portal finally opened and a rather irate citizen greeted him. “What do you want?”

Stoker breathlessly began repeating his mantra. “The Emperor...has ordered...a general evacuation...of this section of the city!”

The already annoyed guy looked even more upset. “Why?”

Mike shot the man an ‘are you for real?’ look. “Can’t you smell the smoke?...Rome is burning!...In just a few more minutes...this building...is gonna be full of flames!”

The guy stared back at him in disbelief and then began sniffing, nervously.

“Hurry!” Stoker advised. “You must take your family...and get out—now!”

The man began racing around his insula, gathering his valuables up in his arms.

Mike exhaled an exasperated gasp. “There’s no time for that! Just take your family and go!”

But the guy completely ignored him.

Stoker stepped into the apartment and guided the homeowner’s wife and four small kids out the door. “You must get out of the building,” he told the frightened woman. “Once you’re out, take your children and head away from the fire—just as fast as you can!”

The woman nodded and immediately disappeared down the stairs with her equally frightened offspring.

Mike turned back to the man. “Look, I strongly urge you to forget about that stuff and concentrate on getting out of here alive! None of those things are gonna do you any good, if you’re dead!”

The guy dropped two more armfuls of valuables onto a blanket and then raced off to gather up more.

The first wind-whipped tendrils of fire began to appear in the insula’s open windows.

Recalling his Captain’s order about avoiding buildings with open flames visible, Stoker coughed and quickly headed down the narrow, concrete stairway.

Fifteen hectic, exhausting, breathless minutes later, the two teams again regrouped in the street.

DeSoto coughed painfully, and blinked his tear-streaming, smoke-irritated eyes. “Wish we would a’ thought...to bring some water with us...so we could flush the ash and soot...out of our eyes.”

“Yeah,” Gage glumly agreed, between coughs. “Or wet our shirts down.”

“Gentlemen,” their Captain spoke, between fitful bouts of coughing, “we have a problem...The fire...is moving faster...than we are.”

“Where the heck are Rome’s firemen?” Marco demanded, sounding more than a little miffed.

Kelly coughed. “Good question!...I haven’t seen a single one!...I hate to say this...But I’m beginnin’ to think...they must be sittin’ around their Vigils...playin’ cards!”

The guys glanced blurrily at one another and managed some morbid smiles.

Chet choked back another painful cough and continued. “I tried to get...a couple a’ proud Roman citizens...to help us...but they just...ran off!”

“Centurion!” someone suddenly shouted out.

Stanley spun around and spotted a half-dozen men huddled together, about a hundred feet further up the street.

One of the men, whose nose and mouth was covered with a strip of wet cloth, began to approach their little group—rather cautiously. “We have been watching you and your men, and we would like to assist you. That is, if you will allow us...” the young man’s slightly muffled words trailed off and he humbly bowed his head.

The inferno’s raging flames were quickly closing in on their position. They flickered ominously and cast eerie, dancing shadows upon the young man and his companions, as they stood there in the smoke-filled street...looking so 'humble' and 'meek'.

Hank flashed the Christians a grateful grin. “Why, thank you very much! We could sure use your help!” With that, he waved for the little group of volunteers to join their ranks.

The young man stepped right up to the Centurion. “We brought you these...” he said, and promptly proffered a palm full of water-soaked strips of heavy muslin cloth, so the soldiers could cover their noses and mouths, as well.

The firemen gave their benefactors looks of undying gratitude and began tying the protective strips of damp cloth in place.

“All right, half of you men come with me!” Stanley told the new recruits. “The rest of you go with these men, here!” Hank motioned to his Engineer’s team. “Let’s get back to work, gentlemen!”

Back to work they went.

Two extremely tiring hours later, the evacuators began gathering in the street, to regroup once more.

"Ma-an!" Hank hunched over and rested his hands on his bare knees. “Those Christian guys,” he breathlessly continued, his voice hoarse from inhaling waaaay too much soot and smoke, “came along...just in time...didn’t they?”

Gage, Stoker and Lopez were still too breathless to speak. So the trio simply nodded.

With the additional help, they’d been able to stay a step ahead of the fire.

Mike coughed and exhaled a weary sigh. “I sure wish...the Romans...had invented...the elevator!”

His companions grinned behind their muslin masks.

More and more rescuers began to join their growing group.

Stanley noted that each new arrival also appeared to be completely beat on his feet.

Which certainly came as no surprise. After all, they’d just swept hundreds of buildings and successfully assisted the elderly and the infirm, and women—with more children than they had arms to carry and hands to hold—to escape from the rapidly-advancing fire’s path. He figured they had managed to alert and evacuate several thousand people out of harm’s way.

But they couldn’t continue to work under such adverse conditions much longer, especially not at such a grueling pace!

Hank gazed blurrily into his men’s swollen, red and watering eyes and saw that their spirits were still willing. It was just their bodies—and not their resolve—which had been weakened. He knew his crew. His guys would just keep going and going until they dropped...if he let them. But he would never let them. The Captain cared too much for his men—his friends—to ever allow them to push themselves to their breaking point. “We’ll work three more blocks. And then, I’m afraid, we’re gonna hafta call it quits.”

