Note from Kanuro5: Yesterday I turned 22, and I am very excited to publish this chapter. Don't really have any special plans besides drink and party with friends. For the 28th Chapter of the 28th Legion, I wish you all to enjoy!
XXVII
The Beast is Sated
"Lucius the Mighty is dead!" Lugotorix cried out to his army. The exhilaration was so strong that the Briton King didn't even know he was laughing hysterically at this critical moment of the battle. The Britons cheered as they fought, they whooped cries of victory and chanted Lugotorix's name, and yet they kept on fighting.
The Mighty Three stared at the corpse which used to be their legendary General, and for a quick moment, they had completely forgotten the battle raging around them. The legionaries around them also turned and observed the horrid image of their Tribune clutching the bisected body of Lucius. In this intimate moment, they felt something crumble inside of them, something precious. They had lost the man that was with them at the best of times and the worst of times, they had lost the man they could call brother, and father.
"Go forth!" Lugotorix said to his warriors, "Go forth and claim Lucius' body! Seize him!"
The barbarians pushed harder than before, their blood spiking with ferocity to annihilate the Romans that stood in front of them. The Romans began to lose their ground, the pressing assault proving too much for them as they were gradually pressed back to the edge of the quarry.
With his chariot bogged down by corpses, Ermanar gleefully jumped out and removed an axe embedded in a Roman's skull. He raised the axe and bragged like a boy who beat his friends in a race, "I killed Lucius Julius! I killed Lucius Julius! Follow me into the fray, so we may kill them all!"
He charged with a large number of Woad Warriors behind him and they hit the Roman flank hard. He swung the axe horizontally; the axe-head went past the shield and severed a legionary's neck off at the half end. The next legionary hid behind his shield well but left his feet exposed. Cassius had warned the Britons that Romans tended to guarded their upper body and would unknowingly leave their lower body exposed from the knees down. Ermanar brought his axe down and severed the legionary's foot. The man shrieked and fell backwards, allowing Ermanar to slam the axe deep into his chest. "Push forth, men!" he encouraged, "Fetch the body!"
In the midst of the Briton attack, Antonius gently laid Lucius' upper body in the snow and stood to his feet, his eyes seemingly absent of life. The situation had finally dawned on him. The man who he had pledged 8 years of service to was now dead at his feet, the man who was a like a second father to him was dead at his feet. The Legion that would be entered into the annals of Roman history was now in Gnaeus Antonius' command. By the duty of the Tribune and Captain of the Legion, he now must command a losing battle.
Slowly, the cries of battle around him grew louder and the stench of the frosty air was beginning to reek of blood and bile. He returned to reality, he returned to the nightmare. Antonius, with the Briton dagger still lodged in his back, shouted for the men to return to formation, yet his cries could not reach everyone in the chaos. With the flanks broken, the Britons attacked from the left and the right, pushing the Romans back to the edge of the quarry, but it should be noted that the Romans were fighting back with everything they had.
Aelianus stuck two Britons with both of his swords, and dodged an incoming spear; he moved to the spearman and ran him through. Arminius covered Aelianus' back, blocking a flanking strike with his shield and stabbing the Briton through the bottom of his mouth and watched as the tip of his sword exited through the man's skull. Metellus crushed the windpipe of a downed Briton with his shield, before moving to the next warrior, slicing the man's torso open from waist to throat. The centurions that survived were miraculously able to form half of their men back into a somewhat proper formation, enabling the Romans to survive longer and fight harder. Yet they were still being pushed back.
The Britons pushed the Romans back so far that Lucius' body was in the middle of the two armies. There, a terrible fight erupted over Lucius' body, both sides capitalizing on the other's kill. A legionary would grab Lucius' corpse by the arms, only to get gored by a Brittonic spearman. The spearman went for the body, but received an axe to the face by a Roman. A Briton would tackle that Roman to the snow, and then slit his throat with a dagger. A tall legionary stabbed that Briton in the chest. A barbarian axeman then slammed his battle-axe into that legionary's breastplate. A nimble Roman then grabbed his helmet and bashed the axeman's brains in on the snow; and on and on this seesaw carnage endured, until the Britons eventually took possession of the body.
Antonius pleaded for his men to fight harder; they must reclaim the body of their great general. He went to attack a barbarian, but the dagger lodged in his back sent a wave of torment through his body. He fell to his knees in agony, allowing the barbarian to raise his sword high to end the Tribune. But Arminius came to Antonius' side like the swift wind and sent his sword through the barbarian's chest.
Arminius dropped his sword and bent over the Tribune, his hands wrapping around the dagger's grip, "Forgive me, Tribune, but brace for the pain." And Arminius pulled the dagger out of Antonius back; the Tribune shouted a multitude of curses, but ultimately thanked Arminius for his assistance.
"Come, Tribune," Arminius encouraged, "we must now go back on the—" A crafty barbarian ran behind Arminius' and gored him through the back with a spear. The spearhead exited his stomach, Arminius cried out like a wounded dog. Antonius sliced the spearman's neck open in retaliation.
Smelling the blood in the water, the barbarians came at Arminius. Though the spear was inside him, he fought valiantly. He brought his sword down on top the skull of the first attacker, splintering his head in two. The second attacker sliced away at Arminius' side, tearing through his armor and unleashing a waterfall of crimson blood. Arminius winced hard but still fought on, he turned to the man who attacked him, and drove his sword through the man's chest.
Seeing their good friend in dire need, Metellus and Aelianus rushed to assist, screaming Arminius' name, but they were too late to help their friend. Two more barbarians came at him, but Arminius' sword was stuck within the dead man's chest. One of the Britons stuck his large sword through Arminius' stomach, cackling like a madman. Arminius lost the feelings in his legs and collapsed to his knees, but he still fought on. He drew his dagger and repeatedly shanked his attacker in the chest until the Briton fell dead. The second Briton ran to Arminius and fatally drove his cold steel through the mighty Roman's chest. Antonius would be the one to cut down Arminius' last attacker.
Aelianus and Metellus reunited with their dying friend; they both took a knee and tried to comfort him. Metellus especially, who for the first time in a long time, held the face of painful sorrow at the sight of the man who was the target of his harsh yet friendly jokes, and preferred drinking buddy. The two men called out his name in grief, but there on that spot, with two swords and a spear stuck in him, Arminius' strength and his life collapsed.
Metellus cradled the body of his fallen friend and cried out in anger to the grey sky above; Aelianus watched on in silent horror, the raging battle around him suddenly becoming insignificant. Metellus brought his hand from up under the body and stared at Arminius' blackish blood staining his palm. The blood of a Germanian…no, the blood of a Roman. The blood of his dear friend. Metellus felt something surreal, a great fire brewing within his heart. The Fire of Vengeance.
