Note from Kanuro5: Finally it's hear, this battle was 3 years in the making and I finally did it! By all means, enjoy!

XXXVI

The Battle of Samarobriva Pt 1

Day 60 of the Campaign

Samarobriva

Cassius woke to a cascade of commotion that surrounded the Briton camp. Dawn was moving into day and with it came a relief of relative warmth that was surprising to many men. He stirred to his feet with a long yawn and emptied his bladder, his eyes following the rushing of Britons and Gauls within their camp. He stopped a running Briton and inquired, "What causes commotion?"

"Have you not heard? The Gauls are launching an attack against Samarobriva."

"What? When?"

"Now! And we attack with them."

Cassius pulled his cock back in his trousers and walked through the frenzied chaos disturbed how neither Lugotorix nor Ermanar had sent a messenger to inform him. He found Ermanar sitting on a large stone; he was whistling a tribal song as several of his men were helping him place his armor on.

"Ermanar, I have heard from gossiped lips that we are attacking the town? For what purpose was I not told?"

"Simple, because it just happened. Segovax has decided he shall attack the town immediately, he shall not wait for our king's plan. His pride has clouded his thoughts."

"And Lugotorix attacks with him?"

Ermanar clasped his greaves to his shins, "He does. He believes that with us in support, the Gauls may actually breakthrough the gate."

Cassius turned to Samarobriva, the many segments of the wooden wall were blasted down by repeated onager fire. There existed openings that were at least a good seven meters apart. At the very center of the wall stood the steel reinforced gate that was destroyed by the siege weapons, and within the gate, Cassius could see a plethora of purple shields mobilizing behind the gates. Many of the wooden huts that once stood tall in the village were burned to ash by the onagers' flaming shots, the entire village was burning.

"And that bastard, Segovax, could not have chosen to attack at night with element of surprise?"

Ermanar gave his friend an amused look of bewilderment, his expression told him how much sense Cassius' suggestion would have been, if only Segovax was smarter.

"Where is that Gaul anyhow?"

Ermanar extended his finger out down the valley. There rode the Gallic king on his brown stallion, galloping to the edge of the town where hundreds of Roman eyes were watching him. Cassius had to squint his eyes to notice that Segovax was carrying a medium-sized circular object in his hand as he galloped around Samarobriva and occasionally rearing his horse, seemingly taunting the Romans inside. When Segovax stopped to rear his horse, the Gauls from on top the hill screamed with pride.

"What is it he carries?" Cassius asked.

"The head of Lucius Julius," Ermanar smirked with a shake of his head, "To lower morale of the Romans."

"Do you believe the Romans would even recognize whose head it is?"

"At the distance he is from the village, most likely not. Maybe he should approach closer to the Romans?"

"Hmm, I would part with one of my balls if it meant those Romans possessing a single archer."

Nearly two thousand warriors sung ancestral war songs, marching down the decline of the valley. The banners of the green Gallic Boar and white Brittonic Stag blew gently within the soft frost-filled breeze. The barbaric horde stopped 200 yards shy of the ruined village. The throats of the Gauls and Britons rang out in guttural taunts compounded with the beating of their fists unto their chests. Many of the warriors from both armies were shirtless, their adrenaline and their comfort to the harsher climates shielded them from the fury of the leaders of the army made their way to the front of the army. On top their horses, Segovax, Cassius, Lugotorix, and Ermanar were dressed in their luxurious battle armor for all their men to see.

Segovax's armor was coated in grey steel as a long green cape flowed majestically down his back. His dress ensemble was completed with a long, shiny helm with a green plume placed on top. Lugotorix wore the exact same make that Segovax wore, but his color scheme was balanced with white and sky blue, his cape and the plume on top his helm were sky blue. Cassius felt it appropriate to don Lucius' armor. As he returned to Samarobriva, he dyed the crimson sections of the armor into sky blue, and he draped a luxurious blue cape over his back. Ermanar wore blue and white plaid trousers and grey ring-mail armor draped over his torso; he wore a bonze helm that somehow accented the crescent moon scar over his face. Cassius mused to himself that if the Romans were watching the four of them standing at the head of their army, they must have been pissing themselves dry.

"Finally, the time is now!" Segovax couldn't refrain from a chuckle. "They shall fall before us this time, I know such to be true!"

Lugotorix sighed, "As you say, Segovax. I still vie for the continuation of the siege. What are we to gain if we attack headlong into the Romans?"

"Samarobriva, Lugotorix. Those Romans laugh at us barbarians, they laugh at me from the safety within their walls. I hear it at the dawn and I hear it at the dusk, I can hear their damn japes louder than ever, and I've heard them since a year ago! My men openly voice talks of desertion with each passing day! No more! It ends today, Lugotorix, I have a wonderful feeling about today!"

Several of the Senatorial horns were blaring for the legionaries to assemble in formation. From his horse, Cassius could see the configuration of hundreds of purple shields lining side-by-side within the village, barring all entrance points. Despite a year of battle and sieging, this battle-fatigued army still maintained a queer look of discipline and uniformity. He wondered which Roman among them stood the Praetor, was the Praetor even alive?

"What is to be done now?" Segovax asked.

Cassius turned his head in disgust. Truly? You assemble your army to the field of battle and you have not formed a strategy? Ugh…Gauls…

"Patience, and observe. The first move of this battle shall be ours." Lugotorix said respectfully. He turned to his army and bellowed, "Head Hurlers, advance!"

Fifty Britons advance forward to the gate. As they walked past the kings, Cassius took a whiff of foulness as they passed. His head fell to their waist, which had several Roman heads attached to them as if they were belts. All 50 men wore semi-decayed Roman heads coated in quicklime around their waist—all the heads belonged to the legionaries of the Twenty-Eighth. Cassius was close to gagging in his mouth. He was a man hardened by the horrors of war and had seen a plethora of decapitated heads, but his disgust was of the Hurlers who had…an almost perversion to macabre. These men were exclusively from the Iceni tribe and were often thought mentally touched to express such curiosity in the deceased, but Lugotorix's father decided to use such horridness in battle. His father asked these "touched" men in ways to inflict psychological damage among their rival tribes, and one of the "touched" had an idea to use the heads of their enemies against their rivals in battle. But such grotesqueness did not cease there, they had the idea to coat the heads quicklime—an abundant substance that could be made with ease on the Briton Isles. The heads were heavy enough to cause injury, but the lime would ensure that when the head made contact with the flesh, severe burns would follow. Cassius almost pitied the Romans who were about to experience the onslaught of diseased heads—almost.

The Head Hurlers stopped 40 yards from the Roman lines and seized the heads from their waist by the hair. They spun their arms in a clockwise motion and heaved the heads high in the air with an underhanded toss. The Romans shifted into testudo. Cassius observed the heads bouncing of the hard shields as one would skip stones unto the water. He expected the heads not to break the Romans' shieldwall, but he smiled at what he knew would come next. After the Head Hurlers threw a third volley of heads unto the defending Romans, a mad cry of terror emanated from Samarobriva.

