Note from Kanuro5: Sorry for the late release, was battling a wicked seasonal cold. Here we go, the climatic in-settlement fighting that we've all been waiting for! I know I have. Enjoy!
XXXVII
The Battle of Samarobriva Pt 2
"How many men do we have left, Tribune?"
"I say roughly around 400, General."
I lost half my men just coming down the hill, Vitus thought.
He gripped his sword tighter and stood taller on his stallion. The Britons that they have engaged on the hill were scattering in a shattered rout and his men were chasing some of them down; but he rallied them back knowing not to waste their energy in slaying stragglers. The real challenge lay inside the settlement of Samarobriva.
Vitus peered into the openings of the palisades that guarded the settlement, bodies upon bodies were piled six feet high in all the openings, it would be difficult for his horse to cross on such loose, slippery footing. Vitus planted a large spear into the ground like a stake, and tied Romulus' reins to the spear. He petted his horse and whispered to him, "I'm not losing you, Romulus. Wait for me after the battle."
He walked towards the waiting remnant of his legion and shouted unto them, "Twenty-Eighth, our duty is not yet done. We have broken the reserve force of the Britons, yet open thy ears and listen; barbarians are wreaking havoc inside the settlement against the Praetor. This is it! Let us venture into this village that we fought, bled, and died for. Let us venture in, press forward, and see victory ours! Twenty-Eighth!"
"Twenty-Eighth! Twenty-Eighth! Twenty-Eighth!"
Vitus faced the burning settlement and charged forward into the desolation, his 400 men following on his heels.
Vitus climbed the mound of wounded and dead men, his mind focused on reaching the town square. A Briton spearman climbed the mound as well from the opposite side and lunged at Vitus. Yet the Roman swatted the spearhead away and swung at the Briton's ankle, lopping his foot off. The spearmen fell on top of squirming bodies, and Vitus drove his sword through the man's heart.
Another Briton rose where the first one climbed, with an axe in hand prepared to enter the Roman's head. An arrow went through the man's skull. Vitus peered over his shoulder, Ardunas was nocking another arrow on his bow and he loosed it. The whooshing arrow entered the throat of a third Briton that climbed the mound who sought out Vitus.
Ardunas ran to Vitus' side and nocked another arrow, "You shall not die on me, Roman!" Ardunas aimed his arrow and fired into a barbarian's heart that collapsed with a womanly scream; the Gaul turned back to Vitus, "You still owe me coin!"
"Keep me alive and you shall be amply rewarded! Twenty-Eighth! Into the gates! Follow me!"
And there between the broken gates of Samarobriva, the Twenty-Eighth attackers clashed vigorously with the Brittonic defenders. The large Britons flung themselves against the crimson shields of the Romans, and the Romans lunged their swords into the charging Britons. Many men were slipping off the blood-soaked bodies of this mound of casualties, which grew bigger with each passing moment. All fighting to determine who would be the king of the mountain.
An opening was made in the fighting and Vitus took the chance and jumped off the mound and landed firmly within the village, he became the first Twenty-Eighth Man to enter Samarobriva.
The stench was inescapable. Smoke, shit, and burning flesh. It was so thick the sixteen year-old could taste it on his tongue. This was the way of war.
Eight Briton light infantrymen charged to join the fray, and their sights were set on the small Roman who broke through.
Vitus ran towards the first barbarian, and ducked out of the man's slash to thrust his gladius through the barbarian's chest. The second Briton came at him with two axes. Vitus blocked when he could and dodged when he couldn't block, but the Briton kicked Vitus in the chest and knocked the Roman on his back. The Briton brought his two axes down on Vitus with all his strength, yet Vitus was a nimble fighter and rolled out of the dual attack to the left. Vitus sprung to his feet and kicked the bent-over Briton in the mouth. The Briton's head recoiled upward and Vitus plunged his sword through the man's Adam's apple. He spun out of a sweeping attack by the third Briton and performed a jumping stab to the axeman's jugular.
The fourth Briton clashed swords with Vitus and the two locked blades. Vitus was losing the clash in terms of strength as the Briton leered in triumph with a crooked smile exposing his dark yellowish teeth. But the clash ended as an arrow soared through the Briton's skull, the arrowhead entering the temple and exiting out the Briton's ear. Vitus pushed the dead man off of him and gave a quick nod of approval to Ardunas.
From his elevated position on the mound, Ardunas had little trouble picking out targets of the sporadic resistance at the gates. A barbarian ran to gore Vitus? Arrow to heart. Another tried his luck to attack his employer? Arrow to the skull. Vitus was engaged with a barbarian and another tried to attack Vitus from behind. Ardunas sent his arrow through flanker's knee. The man fell to his damaged knee, screeching. As soon as Vitus killed his first attacker, he spun whilst wielding his gladius with both hands and decapitated the crippled barbarian behind him.
