Legion.
As the Gallic warrior screamed, his deep-blue eyes blazing with rage, Gaius thrust his sword neatly over the brim of his shield, and plunged the tip into the man’s mouth. His expression changed suddenly with the realization that, despite his, many years as a proud warrior, and the victories he must have achieved, meant nothing when his end came quickly, and without proper challenge.
Gaius felt the faint resistance as his sword struck flesh. He pushed with short-lived effort, forcing the blade, now caked with blood and little pieces of flesh, out of the nap of the man’s neck.
Gaius withdrew his sword a fraction of a second later, pulling with it a spray of crimson mist and teeth. The whole action lasted less than a fraction of a second before Gaius ducked his head back down under his shield, trusting his capable helmet to keep him safe from counter attack.
The Gaul’s feet buckled out from under him. He was dead without another sound uttered. It did not take, but a second before a new opponent took up position, as a taller barbarian drove his sword down toward Gaius’ head. The shield took the brunt of the attack, denting where the hard iron blade struck, which forced Gaius’ to lose his position for a moment as his shield dropped a few inches.
The second Gaul was worse than the first: massive broad shoulders, extending down into muscles that seemed forged in fire. This man had blonde hair, better cut and a neatly trimmed beard, which was braided. He too was bare-chested; something that marveled Gaius as, he and many Romans didn’t seem able to adjust to the bitter cold. The man’s chest featured a looping blue marking, extending from the left shoulder and wrapping around his back. He wielded no shield, only the long two-handed iron sword, which he raised over his head and drove it down once more, like a huntsman rooting a tree.
Gaius, even as large, young and strong as he, faulted for a moment when his shield received the blow. His arm which held it, felt like mush under the assault, but he again managed to hold his position.
Gaius reached his sword up once again as the large barbarian pulled back to attack once more. However, his aim was not true as the blade only cut across the man’s left cheek — deeply, drawing a torrent of blood, but not enough to sway the man from rethinking his attack.
Once more, a third blow came, a bit more off centered, which did nothing to compromise Gaius’ defense. However, now, the man used the length of his weapon to his advantage, pulling back far enough that Gaius could not strike again with his gladius.
He did not have too as the large Gaul was struck dead-center by a javelin, which was tossed by the legionnaire behind Gaius, when opportunity presented itself.
The Gaul looked dumbfounded for a moment, and then his eyes filled with a sudden rush of anger as he grabbed the wooden shaft of the javelin, and forcefully tried to remove it. This caused him obvious pain, more than any man seemed capable of dealing with. Even so, despite the man’s strength, the triangle-shaped iron head could not be easily pulled from his flesh, as only the loose wooden base broke free.
Regardless of the two-foot iron shaft sticking out from his chest, the Gaul roared with unequaled anguish as he charged forward — blood already beginning to seep from the corner of his mouth.
Gaius did not wait till the man to bore down on him. He plunged his sword forward. Its tip caught the man’s throat, tearing easily through the soft flesh.
Gaius twisted the blade as he had been trained, before he withdrew it. The gash widened with the action, drilling a hole through the man’s neck as blood oozed like water from a spick.
Still, even with the killing blow, the Gaul attempted to advance, but now as life-given blood poured from his wounds, his strength left his arms as the heavy sword fell to the rocky ground.
Gaius attacked again, slashing this time. The bloodied tip of his sword sliced across the barbarian’s face, carving across his right cheek in an upward arch, tearing through his noise and rupturing his left eye, before it cut through the white bone of the man’s skull.