The back ranks of the defenders were falling out of rank in what seemed to be a fit of hysteria. Cassius could hear his king chuckling at the thought, Cassius chuckled as well. He studied the testudo up close with his time masquerading with the Twenty-Eighth, and noted a key weakness. The testudo was created with the main purpose of guarding the torso on up, not the legs. With the heads bouncing off shields and falling to the side, the legionaries' legs would inevitably bump into one of the heads coated in quicklime. The lime would eat at their exposed flesh, gnawing with the ferocity of a wolf; the men would drop their arms and scratch their legs to alleviate the maddening itch that would then develop into burns, causing it to spread to their hands and all over their body. The quicklime was a devastating psychological weapon, only expanded upon because it came in the form of their headless comrades. The screams were slowly building in magnitude, the Britons laughed.

"By Andrasta, they grow mad!" Ermanar remarked.

Lugotorix stood tall in his saddle and smirked, "This volley must remain constant to further demoralize them. Then we should attack."

"Nonsense, their ranks are already crumbling from terror. We shall attack them now!"

Lugotorix sucked his teeth, "We should wait, Segovax."

"We shall not. Look at the Romans! Their village is on fire, disease most likely runs rampant within, and their morale is low. We can break their backs here and now! Together!" The Gallic king extended his hand toward the Briton. "Are you with me?"

Lugotorix's eyes lingered on the hand, but he shook it. "I am."

Segovax sneered with gluttonous pride. "I shall bring about the Praetor's end! I shall!"

He rode to the front of his Gallic army and rallied them all. "Look upon the gluttonous Romans! They are weakened, they are pathetic! We spent an entire year fighting these shits and now it shall come to fruition! The world believes the blood of the Gaul to be dead, we have lost our homes, our women and children to Rome, but look now, Rome stands before you! We shall remind Rome and the world that the Gauls are not dead, but stronger than ever! Come with me and prove it to the Romans! Come with me and claim your vengeance! Come with me and retake my village!"

The Gauls shouted with pride and followed their king as he charged into the breech.

Cassius turned to Lugotorix, who was smirking with amusement, "Brave man, that Segovax. A fool indeed, but a brave fool. Right into the jaws of the wolf."

"My king, shall I give the command to advance?" Ermanar asked.

"Not yet. Hold the men back, let us wait until fatigue afflicts the Romans. Besides, I desire to witness how far Segovax can reach on his own valor."

Indeed, Segovax fought with valor. He led from the front on horseback with his Gallic warriors charging behind him through the snow. The heat of the moment seized their hearts and they forgot that they were sprinting through open ground in ankle high snow. They shall tire quickly, these Gauls truly do not think. Hopefully their mad fervor shall carry them through the day.

Hearing the charge of the Gauls, the Brittonic Head Hurlers withdrew, allowing the Gauls to pass them. A centurion bellowed a command, and the entire front ranks raised their pila over their shoulders and aimed at the charging horde. The centurion shouted a simple command, and the Senatorial Army loosed their pila at the Gauls.

Many fell backwards with hardened jerks and terrible screams, as if they ran into a brick wall. A pila entered Segovax's horse and he plummeted to the snow. Lugotorix held his breath, Cassius witnessed a smile grow on his face. Segovax quickly stood and charged on foot, Lugotorix's smile vanished.

From Cassius' line-of-sight, it seemed that the Gauls were making decent headway. The Gallic barbarians rushed headlong into the breach of Samarobriva, but were initially stopped by the Romans' pila. The pila tore through the Gauls, penetrating their torso and rendering their shields useless. The Senatorial Army threw another volley of pila, the Gauls reeled backwards but did not break. They ran forward and threw themselves against the purple Roman shields with abandon. They began hacking away at the shields. Several Romans began to fall under this onslaught. But it did not last long.

What Cassius assumed that Lugotorix knew was that the Army of the Senate had experience repulsing barbarian onslaughts. They stood together as one, dipped their center of gravity and held their ground. Their discipline was outstanding. Throughout the months they were held under siege, these Romans still fought with ferocity. For months they withstood attack after attack, most likely the Romans knew how each tribe fought and how to effectively counter. Here, the Senatorial Army showed their prowess.

With bestial grunts, the legionaries pushed the Gauls off of them and begun stabbing the Gallic army in their torsos and then hid behind their rectangular shields. They did not move forward, they stood their ground and worked as a singular unit, each man targeting the Gaul in front of them. Gallic bodies were beginning to accumulate at the gate of Samarobriva. The Gauls charged once more, but their clothed bodies smacked into the iron shields and steel swords of the Roman defenders.

The odor of blood, bile, and battle wafted back into the Briton ranks by the frosty wind. The Britons within the rank-and-file were fidgeting in place, many were tapping their feet as their eyes observed the violence before them. Some were even vocally addressing the battle amongst themselves, they stared at the fighting as a famished homeless man stares at a butcher's wares. Their breaths became haggard, theirs hearts were beating faster; some were even staring at their king as a hound begs scraps from its master's table.

Cassius said to him, "My king, the men grow impetuous."

"As do I. It pains me to admit, but we Britons indeed share a perverse quench for blood as do the Gauls and Germanians." Lugotorix narrowed his eyes at the battling Gauls, then turned his head back to his restless warriors who somehow managed to stay in formation. Anymore idleness and they may charge without orders, discipline can only go so far within a barbarian tribe. Lugotorix sighed with a smile, "Ermanar, new plan. We do attack. We move forth with 800 of our best men; including the Chosen Swordsmen and our Woad Warriors."

"Your will, my King."

"And, I give you the personal command of the Chosen Swordsmen."

The captain's eyes widened. His speech was soft. "My king…truly?"

The king smiled back, "Truly. You have earned such prestigious command."

Ermanar's eyes were shining. He bowed proudly. "Gratitude, my King. I shall not squander such opportunity!"

"And what of my position, my king?" Cassius asked.

"You shall stay in reserve with the remaining thousand light infantry and our chariots. I shall send a messenger if I request you to attack. Those purple-cladded Romans seem close to breaking, but they are adept in holding that village. If they manage somehow to repel us, then I shall not lose my entire army."

Cassius bowed, "As you desire, my King."

Lugotorix's horse trotted in front of his army. Cassius noted how his blonde beard shone fiercely within the rising sun's glare. The king drew his sword and asked his people with a bellow:

"Who are we?"

"The Britons!" his army answered.

"What are we?"

"The Sons of the Snow!"

"The Romans seek to claim the North. Who is the North?"

"We are the North!"

"And what shall we do?"

"Kill them all!"

"Show me!"

The Britons unearthed a ghastly war cry that could split the sky. Cassius could not help raising up his voice as well despite being held in reserve. Cassius felt as if every man was going to charge the walls of Samarobriva and cut down the Romans, and even the Gauls if they were in the way. But Lugotorix had disciplined his men well. He ordered his chosen 800 to march forward, no man shall sprint forward, all in order to save their stamina when they actually reached the Romans.

Ermanar spurred his horse and shouted a command to the Chosen Swordsmen; they began marching in disciplined fashion, similar to the Twenty-Eighth. Ermanar turned around in his saddle and smirked at Cassius. "I pray that you do not arrive too late."

Cassius smirked back, "I mind not if I'm absent at the beginning as long as I am there for the end."