As Ardunas seized another arrow from his quiver, a barbarian came at him with an axe raised high. Ardunas gracefully swung his composite bow over his torso and removed his Gallic sword from his scabbard. Wielding it with two hands, Ardunas ducked an incoming slash from his opponent and spun around and drove his sword through his opponent's back.
Vitus heard the charging of someone behind him. He spun and was greeted by Ligadis of all people who had dismounted from his stallion and somehow managed to cross over the mound just to report to Vitus.
"Ligadis? Why are you here?" the Roman asked.
"To report that the cavalry has destroyed the charioteers and disabled the onagers!"
You did it, Proculus. "Very good! Report back to Proculus and tell him to get every Thracian over hear now! We're running into opposition and we need every sword here now!"
"Yes, Vitus!" Ligadis nodded fervently and ran through the mass of fighting to relay the order back to Proculus.
Aelianus stabbed a Briton through the chest and kicked him off the mound. He slashed another barbarian off the mound, followed by another stab to a barbarian's torso. Many other legionaries were killing the barbarians and sending their corpses down the mound until the Romans utterly destroyed the barbarian units that defended the gate.
The Gate to Samarobriva was now back in Roman hands. Momentum was still on the Legion's side, Vitus had to keep pushing, and rest was out of the question. "Twenty-Eighth! Forward! To the Town Square"
He led the remnant of his Legion that now stood around 300 men. They moved forward at a trot, their eyes searching every part of the burning village to spot any living Briton. The ground around them was filled with the dead and dying; they stepped over the wounded and could not drown out their cries. What alerted him were the Roman corpses that wore the senatorial purple armor. Vitus wanted to be elated, but he noticed the amount of senatorial legionary bodies increased the further in they went into the village. He estimated that they already passed 400 Senatorial corpses; Vitus prayed to Mars that Marcus was yet among the living.
They reached the road that led to an incline that would lead directly to the Town Square, the last line of defense for any settlement. The sounds of furious fighting lay just overhead of the incline, this was it. This was there time to finally destroy the Britons for good.
But alas, such destruction would have to wait. For as soon as the Twenty-Eighth reached the base of the incline, they were greeted by an enemy they never fathomed could exist. The legionaries fell into defensive positions at the approach of the enemy, but their jaws fell at the sight of these Britons. These armored Britons.
There were a hundred of these armored Britons in all. All of them were wielding longswords that had an immaculate make to them. Their armor consisted of chainmail that shined brighter than diamonds, and their helms were polished with extreme care. These Swordsmen wielded large blue circular shield with an eight-pointed white star in the middle of their shields. But what truly frightened the legionaries was their discipline. They marched with purpose instead of marching for glory like ordinary barbarians; they did not charge at the legionaries, they stood there on the incline staring with complete silence. This uniformity…was bizarre. They did not seem like Britons at all, in fact, they seemed…
One man stepped forward ahead of these Swordsmen, his armor seemed to be a tad bit more extravagant than the rest of the Swordsmen, Vitus noted. Through the shine of the flames, Vitus could make out the supposed "leader" of these men. He wore a heavy dark cinnamon stubble on his face, he was taller than most men and he had crescent-moon scar…No! That…t-that scar…from the Cherusci village…
"You!" Vitus shouted, pointed his sword at the Brittonic Captain.
Ermanar growled at the sight of the Legion, but roared as his eyes discovered Vitus. He spoke in Latin, "Gods damn it! How are you yet alive?!"
Antonius' hand was shaking, his teeth were gnashing. "General, that man with the crescent scar…that man was the one in the chariot who killed Lucius!"
Vitus' eyes narrowed, and he spoke to the Captain on the slope, "You…you killed my Father?"
"Aye. That's right. Ran him through with the scythed wheels, like slicing a melon. For a man of Lucius' standing to die like that? Pathetic."
The legionaries shouted in fury, each man breathing in and out the anger of their souls. A fire burned inside Vitus. Without taking his eyes off Ermanar, he spoke to Ardunas without emotion in his voice, "Aim for his mouth."
With graceful fluidity, Ardunas drew back an arrow and loosed it before most men could blink. Ermanar raised his shield and felt the arrow slam into the shield. Ermanar examined the stuck arrow and smiled with arrogance, "That the best you could do? You all shall rot in the snow! We shall kill you all! Not one of you shall pass us! You! Shall! Not! Chosen Swordsmen, unleash your voice!"
