A distinctive crack of a gunshot rolled through the Legion camp, jerking half the camp from their sleep and into a vigilant awareness as they waited for any follow-up. Sentries scanned the wasteland for any source but seemed to many to come from within the camp itself. A howl and the shout of "Assassins!".
Men leapt for their weapons and armour as the Legate's personal guard rushed for his tent. Two bodies lay slumped at the entrance – Praetorian's by their dress, assigned to guard the Legate as he slumbered. The Legionaries threw themselves through the entrance to protect their commander, swords bared and many only half dressed.
The bunk was on its side, blood sprayed across the sheets and Cato Viator stood in the middle of the room a bloodied machete in his hand. Three bodies were scattered around the room, all bearded and wearing the garb of slaves – one had a gun in his hand and a dagger now embedded in his throat whilst the other carried machetes and bore the obvious slashes at the throat from Cato's gladius and bite from his cryberdogs who now licked the blood from their noses in the corner. The Legate himself had a graze in his upper arm, the gunshot – most of those now present assumed. A pair of cuts on his forearm were also evident, defensive wounds evidently, going by the blood on the dead men's weapons. Cato was breathing heavily as he glared at the men.
"How the hell did they manage to get into my tent without being noticed?" He growled at them. Most of them had the good sense to look abashed. "I want the camp turned out – every tent searched, anyone suspect is to be interrogated and anyone responsible is to be flayed. Now go!" He barked the last command at them and the soldiers ran out and spread the word whilst three pairs each grabbed a body by the legs and dragged them into the dark.
The orders were passed to the centurions (or the senior Decanii in the three centuries where their leader had died in the assault or lay on their deathbeds, stubbornly clinging to life, as was the case with Centurion Laebo) and within five minutes every single Legionary who still had the power of mobility was assembled by century before their tents. Every single man not on guard duty or in the infirmary was accounted for and so while told to be kept on alert they were dismissed back to their tents as Cato's personal century began their search of the camp – checking with each of the sentries and turning out the slaves for a harsh night time questioning.
The only remaining Praetorians – Septimus and another called Pulcher - took up positions outside Cato's tent along with four men of his century, each one appreciating that they had not been on duty earlier that night for they would have had their throats opened by either the assassins or by Cato for letting them slip past them.
Soon all the slaves were accounted for and so the search for how the men might have gotten into the camp began in earnest and in no time a series of tracks were found leading out of the camp and to a small cave where several changes of clothes were found along with an NCR radio. This much was reported to Cato around the same time a runner was spotted on the horizon, the letter in his satchel bearing dark news from Nova Roma.
"Men of the Legion!" Cato's voice rang out with its usual harshness to every man of his host as the sun rose to its apex. "We have fought and we have won – thus is the life of a Legionary." A murmur of approval rippled through the host. "But for our cowardly enemy this is not so and instead they rely on such underhanded tactics as I witnessed last night…" A growl of anger from the Legionaries. Cato held up his hands "But I was not their only target – news has reached me from the capital. Caesar is dead."
Silence engulfed the army, each man stood stunned. The death of Caesar was not something they had ever anticipated dealing with – he was the Son of Mars and he would not leave the Legion until its mission was done. The silence did not last long though, men began to shout. "What happens now?" Was asked by over half of the men in a dozen variations. "Cato! Cato for Caesar!" Others shouted. "Lanius!" and "Vulpes!" were chanted by others. Men break ranks and argue with each other, many looking close to blows or drawing their blades.
"Silence!" Cato snarled in his loudest parade-ground voice and almost let a smirk rise to his lips as it had an instant effect on the men. "Return to formation!" The men sullenly returned to their crisp, clean, lines. "Vulpes Inculta died in the same attack and the line of succession is clear!" he stared down hard at the men, a few who had shouted his name had the good sense to look ashamed. "Lanius will lead us. As the closer force we shall march to Nova Roma and secure it from attack until Legate Lanius can arrive and take Caesar's throne." Cato's eyes scanned the crowd, daring anyone to contradict him. "We march in an hour, dismissed." To a man they snapped their salutes and marched off, grateful for the commands that allowed them to latch onto the semblance of order in their world that seemed to be falling apart around them.