It was true. Cassius truly didn't care whether he would be held in reserve or be in Lugotorix's vanguard, as long as it meant he would survive. He had put himself at considerable risk in spying on the Twenty-Eighth; each day with the Legion, he feared he may expose himself inadvertently and fall to the mad Lucius' tortures. To Cassius, he had endangered himself more than any barbarian in this war, and he believed that the goddess Andrasta should bestow fortune upon him for taking such risks. He would stand proudly in reserve until he was called since it allowed him to stay from the danger of the Senatorial Army.

As they advanced slowly, the Woad Warriors and Warband were chanting with animalistic grunts, but not the Chosen Swordsmen, not those 100 men who walked noiselessly as death. The Briton Army continued with their march until they were 20 meters behind the Gallic lines. A Briton horn sounded and the Gauls fell back. The Senatorial legionaries cheered and beat their chests in "triumph", but quickly ceased as they gauged a new caliber of barbarians they never witnessed. Before their eyes, they witnessed the Chosen Swordsmen within the front ranks of the Briton army.

From the reserve, Cassius could spot his friend, Ermanar, leaping off his horse and rallying the Chosen Swordsmen with a war cry. The Chosen Swordsmen charged with Ermanar at the head. The Roman line buckled under the attack. The Swordsmen were bringing down their swords on top of the scutums, and blocked with quick efficiency against the Roman gladii. For a while it seemed to be simply shields pushing against shields with a mix of profanity and the thrusting of swords to see which side possessed the higher resolve. That side seemed to be the Britons.

The Swordsmen were pushing the legionaries back into the village. The Britons were fresh, the Romans were not. The purple shields of the legionaries were giving ground but still stuck to a strong defense. The Legions' mobility were slowed in the snow, but the snow did not hamper the Swordsmen at all; to the Romans, they seemed to be moving with such grace that the snow might not have been there at all for the Swordsmen. The Roman line was bending in the center, so the Senatorial commander ordered the flanks of the legions to consolidate in the bank ranks of the center of the line to prevent a breakthrough. But it still could not stop the Swordsmen from pushing the legionaries back.

As the legionaries begin to back away, the Woad Warriors slipped through the openings of the walls and began pouring into the village, leaping upon Roman shields and bashing them with huge two-handed greatswords. The Romans' resolve faltered at the sight of these blue-painted demons wielding behemoth-like weaponry. A Woad Warrior's greatsword cleaved a Roman through his helmet—splitting his skull open like firewood—all the way to the Roman's neck. The Chosen Swordsmen and Woad Warriors had the legionaries at bay, Lugotorix ordered the rest of his 800 to attack; Segovax led his remnant in a last ditch charge at the Romans. The morale of the Senatorial Army dropped.

Fifteen minutes of this butchery continued on as Cassius sat comfortably on his horse, untouched from the chaos of battle that raged within the village. He was even peeling an apple with his dagger as his eyes watched as Blue and Green figures raged with the Purple figures that were being pushed back to the very center of the town—leaving a trail of corpses in their wake. He smirked as he chewed on an apple piece, victory was close, he was sure of it. And best of all, he didn't have to get his hands soaked in Roman blood. Why must they still fight on? What do the Romans have to gain? They all should just fall on their swords, it'll save them for what Lugotorix will have in store for them…it matters not in the end, let them die by our swords…He sliced off another piece of the apple and ate it brazenly, What a bore…the Swordsmen have made quick work of them, well at least we shall have this accursed town back in our han—

Ba-Ba-Bum, Ba-Ba-Buuuuum-Ba-Bummmm

All eyes turned towards the west, towards the hill. Cassius stopped smacking on his apple. What was that? Horns? No, it couldn't be.

Ba-Ba-Bum, Ba-Ba-Buuuuum-Ba-Bummmm

No…no they cannot… Horns. Roman horns. The exact cadence played for the marching of a legion. The color fled from Cassius' face.

A lone rider appeared on the crest of the western hill. A small figure on a massive stallion, his crimson cape flowed in the wind. Cassius spurred his horse closer to the hill. He had to see if it was him. It couldn't have been…he was left for dead at the ambush, him and his brother…Right? Their carrion was left for the foxes and crows! They were surrounded by Cherusci; there was no possibility of—

The figure reared his horse and made a cry that was loud enough to be heard beneath the valley.

Hundreds upon hundreds of men came from up over the crest and were now marching down the hill. Their armor was crimson and they bore bright crimson shields in front of them. They marched with purpose and in cadence to the rhythm of war horns. A lone man marched by the side of these men, from what Cassius could make out, he was wearing an animal pelt over his armor, he was carrying a banner that bore the Roman numeral: XXVIII. No…no…Andrasta, why, why have you forsaken me? Why…

The horns blared with a triumphant melody, hundreds of soldiers descended down the hill in battle formation. They were marching towards Samarobriva…no, they were marching towards Cassius. What was he to do? Lugotorix's best men were already in Samarobriva, probably too lost within the fighting to notice the Twenty-Eighth. Ermanar was in the city too. Nobody was there by his side, nobody to give him orders, it was his time to take command.

"Runner!" Cassius shouted. A man came to his side. "Run to the king, tell him the Twenty-Eighth is upon us! With haste!"

The runner took off sprinting through the snow. The Briton army that were outside the walls looked on at the legion with panicked fear. Their jaws were trembling; they were slowly backing away from the hill.

"They're just Romans. Do not quake, we've defeated them before and we shall again!" Some of the men took heart in Cassius' rally, but not enough to change the entire morale. An enemy they believed they destroyed was back from the dead and to them, seemed to possess endless numbers of legionaries.

"Go to them, overtake them and crush them! This is the Age of the Britons, and it shall be built on the carcasses of Romans! Go to them and swarm them! Give them a war cry!"

The warband glanced at one another, their soft eyes began to harden and they unleashed a tribal cry of courage. The cry was contagious. Soon most of the Britons in reserve began chanting their cry, and at Cassius' command, the Britons began charging to the hill to once again slaughter the Twenty-Eighth. As they reached the base of the western hill, many of the barbarians began to awkwardly waddle through the snow uphill, their formation losing all coherence.

"Kill them all! No mercy!" he shouted to the Britons from the safety of the rear. "Give your lives for Britannia!"

The Briton spy figured a thousand men could destroy this now weakened Twenty-Eighth; it happened at the quarry, why should it be different now? Cassius only wished his chariots would be able to attack them, but he knew sending chariots uphill would only result in the loss of his heavy cavalry. No, playing it safe would be paramount, just the light infantry of Britannia shall be enough to crush the Roman remnant. He stared at the Roman General rearing his horse and could hear the Roman shouting…wait, that voice is it…Vitus?

The small Roman bellowed with his young lungs to his marching men, "Men of the Twenty-Eighth! Samarobriva at last lies within our grasp! Today is the day we have long awaited! Today we save the Praetor, today we save his legions, today we take our vengeance! Look down at the valley! We have good honest Romans who are trapped down there in the village; the barbarians are at their throats! Are we going to allow them to die?"

They all thundered, "No Sir!"

"The Britons are down there! Ye, they have beaten us once, but nevermore! We once trembled at their sight, but nevermore! For we are the Twenty-Eighth! We may fall, but we rise stronger! We may bend, but we stand taller! We may be wounded, but we heal faster! We do this because we are expected to, we do this because we were taught to, we do this because we were trained to! All of this was because of one man! One man in the entire Republic! Give praise to Lucius Julius the Mighty, cry out to the man who took you and elevated you to legend!"

