A/N: This story is very much my opinion on what Percy could be without those who have always surrounded him. Because of those around him he was always been able to be the character people love. My opinion is that he could have adapted to the situation around him if he needed to, hence the stories of his actions in Achaea and using Drew's people as gray zone assets. The incident in Thebes was a snapshot into that idea.
Gaul
Fifty thousand warriors opposed the Roman lines. Men and women both, shouting and waving weapons in the air. They were the last free peoples of Gaul. They knew their fate if they were defeated. Slavery and subjugation would be the fate of all of the surviving Gauls. Rome would have conquered from the Alps to the northern coast of France. Jason Grace, former consul of Macedon and now Consul of Gaul, would be the most celebrated Roman commander ever, surpassing Scipio the mentor they had all claimed to be the pinnacle of Roman military prowess.
Jason had surrendered the command of the six legions to Michael Kahale. He had led the cavalry on a circuitous loop that would eventually place them on the Gaul's rear. Kahale held his command in the center with Legio XII Fulminata. The six legions combined for over forty thousand soldiers. Two thousand of those were away under Jason. The rest were arrayed with alternating veteran legions and newly formed ones. A half mile away a Gallic chief stepped forward and raised his sword. A roar echoed across the small valley and the fifty thousand tribesmen began their march across the field. Michael shifted his grip on the gladius in its sheath in nervousness. The Gauls were only a quarter of a mile away. Michael made a hand motion to the officer next to him.
An order echoed down the line and thousands of bows moved skyward. Moments later their steel tipped arrows arced into the sky toward the approaching army. Screams of pain erupted from the Gallic formation as their wounded and dying mounted in numbers. Another motion of his hand and pila from thousands of legionnaires rained down upon the tribesmen. The tight formation of scuta and gladii prevented the heavy axes and swords from breaking into the Roman ranks. Michael had watched some of these soldiers fight their first battle years before. Four years later there was not a man or woman who was not a veteran. The third of five rotations of the first rank of cohorts had occurred and the Roman line was another ten feet behind their original location. Which meant the Gauls were following them.
The tactic of rotating the forces was different this time. Instead of forcing men forward, Michael was withdrawing them. The strategy was to draw the Gauls away from the bog at their rear. The distance would provide an avenue for Jason's cavalry attack. A half mile advance to the Roman lines had provided enough space to divide the enemy archers and infantry. But Michael needed his lines to give up another seventy feet to fall back enough that the horsemen could ride down the archers before attacking the infantry's rear. The fourth rotation had occurred. The fifth row of soldiers was now engaged, the rear row of the first rank of cohorts just feet from the front row of the second rank.
"Secundum gradum sto iuxta." The legionnaires of the second rank crouched slightly and braced behind their shields at the trumpeted command relay. The first two rows had already hurled their spears in support of the rank. The third through sixth rows would do the same for their compatriots. The final rotation of troops had occurred. Jason stood in his saddle. The first row of soldiers had paid a price in blood for his plan. It was also why he had sacrificed his three least experienced cohorts on the first rank. The most experienced stood in the second rank. They would have to hold. The third rank would be the ones to chase down the broken enemy. In theory at least, he thought.
"Primum gradum recedere!" The first rank of soldiers began to back step at the trumpet blast and pass through the second rank. It was more chaotic than it should have been, but they are the least experienced soldiers, Michael thought. The experienced troops of the campaign braced and held against the Gallic onslaught. Kahale nodded to the trumpeter to his side. The Gallic archers had pressed forward in order to keep the Romans within range. Six shrill notes emitted from the trumpet. A mile away and hidden in the forest a blue eyed Roman in exquisite armor gave a bloodthirsty smile and raised his spear over his head. Two thousand horsemen copied his blood lust and heeled their horses forward.
The centurions and tribunes had ordered the third rotation of soldiers when Legate Gwen sent a rider from her position on the left flank that the Roman cavalry was within sight. Now came the true test of the most veteran soldiers. They would have to reverse their course and now advance against an enemy fully claimed by blood lust and smelling a false scent of victory. He closed his eyes for a moment, Bellona protect us.
"Legione progressus!" Following the trumpeted command the drummer next to Kahale began the rhythm of destruction. Boom…boom…boom boom boom. Boom…boom…boom boom boom. The drummers were a recent addition, they had not been utilized in Camp Jupiter but Kahale found they turned what was a bloody business into a synchronous and macabre repetitive activity.