He gripped his sword so tight that his nails began to cut into his own hardened palms. His teeth began to gnash together uncontrollably. A red, savage mist began to fall in front of his eyes. You cunts…you savage fucking cunts! They killed them. They killed everything he loved. The Legion was his life; the army took him off the streets of Rome and gave him a purpose. It gave him brothers, a father, a family; and the fucking Britons were destroying all that he loved. No more. No fucking more!
He rose to his feet, screaming like a madman, pulling the hair from his head and thrashing about. Aelianus never saw a man so crazed as Metellus at that moment. Before he could say a word, Metellus charged forth, bellowing incoherently, losing all semblance of discipline. The first unfortunate barbarian that crossed Metellus' path brought his sword down on top of the Roman, but Metellus caught the sword-hand with his free hand, and tore out the Britons' jugular with his teeth.
Metellus went forth, continuing to scream wildly, he severed many Brittonic heads from shoulders, splintering various skulls with his sword, and frequently chomped at any exposed body part that got close to his mouth. The distraught Roman swung wildly, not caring if his fellow legionaries were close to him; he wanted to kill every Briton he could find. Several Britons stabbed him with their weapons, but the berserk-filled adrenaline numbed his pain. Metellus was killing so much that he singlehandedly penetrated the Briton line.
Aelianus ran after his friend, calling his name and pleading him to not venture out to far, but Metellus was in his own world of carnage and bloodlust. He ventured out further than any Roman in the battle, refusing to look back or to the side, he only went forward.
"Metellus!" Aelianus called for him. Several barbarians stood in Aelianus way. He looked beyond their shoulders, seeing Metellus completely isolated from the rest of the legion.
"Metellus!" he shouted louder. The barbarians began to push him and the legion back, but Metellus was too far out to rejoin the legion. He was completely encircled on all sides, swinging with reckless abandon at any Briton that approached him. His encirclement grew smaller and smaller, the Britons descending on the hysterical Roman. Aelianus tried once more, screaming at the top of his lungs, as he slowly began to lose sight of Metellus through the seemingly endless current of Britons.
"Metellus!" The barbarians pressed harder against the legion, and Aelianus' sight of Metellus shrank until the lone Roman was completely absorbed by the wave of Britons. Such was the last time that any Roman saw Metellus alive.
Auxilia Ambush
The Cherusci onslaught continued. The Thracians' numbers had greatly dwindled and more Cherusci warriors took to the battle. The Thracians had delivered more casualties unto the Cherusci than they received, yet the Germanians were not concerned with their own casualties. The only thing they desired was blood.
The swift Ardunas pulled an arrow back on his bow and loosed it on a charging Germanian, sending him back in the air as the arrow entered his chest. The Gallic archer scanned the battlefield and saw a Thracian and Cherusci wrestling in the snow for a discarded sword. Ardunas reloaded and carefully aimed at the Cherusci, but heard the heavy footsteps of a barbarian charging him from behind.
Ardunas ducked the incoming blow, taking the arrow he nocked in his hand and stabbed the Cherusci in the groin. The barbarian wheeled over squealing, giving Ardunas precious time to stab the barbarian in the neck with the arrow. Once he was disposed of, Ardunas promptly placed the bloody arrow in the bow and fired at the Cherusci wrestling the Thracian, hitting the man at the base of the skull.
Hearing the sounds of ferocious grunts not too far to his right, Ardunas turned and aimed, only to see Proculus engaging with three Cherusci at once. The three men were forcing the elder brother back with great efficiency. One of them locked swords with Proculus, while the second one came at him with a raised sword. Proculus raised his leg up and kicked that man in the chest, forcing him back, while still locking blades with the first man. The third Cherusci came at Proculus from the right, but received an arrow to throat, courtesy of Ardunas. Proculus kneed the man in front of him in the groin, and then proceeded to slit his throat. The last Cherusci rose to his feet, preparing to rush Proculus, but Ardunas made the first move and loosed an arrow into the barbarian's skull.
"Are you alright?" Ardunas asked, rushing to Proculus side.
"Yes…I am fine," Proculus panted. The veteran Gaul could tell that Proculus was near exhaustion. His breath was heavy and hoarse, his eyes strained from side-to-side in fear of being swarmed by the barbarians, and he staggered a little seemingly suffering from a leg wound that was not too serious. He noticed Proculus' hand twitching on his sword grip. The blood of his enemies coating part of his face and armor, this battle around him was seeping into his soul.
Proculus brought his head up and scanned the entire woods, "Ardunas, where is Vitus? He was fighting that bitch…where is he?"
Ardunas' eyes were sharper than the Roman's. Through the muddled din of fighting, he saw Vitus and Biua ruthlessly engaging each other near the edge of the woods. They slammed their swords against one another, both of them always blocking and dodging the other, with the occasional punches and elbows being thrown in, but in Ardunas' sight, their blades never touched the other's flesh.
Ardunas raised his burly finger and pointed, "There they are, but it seems that he can handle himself."
"I do not care, shoot that bitch now!" Proculus urged.
Ardunas took a glance behind him, "We have more imminent concerns than your brother." Behind the two were more oncoming Cherusci warriors with the only thoughts they possessed was the death of all that was Rome.
Vitus could feel his neck throbbing. The bitter sting of his wound screeched throughout his body. The cut on the back of his left hand was troubling deep and the slash on his shoulder ached. His opponent was not much better off than him. Blood seeped from her mouth, and flowed from the wound on her chest. Her irregular panting was heavier than Vitus' and her sight began to blur ever so slightly. Despite these shortcomings, she still held the ferocity of a cornered viper in her eyes. She felt little pain and still could cleave a man's head off with a focused swing. Wrath was a hell of a drug.
She voiced a horrid shriek and swung at Vitus. He evaded the blows and countered with hard jabs with his free hand. Vitus swung horizontally to behead the Cherusci Leader, but she blocked the slash and countered with the dagger to his throat. Vitus dipped his head back; his eyes watching the dagger soar over his nose, a hair shy of nicking the tip.
He kicked her to the snow, only for her to roll back on her feet and pounce at him like a wolf, delivering a solid left hook that dropped him to the ground. His vision was dazed; he could not remember the last time he was punched that hard. The foul taste of blood coursed through his teeth.
She came behind him, pulling back on his wavy auburn hair, forcing him to his knees and placing the edge of the dagger tightly to his Adam's apple.
"For my father!" she screamed, moments before she yanked the dagger across his throat.