"LUCIUS! LUCIUS! LUCIUS!"

"The enemy is there before you! Strike hard! Strike without mercy! Avenge your friends, avenge your brothers, avenge my father! My Father's legacy lives on in all of us! And if we shall die today, we shall still remain in history! Our triumphs shall still stand, our glory shall still stand, our memory shall still stand! For we are invincible! The Twenty-Eighth est INVICTUS!"

The entire hill quaked with their cries. They roared like lions and bared their teeth like tigers. They picked up their pace and banged on their shields with their swords as they marched. The Britons began to quiver at their cry.

"Vitus! Vitus! Vitus!" the legionaries shouted.

Vitus closed his eyes, the face of his father shined in his mind. I shall honor you always, Father. Please watch over me and your men. Vitus reared Romulus once more and pointed his sword at the trembling Britons. "Twenty-Eighth! With me now, NOW WITH ME!" The Legion followed their leader, and charged down the hill with the screams of sirens.

The Britons were scrambling up the hill, their formation in a horizontal line upon Cassius' command. I recall several legionaries bragged about Lucius doing this same maneuver against the Gauls at Praxus. I hold the superior numbers! A double envelopment shall destroy Vitus! "Press forward, charge! Charge and flank!" he screamed from the rear.

He turned to the onagers and yelled at them, "Target the Legion! Target them! Flaming rounds!"

The Britons waddled through the snow and spat guttural curses at the encroaching Romans; they were beginning to realize that they had a thousand men and the remnant of the Legion had less than them. This should be a slaughter, especially if they can surround them. The barbarians kept climbing the hill, yet Cassius was likely the only man to bear witness to something he had never seen performed by the Romans.

Sheer fury had propelled the legionaries to grab their pila and instead of stopping in their tracks to prepare to fire, they were going to fire them whilst moving. The men took a giant step and using their sprinting momentum, threw their pila with all the strength in their arms. At the very front of the Legion, Cassius spotted the men of the First Century, First Cohort leading the charge; led by the figure of Aelianus, the man was hard to miss. Aelianus used his strength to the fullest and flung his pilum with such ferocity that it completely took the head off one unfortunate Briton.

The hail of pila crashed into the unarmored Brittonic reserve, many men rolled down the hill screaming with a pilum lodged in their innards. The flung pila crushed the bones and ruptured the organs of those unfortunate to get hit. By throwing the pila with extra ferocity, the missiles even tore completely through the wicker shields of the Briton warband, an entire foot or two feet of the shaft would penetrate and sometimes gore the bearer of the shield. Some of the legionaries threw their pila so hard that they almost stumbled to the ground from the sheer momentum of their throw.

The Briton onagers finally turned around and they flung flaming balls of fire onto the hill. Cassius spat multitudes of curses as his eyes tracked the flaming shots missing the legion on the hill by several large margins; he knew flaming shots were more inaccurate, but he was hopeful that if it landed it would deal massive damage. He witnessed a fireball land right in the midst of the charging legion, exploding up like a rock falling into water; the force of the explosion sent several legionaries flying into the air and crashing over their comrades, the splash of the flames engulfed the legionaries close by, sending the flaming men to crash into others. Two more balls of fire crashed into the legionaries' ranks, and yet the Twenty-Eighth still charged.

The First Cohort crashed into the front ranks of the Briton warband, their gladii were swung with disciplined precision but were filled with unbridled rage. The Legion no longer fought defensively by holding their ground and waiting for the barbarians to charge; from now on they waged an offensive battle, constantly moving forward as they stabbed and hacked their way through the Britons. Many of the men were shouting their wrath as they struck; two legionaries disemboweled one Briton and cursed heavily as he recoiled to the snow clutching his organs, a legionary belonging to the Second Cohort thrusted his sword into the chest of a barbarian and went out his way to stab the man in the chest over ten times as he fell to the snow. A First Cohort soldier was gored by a spear; but instead of falling to his knees, he took out his dagger and stabbed his killer in the face multiple times to the point where the Briton was lacking eyes, a nose, and lips. The gored legionary whispered to the dead man, "I cannot wait to kill you again as we both fall through the pits of Tartarus," he then fell dead on top of his killer.

Cassius' jaw was dropping; the Legion was pushing the Brittonic army back down the hill. He failed to understand why, his army was in a horizontal line and the Legion was descending in a wedge formation; the Britons should have encircled the Legion several times over, except many of his kinsman chose to charge headfirst into the Roman shields instead of initially flanking. His eyes opened in comprehension.

Discipline. That one word made his teeth gnash together. He finally realized what discipline could truly do for an army at their limit, and once again, the Twenty-Eighth was showing him now what that one word meant for a people whose society thrived on discipline. And as he examined the carnage that the First Cohort was causing, he was sure that discipline was Lucius' true legacy for their men.

Aelianus slammed the rim of his shield into the knee of the barbarian in front of him, shattering bone. The cripple fell back into the snow; Aelianus drove his gladius through the cripple's heart. He then blocked an attack with his scutum and stabbed the attacker in the stomach. He slashed a Briton's throat out. He hacked off an arm of another. He drove his sword through a bewildered Briton's chest. Keep going! Keep going, Aelianus!

"Press forward!" he shouted to his comrades. "Press forward! But stay in formation! Formation!"

The legionaries beside him grunted with bloodlust. Blood was coursing through the air. They were pushing hard and fast down the hill, but they slowed to stay in cohesion. They were leading the way for the Legion as they always had; if they lose discipline, then the entire Legion shall.

He heard a legionary from the back ranks shout, "Remember the quarry!"

Blood-covered faces of his friends flashed in Aelianus' mind. Rage filled his heart. He screamed with every slash and stab.

My comrades…my friends…my brothers…

"Greetings, welcome to the Twenty-Eighth, my name is Gaius Aelianus."

"Greetings as well, my name is Claudius Tubero…I must say, I am awed to have been selected to join the Twenty-Eighth."

"If you were chosen then you hold merit to be called brother among us."

"Gratitude for the hospitality. Such is unexpected."

"But much deserved. Very few men join the Legion and are immediately placed in the First Century of the Tenth Cohort. Such prowess is to be admired."

Tubero smiled at him. "Gratitude for your words. They were most encouraging." He laughed, "Rest assured, I shall not fail the expectations you have placed on me!"

Tubero… An axeman brought his weapon down on him; Aelianus raised his shield and stabbed the man in a singular motion with fluidity. He came down on a weary Briton and hacked at the man's skull with his sword, splintering his face at the left eyeball, crimson blood mixed with the white eye fluid shot out from the barbarian's face.

"The battle is won! We've done it!"

"Indeed we have, I must pay gratitude unto you! You saved my life." Both men shook with blood-coated hands. "Tell me your name, brother."

"Quintus Biblius. 1st Century, 3rd Cohort."

"I'm Gaius Ae—"

Biblius smiled, "Every Twenty-Eighth man knows you. I couldn't let a hero die from a Gallic spear."

"I'm no hero; I've only done my duty."

"And slayed many a barbarian and saved many a legionary." Biblius raised an eyebrow with a grin, "If that's no hero, than the Gods are unjust."