Boom… Step. Boom... Open shield. Boom. Boom. Boom. Thrust, return, close shield. Repeat. He was sure every former New Roman had forced themselves to adapt to killing humans instead of monsters. But how does one do that? At least fully do that. A Gaul had managed to break through the lines, he was covered in wounds but alive. The tribune next to Michael grabbed the wounded man by his hair, tipped his head back, and cut his throat.
The tribune wiped his blade on the dead Gaul's furs. "Fucking barbarian," he hissed and spit on the corpse. A second later an arrow pierced his throat and he fell, just as dead as the man he considered so far beneath him. Another Gaul pierced the line. Before his trumpeter could react Michael had jump from his horse and plunged his gladius through the female warriors torso. Michael turned his eyes on the nearest centurion.
"Get control of godsdamn line!" The centurion turned in fear and began berating his soldiers. Michael heard the thunder of horses' hooves but had plunged into the fray himself. Blood spurted from a Roman throat opened by a Gallic sword and covered his face. A second later it was joined by the blood of the swordsman as Michael thrust his sword through the man's open mouth and killed his battle cry and his life. The second rank had reformed.
Michael returned to his horse. The Roman cavalry had smashed into the Gallic archers and put them to flight. Now they wheeled about to face the rear of the enemy infantry. He watched Jason Grace rise in the saddle and point his gladius at the enemy. A bolt of lightning surged from the sky and decimated a score of them and the cavalry began their charge. Few Gauls seemed to notice.
"Tertii gradum impetum!" the third rank of cohorts, the second most experienced subunits, began their measured advance. The veterans were on their second full rotation, the third row fighting for the second time. Once again, the drum beat out the cadenced death that was a legions advance. Boom… Boom... Boom boom boom. Step. Open shield. Thrust, return. Close shield. Step. The screams of panic began to rise as gladii and scuta carved through the Gallic front and spatha and lance hacked through their rear.
Once the cavalry was engaged, the battle did not last long. Thousands of Gauls lay dead or dying. Mercy was given to the few that surrendered, the mercy of the blade was given to those too wounded to survive that would have suffered. Michael was walking amongst his soldiers. Admittedly they were really Jason's but he had bled with them and commanded them.
The legions began to cheer as the consul approached the center of their camp. A whisper came through the air. It began with the 12th but others swiftly picked it up until it a crescendo roared it into a chant. Spears and swords were beat against shields. Trumpeters and drummers joined the revelry. "So it begins," Michael said.
"Imperator! Imperator! Imperator!" In the Republic there had always been the bestowment of the title upon decisive generals. Augustus Caesar had perverted it to be synonymous with emperor. Michael had little faith this version of Jason would surrender the power and would became the Augustan meaning. Michael would side with Reyna to protect and prevent the chaos of a Grecian war; Legate Kahale would fight this mindset and demand loyalty to Rome above all. But, he thought, Rome the city or Rome the legion? He suspected they would soon not be the same.
Deep down he knew everyone from New Rome or camp Jupiter in this world was having the same mental argument. How does one balance the Republic against the Legion and a proclaimed Imperator? How does one know the history yet live in a time that may change it irrevocably. We know the history of a Rome that no longer exists. What the hell do we do? He saw the soldiers use shields to lift Jason above them and a flash of gold in his eyes. How do we balance the Jason we mourned losing with whatever this Jason is?
Rome
It was just past midnight when Zoë relieved Phoebe. The watch point was on the roof of a warehouse near the back alley entrance to the tunnels. The two hunters rotated watching. They knew Nico would be vital to enter the dark tunnel and could not risk him being tired from watching the tunnel all night.
"I think it's time. I'll get Nico to join you." Slowly, painfully slowly at times, Phoebe was accepting the son of Hades. "I haven't seen anyone enter or exit for hours." Zoë nodded and Phoebe vanished to collect Nico. It was three weeks since they found the tunnels. For ten days they had not returned in case the occupants were cautious after Phoebe's noise. Nico appeared from the shadows with a sick looking Phoebe.
"It is time." Nico nodded solemnly. "Phoebe will stay here to keep watch." The other Hunter looked at her gratefully. "Thee and I will enter and find the information we need." Nico nodded again. He reached out a hand and Zoë took it. Nico leaned back into the shadows and they were gone.