Though he was dazed, the young Roman had the sense to feel the cold steel against his throat. He grabbed the blade with his left hand and clenched tightly, pulling it away from his throat with all his strength, though at the cost of the blade's edges slicing deep into his palm.
Biua struggled to move the dagger back to his throat, but Vitus would not relinquish his grip. He dug deep within himself and jumped to his feet, slamming his head back into her face, breaking her nose. With a screech high enough to shatter glass, she reeled back, blood shooting through her hands that covered her nose. Vitus scrambled for his sword in the snow.
Not too far from Vitus, both Oroles and Ligadis fought against the Cherusci onslaught. It was after Ligadis hamstringed a Cherusci and slashed his throat that he noticed the predicament the Auxilia was in. The barbarians were close to swarming the remaining Auxilia soldiers, their numbers proving greater than the Thracians' experience. Many of the scattered Thracians who fought heroically were surrounded by many barbarians and were brutally killed. Oroles called for his men to reform back into formation, but his voice could not be heard within the fighting.
It was at that moment when he heard the thundering of hooves on the snow and the wild brays of horses coming from behind him. Oroles and Ligadis turned, their eyes bearing at the reserve unit of Auxilia cavalry, led by Ralgylis, riding in a compact wedge consisting of 50 mountainous horses. They aimed for the Cherusci horde and bellowed Thracian chants. Oroles didn't even know that he was smiling at the sight.
The Thracian cavalry trampled the Cherusci warriors, their mounted weapons severing heads and lacerating throats as their mounts crushed the bones of those who were unfortunate to get caught underneath. But the Cherusci refused to fall in battle without a fight. Many of the barbarians used their spears which tore into the breasts of the horses and their riders; others resorted to axes and swords and hacked away at the legs of the horses just to get to the riders. Indeed the cavalry helped the surrounded Thracians, but in the end, it just added more to the stalemate. The Auxilia cavalry had armor and strong horses, but the Cherusci held valuable numbers; both sides evening the advantages out.
The sight of the cavalry arriving was a beautiful sight for Vitus, yet he could not allow his mind to dawdle on the equestrian prospects, he still had a foe to vanquish. He grabbed his sword and returned to his feet, his left hand throbbed violently from where the dagger bit into, but he ignored the pain, he had to if he wanted to survive. Biua recovered from the impact of Vitus' skull and ran towards him screaming, the blood from her nose drenching her pale mouth and chin.
She was closing in; Vitus had to come up with a plan to end this now. Think, Vitus, you must think! What to do? She is stronger than she looks, she is quick, but I am quicker. She is experienced but so am I. I have to get my dagger out of her left hand, maybe if I grab it… He thought of his left hand and tried to clench it, but a surge of pain shot through his hand. Shit…it hurts but I need to push past it. She swings wildly out of anger, hopefully that means she doesn't have a strategy against me. How is she still moving with that chest wound? The pain that she must feel with each swing must… that's it!
Biua brought her sword down on top of Vitus, yet he blocked with skillful maneuver. He noticed how with each swing, she stalled for a fraction of a second. It was very slight, but after dueling with her for so long, he could pick it up the instant she faltered. The tip of her sword slid across Vitus' breastplate with great friction, but with the grandest luck the blade did not tear through Vitus' armor. When she swung sideways, Vitus swept aside her arm and elbowed her hard in her chest, hitting her fresh wound. She recoiled hard and shrieked even louder.
Her chest was on fire, her breathing became erratic, and for the briefest of moments she lost the feeling in both arms. Vitus came down on her, she swung wildly once more but her initial strength was lost, her form was terrible and her sword-grip was loose. Vitus swatted her sword away. With only the dagger in hand, Biua pushed off her feet and leaped in the air, aiming the dagger downwards to Vitus' throat. Vitus sidestepped the reckless attack and plunged his sword into her abdomen, the blade penetrating her like butter, the hilt stopping at her stomach.
She inhaled sharply. Vitus twisted the sword inside of her and pulled it out. She fell to her knees, her wild blood shooting out of her fatal wound. Her yellow eyes fell on the tired young Roman who stood above her. Though his figure was fatigued, his face was of stone, carrying an emotionless face of victory over a tough opponent. Her vision began to blur, the sound of fighting became muffled, and her body grew heavy. Her last sight was of Vitus' bizarre eyes, those haunting colors of blue and green that ruined her people.
Her body fell on its side in the snow, her eyes still trained on Vitus. Vitus crouched down and stared at the woman. He wondered if he should feel pity for her and her tragic death, or pride in once again conquering another strong barbarian warrior. But truthfully, he looked at her and felt nothing, and he could not figure out why. He grabbed her hand and plied his dagger from her fingers. The dagger had been sharpened to a point that he couldn't imagine to be possible. He bit his lower lip; she truly wanted to see him dead for the crime he did not commit.
Her raspy voice suddenly broke the silence between the two, "…Vitus…"
His eyes widened and he leaned in close to hear her dying words. Her eyes narrowed and she coughed up blood, but she allowed her voice to be heard in her native tongue. "Lugotorix shall honor the Cherusci and d-d-destroy you Romans…May your father burn in the afterlife along with his legion..." The thought enabled Biua to crack one last wicked smile at Vitus as her life fled from her body, "May you and your brother follow him and burn…may you all burn…"
The Quarry
In the midst of the fighting, Cossutius reappeared on the battlefield. After suffering a hard blow by a warhammer to the chest, the exhausted Primus Pilus collapsed in the snow, as the dead fell on top of him and nearly buried him. Cossutius dug himself out from the pile of corpses; blood, snow, and shit coating him, and watched in pained horror at his men being slaughtered.
To his left, he saw young Biblius, one of the Legion's best scroungers and self-proclaimed "whoremonger", took an arrow to the throat. On the right, he witnessed Argentumius, so named for his silver-blond hair despite how young he was, fighting bravely against the barbarians. This silver hair lad had the great honor of saving a patrol he was a part of from a Spanish ambush by venturing off ahead alone and ambushing the ambushers. He recently received a letter from his home in Sinuessa that he was now a father of a beautiful son, but now this father shall never return as he was swarmed by the Britons and decapitated by a Briton axeman. Not too far from Argentumius was the grizzled centurion of the 2nd Century, 3rd Cohort, Gilopnas. One of the few men in the legion to have a full beard despite holding the rank of a centurion, Gilopnas was a Greek who had the ferociousness of a Roman. He and Cossutius would often sit together during meals and speak upon futures of retiring. Gilopnas spoke often of retiring to the farmlands around Mediolanum where the Julii gave him land; fresh farms where the wheat would warm the skin and the air perfumed of tranquility. He talked about taking a young woman he met on leave to the farm and marry her and make her pop out two children or more. At this moment, Gilopnas saved a fellow legionary from death, but only to be stabbed in the back by two Britons and then stabbed in the front by two more. He deserved a better death than this. All of these men deserved a better death.