Aelianus couldn't control a chuckle and winked at him. "Such is why they are called 'Gods'. But forget that, the battle is won. For saving my life, allow me to gift you with wine."

"As you say, hero."

Biblius… He gutted a man with such ferocity the hilt of his gladius was kissing the man's stomach. When he removed the sword, the Briton's intestines shot out with intensity. He hacked a barbarian's leg off at the knee. He could hear the gurgling of a Roman to his side who had his throat torn out by a Brittonic blade. Aelianus turned to his left and plunged his sword through a Briton's lungs. The Briton began speaking to himself; the pain caused the Briton to jabber incoherently in his native tongue.

"Apologies for interrupting, but I must know, are you speaking to these Germanic prisoners?"

"Indeed I am. The blood of Germania courses through my veins."

"The…'blood of Germania'? Are you Auxilia?"

"No, look upon my crest, I am a legionary as you, my father was an auxiliary. I am a Roman citizen by right."

"Apologies, brother. I just overheard the Germanic language coming from your tongue. A most useful language to have when we're out here."

"So I was told by General Lucius."

"I do not recognize you, are you with the Tenth Cohort?"

"I am, I joined the Twenty-Eighth less than a fortnight." The Germanic Roman extended his hand, "The name's Arminius. First Century, Tenth Cohort."

He shook the man's hand. "Gaius Aelianus, First Century, Fifth Cohort. Do those Germanians offer anything of worth?"

"Aside from calling me' traitor'? None. Wait, that one bearded fuck at the end of the line spat in my face, so I kicked his teeth in."

"What did he do then?"

"Oh, he just spat blood at me. I laughed and said, 'We are truly blood brothers', get it? Because the blood…and we are Germanians…"

Aelianus rolled his eyes, "You are an interesting man; you shall fit in with the Legion."

"'Fit in'? There are men stranger than I?"

"You hold no idea..."

Arminius… Aelianus screamed. He sliced a man's head clean off the shoulders. He stabbed a barbarian in the chest, the man vomited blood, but Aelianus raised his shield and the blood splattered across it. A man holding twin daggers charged at Aelianus. Both daggers slammed against his shield, but Aelianus got low and flipped the man over his body to be stabbed by the Romans in the back rank. Aelianus drove the point of his sword down between the shoulder and neck of a frightened Briton. As he removed the blade, a fountain of blood squirted into the air as the man fell backwards in horror. The Britons in front of him paused; their eyes were hollowed in fear. Aelianus exhaled, his wroth-filled glare penetrated these northerners' souls. He charged with a roar.

"Is that all you got? Huh? Come on! I'll take on the whole bloody lot of you! You cack-faced cunts!"

The bellowing man knocked out a fellow legionary with two punches to the face. Another man tried to attack the brawler, but the brawler bobbed out of the way of the punch and delivered an uppercut that took the man off his feet. Aelianus was watching the brawl with astute silence. They were all in a tavern during a lull in the campaign and it seemed like this drunken brawler took another legionary's wine and whore. Such was a sure way to wake up with loosened teeth, blackened eyes, and sore balls. This drunken brawler was obviously a new recruit; he wore the Tenth Cohort crest upon his chest and was cursing at the men of the First Cohort. Aelianus figured he would be beaten into a pulp by the more experienced men, but this recruit was holding his own against the Second and First Cohort men.

"Come on! Is such your best?! My shits put up better fights!"

A Second Cohort man slammed a stool into the recruit's back. The recruit fell to the floor in a stupor and was being kicked by the angry men of the First Cohort who cursed at him for not knowing his place. But the recruit rose from the ground, his face covered in blood and proceeded to punch every man present in their groins, still screaming alliterative obscenities such as "Cack-faced cunts!", "Craven catamites!" and "Shit-slurping slobs!"

Aelianus decided it was best to end it before a legionary would be killed in such a brawl; even though Aelianus was in his third year with the Legion and was of the Seventh Cohort back then. He stepped over some of the legionaries who were writhing on the floor in pain and approached the belligerent recruit who was in a fighting stance.

"Come on! You want to take me, you shit?" the recruit shouted at him.

"Not necessarily. Just want to calm you down before you take this too far."

The recruit sneered, "Shit, you sound like a craven cunt…"

Aelianus gritted his teeth, trying to shake off the comment. "You may beat seven or ten of these men into the dirt, but they shall get vengeance upon you later. You're a Tenth man, and they are First and Second, they've earned their prestige, you don't strike them."

"Because they're senior? Fuck that! And fuck you! What are you, their bed-warmer? I bet you spread your cheeks for them at night!"

That was the last straw. Aelianus approached him and managed to place a hand on his shoulder, "Now open ears to what I'm going to say—"

"Unhand me!"

The recruit slugged him across the mouth. Aelianus never saw the recruit's arm move. He felt like he was hit in the face with a club. Never in his life was he punched that hard, he could taste blood. Aelianus reeled back but instantly delivered a straight jab into the man's throat. Throat shots always stunned your opponents.

The recruit fell to his knees, gagging. "The fuck?! You bastard, why go for the throat? You cunt!"

"Enough! If violence is your only means of communication, then so be it! What's your name so I may mourn over your corpse?"

The recruit stopped gagging and returned a demented smirk, whilst he rose to his feet in a fighting stance "I'm Spurius fucking Metellus! Son of Mars and Bellona, remember that!"

Metellus… He slammed the rim of his shield into a man's throat, and stabbed him repeatedly in the chest as the man gasped for air. A burly spearman made a lunge with his spear and the spearhead penetrated the top layer of the shield, but the entire weapon was stuck. Using his sword, Aelianus broke the spear like a twig and lunged at the spearman and in a clean motion, lopped off his head. He brought his sword down on the neck of a Briton and chopped his head off. He ducked a horizontal attack from a Briton to his right. Whilst down, he sliced open the man's stomach and rose to his feet and sliced the man's head off as well.

His friends…these savages that fell before his blade…their deaths were for his comrades. He would kill every warrior on the Briton Isles if it meant one of his comrades could rise from the ashes with life in his heart. Yet such could never occur. They were dead, he was alive, and their killers were trembling in front of him. It was his duty as a soldier and comrade to slay all of these barbarians.

"Gods! No! Ahhh!"

To his left, Seppius Porta, was gored by a Briton spearman, the shaft entered through his chest and the Roman dropped his sword and shield in agony. Beside Porta was Gnaeus Remanus, a soldier who was often times a better cook than the camp cooks themselves, he avenged Porta by stabbing the spearman in his heart. Yet Remanus overextended his reach, leaving him vulnerable to a Briton axe to the skull. To Aelianus' right, two Romans were peppered by Brittonic arrows. The sole survivor of the Mighty Three glanced to the sky as a colossal fireball soared overhead and landed six ranks back behind him—he heard the hill shake as it landed, the roar of the explosion, and the screams of the burning. And yet, he still pressed on.

Within the briefest pauses, his eyes slid to the corner of his sight. He glimpsed his General, Vitus, still on his horse and rallying a Cohort to the right flank. Barbarian spears were being thrusted at him, but he swatted them away with his gladius with precision and hacked away at the exposed heads of the Briton spearmen.

He heard the young General yelling, "They're trying to flank us! Fifth Cohort, press on to the right, do not let them flank!"