The Chosen Swordsmen bellowed like behemoths. Their monstrous baritone and bass-like chanting was shook many of the legionaries present. Who were these barbarians that wore armor and held the discipline of Romans? How do you kill them?
And with their cry, the Chosen Swordsmen charged in formation.
The legionaries dipped low and swung their shields in front of them. Cossutius called for pila. Vitus called for his archers.
The Gallic archers and remaining Roman archers raised their bows and the legionaries leveled their javelins. The singular order came to both archers and legionaries, "LOOSE!"
"Shields up!" Ermanar ordered.
The Swordsmen ceased their running and raised their shields high. A row of Swordsmen ran forward, crouching to their knees and held their shields out waist high, while the second row stood tall and held their at face level. Each shield overlapping over another like scales on a fish, and braced the impact of the Roman missiles.
Arrows and pila slammed into the sturdy shieldwall, and the Britons did not budge. Those that had a pilum lodged in their shields quickly discarded them, and instinctively fell to the back ranks, allowing those Swordsmen with shields to advance to the front ranks.
Astonishment colored the faces of the legionaries. The First Cohort nearly fell out in disbelief. Not one missile penetrated the barbarian shieldwall. Never had an enemy fully brushed off a missile attack from the Legion. Never. What monsters were they facing?
Ermanar yelled for the Chosen Swordsmen to charge. The armored Britons broke their shieldwall and ran forth in a tight formation, shields in front of them, longswords in the air, against the Roman ranks. Cossutius called to the men, "Brace!"
Ranks of armored warriors violently crashed into the ranks of armored soldiers, the solid impact causing the Roman line to slowly being pushed back. Though winded, the legionaries dug into their reserves and firmly planted their feet to the ground and began pushing back, jabbing their swords at this unorthodox enemy. Shields clashed with shields. Both sides pushing off against one another, profanity ruled the air on both sides.
The Roman legionaries were drilled and trained constantly to inflict fatal wounds to the torso of their enemies in any situation. Although their helmets obscured their peripheral vision and their massive rectangular shields covered some of their sight in front of them, the Roman legionaries would fall back to their training and know exactly where to stab to inflicting a mortal blow. One legionary was matched up against a Chosen Swordsman, their shields were locked together, and he gripped his gladius and prepared to strike in the exposed torso in the Briton's side. As he lunged, the legionary felt throbbing pain in his left side, beyond his shield. The legionary looked down at the origin of the pain, witnessing a longsword sticking in his torso underneath the armpit. The Swordsman retracted his longsword, the legionary watched as blood shot out of his wound like a mudslide; he fell to the ground, losing all feel in his body, wondering to Mars how the Swordsman managed to kill him.
Many legionaries were falling against the Chosen Swordsmen; the Britons' weapons seemed to be entering the Romans' bodies with uncomfortable ease. Yet the Romans could not figure why.
For disciplined Romans fighting undisciplined barbarians, the Romans had to simply hide behind their large shields while the barbarians would flail their weapons wildly against the shield in a futile effort to break the Romans' guard until the barbarians would tire. But not the disciplined Chosen Swordsmen. Instead, they used their longswords which was half a foot longer than the gladius, and go around the shield, thrusting into the Romans' exposed torso in the side—saving much needed energy to fight on longer.
Ermanar was still on the incline, shouting fire from his tongue and raining down curses upon the Romans. "Andrasta damn you all! You shall never overcome us! You all shall PERISH!"
A legionary alerted Vitus, "General, enemy reinforcements to the West!"
Another legionary voiced the news, "Enemy to the East!"
Vitus could hear several war cries from the Britons. To the east, a unit of Woad Warriors was flanking them. And to the west, a unit of Head Hurlers was getting into position to attack. Vitus grunted in anger, he had allowed himself to be caught in an envelopment.
The Woad Warriors slammed into the right flank of the Legion, raining blow after blow of their two-handed greatswords. The Warriors broke several of the winded legionaries, their heavy weapons brought down several Roman shields, allowing them to be cleaved and penetrated by the Briton's weaponry. Once the Hurlers were in position, they heaved their morbid missiles into the ranks of the Twenty-Eighth. Vitus saw a head coming towards him and moved out of the way, his eyes watching as the infected cranium slammed into the exposed neck of a legionary. The legionary's neck broke out into a rash and burns bubbled on his flesh; the legionary dropped his weapon and fell to the ground with a howl as he furiously scratched his burning flesh.
"Don't let them touch you! Pass it along! Pass it along! Do not let the heads touch you!" Vitus warned his men.
But his words had trouble reaching every man. Some of the legionaries were packed together with the Chosen Swordsmen to the front and the Woad Warriors to their side that they had no place to move. More infected heads fell on the Roman ranks and discord was beginning to spread. Once the Hurlers exhausted their ammunition of heads, they charged into Twenty-Eighth on the left flank.