Amidst the chaos, Cossutius staggered back to his forces, yelling futilely for the men to return to formation. He found the brave Aelianus fending off the barbarians, using both swords in his hands with grace as if he was a gladiator. He ran towards him to get a feel of the situation.
Aelianus glanced over at him in disbelief, "Cossutius, you yet live?"
"Do not count me for the afterlife. We need to get all the men back into formation! We need to solidify our lines."
"Look around you!" Aelianus snapped. "We have no lines! We have Britons and Romans mixed in all along the perimeter! The First Cohort is being overrun and the Second and Third is close to breaking!"
A Briton ran towards them. Cossutius got low and flipped the Briton over his shoulder and stabbed him once he landed. A spearman ran to gore Aelianus, but the mighty Roman used both swords and blocked the attacked before slashing the barbarian's throat open.
"Fine," Cossutius spat angrily, "Where are Arminius and Metellus?"
Aelianus froze on the answer, "Arminius has fallen. And Metellus…he is lost."
Cossutius fell silent for the moment before speaking once more, "Come with me! We need to reach the General immediately and—"
"Cossutius…the General has fallen."
Cossutius' sword nearly fell from his grasp. His bottom lip began to quiver as his eyes locked with the sullen face of Aelianus. "What? He—"
"Get down!"
Aelianus shoved the Primus Pilus out of the way. A giant Briton swung his sword that nearly cleaved Cossutius. Aelianus blocked the swing with one sword and plunged the second into the man's throat. He helped Cossutius to his feet and glared at him.
"Apologies, Cossutius, but clear your fucking head! The men cannot afford you to lose concentration!"
"Right! Take me to the Tribune!"
Antonius was preoccupied with the trouble of getting the men back into a decent formation, his job made easier since he was near the rear where the bulk of the Romans were. Aelianus and Cossutius reunited with Antonius and informed him of the deteriorating situation at the front. Antonius cursed loudly; it would take a strategic genius to win this battle. Both of his flanks collapsed and the enemy was intertwined with friendlies, the only thing he could do now was mitigate casualties. He sent Aelianus out to retrieve the remaining Cohort Commanders. It was then that one of the wounded men screamed out.
"Tribune, the standard is in danger!"
No! Antonius and Cossutius turned to the scene. Vibius Petrosidius, the aquilifer of the Legio XXVIII, was separated from his fellow men and was surrounded by Britons. He fought with a Gladius in his right hand and the Golden Eagle of the Legion in his left. The most prestigious honor that a legion owned and nearly worshipped as a religious symbol by the legionaries was in grave peril.
"All men press forward! Save Petrosidius! Save the standard!" Antonius ordered. But the order came too late. The Romans pushed hard, but the Britons held them at bay. The brave aquilifer was swamped by the barbarians.
Petrosidius dodged an incoming strike and planted his sword in the man's chest. But an enemy axe came down on the back of his knee. The aquilifer stabbed over his shoulder the man who crippled him. An arrow from a chariot found its mark and entered his ribcage on the right, forcing him to drop his sword. Another attacker rushed him, but the bold Petrosidius used the eagle like a spear and gored the man with the sharpened end of the pole.
Knowing the standard would be lost; Petrosidius struggled to his feet and faced the men of the Legion. If he should fall, the standard must not be claimed by the enemy. He prepared to throw it like a javelin back to the Romans, and it was within the throwing motion that a Briton sword hacked off his arm. The standard fell into the snow and Petrosidius fell besides the precious eagle he was sworn to protect.
To the horror of the legionaries, one of the barbarians seized the eagle and raised it high in the air, utterly attracted to the beauty of this object. But a wounded Roman close by did his duty and attacked the barbarian and took back the eagle, only for the Roman to be cut down. Once more the eagle fell, but this time, the Roman fell on top of the golden eagle, followed by several Britons who were killed searching for the standard. Most of the men saw it, they saw their golden standard, the pride of the legion and the symbol of what made Rome great; fall within the endless tidal waves of barbarian attackers, lost to them in a pile of Roman and Briton corpses.
Antonius urged his men to fight on and put up a valiant defense. But as he stared into the beleaguered eyes of his legionaries, he was met with hundreds of desolate eyes that rang of hopelessness. Many a man had virtually given up, they still fought, but the fire that once burned in their eyes had fizzled into nothingness. Even Cossutius fell into despair in this battle. They were exhausted; they had lost too many men, their standard, and their general. Who was Antonius trying to kid? He knew the end was near. Any fool could see it. The battle was lost for the Twenty-Eighth. It was at that moment when terror and shame overcame honor and discipline.
With the back of the legion towards the forest near the end of the quarry, Antonius sounded the retreat. He raised his voice and swung his bleeding arm in the air, and watched as the men in crimson ran past him in disarray. They fled like rabbits from the wolves, stepping over their dead and wounded to reach the safety of the woods. Such a disorganized retreat was disgraceful, but even the disgraced tended to live to see tomorrow. But there existed moments of bravery in the retreat. Antonius watched in stunned silence how several men would drop their weapons and grab the wounded to bring them to safety. The men in the front who had no chance of escape promptly accepted their fate and fought gallantly to hold off the inevitable tide of Britons, their sacrifice enabled the remnant of the Legion to escape through the woods, while those that guarded the front were quickly decimated. Never before was the Brittonic king so ecstatic.
He raised his sword in the air and unearthed a jubilant Celtic cry of victory, which his men howled like wolves at the sight of the fleeing Romans.
"Men! What is step eight?" he asked them.
"Victory! Victory! Victory!"
Ermanar, drenched in Roman blood, came running to Lugotorix's chariot, panting as he asked, "My King, we have won! Our warriors are tired, but should we still give chase?"
"Yes, we must track them down and exterminate them all so they shall—"
"King Lugotorix! King Lugotorix the Bloody-handed!"
Both men turned and saw a barbarian messenger galloping on horseback. He wore a green tunic and a fur coat.
"A Gaul?" Ermanar voiced.
"Segovax." Lugotorix growled.
The messenger stopped in front of Lugotorix and leapt from his horse. "King Lugotorix of the Britons, I bear message from Segovax, King of the Gauls."
Ermanar scoffed. "He has no lands to rule over and yet he calls himself king."
"Be quick messenger, we have just won a grand victory and I mean to exploit it!" Lugotorix sneered.
