Final Campaign

on for the time it takes to walk amile, men were more or less leaning against each other, makinghalf-hearted thrusts and slashes over, under or between theirshields. Gradually, the roar and din of the fighting lessened tothe sound of panting, grunted curses, and the occasional shout of aman either scoring a lucky blow, or being unlucky himself. Becauseof the narrow front, we had less than two full Centuries of theFirst Cohort actually engaged with an enemy, with another twoimmediately supporting the combatants by pushing against theirbacks to brace the men actually doing the fighting. The only spotwhere there was room that was not already filled was a small pocketwhere I had originally been standing, next to the ruined gateway onthe left side of the breach, tucked around the side of the wallwhere the rubble had settled more evenly. It was out of sight ofthe Serdi, but only if men climbed to it from the outside, notusing the ladder route, instead scrambling up the far left edge ofthe pile next to the wall. Pulling Macrinus aside, I kept my voiceas low as possible to tell him what I was thinking.

“I want a dozen of your very best men fromthe entire Legion, as quickly as you can get them,” I told him.Making sure not to make any gestures or in any way indicate what Iwas thinking and where I wanted the men positioned, I described myplan. I cannot say that he looked overly impressed, or evenoptimistic that it would work. Still, he left immediately, pushinghis way through the men. I turned back to the fighting, steppingforward to help bolster the line where a man had been shoved back astep. He gave a grateful glance over his shoulder, earning a rap onthe helmet from me.

“Keep your eyes to the front, you idiot, orI’ll skin you myself.”

Before he snapped his head back around, Isaw his eyes go wide, realizing it was me behind him, my presencesuddenly seeming to infuse him with new energy. This gave me anidea, and I mentally kicked myself for not thinking of itearlier.

“Is this the best the 8^th cando?”

I sounded as scornful as I could, shoutingthe words out as an insult.

“I guess your Primus Pilus was full ofcacwhen he was bragging about you and he said you were thematch of any Legion of Rome that ever marched.”

I threw my head back, roaring with laughter,but it was as laced with contempt and scorn as my words had been,and I saw the men in the second and third ranks glaring in mydirection, their faces full of anger.

“What I see wouldn’t scare a Cohort ofSuburan whores! You’ve been standing here fucking about, lettingthese cock-sucking pederasts get the better of you!”

Even the Thracians seemed to be surprised atmy outburst, momentarily stopping their flailing away at our men,seemingly content to just lean shield to shield against theiropponents and gape at the spectacle of a good old-style Romantongue lashing.

“That’s not true!” I heard someone shoutfrom the rear ranks.

“Then prove it!” I roared. “Prove thatyou’re worthy of even being mentioned in the same breath as Legionslike Caesar’s 10^th!”

“You heard the Prefect, boys!”

A Centurion farther down the line, perhapsthirty paces away from my spot, yelled out. “Show him what you’remade of! Kill these cock-sucking sons of whores!”

A low-pitched, guttural growl seemed to riseup from the ground, vibrating through my legs as the men of the8^th suddenly found reserves of energy they did notrealize they had, fueled by this slur on their honor. The noiselevel rose dramatically, helped by the voices of the men, but morefrom the clashing of metal on metal and wood created by the renewedfrenzy of combat. All lethargy and fatigue seemed to haveevaporated, and it was not long before the underlying sounds werepunctuated by the sounds of men being struck down. Blades wereflickering forward in sudden jabs from between the men’s shields,more sensed than seen as the Legionaries renewed the assault. Thisburst of energy seemed to catch the Thracians somewhat off guard,as it sometimes happens in battle when a lull occurs and men arefooled into thinking that the fight will just peter out, as if eachside would lose interest. I know that this has happened onoccasion, particularly with barbarian tribes whose blood runsextremely hot, then cools just as quickly. Not with Romans,however; we finish what we start, even if it is more a matter ofplodding forward, grimly hanging on, counting on our training andconditioning to wear our enemy down. That was what was finallybeginning to happen, as we managed to inflict enough damage thatthe Thracians were forced backward by the presence of the bodies oftheir men whom we had dispatched, no longer giving them room tostand. This was a development composed of almost equal portions ofgood and bad; good because we were wearing the Serdi down, but badbecause the men who now stepped in to fill the void in the Thracianline were those previously unable to push their way to the frontand therefore were fresh. Fortunately, the Centurions were able toget a semblance of relief organized for our own men, despite it notbeing nearly as regular as it would normally be, and the sound ofwhistles blasted above the clashing sound of the fighting. Menpushed off, finally able to stagger back toward the rear to get achance to rest, many of them with minor and some with seriouswounds. It did not help matters that the day was now well advancedand had grown hot, particularly around the breach where the crushof bodies generated even more warmth. I had to mop my brow severaltimes, worrying for what was about to happen, since I could notafford to have my vision obscured at all, but without my helmetliner, there was nothing to soak up the moisture. The relieved menwere greedily sucking down the contents of their canteens and,despite being thirsty, I knew better than to ask for a drink. Goinginto battle, men are instructed to have only water or vinegar intheir flasks, no Centurion wanting a drunken man in the line, butit was one of the most ignored and least