Romans were falling in quick succession with both flanks threatened. But a cry of prideful shouts came from the rear. Vitus made a quick curse; another force of Britons must be attacking his rear, ensnaring the Legion like a pack of wolves. Yet the prideful shouts bore the tongue of Latin. Behind the Twenty-Eighth came the Thracian Auxiliary led by Proculus, all have dismounted their horses and were charging on foot. The corner of Vitus' mouth rose at the sight of "reinforcements" but it quickly evaporated once the situation became clear.
The formation of the Twenty-Eighth was in jeopardy. A Roman infantry line was flexible, able to shift to whatever direction they were attacked, but it was truly strong if it was only getting attacked in one direction; not three. If its flanks were threatened—as it was now—morale would drop and the formation was bound to crumble. Being attacked from the front, left, and right flanks; the end would be near for them. It was time for something unorthodox.
"Break formation! Break formation!" Vitus ordered. Those that heard the command snapped their bewildered heads over to him. But they complied. Centurions blew the command on their whistles. They broke formation, and the cohesion on both sides developed into a brawl of bedlam. If the legionaries lost their weapons, then they relied on their fists and teeth. Vitus knew what he was asking his men to do; he knew how foolish it would be in an ordinary battle. But the entire battle was going to hell, so why not the men themselves. This battle was never a true battle, but a bestial deathmatch between two animals. Between two scorpions in a jar that have both succumbed to the other's venom. This was a fight of attrition. Hatred overtook discipline on both sides.
Every man was left to his own battle.
Ardunas had lost track of Vitus and Antonius, he was now surrounded by Britons, faceless legionaries, and two of his own men, Bulox and Asarindus. The fighting was so close that the Gallic archers couldn't even use their bows. Such a fact mattered little to Ardunas; he only had three arrows left in his quiver.
Instinct told Ardunas to duck, and he followed it. A sword slashed over his head and the attacker's momentum sent him dashing past Ardunas. The Gaul stood and the face his Woad Warrior attacker and impaled him through the torso with his sword.
He snuck behind a Briton and brought his sword around his throat and sliced the Briton's neck open. Ardunas spun around struck off the jaw of a barbarian who was trying to backstab him. A spearman came from behind the jawless man and was moving to gore the Gallic archer. Ardunas got into a defensive stance as the spearman ran closer. An arrow flew through the crowd and entered the back of the spearman's head. As the body fell beneath Ardunas' feet, Ardunas gave a hearty smile to thank his fellow Gaul, Asarindus, who took the shot.
Asarindus gave him a nod of confidence. Then the tip of a longsword entered his back and exited his chest, and Asarindus recoiled in agony. Ardunas froze. Behind Asarindus stood a Chosen Swordsman, burying his longsword through Asarindus' back all the way to the hilt. Asarindus fell off the blade, convulsed in the snow until his final breath.
"NO!"
Ardunas dashed forward with a dreadful yell, his sword raised in the air above his head. The Swordsman was shield-less and he waited until the Gaul was in range. Ardunas brought his sword down with all his strength, but the grizzled Swordsman did an overhead blocked and kicked Ardunas in his stomach. The archer fell to the ground but quickly returned to his feet, anger reddening his face. He charged once more and the two barbarians clashed furiously.
He and the Chosen Swordsman crossed swords, as their blades locked; the dexterous Ardunas seized his first arrow in his quiver and drove it through the Swordsman eye so hard that the point came out of the man's skull.
Ardunas took up his sword and swung at any enemy that got close, thoroughly decapitating several Britons. He spotted his kinsman, Bulox, within the melee facing off against a Woad Warrior and a Chosen Swordsman.
Ardunas took his second arrow and nocked it. Bulox had driven his sword through the Woad Warrior's torso. Ardunas leveled his bow with the Swordsman. The swift Swordsman descended on Bulox and with a series of slashes to the throat, torso, and face; Bulox fell backwards dead.
Ardunas gritted his teeth so hard they nearly chipped. He released the arrow. Too slow… The arrow crashed through the Swordsman's helmet, the Briton's collapse was slow like a falling tree, his body landing on top of Bulox. Ardunas lowered his bow and exhaled.
Asarindus…Bulox…Too slow to save them… His eyes felt hollow, his bow was precariously dangling out his fingers. He had only one arrow left and his remaining comrades were scattered.
A Chosen Swordsman knocked Aelianus to the ground with the rim of his oval shield. Aelianus blocked the Briton champion's downward striking by hiding behind his scutum. The Swordsman repeatedly drove his longsword down point-first at Aelianus, but the deadliest man in the Legion was forced to hide behind his shield on the ground to survive the onslaught.