The Gallic messenger scanned the battlefield in shocked grotesqueness. The snowy quarry was blanketed with corpses as far as one could see and the once pristine snow was now crimson and slicked with blood, as if a geyser of blood had sprung up in the field. They were dead. The legion that had been the bane of his people was now destroyed.
"Incredible, you actually defeated the Twenty-Eighth…" he said in disbelief.
"As I promised, now break words quickly or see yourself among the dead!"
"Apologies, but King Segovax desires your return immediately!"
"What? For what purpose?" Ermanar answered.
"The Roman Praetor, Maxentius. He has rallied his remnant legions and tried to breakout of Samarobriva after you and the Britons left. We Gauls held him off, but lost too many men. We need your army to return to continue the siege. Our king fears he may not contain them if they try to breakout once more."
Lugotorix growled lowly to himself. Ermanar was more vocal. "That foolish shit! He cannot hold a destroyed legion within a city? You fucking messenger, do you hold any idea of how much we have suffered just for your pathetic king to fuck it all up?! Tell your king that—"
"We shall return to Samarobriva promptly." Lugotorix added on, "If we leave today, we shall return within a week."
"Gratitude. I shall return with news of your victory!" The messenger bowed and galloped away on his horse. Ermanar gnashed his teeth at the news.
"I understand your frustration, Ermanar. Never trust a Gaul with a task of importance. But we have already claimed victory and we cannot allow the Praetor to escape from the city. And besides do you feel it? The sting of the wind? The increase of pressure among the air?"
It took Ermanar a moment to notice since his flesh was covered in blood. But he felt it. He felt the sting of winter. Being natives of the High North, the Britons could feel a snowstorm approaching within their bones. He felt the impending blizzard, and it was close.
"I do, my king." Ermanar answered calmly. "I give it two hours."
"I feel like an hour and a half. We must turn back now and close the distance towards Samarobriva."
"Yes, my king. But what of the legion who retreated?"
"We leave them be. Their spirits are broken and they probably fled back to Alesia, and our men and horses are tired. But just in case…Talorc!" The warrior known as Talorc made his way to Lugotorix and bowed.
"Yes, my king?"
"Rise. I hold a task for you; we shall not give chase to the Romans. The army shall return to Samarobriva. You shall stay here along with 100 men and keep close supervision around this area. I believe that the Romans have fled back to Alesia, but if I am wrong, I need you to send out scouts and report back with any news of Roman sightings. And if you deem it necessary, I give you permission to engage the remnant of the Twenty-Eighth to completely destroy them."
Talorc stood proudly and bowed. "Understood, my king."
Lugotorix looked out in the field, witnessing the "mopping up" phase of the battle, where Briton warriors rescued their dying and executed the wounded Romans, singing songs of their great victory. Lugotorix ordered his men to cease in the chasing of the legion and to assist the wounded, and he gave special orders to capture any man with the rank of optio and centurion that still lived. A warrior approached the Briton King and told him of a Roman that was still fighting.
Lugotorix followed the man until they reached a large crowd. The Roman that was still fighting was surrounded on all sides by Britons who held their shields high and blocked all attacks by the Roman. The Roman was clearly in a berserk state of mind. He had no shield, he only carried the sword. He swung wildly while blubbering incoherently. Mucus and blood were running down his face, his left ear was missing and his right eye was slashed out, he was suffering multiple stab wounds to the torso, and he had two arrows sticking out of his back. And yet he still fought on like a cornered lion, his rage numbing the pain.
"This man weeps from a thousand wounds—and yet he still felled many of our great warriors, my king," the Briton warrior said.
All Lugotorix could do was smirk. This is a true warrior.
The king made his way to the front of the circle and allowed the mad Roman to spot him. The Roman charged, but a protective Briton speared the Roman through the back of his knee. The Roman collapsed before Lugotorix's feet in a pained yelp and had his sword knocked out of his hands. Cassius walked besides Lugotorix and took note of the Roman.
"I know this man, he is Metellus of the Mighty Three, the three strongest soldiers in the legion," Cassius explained to Lugotorix in Latin, just to spite Metellus.
Metellus lunged forward as best he could, but his wounded leg did not allow him to get far. He snarled like the wounded animal he was, "You fucking traitor!"
"If I knew you would be this much trouble to my kin, I would have allowed that bear to devour you ages ago," Cassius chastised with a vile grin.
"You Brittonic shit! I shall—"
"You shall do no such things, Roman." Lugotorix said, "You shall die shortly, filled with such agony that your feeble mind cannot begin to imagine, if I so desire it. But such an end may not be your fate. If you give voice to what lies beyond Alesia, what legion Rome has past the Twenty-Eighth in the South, then I saw give you a quick, noble, and painless death. And do know that I shall gain knowledge from you, whichever option you shall take. So freely give voice now or suffer from horrid pain."
Metellus coughed up a fit of blood, his mind flashing to the dead faces of all his friends in the battle. He stared the Briton king in the eye and laughed boldly in his face, his voice gurgling of blood. "Fuck you, you lowly pathetic sack of shit! I shall never betray Rome! You think you have won? You believe this the end? The blood of my brothers wet the snow and they cry out for vengeance! Hear me now, you bastard. I swear to all the Gods of my pantheon, that the Twenty-Eighth shall return and avenge this tragedy! And when they return, YOU SHALL PERISH FROM THIS EARTH, YOU BRITTONIC CUNT!"
Metellus quickly grabbed his discarded sword, and with his remaining strength, Metellus plunged his own sword through his chest. The Britons watched in stupefied silence.
"Behold! Their greatest warriors take their own life in defeat, in fear of us!" Lugotorix announced, breaking the tension of Metellus dying with dignity instead of falling to the Britons. The warriors cheered at their king's answer.
"He stood one of their best warriors?" Lugotorix asked.
"He did, along with two more, their fates yet unknown to me," Cassius said, before enticing his king with the words he wanted to hear, "But I do know the fate of Lucius' corpse. Follow me, my king."
Lugotorix smiled at the thought and followed him to the bisected corpse of Lucius. The remainder of the Briton army circled around Lugotorix, anxious to see their victorious king stand tall over the Roman General. Lugotorix finally was able to gauge a proper assessment of the man who inadvertently aided the Britons in their revenge against the Gauls. He was just as the Briton King imagined the fabled general to be. He was a tall man that equaled Lugotorix's height, and despite his age he still had the body that was toned like a young warrior, his armor and helmet made him seem even bigger. He could only imagine what his voice was like, most likely deep with an echoing bass that could subjugate all that he spoke to. Lugotorix gazed into the man's face, seeking an understanding that possibly could have existed between the two great leaders. If he was born a Briton, could the two of them been friends? It didn't matter now.