Aelianus turned to see the men of the Fifth rushing out diagonally to the right, ensuring that the Brittonic envelopment would stall.

"Seventh Cohort!" the cry came from Tribune Antonius. Aelianus witnessed the Tribune riding his stallion on the left flank. "Seventh, press on to the left, hold the bastards where they are!"

The left flank exploded forward, the legionaries bashed their shields into the faces of the Britons and eviscerated their stomachs with their gladii. A barbarian spearhead came for Aelianus' face, he dipped out of the attack and buried his gladius in to the sternum of the attack. He yanked back, but the sword was stuck in the bone. He placed his foot on the man's chest to remove the blade, yet the sword did not budge. An axeman came for the Roman's head. The Briton swung at the neck, but the axe head was blocked by a shield that came from behind Aelianus, and a swing of a gladius lopped off the axeman's head.

"Regain your weapon, soldier! We cannot afford to lose you!"

Cossutius came from the back of the ranks and joined Aelianus by his side. His horizontal crimson plume was crushed into a bizarre U-shape, the blood of the enemy painted his face, and blood was flowing out of a wound in his left arm.

Aelianus nodded to him, finally removing his sword, "Gratitude for the save."

"Repay thy debt with Briton corpses!"

Both men roused with fury and fire as they hacked away at their barbarian rivals. The legionaries saw their leaders fighting with indomitable resolve and fought on to match it. Though fearful, the Britons fought hard against the center of the Legion's line, scoring many kills and maimings; a Briton was able to hack off a First Cohort men's leg at the knee, another barbarian drove his dagger through a Roman's eye socket, a different Briton tackled a Roman to the snow and strangled him with bloody hands and broken fingers. And yet, the Roman center drove on. They screamed, they cursed, they bled, they died, but they drove on.

"Press forward! Press forward!"

"Go! Go!"

"Kill them! Kill them all!"

"Keep it up!"

"Twenty-Eighth!"

"TWENTY-EIGHTH!"

Aelianus swung his gladius and severed a head from its neck. The head rolled off the shoulders and bounced off the sea of cadavers that were rolling down the hill as well. Aelianus' boots never touched the blood-drenched snow; in its place, his boots were walking on bodies, both wounded and dead. Many men—Roman and Briton—were sliding and tripping over the blood-slicked carcasses of friends and foes alike, trying to find balance as they kill their enemies. Aelianus took a step and slipped on a man who cried out in agony, it was legionary Marcellus Terrenus of the First Cohort who was missing a leg and an arm. He cried for help to his comrades, but Aelianus had to leave him; he was in the thick of the fighting and could not risk a rescue in this condition—he would honor his death by vanquishing the barbarians. That was his duty, and it exhausted him.

Aelianus had lost count of how many men he had killed, he never truly cared about a body count in his career; but today he felt like he killed at least a hundred men by himself. His breath was raspy. His shield arm was aching from constantly using it offensively and defensively. His sword arm was beginning to grow heavy but he snarled through the pain. His throat was parched and it burned with each breath. His vision began to blur from the blood of barbarians coating his eyes which even dripped down to his lips, the taste of death was everywhere and on every man. A Briton fled from the murderous legionary, but Aelianus shoved his sword through the barbarian's backside, his momentum caused both him and the Briton to tumble down the hill.

He fell on a mound but quickly regained his footing. He took a step on the mound, and it groaned. He and several men of the First Cohort were standing on a pile of bodies stacked eight feet high—consisting of the wailing wounded and dead, both Romans and Britons. The fighting on the slope of the hill sent bodies rolling down to the base of the hill. Wait…the base? The base of the hill!

Aelianus raised his head and was greeted by the sight of Samarobriva which was leveled with Aelianus. No longer was he looking down on it, he was on equal footing with the village. To his front, the Britons were fleeing from the crazed men of the First Cohort. To the left, the Britons were isolated as they fought Antonius' Seventh Cohort. To the right, the Britons were isolated as well as they fought Vitus' Fifth Cohort.

Cossutius aided Aelianus to his feet, the legionary muttered in disbelief to his Primus Pilus, "We…we've done it…we broke through! We went right through the center of the Briton line and broke it!" A smile of pride rose on his face, "The First Cohort broke through! We did it!"

The First Cohort cheered in victory, but only Cossutius stayed stoic, "Easy lads, we're not done let, we still have Samarobriva…"

The Legion broke through the Briton line, separating the line into two cut off groups. Many of the men fought hard, but fear was seizing their hearts. As bodies upon bodies of Britons were rolling down the hills, some of the Britons were turning and fleeing; some fled into Samarobriva, others fled into the wilderness. The First Cohort performed a U-turn and attacked the isolated Britons on the left flank, completely destroying them. With the left flank destroyed, the entire Legion focused on the isolated Briton right flank and surrounded them and destroyed them. Cassius watched on in helpless horror.

The entire reserve force had been decimated. His men inflicted what must have been about 400 casualties against the Romans, and yet the Romans doubled that against the Britons, slaying close to a thousand Briton warriors. The legionaries were moving down the hill, stepping on and sliding down the mound of bodies that accumulated at the base of the hill. As they passed the mound, several men from the Legion ran after the fleeing Britons, stabbing them in the backs as they laughed in retribution. The Legion began to scatter, but down the hill came Vitus' figure on his stallion, Romulus. He ran in front of the scatter legionaries and it appeared to Cassius that the young Roman was rallying them. The remnants of the Legion formed up together, shield-by-shield, and shoulder-by-shoulder. He could hear the young Roman shout out a rousing speech, Cassius had by then galloped a safe distance away and so could not coherently hear the Roman's speech. But the Legion shouted in jubilee, exulting fire from their lungs; and with a point of his sword, Vitus had ordered the Legion to charge into Samarobriva. And there sat Cassius, a spy who watched on helplessly as the enemy invaded the village and was preparing to completely overwhelm his king. There he sat in his saddle and pondered…

I cannot…how?! HOW?! They were weaker at the quarry, they didn't show this intensity, so why did—Of course, they were exhausted at the quarry and suffered a considerable drop in morale…but now they are fresh and fueled by wroth…while my men…I can see the fear in their eyes… And at the quarry, it was an ambush, but here, we met them in open battle…and the Romans are heavy infantry, whilst we Britons consist of…light infantry… FUCK! No! No, no, no, no! They cannot lose. We must not lose! Wait! They are off the hill, that means…the chariots! Of course! I can use th—

A cry came from behind him, it was far behind in the distance. It was a war cry, but it was not a Brittonic cry. What is that horrid nois— "Riders! Riders from the east!" someone announced.

Cassius turned his horse around and trembled at the sight. 20 Thracian horsemen were charging in a wedge formation right at the Briton rear, aiming right for the stationary chariots. And leading this formation with Oroles and Ligadis by his side, was Proculus Julius. The world fell silent for Cassius, his body became numb; his eyes could not leave Proculus. It was him alright, that was his figure, his horse Remus, his voice that was screaming. He…He survived…

The charioteers finally hopped into their chariots and desperately mushed the horses, but the horses had been idle for so long it took them a moment to move into a trot. By then, the Thracian cavalry was already on top of them. Proculus raised his gladius overhead and yelled to his men, "Kill them all!" The Thracians cheered in response. Cassius stood in his horse, in stunned silence.

