Gallia Invicta

the bile away. Reaching up with a shaking arm, he unlaced his helmet and let it fall, blood-soaked and dented, to the ground with the rest of the detritus.

Blinking away more of the sweat and blood, he reached down for the crimson linen scarf around his neck, studied it until he found a relatively dry and clean section, and wiped his face, noting with surprise the sheer quantity of blood that was still there.

He looked around him, his terror having metamorphosised into something different; something beyond mere fear. Rusca was going to die today and now that he knew it, he felt curiously prepared. The legionary who had succumbed to the axe blow had died so instantaneously he couldn’t possibly have felt the pain for longer than a heartbeat.

The cohort was collapsing around him.

What had begun as five hundred men had perhaps halved already, and two areas of the shield wall were precariously thin.

As he watched, contemplating what he could do to help, there was a second violent clash in that same spot, huge powerful warriors leaping onto and across the shield wall with apparent unconcern for their own life. Suddenly, like the bursting of a dam, the shield wall gave, and three wild, growling men burst through.

The centurion, somewhere off to Rusca’s left, called his orders and the breech was quickly sealed, men pushing from either side until they connected and formed a solid front once again. At a second order, the few free capsarii in the centre, ready to tend to any wounded men who were passed back inside from the line, grasped their swords and stepped forward to intercept the three Gauls who were making straight for the man in the burnished cuirass, clearly the senior officer.

It took Rusca a moment to realise that they were rushing to protect him and he felt a fresh wave of shame rise on his cheeks. There were men he had met this past half year, men who occupied the same position as he in other legions, who would think nothing of charging, bare-handed, into the enemy at this point. Yet here he was being nothing but a burden to the men under his command.

For a moment, the fatalism that had clouded his thoughts these last moments threatened to drive him into action. It would be nice to go to the Elysian fields knowing that he had made one heroic stand with his men and fought like a soldier.

Unfortunately his knees didn’t see things the same way and refused to carry him forward, instead trembling uncontrollably and threatening to make him collapse to the ground.

Four capsarii leapt in front of him, one slipping on the mess of blood, bone and vomit and crashing to the ground, causing a fresh wave of guilt and shame to batter the tribune. The other three ran at the intruders, gladius in one hand and dagger in the other, their shields already discarded to allow for medical duties.

Rusca watched, shuddering, as the men fought, stabbing, slashing and hacking at the barbarians, who returned the favour, their own swords and axes swinging and slicing. The tribune couldn’t pick out the detail in the flurry of action, his knees barely holding him upright, and the moment he realised that the capsarii had failed, his trembling legs finally gave way, bringing him to a kneeling position, as though penitent. Shuddering, he collapsed to all fours in the filth.

The capsarii had dispatched two of the Sotiate warriors, but the third seemed to be entirely unharmed as he stabbed down almost casually, ending the life of the man who had been attacking him, and then strode purposefully across toward the tribune.

The soldier who had slipped in the mess before the tribune was already picking himself up, sword in hand, ready to stand and defend his commander to the last.

“Get back!”

The capsarius jumped in shock as Rusca put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him backwards, sliding him to the rear and away from the approaching warrior.

His father had been a soldier; ten times the soldier he could ever hope to be, and had imparted a great deal of military expertise around the dinner table over the years, particularly when his uncles had been visiting. In this moment, at the end of his life, Rusca could clearly remember one such pearl of wisdom: ‘in battle, anything goes’. There is no right or wrong way. The noble warrior faced his enemy and stared him in the eye as they fought; the noble warrior would allow an opponent mercy if he sought it; the noble warrior looked after his equipment and followed his training to the letter. All good and noble, but the victorious warrior did the unexpected, kicked, bit, head-butted and dodged away. He did whatever he could to be the victorious warrior.

The great hulking barbarian stepped toward him, grinning and raising his long blade in two hands, ready to bring it down in an overhand blow that would drive it clean through the tribune and at least a foot of the earth beneath him.

Already sickened at the fact that he was on his hands and knees in his own vomit and the blood of several men, Rusca took a deep breath and threw himself flat on his front in the mess, swinging his sword arm out with all his strength as he did so.

The gladius was traditionally used for stabbing, its point vicious and its blade well made for repeated thrusts and withdrawals. The legions were trained to use them this way for efficiency and the high probability of mortal wounding with each blow, but it was not unknown, according to his father, for the blade to be used to slice, as in the horrible Macedonian conflicts a hundred years ago where tales of severed limbs had abounded.

The blow was powerful, driven by fear, desperation and a curious cold determination that had formed like ice from the tears of his panic. As the Gaul’s sword reached its apex, prepared for its deadly descent into the tribune’s back, Rusca’s gladius swept out and bit into his leg just above the ankle, the force carrying the blow deep enough to snap the bone.

The warrior gave a blood-curdling cry as his leg slipped sideways, separating from the foot above the ankle, the severed shin dropping to the turf.

The man collapsed, screaming in agony, his attack entirely forgotten.

Rusca blinked in frightened amazement as the man’s sword, relinquished in mid air, plunged point first into the earth less than a foot from the tribune’s grimy hand. Shuddering, he pushed himself back into a kneeling position and stared at his slick, crimson sword.

Suddenly an arm was beneath his shoulder, helping him to stand. His legs seemed to have regained some of their strength and he pushed himself upright without too much difficulty, turning to stare in confusion at the capsarius who had helped him. The man was saying something.

“What?”

“I said thanks for that, sir.”

The man laughed.

“Actually, what I really said, sir, was ‘bloody hell!’”

Rusca continued to stare at him blankly. The man shrugged.

“Never seen an officer fight like that, sir. Hell, I’ve rarely seen anyone fight like that!”

Rusca gave a croaky laugh.

“Better to be a living thug than a dead hero, eh?”

The capsarius nodded, grinning, as he stepped past the tribune and sank his blade into the writhing form of the one-footed Gaul, dispatching him with ease.

The tribune wiped the sweat and grime from his eyes and frowned into the fray.

“Can’t see what’s happening. Can you? I appear to have all manner of shit in my eyes.”

The capsarius laughed and squinted as he turned and took in the scene around him.

“I think we’re down to about half numbers, but a lot of those will be walking wounded; salvageable, if we can get out of here.”

Rusca raised an eyebrow.

“I wasn’t really seeking a medical opinion, man, more a tactical one.”

“’Course, sir. Think they’re thinning out. Looks like we’ve got the edge.”

The pair turned and stared as the scene up and down the valley became apparent. Ahead, the Sotiates were retreating, running as fast as they could down the valley, while Crassus and the First cohort reorganised to follow them. The enemy horse had fled already, and Galronus’ cavalry had turned and were harrying the fleeing