Without saying a word, without his eyes leaving Lucius, Lugotorix pulled out his sword and raised it in the air, the sun dancing off the reflection of the blade, and he brought it down on Lucius' neck. Small murmurs among the warriors broke the silence, they all watched their king as he took off the helmet from Lucius head and held the head in the air by its hair.
Upon seeing Lucius' head, Cassius was the first to speak, "He called himself the Conqueror of the West and of the North."
He said nothing at first, but then a malicious smug crept on Lugotorix's face as he stared into Lucius' lifeless eyes and said, "There is one North he never conquered and never will."
The king turned towards Ermanar and Cassius and invited them both by his side. When they approached, Lugotorix dropped the head and seized Lucius' sword and stripped his armor off. He stood tall with the two valuable prizes in his hands and shouted to his men with pride.
"Today, we have done the impossible!" His warriors cheered. "We have beaten the "invincible" Twenty-Eighth Legion and killed their legendary general! They have crushed the Gauls, they have beaten the Germanians, but they have not toppled the Britons! You all have fought beautifully to make this day a reality, and on this illustrious day we shall honor the two men who allowed this victory to happen!" He turned to Ermanar, "My dear Captain, for your extraordinary bravery in venturing out and tricking the foolish Cherusci into our fold and dealing the death blow unto Lucius, I award you with his sword, to always be a symbol of your greatness in battle! May your woman become moist at the sight and may your children sing songs of your courage!"
Ermanar held his sword high and was embraced by the cheers and chants by his loyal men. The king then turned to Cassius.
"What can be said of a man who secretes himself among the enemy, posing as a friend to the General's son, and prove his loyalty to the enemy, all with quick thinking and silver tongue? You have this man that stands before you! He, a simple spy whose purpose was to gather knowledge of Alesia, took the initiative to spy upon the Legion itself, venturing into the Den of the Wolf, and emerging unscathed. This victory, this moment, would be impossible without him. And for this, I award him with the precious armor of Lucius Julius the Mighty. May he don it with pride and be a testament for ingenuity and greatness!"
Cassius was met with thunderous applause by the army for his deed. He promptly placed the breastplate over his torso and had the blue cape of the Britons draped on his shoulders. He embraced his friend, Ermanar, and the two men waved their arms in absolute victory to the cheer of the warriors in front of them.
"What of Lucius' head, my king?" a random Briton asked.
Lugotorix picked up the head and looked into its lifeless eyes, "Someone find a bag and a horse, send it back to Alesia so all the Romans may know of his defeat. I shall take his helmet as a trophy to show Segovax of my victory. Give thanks men; give thanks to the gods above! We have lost many brave kin this day, but it all had an ultimate purpose. Once we take Samarobriva, we shall retake the lands that the Gauls and the Germanians stole from us a century ago! You shall see your children play in the warm suns of the mainland and their children prosper from our sacrifice! This is our day! This our age! We are victorious, we are the Britons!"
"Lugotorix! Lugotorix! Lugotorix!" his men chanted, enraptured by his speech. They parade around in victory, stripping the dead and throwing Roman helmets in the sky in celebration. They patted each on the back and hugged one another in elation. They have toppled the natural order in the Western World; they have crushed the "civilized" army of Rome.
Never before had the 28th Legion lost a battle, in the annals of Roman history it would always be remembered that he, Lugotorix, son of Lonaxus, King of the Britons and Chieftain of the Iceni had beaten the unbeatable. And yet, at great cost. Amidst the jubilation of his proud warriors, the king could not escape a nagging fact that spoiled a sum of the victory for him. He could not believe that his crowning achievement of strategy would cost him this many men. He looked into the glazed eyes of Lucius' skull, and found a tinge of admiration towards him. To have men who were beyond the limits of human exhaustion fight so vigorously to the end, Lugotorix shook his head in disbelief; if only he had an army in the base image of Lucius' legionaries, he could march on Rome immediately.
He held twice the number of men than Lucius, but he suffered twice as many casualties than the Romans. He lost over 6,900 men in vanquishing the elite Roman legion, most of his charioteers were killed and many of his greatest warriors were killed as well. But throughout this dark victory, luck was on Lugotorix's side. If not for the death of Lucius and the loss of the Roman Eagle, the battle could have turned out differently. This was a Close Victory for him bordering on Pyrrhic, given to him on the smallest of margins. As his men quickly plundered what they could from the dead legionaries before they returned to Samarobriva to beat the blizzard, Lugotorix took one last look at his dead warriors. Their sacrifice would be worthwhile for his people, the king was determined it would be.
He closed his eyes and uttered in prayer, "For the courage of those who have died…for those who shall die in the future…I am eternally grateful."
Auxilia Ambush
Proculus was at his limit. He had killed so many men in one day that their faces blurred together in a spectrum of twisted horror, yet only when he concentrated, could he distinguish each filthy and hairy barbarian face. His eyes were strained, his legs were weak and the blood of his enemies was pasted on his hands, arms, and face. All his eyes could see was red and white, the two polarizing colors painting the woods around him, blood and snow. He had several wounds across his arms, legs, and side where the blades nicked through his armor. He was sitting underneath a tree catching his breath, examining the crowded woods before him that served as his first battlefield where he actually killed.
He placed his hand in the snow and tried to scrub off the blood, but it stuck to his hands fiercely. He fetched his water-pouch and opened the lid and began to pour it on his hands. But before a drop fell, he heard snow crunching behind him. He got to his knees, ready for action, and clenched his sword tightly.
"Easy, it is only I." Vitus said coming behind him. Proculus slumped back on the tree. Vitus had dried blood on his figure as well, except he had an open wound on his neck and blood dripping freely from his left hand, with only torn cloth acting as a makeshift bandage for his hand. "I would not waste water to clean yourself," Vitus advised, his voice was devoid of emotion, "The frost would freeze your hand, take a drink, trust me."
He didn't realize how dry his throat was until he actually drank from his pouch. "Vitus, is it over?"
Vitus raised his head and looked on the battlefield with that was plagued with carcasses of Thracians, Germanians, and horses. The cries of the dying Cherusci were being extinguished by the Thracians who finished them off with ruthless efficiency. The Thracians walked around the field of death, dragging their dead away from the Germanians and lining them up in an orderly pile. Vitus looked over at Biua's body not too far from him, and reflected on her last words that he could not understand, and the grotesque smile she gave him in death. In the Ambush of the Thracians, where 350 Cherusci assaulted 162 Auxilia, all the Cherusci were killed, while only 35 Auxilia survived. Ardunas lost seven of his eleven men.