Lanius' boots stomped their way down the rough path at a pace that seemed excessive even to his own personal guard. They had been at this relentless pace for almost the whole day and the Legate showed no signs of slowing down. He was like a man possessed ever since the news of Caesar's death, and the attempt on Cato's life – security was doubled and his personal century was to mobilise themselves for at most a five day march to Nova Roma, Lanius hoped to make it in twice the speed the march north had been.
That along with his unwillingness to abandon a campaign was why the rest of the host had been left to fight the 80's under the command of Centurion Marcus. Lanius would make a quick pace to capital and secure the loyalty of the garrison cohorts and if Cato did not accept his authority then he would be forced to.
The rest of the first cohort would follow if need be but in their current state the pace set by Marcus would be unable to match that of Lanius' personal century. Among the rest of the army morale had already been low – a forced march followed by a campaign against an enemy who would not fight them did no wonders for it with the news of Caesar's death bringing many to a low that Lanius had never seen before, not in Legionaries. It was the dejected look of defeat that settled on men after they had lost hope – it was a look for the enemies of the Legion as everything they fought to protect was taken from them, to see it in the eyes of a Legionary was unnatural.
Lanius pushed such thoughts from his mind and continued on his march. Cato would likely beat him to Nova Roma but the insolent profligate could not be given the opportunity to entrench himself so now four groups of twenty men from his personal century, each accompanied by a pair of Praetorians marched south on separate paths – any potential assassins would have to figure out which was his first before they could strike.
"Sir?" Naevius strode forwards to match his pace. "The men cannot keep up this pace for much longer – they need to rest." The Legionary's voice was as close to pleading as his stoicism would allow. Lanius let a slight growl out as he surveyed the trees around him.
"There is a pre-war campsite we passed on our journey north, we will stop and rest there once we reach it." He said in a tone that brooked no discussion. Naevius being the closest thing Lanius had to being someone who was other than a mere subordinate knew to give him some space and took his place in the column where he told his comrades the news – something which was met with sighs of contentment.
"Now." A raspy voice that was almost a whisper on the wind called out and the dark dead forest was filled with a light and noise the like of which it had seen in centuries.
From among the trees over two dozen machine gunners and half as many riflemen opened fire upon the small column. Naevius' throat was ripped open as his chest, legs and arms were hit by bullets. Even as he fell to the ground bullets continued to rip into his body. Along the line it was the same with every man, most could not even turn to face their enemy before they were cut down. Lanius at least had his sword in his hand and was facing the flashing muzzles as his legs gave out beneath him and his armour was rend inwards.
"Cease fire!" The raspy voice called out. Bullets continued to tear into already dead bodies. "Stop shooting, you sons of bitches!" The voice shouted again and eventually the men got the hint, even if it did take a slap to the head to make the last half deaf gunner to stop.
Lanius – defiant to the end – swayed on his knees as his entire escort lay dead in the dirt. A ghoul emerged from the trees, flanked by two lumbering Mutants (one wearing a gardening hat that even in this situation Lanius found darkly humorous).
"Any last words, Legate?" Asked the ghoul as dozens of men and women emerged from the woods. A rumbling noise came from beneath the mask and the onlookers half expected a roar and for the Monster of the East to throw himself at them. Instead blood dribbled from the bottom of his helmet and he fell face first into the dirt.
Raul tapped the body with his foot and put three rounds into the skull. He had considered asking Dog to stomp on him but that seemed disrespectful to do that to a man who had remained upright with that many bullets in him.
"The deal is done." He called to the men behind him. "Now you take your cars, go back across the border and enjoy your payment." And without another word being said the 80's walked to their cars half a mile away and prepared to organise the general retreat from Legion territory.
Three weeks later
Vexillarius Porcino stood, Cato's wolf standard in hand and with his back to the wall of the hallway to the Aces Theatre (which due to the top three floors of the Lucky 38 being uninhabitable now acted as the Temporary headquarters of Caesar's Legion). Two tribals from the Boomers stood to his left, as stiff backed as any Legionary. Every Centurion from west of the Dam stood in the room before him, representing a great bulk of the Legion's fighting men with only the garrisons from across the Empire being unrepresented. Tempers were running high and many seemed near to blows – they were unsure of their future, afraid almost and when it came to the primal instinct the option of flight had long since been trained out of them. A Centurion from Lanius' host began shouting at a newly promoted Centurion from the Nova Roma garrison and the two advanced on each other, bawling the same argument that had been used half a hundred times in the Theatre already.