He witnessed Proculus lean to the side of Remus and with a quick move of his arm, Proculus sliced off the head of a chariot driver. He then gracefully leaned to the opposite side of his horse and slashed away at the neck of another driver. The Thracians behind him slammed into the Briton chariots. From their horses, the Thracians were cutting down the defenseless men in the chariots. Their gladii came down on their charioteer's faces and necks, blood was coursing through the air, as well as the screams of the men and horses. Several Thracians were even casting pila at the charioteers who managed to get their chariots moving, one charioteer received three javelins through his back.

Oroles led seven of his men towards the onagers, swing their crimson-coated blades in the air and whooping their tribal chants. The Britons operating the siege weapons left the massive weapons and fled, but they did not get far. Oroles and his men rode them down like animals; their stallions trampling over their bodies and crushing their bones, as their steel swords sliced away at their flesh.

"Keep fighting! Make sure not one chariot is functioning!" the Roman ordered.

The Thracians hacked at the tethers and harnesses of the chariots, the horses ran free from the chariots. Bodies were beginning to accumulate all around the area. A whirlpool of chaos surrounded the Briton spy as he shouted generic instructions for his men to fight back. A Thracian horseman was charging at him with a javelin in his hand, Cassius kicked his horse to move forward. The Thracian casted the deadly missile, Cassius moved his steed out of the way and closed in on the Thracian with a might hack of his sword. He remembered seeing the Thracian's ruddy throat turn crimson as the Thracian fell from his horse.

Cassius' eyes scanned for his next opponent, and they fell on Proculus who was still on his horse as he hacked away at a Briton foot soldier. Cassius was no more than forty yards away. Proculus drove his sword through the man's eye socket and kicked the man in the face as he retracted his blade.

"Ligadis!" Proculus called. The Roman was facing Samarobriva and pointed his sword at the village, "Vitus is entering the village, go to him and report that we have taken care of the chariots and onagers. We are just mopping up!"

"At once, Commander," Ligadis nodded. His horse kicked up snow as it galloped towards Samarobriva.

A Briton horseman charged at Proculus with a sword in hand. Proculus threw his spear and spiked the man through the chest. The Briton crashed to the snow in front of Proculus, the Roman's eyes trailed upwards and landed on Cassius. From across the pile of dead men and horses, from across the tundra of screaming and shouting, from on top their horses, their eyes met.

"CASSIUS!" The heavens shook with horror at the scream. Proculus charged, his face was contorted into a ghastly mask that could rival the face of the Gorgon.

Cassius could feel his breath leaving his lungs. His mind froze at the scream, the sounds of battle around him were muted into a dull murmur. All colors began to dilute, the white snow turned into dancing shadows; the only color was Proculus' red armor gliding closer to him.

It was not until a Briton horseman charged passed Cassius, bumping into Cassius' mount and jerking him back to reality. The horseman ran towards the charging Roman with a large axe in hand. A Thracian horseman came out of nowhere and gored the Briton off the horse before he could reach Proculus. Proculus' horse continued on at a gallop, undeterred by the goring that occurred in front of him. Cassius spun his horse around and kicked its side, the horse bolted away from Samarobriva.

The small, yet strong, Remus was galloping at full stride and managed to close the distance with Cassius. Proculus swung his sword with a shout, a swing that Cassius knew was meant for decapitation. Cassius ducked the swing and cursed his steed to move faster. Proculus swung once more, yet Cassius drew his sword and blocked the swing. By now, both men were climbing up the hill that surrounded Samarobriva, their mounts whinnying in reprieve to their masters to ease up upon the exertion, but their masters would not relent, each man lost within their thoughts.

As they passed over the hill and the sight of the village drew smaller and smaller as they raced, Proculus hacked at the snout of Cassius' horse. The gruesome steel tore through the bone and the horse bucked Cassius off into the snow in agony. Proculus turned Remus around and ran towards Cassius with his sword held high to finally end the traitorous filth.

What Proculus failed to notice were Cassius' three bodyguards coming to his aid. Two of them lost their horses in the Thracian attack and were sprinting towards Cassius, but one still had his horse but lost his sword and only had a dagger in hand. As Proculus was closing the distance on Cassius, the mounted bodyguard spurred his horse close to Proculus; and leapt from his horse and tackled Proculus off of Remus and into the snow.

Proculus was lying face-first into the snow in a daze. The bodyguard that dove, recovered and mounted Proculus' back, pulled off Proculus' helmet, and brought the steel of his dagger to the Roman's throat. Proculus felt the hands upon his head and recuperated from the daze, with his right hand he seized the knife-hand and savagely bit into the inside of wrist of the Briton bodyguard. The man screeched to the Gods, and tears fell from his cheek as Proculus tore out the veins in the man's wrist with his own teeth. Blood spurted from the open wrist like a hose and the bleeding man fell off of Proculus, allowing the Roman to find his sword and drive it through the man's chest.

The other two bodyguards closed the distance. One of them brought his longsword high in the air and slashed vertically at Proculus. The Roman rose to his knee and swatted away the longsword with his own gladius. In that motion, Proculus seized the dagger of the man who tackled him and drove it through the bodyguard's foot. The Briton wailed. Proculus rose to his feet and gored the man in the chest. The last bodyguard charged him with an axe and swung in a horizontal arc. Proculus spun out of the arc and in the same motion, sliced off the man's foot. The bodyguard hobbled precariously on one leg and watched as Proculus' sword became acquainted with his neck.

Cassius wished his eyes deceived him. Proculus was panting, but he was ferocious. Never before had he seen Proculus this vicious. The blood of his enemies dripped from his lips and down his beard stubble, as if he was an actual Wolf of Rome. Cassius tried to stand, but pain shot through his left arm, must have been the fall; he grunted. Proculus' head snapped towards the sound. Once more, their eyes met.

Proculus walked towards Cassius, his eyes were sharper than steel, his gladius hung menacingly in his hand. He said no words, he just walked towards him. Cassius rose to his feet, gritting his teeth in pain. Proculus began to pick up the pace. Cassius scanned his surroundings, the horses have fled and no other Briton was around them. Proculus was now sprinting. Cassius drew his sword and took a defensive stance. Proculus charged with a howl.

Their swords clanged with a terrible screech. Their blades danced vigorously within the morning light as their grunts filled the air. Cassius' heart raced. His mind flashed when he first met him at Alesia and how he witnessed his swordplay, the Roman was beyond pathetic and he agreed to make him better. The Roman he met at Alesia no longer stood in front of him. This new Roman was on a different caliber; no doubt the Thracian's teaching improved him. Yet Cassius reassured himself. It matters not his improvement, for I am the better swordsman! Two months of intense training cannot overcome a lifetime's worth. The man is a brawler, not a swordsman. As long as we cross blades, I can overtake this poo— Proculus spat in the Briton's face and delivered a hard hook from his free hand to Cassius' jaw. The blow spun Cassius, who used his momentum to swing at the Roman's neck, but Proculus evaded the slice and attempted to cleave the Briton's head in two. Cassius raised his sword overhead and the two locked blades. Cassius kneed Proculus in the abdomen, the Roman doubled over with a grunt; but he suddenly grappled Cassius' waist and slammed him into the snow. Both men lost their weapons.