Annoyed, the Swordsman brought his foot alongside the scutum and pinned Aelianus' shield-arm with his foot. Aelianus had lost his gladius in the fighting and looked on helplessly at the Briton's longsword hanging over his chest. The Briton made the plunge with his weapon. Using the bracer on his right arm, Aelianus deflected the sword away from his torso, the sharp steel tore into the leather bracer, but Aelianus's arm was unharmed.
Aelianus reached and grabbed the Briton's thick, bushy beard and yanked it downward. The Swordsman grunted in pain as he bent over, allowing Aelianus to momentarily rise and headbutt the Swordsman in the face. The Swordsman recoiled back, allowing Aelianus to jump to his feet, seize the Briton's longsword and sending the blade through the armored Briton's chest.
Aelianus pushed the dead man off of him and returned to his feet. He reequipped his shield and sword, eager to return to the fighting. Yet he was halted by three Chosen Swordsmen who stood in his path. Aelianus did not panic, he leered at the three man and spat to the side.
"Come on!"
They ran to him with their weapons raised, but Aelianus stood his ground behind his shield. The first Swordsman leaped into the air and slashed down, yet Aelianus blocked the jumping attack and spun out of the way, right into the direction of the second Swordsman. The Second delivered a backhanded slash to the Roman's throat, yet Aelianus dipped low once again, saving his head but not his cheek—the tip of the sword carved through Aelianus' cheek. The Third somehow appeared behind him and plunged his sword through his lower back. Aelianus yet again spun out of it, but the tip nicked his side, sending out a soft stream of blood flowing down Aelianus side to his legs.
Aelianus grunted. Shit, their ferocity rivals the Berserkers. Yet unlike those Germanians, these men are much quicker. I need to be quick as well!
Aelianus threw his scutum to the ground and picked up a discarded standard Brittonic sword, noticeably shorter than the longsword in his right hand. He twirled the two blades and his eyes locked on to the three Swordsmen. It was time for Round 2.
This time, he moved first. He slammed both swords into the shield of the First Swordsman, knocking him off balance. The Second and Third attacked at once, yet Aelianus—using both of his swords—deflected each strike and stab that came at him.
Without his shield weighing down, he was able to spin and turn more efficiently, especially in the tight quarters of the brawl that was erupting in the streets. The Third Swordsman charged at him, but Aelianus blocked his sword—dipping low and picked up the Swordsman on his shoulders into a fireman's carry. With the quick burst of adrenaline, Aelianus tossed the Third Swordsman into the Second, both elite Britons fell onto the ground. He returned his focus on the First; yet the First had already moved to attack.
The First's longsword sliced across Aelianus' chest, right under his left nipple. Aelianus jumped back, but the sword had already found its mark, carving through his armor and flesh. Aelianus winced but kept fighting, if he did not jump back when he did, the wound would have been fatal. He could feel his warm blood falling down his chest beneath his armor.
He ducked out of the way of another of the First's slashes and rose to deliver a brutal stab through the Swordsman's chest. The Second and Third stood back up and went back on the offensive, Aelianus fell back into blocking both of their swords with his. When the three men locked swords, Aelianus utilized a hidden reserve of strength and pushed both men off of him.
The Second Swordsman rebalanced himself and extended his thrust, yet the indomitable Aelianus sidestepped the thrust and hacked off the barbarian's sword hand with one sword then turned and opened the man's throat with the other sword.
The last Swordsman came from behind and hacked at Aelianus' back. The sword sliced into the legionary's shoulder blade. His knees buckled as he grunted loudly, blood was coursing down his back, but he pushed through the pain and engaged the Swordsman, both men clashing blades for half a minute; until Aelianus knocked the Briton off balance and plunged both swords into the Briton's torso. The Swordsman fell to his knees, Aelianus pulled out the swords and moved both blades as one like scissors and decapitated the Swordsman.
Antonius plunged his sword between the neck and shoulder of a Briton light infantryman and kicked the bleeding man off his sword. The Tribune was breathing hard; he wiped the blood of the enemy off his face and exhaled in bitterness. He spun around lightly, observing the utter chaos that consumed Samarobriva; the bravery of the legionaries, the savagery of the Swordsmen, the cries of the wounded who were being stepped on by friends and foe alike. The images of the quarry battle flashed in his mind, the image of Lucius bleeding in his arms whispering for his sons. I shall not fail the brothers…
He came behind a distracted barbarian and sent his blade through the man's back. He turned and slashed opened another Briton's throat. He took his gladius in both hands and cleaved a barbarian's skull in two. He cursed to himself, there seemed to be no end to the barbarians.