The guys exchanged exceedingly grim glances and then gave their solemn leader looks that told him they understood why he’d been forced to make his extremely difficult decision.

The raging, wind-swept fire was, once again, closing in on them.

The regrouped rescuers had gotten most of their labored breath back. So they began to head off up the street...to sweep more insulas...and evacuate more citizens.

“Why are we even bothering to sweep this building?” Marco griped, as he and his torch-carrying teammates started up yet another steep, winding stairway. “I couldn’t see any candles or lamps burning in any of the windows.”

“Maybe the lights are off, but somebody’s home?” Mike wittily remarked.

“What?” John, whose turn it was to take the top floor—and so he was in the lead—inquired. “You don’t think somebody could be sleeping in here? I don’t know about you guys, but I always shut the lights off when I go to bed—damn!” the paramedic cursed, as the light in his hand began to flicker and dim. He stopped climbing and turned to his companions. “Marco, trade torches with me, will yah. I think mine’s about to go out.” He handed his faltering torch off to Stoker.

Who passed it to along to Lopez.

Marco took the dim torch into his left hand and then passed Mike the bright light in his right.

“Thanks!” John latched onto the new torch Mike had just handed him and turned back to start heading up the stairs again. “Oomph!…Oh…Sorry,” he said, as he suddenly stumbled into somebody. “I didn’t realize you were there,” he told the body standing on the step above him.

The man on the step was carrying a bundle on his back—and something shiny in his hand. The guy spotted the bright-blue color of the torch carrier’s leather wrist protectors and plunged the shiny object he was toting into the Praetorian Guard’s unprotected chest.

Mike heard John inhale sharply. Then somebody came barreling past him down the narrow staircase. Both he and Marco nearly lost their balance went toppling backward.

John just stood there, in a state of shock. The assault had left him too stunned to move and too breathless to speak. His still-held breath escaped at last, as a rather loud groan. “Ahh-uhh!” He allowed the torch to slip from his grip and instinctively started reaching for the left side of his chest. His trembling hands found the dagger’s handle...and gripped it. He could feel his legs beginning to buckle. “Then again,” he gasped breathlessly, “there could be...a looter...in here...who doesn’t wanna be...evacuated.”

Speaking of toppling...

The paramedic’s bare—buckling—knees struck the cold, abrasive concrete of the stairway. The pain produced by that jarring impact caused him to ‘gasp’ and ‘groan’ again. His body slowly began slumping, sideways.

Mike promptly passed his torch to Marco. He caught their collapsing companion under his arms and carefully turned him around. “What’s wrong, Johnny? What hap—?” Stoker saw the paramedic’s bloodstained appendages clutching the handle of the dagger that had been embedded in his chest, and immediately stopped speaking. He and the torchbearer exchanged horrified glances. Mike swallowed hard and forced himself to face their fallen friend. “Johnny? Do you...want us to...take it out?”

Johnny shook his head. “I’ll...I’ll bleed...to death.”

‘Faster...’ Mike morbidly realized—solely to himself. ‘You’ll bleed to death faster.’ There were no ambulances...no ER’s...no surgeons around to operate and stop the hemorrhaging. He grimaced and then gave their mortally wounded friend’s shoulder a slight squeeze. “What do you want us to do for you?”

The air in the stairwell was becoming smokier, by the second.

The hurting fireman fought back a cough. “You could...get us all outta here...These stairs...ain’t exactly...comfortable,” John joked and even managed, somehow, to muster up a wan smile, which was hidden beneath his mask.

Mike and Marko each took a torch and an arm and then carefully hauled him to his feet.

The paramedic clenched his teeth, to keep from crying out, as he was half-dragged and half-carried back down the narrow staircase...and out into the smoke-filled street.

Roy watched as Mike and Marco came out of the building they’d been sweeping—carrying someone between them. Since he’d already completed his latest floor assignment, he hurried off across the smoky street, to give them a hand with their victim. “What hap—?” his mouth stopped working, as he saw whose weight the two men were supporting. He noted that his partner’s bloodstained fingers were wrapped around a dagger handle...and went completely numb.

“Some proud Roman citizen...must’ve been looting that building!” Mike explained, his hoarse voice filled with anger. “Johnny, here, got in his way...”

DeSoto forced his frozen limbs into action. “Let’s get him away from the fire!” he urged, and helped them carry his collapsed partner further off up the street.

They got a good distance from the burning buildings and then carefully set their burden down on the cold red bricks.

Two of their Christian helpers came running up.

One of them removed his cloak and used it to cushion the injured Guard’s head.

The other placed his cloak carefully down, covering the now-shivering man’s bare legs.

Roy dropped to his bare knees beside his hurting buddy. “Talk to me, Johnny!” he pleaded, and pulled the protective muslin mask from his partner's nose and mouth.