They reappeared just before the first turn in the tunnel. The turn pattern had been repeated until memorized. The first attempt in this darkness had been by chance, they could not afford that this time. Three lefts and a right until that room. Left, left, right, left. It took them four minutes to cover the distance in the sound constraints they placed upon themselves. They reached the final place of shadows before entering the space where the meeting was being held. Nico and Zoë met eyes and took two large breaths before edging their faces around the corner.
At the end of the chamber closest to them, a large wooden table stood with large quantities of scrolls and message tablets. At the far end a large fire burned to give light to the room. Above it hung a large weapon. "Kronos's scythe," whispered Nico. Zoë nodded in agreement. A dark antechamber branched off next to the fire.
"You go to the table, I'll go to the other end." Zoë studied him. "I can speak Latin, can't read it." She nodded in assent and they padded softly across the damp stone floor. Zoë reached her target first and immediately began to read the documents. It took Nico three times as long to cross the room and avoid the worst of the fire light. A soft rumble was coming from the darkened chamber. Nico froze and sidestepped into a hidden nook. He was close enough now to see smaller passages branching out from the corner of the main room next to dark antechamber. He eased forward again. His foot scraped against stone. A scratching sound echoed throughout the chamber.
Zoë's face shot toward the darkened chamber. Nico froze in place and slowly turned his face to the same place fearing if he moved too often his neck would crack and create that much more noise.
Nothing changed the rhythmic rumble coming from the chamber. Zoë returned to reading documents. Her eyes were flying across pages, attempting to find anything important. She kept seeing a drawing of a spear. Who the Hades is this guy?
She heard a shuffle behind her and spun her hands dropping to the dual hunting knives around her waist. Throughout her time in Rome Zoë had managed ways to hide the knives in plain sight. She saw nothing immediately, but then her eyes caught a stone that seemed out of place. Its shadow did not match the light. As she approached it a cleverly designed passageway revealed itself. She slowly pied the corner. Using distance she moved her line of sight to peer down the whole hallway before she entered it. At the end of the passageway was an iron barred cage. A pitiful looking creature huddled in the bottom of it.
Zoë inched forward. She still held the knives in her hand. The being shuddered. It was unclothed and heavily bruised. It shuddered again against the damp cold. Its hair was long and stringy. It was curled against the stone floor of the cage. Kaleidoscopic eyes turned to Zoë, then turned quickly, and the being flinched at the sight of someone in close proximity. Zoë sheathed the knives. She did not recognize the being. It crawled away until its near translucent skin was pressed against the back of the cage.
"I am not one of them," Zoë hissed. The being did not respond. "I have been looking for you," she lied, even though she had hoped to find the girl, she was more concerned in whoever the one in charge was. Still yet the being did not respond. "I am here to help the girl being used to control the friend of someone dear to me." The being did nothing. "I am the daughter of Percy Jackson. Let me help you." The being shot her eyes to Zoë and they latched onto her face.
The being opened her mouth but no sound came out. Zoë was studying the lock and began to use the tip of the knife to begin silently plying the tumblers of the lock. The lips continued to move but only a low moan came out. Zoë studied the girl. Her own mouth dropped open and no sound came out. The lock clicked open. Zoë extended a hand and the girl hesitantly took it. The girl collapsed against her and Zoë caught her. The girl mouthed a thank you and then tried to find another way to say it. Zoë stilled her.
"They cut out your tongue. I know what you mean. We will get you out. We will get us to Percy." The girl nodded.
Nico began to edge forward again. Closer to the fire his sight was beginning to punch through the glare that had shrouded the corner. Sleeping there was a large figure on a rough bed. The figure's back was too Nico, but the figure was at least ten or twelve feet tall. The size of the figure was not what caused Nico to begin backpedaling. The fifteen feet of celestial bronze and wood lay under the figure's arm. The shaft looked to be two inches in diameter and made of ash, more broad than any human could use. The sauroter was at least nine inches in length and sturdily built. Meanwhile the leaf-shaped blade was serrated and nearly fifteen inches. It was a blade designed to strike and slash, to kill with ease. It was a spear designed for one person, The Piercer. Nico whispered the name softly. "Bob."