The men got close enough that their spittle was landing on each other with a fight only being narrowly avoided when the former man's superior; Centurion Marcus stepped in and pushed the men apart as he had been forced to do near twenty times already. If Cato's plan in keeping them waiting was to piss them off and make them damn near murderous he had definitely succeeded. Praetorian Septimus stood by the door with his few remaining comrades, glancing to Porcino every minute or so for any sign of Cato.
"Why is Gaius Magnus not present or any of the Phoenix garrison?" demanded one of the Centurions, a murmur of support rose up from several of the Centurions and before long more arguments broke out and once more Centurion Marcus was in the middle of it, attempting to defuse the situation.
One man pushed an opponent into a table, both men roaring at the top of their lungs at one another. Marcus stepped in between the two in time to catch a blow from his blindside to his temple. Stumbling back he tripped over another Centurion's foot and fell to the floor. Instantly men threw themselves at each other – many at the man who knocked Marcus to the floor whilst others rushed to said man's defence and a few were simply hit by stray blows and began to fight whoever came up against them.
"How was your time working for the NCR?" Cato's voice, as it often did, came out of nowhere. The Legate stood observing the madness, in his full armour with his wolf mask under his arm, his faithful hounds sitting at his side. It always astounded Porcino how a man dressed as he did always managed to move so quietly. The Vexillarius continued to stare straight ahead.
"It was an easy role." He answered. "the doctor fell for it without much skepticism."
"Well evidently." Cato commented dryly. "Else I don't think he would have gone blowing himself up." Porcino felt a slight smile creep onto his face. "Was everything else sorted out?"
"Those who could not be convinced were disposed of." The Vexillarius answered.
"Good. Now I suppose it's time we put an end to this idiocy." The Legate gestured to the fighting Centurion, none of whom had drawn their blades – not even the dumbest one was stupid enough to turn it into a bloodbath.
Porcino strode forwards into the Theatre and began to thump the base of the standard against the floor. That got the men's' attention, though a few die-hards continued to throw their punches.
"Legate Cato Viator!" That ended it instantly as the men pulled themselves apart and snapped their salutes at the superior officer who now marched through the doors, flanked by his entourage of his dogs, the tribals, a pair of priestesses and ten of his personal guard – the only non-officers in the room save Porcino.
"Are you profligates to fight your brothers at such a time?" Cato demanded and getting no reply from the ashamed officers. "You are men of the Legion, now act like it." The Legate barked as he took his place at the head table.
Silence engulfed the room as every Centurion awaited what would come next.
"Brothers, this is our darkest hour." Cato began. "Caesar dead, Lanius dead, Vulpes Inculta dead, my own life the target of such a cowardly attempt. Were we lesser men this would have destroyed us." He let the words hang in the air a minute. "But we are no lesser men, we are Legion!" He snarled the last three words.
"Legion!" Several Centurions shouted in unison. All were men from the garrison or from Cato's campaign, Porcino noted.
"We will march on! We will continue and we will fulfil Mar's mission!"
"Mars!" The same men shouted, joined in by a few others this time.
"But now, our enemies are at our gates – we must strike back and avenge our dead." There were nods of agreement all across the Theatre. "But for that, Centurions – we need a Caesar." This was the moment they had been waiting for, the moment they knew was coming. "I will be Caesar." He stated – this, they all knew, was not a suggestion, he was not throwing his hat in the ring – he was stating fact. If anyone wished to contradict this fact Cato's eyes dared them to now. But none did.
"What if the garrisons to the east refuse to accept you?" The dishevelled Marcus asked what many were thinking.
"Then they will be cut down – by the sword or by my auxiliaries' thunder." As if one cue the two Boomers took a step forwards. Silence filled the room as they digested the response – they had all seen the destructive power of the bomber and the precise artillery.
"Hail Caesar!" Porcino barked without prompting. Cato looked almost surprised, as he snapped his head round to look at the Vexillarius.
"Hail Caesar!" One of the Centurions followed on. "Hail Caesar! Hail Caesar!" More and more joined in until the chant could be heard by the guards on the street. Cato let the smirk rise to his face as the two Priestesses came alongside him – one planting the laurel wreath on his head whilst the other muttered a prayer to Mars.
"Hail Caesar!" Porcino roared once more, thrusting the standard into the air, the wolf was victorious and nothing could stop it now.