Johnny forced his tightly shut eyes open. He saw his friends all staring down at him, looking so anxious and concerned. He raised his head a bit and caught sight of his bloody hands, still clutching the handle of the eight-inch dagger that had been plunged into his left ribcage. He grimaced and allowed his head to drop back. Damn! He had been hoping it wasn’t real. “There is a...” he gasped, through gritted teeth, “a sharp...stabbing...pain...in my...left side,” he breathlessly reported. “But...don’t worry...cuz...I think...I got...a...handle...on it,” he concluded. He flashed his worried colleagues a crooked smile, and even managed an amused gasp or two—between groans.

“How long did it take yah...to come up with that?” DeSoto pondered, with a considerable degree of difficulty. His throat had become so tight he could barely speak.

“’Bout...two...minutes,” his partner replied, with another lopsided grin.

Stanley and Kelly and a half a’ dozen more evacuators came running up just then.

“What’s goin’ on—?” the Captain inquired, but then froze, seeing Gage lying there in the street, looking so ghostly pale. He spotted the dagger handle protruding from the paramedic’s chest and his own heart about stopped. “John!” he exclaimed, dropping quickly to his bare knees. “What happened, pal?”

John swallowed hard and unclenched his teeth. “Well, Cap...it seems some...turkey—” he stopped speaking and aimed a puzzled gaze at his partner. “Wonder what the...Roman...word...for...turkey...is?”

Roy gripped his friend’s shoulder reassuring. “Turkius?” he volunteered, in support of his hurting friend’s latest attempt to lighten the mood.

Gage grinned and snickered, between groans.

Stanley suddenly stiffened. “That’s it!” he shouted. “That’s it!” he repeated, his raised voice filled with excitement. “Remember when I said that something has been bothering me about this whole thing since we got here?”

Each member of his crew nodded, thoughtfully.

“Well, John just pointed it out! Don’t you see? If this were really happening—if we were really here—we’d all be speaking Latin, instead of English!”

Mike Stoker remained confused. “So, if none of this is real, then...what is goin’ on?”

“Maybe,” John began, struggling desperately to breathe, “at least...I hope...this is all...just a...a...ba-ad...drea-eam.”

“He’s right!” Hank reasoned. “One of us must be dreaming...” He gazed up into the faces of his men.

“It can’t be me!” Marco assured his Captain. “This is all so...realistic! And I don’t know the first thing about Rome!”

Kelly gave Gage a worried glance. Their friend’s condition seemed to be deteriorating by the second. “I’ve seen Ben Hur four times...” he volunteered.

John snickered softly and then lay there, groaning.

The Captain dismissed Kelly’s comment with a roll of his eyes. “It has to be someone who knows a lot about Roman history...”

Mike Stoker felt extremely uncomfortable, as all eyes suddenly riveted upon him.

Stanley got stiffly to his feet and stepped up to his knowledgeable Engineer. “Wake up, Mike! The fire’s closing in! John is dying! Wake up! Before you get us all killed! Wake up, Mike! That’s an order!”

Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!

Karen Stoker stiffened and sat forward in her seat, as her fitfully dozing husband suddenly began tossing his head and moaning.

“Johnny’s dying!” Mike mumbled in his sleep. “The fire! The fi-ire!” He heard someone pleading with him to wake up. He snapped bolt upright and then obligingly forced his blurry eyes open. His rather alarmed looking wife was seated beside him on the bed. “Karen! Johnny’s dying! The fire’s—” he was forced to stop speaking, as two fingers were pressed over his lips.

“—Michael, relax!” Karen urged. She gripped her panic-stricken spouse’s arms and gave them a reassuring squeeze. “Johnny is not dying! He’s lying right over there...sleeping like a baby. You were just having a bad dream, is all...” she soothingly said and gently eased the dreamer back down onto his hospital bed.

Her husband immediately popped back up and then sat there, trembling. “It was too real to be a dream!” he insisted. “It was all so real! So...real!” Real reality suddenly hit him and he pulled his wife into his arms. “Oh, Karen! I thought I was never going to see you again!”

“I’m sorry, Honey...” Karen patted her upset hubby comfortingly on the back. “I came up just as soon as Visiting Hours started.”

Mike managed an amused gasp. “I didn’t mean tha-at,” he assured her and held onto her even tighter.

“Mmm-mmm,” his contented wife purred. “You should have nightmares more often.”

Stoker pulled back and gave the woman a look of extreme skepticism. He gazed rather relievedly around the room, at his three peacefully sleeping shiftmates. He saw Gage hanging half off of his bed. “I guess you were right, Johnny,” he muttered, just beneath his breath. “It doesn’t really matter when a fireman is a fireman...cuz’ his job is always dangerous. What really counts, is who he’s doing the job with. It wouldn’t matter to me when I was a fireman...as long as it was with you guys...” He flashed his friends a warm smile. Then he dropped back onto his hospital bed and took his beautiful young bride back up into his arms.

TBC

Author’s note: Next up is Chet’s dream.  I know Chet wasn’t really exposed to the toxin.  But hey, this is Chet Kelly we’re talking about here.  Chet doesn’t need DMCST to have a weird and wild dream. Besides, he is on a lot of powerful painkillers. LOL

 Part 5