"Yes, I believe it to be over." The strength in his voice was weak. He had seen so many of his men die so fast, it…it was unnerving.
"Why was she here?" Proculus asked without looking at Vitus.
"Revenge."
"That simple?"
Vitus paused for a moment. "Such explains why she aligned with Lugotorix."
Proculus finally stood to his feet. "Do you see all of them?"
He knew he was speaking of the Thracian dead. "I do."
"We may have been among them if Ralgylis did not arrive with the cavalry."
"You are right, if…" Vitus began to think about it. Why did Ralgylis come with half of the reserve Auxilia? Cassius was sent to retrieve the Legion, why would Father send cavalry instead?
The brothers walked down to see Ralgylis. He, along with Oroles and Ligadis were paying their respects to their fall brethren. The three men solemnly stood there over their dead, no water in their eyes, no red strains of anger existed in their eyes; they just stood quietly, their eyes lost in the pile of the dead. Vitus desperately wanted to say something profound, something to ease the pain of Oroles, to tell him that the death of his men was not his fault, but Vitus'. But he knew that if he said anything, it would only worsen the pain. All Vitus could do was place a comforting hand on Oroles' shoulder. The Thracian Captain bowed his head without looking back.
Vitus broke the silence, "Ralgylis, gratitude must be extended upon you, but how did you know where we were?"
"Cassius came to the encampment screaming of ambush, and your Father sent us out to assist you as he prepared to move the Legion to help."
"Wait, so our Father was sending his Legion for us?" Proculus asked. "Then why has he not shown himself?"
"I do not know, Commander, maybe he went left instead of right at the fork in the road."
"Explain."
"I led our cavalry down the road where we encountered the fork; we did not know which way you took, so we separated. I took 50 men to the right, whilst Marto took 50 to the left. We came upon the dead barbarians on the road, and then we heard screams of battle in the forest, and so we charged and we found you all in heated conflict."
"Proculus, why would Cassius not tell them of the fork in the road?" Vitus asked.
Before he got a possible answer, several Thracians returned to the brothers, pulling on the reins of their prized stallions that fled during the start of the ambush and became tangled in the trees not too far away, Romulus and Remus. Both of the brothers hugged their stallions and prepared to mount them to return to the legion, when Vitus got the idea.
"How many horses do we have currently?"
"We lost many; we only have 12 that can still ride, Commander."
"Place the wounded that cannot walk on the horses, including ours. They need to rest more than us. Everyone, move with haste and let us return to the encampment."
"Vitus, what of our dead?" Oroles spoke with a chill in his voice.
"We…we shall tend to them once we return to the Legion and have this situation figured out. I give you my word. Auxilia, prepare to move out!"
The Roman Camp
The fatigued, battered survivors of the Auxilia finally emerged on the outskirts of the camp. To their surprise, the camp was in the same condition as when they left, partly dissembled. Sections of the walls were removed, the large wooden gate was nearly off its hinges and the banner of the Twenty-Eighth Legion was removed. The only thing that was added to the camp was the security, the sentries on duty were doubled and the remaining men of the Archer Auxilia were posted all across the wall.
When the sentries spotted the Auxilia they immediately ran back into the camp and informed every one of their return. By the time the Auxilia entered the gate, many of the surviving legionaries greeted them as they entered. The Auxilia recognized that something dreadful had occurred for the Legion.
Every legionary present was either covered in blood or was bandaged, not a single man was exempt from the bloodshed that occurred. The atmosphere around the camp itself was harrowing and bleak; though men were gathered by the gate, they slouched against the wall and lowered their heads in shame, their shields and swords littered amongst the snow. Many of the men were thoroughly exhausted lying all around the camp to regain their breath, even if it meant lying in the snow. Yet the most jarring example was how empty the camp itself seemed. Once, the sight of thousands upon thousands of legionaries was the norm in the camp, but now there stood less than a thousand that remained. And within this void, screams of wounded men shouting from inside their tents as slaves and the medicus treated them echoed throughout the camp. Every man from the Auxilia was speechless at the sight.
As some of the men gathered close to the brothers, expressing relief that Lucius' sons returned, Cossutius and Aelianus ordered them to give the Auxilia space to breathe. Cossutius eyed the brothers with warm sentiment, repeating what everyone else had been saying. "It lifts heart to see you two alive."
"Hey assholes, we all survived as well…" Ardunas said, referencing the non-Romans.
Proculus asked, "Cossutius, what happened? Why is the legion in disarray? Where—"
"Boys…"
Antonius made his way through the crowd and stood in front of the brothers. His head was bandaged, and he was shirtless with a thick blanket wrapping around him, while his chest and back were heavily dressed with bloodstained bandages. His eyes began to water at the sight of the brothers and he could not resist the urge to embrace them.
"Boys…you two are alive! Oh bless Jupiter you two are alive! We feared you dead!"
"Yes, we are alive," Vitus exclaimed. "We were set upon by the Cherusci. It looks as if the Legion was sent to battle. What happened?!"
"We did enter battle, but not of our choosing. We moved out to rescue you, but we were tricked…and the Legion was ambushed by Lugotorix and his Britons numbering nearly 10,000 strong at least. We fought hard, but…" The relief-filled faces of the legionaries twisted into moroseness and defeat. "The Twenty-Eighth lost the battle, we had to retreat."
"Impossible," Proculus muttered. "No, that is—how?"
"B-But the Twenty-Eighth does not lose!" Vitus said, his heart nearly stopping at the news. "We are the best Legion in Rome. How could we lose? What happened?! You should have killed them all with ease and not fled like anima—"
Oroles silently placed his hand on his shoulder and pointed out the legionaries to Vitus. Their pride was in shambles. Many of their friends they called brothers were lost to them. They closed their eyes in anger and shame for fleeing from the battle when discipline dictated them to fight to the death. They didn't need Vitus' inadvertent chastisement. And some of them made it vocal.
"We lost because we were in search of you and your Thracians," some whispered under their breath.
Antonius continued. "We…lost so many. We even lost our own eagle. Those fucking barbarians…"
"By the Gods…where is our father? We wish to speak to him."
All the Romans present quietly looked at one another, their faces twisted in fear and sorrow. Antonius sucked on his bottom lip and looked to the ground. The brothers' eyes widened at the realization, the air escaping from their lungs.
"Where is our father?" Proculus repeated in a whisper. "Antonius, please…do not—"
Antonius looked up at them, "Boys, I…I am sorry—"
The world felt like it had just escaped up from under them. Vitus could feel the back of his throat drying and his stomach tightening in knots. Proculus' eyes never left Antonius, desperately waiting to hear him say it was a poor jest or something. But Antonius remained silent.