He took a few steps back and bumped into the back of another man. Antonius peered over his shoulder, noting the attire of the man, he was barbarian. Antonius spun around with a wild slash, but the barbarian he bumped into performed a spin as well. Antonius' gladius clashed with the Briton's longsword; the two men locked swords.
That Briton smirked and spoke in Latin, "I remember you."
The Tribune recognized the crescent-moon scar of Ermanar. He pushed off of him and bellowed, "You fucking dog!"
The two Captains of the armies met on that field of battle. The mêlée around them seemingly evaporated between the two men. Their stares locked onto one another, their blood began to race. Antonius gripped his sword tightly, he remembered Ermanar laughing and bragging as he ran Lucius through. Lucius, I shall avenge you!
Ermanar made the first move and provided an overhead slash with his longsword, Antonius blocked the blade and countered with a thrust, in which Ermanar swept away with his longsword. The two men exchanged strikes and counters, their swords clanging and ostensibly danced with one another within the skirmish of chaos. Both Captains locked their blades several times, but it was Ermanar who managed to overpower the Roman Tribune. He sent the Roman to the ground and knocked away the gladius. Ermanar brought his sword down on top of him; but Antonius seized a large discarded two-handed axe and blocked the attack.
Antonius kicked Ermanar in the shin and took the time that Ermanar was stunned to return to his feet. Ermanar made a thrust with the longsword; however Antonius' swing of his axe knocked the blade out of the Briton's grasp.
Antonius moved close to the Briton who murdered his General, praying he could avenge him by parting the bastard's head from his neck. As Antonius swung the axe, he knew Ermanar would jump back to evade the double-sided axe, and once he jumped back, the steel would rip off the Briton's head, it was only natural for a man to jump back when pressed so aggressively. Yet he did not count for Ermanar's cunning.
Instead of jumping back, Ermanar jumped forward into Antonius' swing and into his guard. He wrapped his arm around the shaft of the axe and headbutted the Roman. Ermanar disarmed the groggy Antonius of the axe. The Briton spun in a complete circle and slammed the large axe into Antonius' breastplate. The wind was knocked out of the Tribune. He fell to the earth coughing up large amounts of blood until it ran down the sides of his cheeks.
Ermanar laughed triumphantly, walking towards the fatally wounded Tribune. The crimson of his wound was quickly turning into a shade of black, the pain was so dreadful Antonius couldn't even scream. Ermanar leveled the double-sided axe towards Antonius' neck and raised it high.
Out from seemingly nowhere, the grizzled Cossutius tackled Ermanar onto the ground, raining blow after blow with his fist into the Briton's face. Ermanar kicked him off. Cossutius and Ermanar stood before one another. Cossutius' eyes flickered down to Antonius' gaping blackened wound in his chest and the blood that was running down Antonius' cheeks. Cossutius gritted his teeth and picked up a discarded scutum. He positioned himself behind the shield and tapped the front of it with his gladius. Ermanar smirked, wiped the blood from his nose and charged.
Ermanar brought down the large war-axe on the scutum; the blow itself sent shocks through Cossutius' shield arm. The axehead was stuck in the shield, giving Cossutius time to lunge his gladius into the Briton's torso. Yet the experienced barbarian used the bottom ended of the two-handed war-axe to deflect the sword upward. Ermanar spun away and wrenched the axe free of the shield and went back on the attack.
Cossutius had to evade instead of block. He knew that another direct hit from the axe would destroy his shield or worse; penetrate the shield and hack off his shield arm. Cossutius dipped low and used his shield as a battering ram, slamming into Ermanar. Both men fell to the ground, Ermanar losing his axe in the process.
Ermanar kicked the shield off Cossutius' arm and drew his dagger. The Briton Captain lunged his dagger into the base of the back of the Roman's shoulder. Cossutius grunted and lost feeling in his sword arm. But the Primus Pilus toughened through the stab and headbutted the Briton in the mouth.
Both men wrestled one another for control of the dagger, their bodies rolling over several corpses that littered the ground. Ermanar possessed the higher strength of the two and wrestled control of the dagger from Cossutius' grasp.
Ermanar elbowed the Primus Pilus in the nose and broke free of him. With his back to the ground, Cossutius was mounted by the Briton Captain who was prepared to drive the steel dagger through the Roman's eye socket. As the dagger fell, Cossutius seized the knife-hand, and once again the two were struggling for control of the dagger.
Cossutius had to think quick. With his free right hand, Cossutius was patting the ground around him for any weapon to use. His hand felt something hard and hairy, out the corner of his eye he noticed it was a diseased head the Britons were hurling into the Roman ranks.