Even before his body dropped onto the ground, another man’ took his place. Gaius could hardly fathom the relentless onslaught. His men, his cohort and the auxiliaries they protected were in formation, ready for the attack. And despite early loses, they held firm. However, he couldn’t imagine what the rest of the legion was going through. Sempronius obviously did not heed Valerius’ warnings of a possible ambush. Unable to form ranks and properly defend their position, even the well trained Roman discipline could do nothing against the brutality of the Gallic horde. Man-for-man the barbarians from the north were stronger fighters: raised from childhood to be warriors and hunters. They knew no fear, and welcomed death. The Romans weren’t seasoned soldiers, nor was their commitment completely given to the legions. They were called upon by the Senate: farmers, freedmen, craftsmen, fishermen, poor and the rich alike. Gaius and the Sixth, among a few other legions across the Republic, practiced soldiering as their livelihood. Still, unlike the restless tribesmen from the north, warfare was not a daily exercise for the men of Rome. Like Gaius, the majority were untested and unprepared for the reality of war, no less facing an enemy that craved their lives — coveting every head like trophies.
Gaius felt a wetness growing at his feet. At first, he feared the river might have risen, but upon careful glance downward, he saw that much of the snow had turned bright red as blood pooled from the hundreds of bodies that fell before the Roman wall. It drizzled into the water behind the Roman lines and joining the clear stream, which soon ran crimson as the first signs of Roman dead floated downriver.
Gaius reacted again, this time feeling a sharp sting against the side of his brow. Something grazed him, what it was, he did not know. In response, he instinctively thrust his sword forward blindly. Once more, he felt the touch of human flesh against the cold iron of his sword, and again, he pushed, sending the tip deeper into whoever had wondered before the gladius.
He lost track of time. Had minutes gone by, or hours? There was no way of telling. However, his arms and legs began to strain. He was as fit as any man could be, and he was still young, in his prime, yet he felt old and tired with the weight of his sword and shield feeling like raw iron. It was then in the back of his mind he thought he heard the sound of a loud whistle, which blew in a preordain pattern.
Without even thinking, before his mind processed what the call meant, the moment a hand touched his right shoulder Gaius withdrew from his guarded stance, and turned his body as the man behind him rushed forward. This action was repeated by every Roman soldier who held the frontline, which were replaced by the man behind them.
Gaius collapsed onto his knees as he was pulled to the back of the formation, as did many other legionnaires, who ignored the cold rushing water, which provided the only solid ground for them to rest on without fear of attack.
Gaius’ body looked as if he had been working in a butcher's shop after fresh game had been brought in. His head and lower half, from his knees to his feet were plastered in bright red, which dripped from the brim of his helmet. It was only then that he seemed to notice the fowl coppery taste of Gallic blood that has washed into his mouth. He couldn’t help but swallow it during the battle, which now he threw up, which included everything he had eaten this morning. He was not alone in this action as dozens of other soldiers did the same.
It was then that a boy ran up to him — another dozen dispatched to other soldiers. Each of them carried water-skins, which they handed to the legionnaires who had been retired from the frontline.
Gaius took several long swigs, spiting the first mouthful out as he tried to rinse the taste of blood from his throat, to no avail.
He stared down for just a moment at the boy, no older than fourteen. He was a servant of the legion; destine to wear the armor in a few short years, if he lived long enough. The lad’s face, ripe with youthfulness, bared eyes of terror and panic. However, the boy did his duty where he was asked without question. Gaius couldn’t help but pity him for having to see this day, so young, but he figured it was best to get it over with now than later. At least, he would know what to expect when he took up the shield and sword.
By now, some sense had returned as Gaius turned and looked upon his cohort, which continued to fight. The clattering of swords and the cries of wounded and dying men filled the pristine morning. He collected himself, quickly falling back in line behind the ranks. He would yell encouragements to the men before him, barking orders of support, and issuing men to plug holes where dead Romans eventually fell. And then, how much time, he did not know he was back in the front as the ranks continued to shift, to allow rested men to again reform the shield wall — fighting the ceaseless wave of barbarian Gauls.
By this time, Gaius’ actions were mechanical. The fear he felt when the battle started was drowned out by his will to survive. Eventually, the ground became littered with fallen Gauls, which further waves of attackers were finding it increasingly difficult to advance through.