The Roman mounted the Briton, and slammed his heavy hands into the lying man's face. Cassius could feel the bruising of his flesh with each hit he took, the burning sting, the imminent soreness, the smell and taste of blood in his nose and mouth. With one eye open, Cassius managed to sneak a peak of Proculus between the blows. His once green eyes were hollowed into ominous grey holes underneath his furrowed brow, his teeth seemed fanged as a wolf, his lips were still caked with blood; there stood no man before Cassius, only a shell of a man with monster occupying his body.

Cassius caught the Roman's hand and punched Proculus off of him. Cassius seized his sword in the snow and came for Proculus, and brought it down on top of him with two hands. Yet Proculus grabbed Cassius' wrists with both of his hands; and with strength that Cassius couldn't even fathom Proculus possessing, he wrenched the sword out of the Briton's hands. Proculus delivered a cracking headbutt to Cassius' face; the spy felt sudden numbness and a heavy flow of pressurized blood in his nose. Proculus released his grip and rained down punch after punch upon Cassius. Each blow from Proculus felt like a hammer, the Roman's wrath had doubled his strength.

As Proculus reeled back for another hit, the clever Cassius grabbed a dagger from his thigh and evaded Proculus' lumbering swing, and drove the blade at the young man's torso. Proculus took a jump back, yet the dagger found its way into Proculus' armor. The Roman unleashed a loud groan through his teeth. Cassius pulled the blade out and quickly examined it; there was blood on the tip, but not much on the rest of the blade. The wound wasn't fatal; but he reassured himself the next one would be.

Proculus clutched his wound with one hand and charged forth. Cassius slashed at him with the dagger, and Proculus evaded with surprising speed. Cassius managed to slash Proculus over his arm, left eye and across the cheek, drawing a fair deal of blood; but Proculus fought on. Cassius made a lunge and his error cost him. Proculus dodged to the outside of Cassius' guard and seized his wrist with his right hand, and back-handed the Briton with his left fist. Proculus torqued the arm upward, exposing the elbow, and slammed his left arm down with his entire body weight on the elbow. Proculus could not recall a louder sounding crack.

Cassius' voice rose an octave. He fell to his knees, his right arm completely limp; he could see the bone coming out from his flesh on the other side of his arm. Proculus took the dagger away from him and seized Cassius by the hair. Cassius couldn't control his whimper, his eyes rose to the black voids that used to belong to a man he falsely claimed as friend. Proculus aimed the knife at the Briton's throat, and made a lunge.

The clomping of snow came from Samarobriva and was heading towards them. Proculus ceased at the last moment and released Cassius. Cassius couldn't figure out why, he failed to even think properly with the pain coursing through his face and arm. But with passionate relief, he saw two Britons on horseback charging at Proculus. He nearly cried.

One of the horsemen had a spear and galloped to skewer the Roman. Proculus dove out of the way and desperately searched in the snow for his sword. The second horseman ignored Proculus entirely and galloped to Cassius' side and dismounted. His face was covered in shock.

"What has befallen you?"

Cassius only managed to croak an unintelligible answer, the pain had muted any semblance of speech. The dismounted horseman picked him up to his feet, "The King sent me to request for reinforcements! He also inquires how the Legion made its way into the village, the king is trapped! I see our reserve have been crushed! What have you done?! What foolish action have you taken?"

To the depths of the afterlife! Fuck you! Get me out of here! Cassius weakly scrambled to get to the man's horse. The messenger still hung on to Cassius, still screaming how it was the spy's fault for their king to be trapped.

Cassius looked over the messenger's shoulder and could see Proculus coming right for him with his gladius in hand, ready to skewer him. No! No! Don't kill me! Don't!

As Proculus was in striking distance, Cassius summoned the reserves of his strength in his good arm and shoved the messenger back into Proculus' sword. The messenger's inhale was sharp as a whistle, his eyes fell on the disheveled spy, "You…fucking…" and the last breath left the messenger's body.

The messenger's horse was preparing to gallop away. Cassius' eyes widened. He wrapped his good arm within the reins and somehow managed to pull himself up on the horse and he galloped off into the horizon.

Proculus growled in furious anger, he kicked off the man that Cassius shoved onto his sword, and turned to face the last Briton horseman, who was charging at him with his spear leveled. Proculus took his gladius in both hands and was calculating if he could take out the horse's legs with one swing and dodge the spear. He was determined to have Fortuna on his side.

Before he could finish calculating, a javelin soared through the air and caught the barbarian horseman in the back through his heart. He crashed off his horse with a sickening thud. Proculus turned to the direction of the thrown spear; it came from the direction of Samarobriva. Over the mound came five Thracians on horses, led by Oroles who also caught Remus from running away and returned him to his rightful owner.

"Proculus!" he yelped in relief, "There you are! I fear you deceased or lost! Are you well?"

"I am fine!" Proculus leapt upon Remus. "There he goes, Oroles! There's Cassius! There! We can still seize him if we move with haste. Gather your men an—"

"Proculus!" Ligadis came galloping to his side. "Proculus, I received word from your brother, they entered the settlement, yet met fierce resistance inside, he's losing many men. He requests our assistance immediately!"

Proculus unleashed a howl in frustration. "But Cassius is right there!" he shouted.

Oroles seized him by the shoulder, "Fuck him, he's nothing! We must return to Vitus!"

"Damn it! For what he's done…Oroles, he needs to die!"

"But not at the cost of your brother!"

Proculus growled and turned his attention to the burning settlement and back to the dwindling figure of the fleeing traitor. He turned around once more, and saw Samarobriva. He turned around again, and saw Cassius. He growled once more.

Everything was in pain. Cassius winced and whimpered in agony. His body was sore, he couldn't feel his right arm, his face felt broken; with each bound of the horse, pain shot through Cassius' torso. He dare not turn around to see if Proculus was in pursuit, he just had to run, anywhere but here, anywhere but this cursed settlement, somewhere Proculus would not find him. Unfortunately, Cassius was still in range of Proculus' sight and could hear the wrathful Roman's curse, "You can run to ends of the earth, you coward! BUT YOU'LL NEVER RUN FAR ENOUGH! I SHALL FIND YOU!"

Cassius shuddered at the threat, and he could hear Proculus faintly in the background, speaking to his men, "Thracians, on me! We ride to Vitus! To Vitus! Let's go!"

The Briton dared not peered over his shoulder. He had to keep moving, he had to find a safe place to heal his body, and his pride. That was not Proculus he fought, but a demon consumed by rage. The demon didn't beat him with swords, he beat him with his fists like an animal. Cassius beat his horse and rode into the wilderness; the first time in his life, a fear of Proculus gripped his heart.

To anyone who ever played a Total War game, remember how close you were to killing the enemy general, you were right on top of him about to kill him and then he flees and escapes the battle? How frustrating was that?

For any of you with constructive criticism about how the battle was detailed, don't be afraid to message me. If some things are unclear, or the pacing was too fast or too slow, please tell me so I may edit this chapter and write cleaner and more concise battles in the future.

I would dearly like to thank everyone who is continually reading this fic and leaving comments for me. I want you all to note that it is keeping me committed to the story. I have only gotten this far to the coveted battle scene AND finished it because of your continued support. Truly, thank you all!

-Kanuro5