He grabbed the lye-soaked head by the hair and swung it into Ermanar's pale face. The impact had enough force to break Ermanar's nose but what truly released Ermanar's grip was the burning chemicals that now peppered his face. The Brittonic Captain fell off the Primus Pilus with putrid wailing, he covered his face and rubbed his eyes vigorously, hoping that the burning would subside, but it only worsened; his eyes felt like there were colonies of ants swarming inside his sockets, chewing on his corneas, bizarre amounts of mucus flowed out of his nostrils, his face felt like it was being stung by a swarm of bees. Ermanar cried out to Andrasta to make the pain stop.
In that wondrous moment, Cossutius seized the discarded dagger and drove it through the back of Ermanar's throat, the point even came out through the Adam's apple. The Brittonic Captain gurgled a stream of blood through his throat, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull from the pain. Cossutius brought the blade to the man's throat and sliced it opened, and there Ermanar fell to the ground, his life's blood soaking the already drenched battlefield.
Vitus had seized a Roman shield and blocked several attacks from a Briton warrior before slamming his shield into the Briton's stomach. He moved over to the toppled Briton, and drove his sword through the man's eyes. An axeman came for him, but his elder brother descended from behind and shoved his sword through his back.
A Head Hurler came at the brothers, swinging a corrupted head while chanting in his native tongue. Vitus moved first. The younger brother stabbed the Hurler right above the groin, and then the elder brother stabbed the Hurler through the heart.
Vitus rose to his feet, his eyes falling on the ongoing whirlwind of carnage that surrounded them. Romans intermingled with Britons, pounding each other with fists and stabbing the unaware through the backs with swords and spears. One Briton leaped upon the back of a Roman and tore through the man's jugular with his teeth. One Roman who lost his weapon was pummeling a defeated barbarian's face in with a broken hand—the hand was flopping in the air with each strike, obviously broken at the wrist and fingers, but the legionary was too filled with adrenaline to notice his shattered hand. The brothers were in the midst of utter madness.
Through the crowded chaos, the brothers could see the form of Oroles engaged with three Chosen Swordsmen. Oroles was helmetless and blood dripped from a gash over his left eye but he stood ever so adamant in the face of this adversity.
The three Swordsmen charged at once. Oroles blocked several blades with his shield and sword and managed to gore one of the Chosen Swordsmen with his spear. Yet he faced two more at once, and these two were quicker than the first.
Both Swordsmen rushed Oroles; one attacking the Thracian's front, the other attacking his rear. Oroles drew his gladius and braced the assault. As Oroles went to attack one Briton, the other would go on the offensive. Oroles realized what was occurring. He had to get both men in front of his vision, but as he moved out from between them, the Swordsmen would simply leap in front of him to keep Oroles in between them.
The other Swordsman drove the point of his sword through Oroles' left kneecap. Vitus gasped. The Getae Prince howled. He fell to his crippled knee, but the skilled Oroles would not let it end; he swung his sword in a vertical arc at the barbarian who crippled him. The blade caught the man between the shoulder and the neck.
Vitus ran to Oroles, shoving comrade and enemy out of his path. The Thracian's name was the only thing on the young man's tongue. He cried out but his voice was lost in the tumultuous battle. Only he saw the imminent danger.
As Oroles watched the dead man slide off the steel of his sword in front of him he remembered the last Swordsman he had knocked down. The last Swordsman rose from behind Oroles, a menacing barbarian spear in hand.
The spear was angled downward, entering square in his back but the crimson-coated spearhead exited through Oroles' stomach. All air escaped from the Thracian's lungs. The shaft of the spear had broken off inside Oroles, so the Swordsman had discarded the broken half he wielded in his hands. On his ragged knees Oroles fell, blood pouring from his mouth, dyeing his beard an even darker shade of crimson.
The Chosen Swordsman had Oroles on his knees and brought his longsword to the Thracian's throat. Vitus cursed incoherently, his rescue was blocked by several Britons…and yet he could see the Getae's execution. The Roman called Oroles' name, shoving everyone out of his way to reach him. The Swordsman cackled boisterously and pressed the steel deeper into the Prince's Adam's Apple. And pulled. Blood fell from the Thracian's throat.
In Vitus' line-of-sight, Oroles fell on his face into the blood-drenched snow. And so did the Swordsman who slashed his throat. As he fell, Vitus noticed an arrow in the Briton's eye socket. Oroles was moving, but his movement was not a death throe. He was coughing and managed to sit up somehow. Vitus was stunned, until he looked down the line of battle and could witness Ardunas sighing in relief, as he lowered his composite bow. His quiver was now empty.