"No, no you know not of what you speak," Vitus said shaking his head.
"I am sorry, Vitus, but—"
"No. I do not believe it!"
"I was there when—"
"Do you know who you speak of, Antonius?! He's Lucius the Mighty! The Conqueror of the West and the North! Our Father! He—"
"He fell in battle. He is dead." The statement itself ran through Antonius like a spear.
Proculus covered his mouth, fighting back tears. "No…"
Vitus gritted his teeth. A memory of his father flashed in his mind, he remembered how he told them that he was proud that they were his sons and how he would always love them. His left hand throbbed hard and his neck burned with intensity. He could feel the water well up in his eyes, he began sobbing but the water stayed in his eyes. "No, no, no…"
Oroles stood wide-eyed; the death of the man he harbored a long bitterness at had finally died. And yet, instead of jubilation, he felt a tinge of sadness. Maybe it was that he befriended the man's sons, who were now suffering worse than any man in the Legion could imagine?
"How did he die? Did you see who committed the action?" Oroles asked.
Antonius grumbled to himself before speaking up, visualizing the dreaded killer, "I did. He was brown of hair and had a crescent moon scar above his eyes…the shit was laughing as he ran Lucius through with the chariot…he cut him in half at the waist and—"
"Oh Gods! No!" Proculus cried out, envisioning the horrific image. He shut his eyes tightly to force the image away, but the harder he tried, the clearer the picture was. He began pacing around in a circle, his hands covering his face as his sobs began to stammer. "How did you allow this to happen?! How did the Britons trick you?! Tell me, Antonius!"
The Tribune's face shrunk in anger and his eyes and several other legionaries' narrowed to death-like stares. "It was Cassius. He was the traitor who tricked us!"
His heart quaked in his chest. "Cassius…? No, he is not a traitor!"
"It was your bodyguard who deceived us all," a legionary blurted out.
"NO!" A shot of Cassius' warm smile as he laughed at Proculus' bad jokes shot in Proculus' mind.
"He was a fucking traitor who got our brothers killed. Including the General!" another said.
"No! It is not true! You all lie!" his voiced was cracked with sobs.
Antonius walked up to him and looked into his tear-laced eyes, "Proculus, I was there. I was by your father's side. I witnessed him stab your father …and when I," he had to pause; his voice began to choke, "When I fought with him, he told me his liege was Lugotorix and that he was Briton."
The brothers' faces went white. They both escaped back to their memories of Cassius, remembering the times they spent with him. They remembered the good times they spent together. The time they bled at Praxus Hill. The times they bonded.
"I saw him do it," Antonius repeated.
"No…no! He was my friend! He taught me to survive! He could not—" Proculus continued on, but Oroles figured it out.
"Proculus," he said softly, He—He must have wanted to get close to you to get to your father…"
"Gods no…" he whimpered. He remembered it. He told him at the gate of Alesia who he was and where he was going. "No…" He remembered the "late night hunts" that Cassius said he went on, he brought back food all the time, but…but he must have spoken with the Britons about the legion in his absence. "Oh no, oh no, damn it…"
"Brother," Vitus finally said, "The brown-haired man with the crescent scar…he was at the Cherusci village."
Proculus recalled it. He claimed himself a Gaul along with Cassius. He forgot Ermanar's name but remembered him now, clearly. He…recollected how he and Cassius stared at one another, as if they recognized each other. And after, they were both looking at the maps of the area…Cassius spoke of finding Gallic tribes, but they…must have truly been speaking of locations for this horrific ambush.
All these signs were clear, and he ignored them all. How? How could he be so blind? His father even initially suspected Ermanar of intrigue, but Proculus defended him on the pretext of friendship. Why did he do that? He clenched his fist hard…how big of a fool am I?!
"Brother," Vitus said, his voice was weak and quivering, "It cannot be…do you remember on the day of battle of Praxus Hill, the high priest foretold this…"
Proculus thought back to it. It seemed like a lifetime but it was three weeks ago. He remembered the priest saying: Although victory may be yours today; there exist a man that will witness the battle but he does not belong to either nation of both armies. The Gods have foretold, that if this man is not slain in battle, then this man will lead to the destruction of your army, Heir of the Julii.
Proculus fell to his knees, sobbing hysterically. It was Cassius all along. Why was this happening? Why was it his fault that all of this happened? If he just stayed at Alesia like was told, then all of this would have never happened.
"No! No! Why did I…NO!" he shouted.
Oroles saw Vitus trembling, and pulled him into his chest to comfort him. Vitus broke down. He never felt so cold in his life, not even the embrace of Oroles gave him warmth. He sobbed louder, a mob of memories meshed into his mind, he wanted to die, he wanted to scream; yet all he could do was sob and taste his salt drenched tears on his lips.
Proculus fell into a fetal position in the snow; his hands covering his face as his horrid crimes became so apparent it tortured him. Why didn't he listen? Why didn't he stay in Alesia? His father's warm words echoed in his head, Proculus, I was wrong, for thinking you were not ready. You have indeed proven yourself in my eyes. "No! No!" If he had stayed in the city, then Cassius wouldn't have tracked the Legion. This ambush would never have happened and his father would still live. His mind raced hard as he wept alone in the snow. Everything that has happened, the Legion's losing battle, the Legion's destruction, the Britons' victory, his father's death, WAS ALL HIS FAULT.
An inhuman wail came from Proculus on that saddest of hours. His voiced unnerved everyone present and many walked away from him in grief to mourn their own precious loss. But there Proculus lied in the snow, weeping bitterly for his errors. "Father! Why…I am sorry! I am sorry…"
On this grey, cloudy day, the Twenty-Eighth Legion consisting of 4,500 men were ambushed by the Brittonic Army numbering approximately 9,000; the first time in history when the Britons engaged the Romans in battle. The battle itself was a Close Defeat for the Romans, though they lost 3,680 in the ambush, they killed close to 7,000 barbarians. At the end of the day, the Britons left the field with 2,100 warriors, while the Romans survived with 820 men. The men of the Legion had suffered their first loss, the loss of their standard, and the loss of their great General whose body they failed to recover. A dark day had arisen for the Twenty-Eighth Legion and for Rome.
The wind began to blow harder and the heavy snow began to fall.
And thus concludes Act II of Invictus.
This is my birthday present to myself for actually meeting the deadline of ending Act II by my birthday. I actually find it funny that I finished Act II exactly one year after I finished Act I. But don't worry, it will not take a year to finish Act III.
Also seems kind of sad to me that this is the 28th Chapter of Invictus, and it's when the 28th Legion suffers a great loss :(
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