Proculus grabbed a legionary helmet and kneeled over a wounded Swordsman. He brought down the helmet on the defenseless man's face; the crunching of bones rang with each bash. "Die! You! Fucking! Worm! DIE!" The helmet was now dented and barbarian blood now stuck to it, as it also stuck to Proculus' face.
Proculus threw it away, but failed to rise to his feet. Exhaustion had taken him. Ahead of him, Romans were dying from a group of Woad Warriors. One legionary had his head taken off with a single swing by the barbarian, another had his head parted in two, three Romans were gored ruthlessly by the Warriors, and another Roman had his neck brutally snapped from a barbarian's beefy arms.
The Woad Warriors targeted the fatigued Proculus and moved at him with weapons raise. The Roman frantically scrambled for a weapon but as he grasped a gladius on the ground, a Warrior was already on top of him. "Jupiter, fuck me…!"
Ligadis protectively leapt forward in front of Proculus with a Thracian war cry, and charged the Woad-painted demons with long, menacing strides. He lunged his spear into the belly of a Warrior, the prongs of the spearhead pulled out the man's entrails as Ligadis retracted the spear. Ligadis flipped a charger over using his shield and gored the man as soon as he fell. When his spear was broken by a barbarian blade, Ligadis drew his sword and drove it through a Briton's chest and then opened up the throat of another man.
Proculus exhaled with relief at the sight of the Thracian second-in-command. Ligadis lifted the Roman to his feet, "Proculus, are you wounded?"
"I'm fine, Ligadis. Gratitude, for saving me."
It finally dawned on Proculus that din of battle had reduced greatly, no longer was the air filled with cursing and clanging of steel, but now replaced with excessive panting and moaning of the dying. His eyes trailed around the area and the mass of inhuman brawling had finally descended into a massive mopping-up action. Those that survived were executing the ones that were wounded, few men were engaging with one another; but the solemn relief that came to Proculus was that the survivors were the Romans.
The Woad Warriors, Head Hurlers, and thankfully the Chosen Swordsmen all lay dead beneath the feet of the Twenty-Eighth. Half their number was standing, all were covered in blood. No man stood unscathed. His eyes fell on Aelianus who now possessed two swords, and yet had an open wound on his back and chest.
"Oh no, Oroles!" Ligadis ran over to his friend, Proculus was right behind him.
Vitus had propped Oroles up against a tree and was frantically tending to his wounds. The young General's head was shaking from side-to-side, "No…no…no!"
"Calm yourself, Vitus. It's just…just a scratch; I'll shall survive." The Getae Prince tried to stand, but he flinched, and sat back down. "No, no it's worse than a scratch, I ad—" he coughed up blood and groaned through his bloody teeth, "—I admit."
Proculus could see the wound in Oroles' throat. The slash was deep enough to draw blood, but not deep enough to damage his trachea.
Vitus placed his hands on Oroles' chest wound, "Come on, Oroles! No not you!" The young man's voice was beginning to crack.
Oroles was trembling now; blood was seeping from his cracked lips. His voice was soft. "You better…n-n-not weep for me! I've trained you to be…tougher. You hear me?"
"I-I-I…I know I tr-trained him to be…" a voice trailed from the side.
Antonius was be assisted by Cossutius who carried him over towards the Thracians and the brothers, a trail of blackish blood followed Antonius as moved forward. His skin was pale, his eyes were hollow, blood had soiled his mouth and beard, and he too gave off the tremble of death. Proculus nearly collapsed at the sight.
"Antonius!" He ran to the Tribune. He and Cossutius placed the Tribune beside Oroles.
"No…not you too…" Vitus said in a whimper.
Somehow, Antonius could utter a growl from his lungs. "D-Damn it, Vitus. There's n-n-no time…for that!"
Proculus' hands were shaking, his eyes could not leave the crimson waterfall that existed within the Tribune's chest, "Oh my…how?"
Antonius grunted, his eyes were flickering open and shut, "T-T-The man who…killed Lucius…the moon-scarred dog. He d-did this…"
"But it was through my hand that ended that man's life." Cossutius reassured the brothers.
Antonius coughed up blood and his eyes were glazed, his voice was beginning to trail. "Th-That dog is dead…n-now there is one l-last dog to slay…"
The fighting at the Town Square that lay just above the incline could be heard by the legion. They could hear the clanging of steal, the grunting of curses and the screams of the wounded and dying. The legionaries were ready for this last fight.
"The barbarians are still up there, let's go kill them!"
"This is it!"
"Let's end this together! For Lucius!"
"Let's go! Where are the generals?"
Aelianus rallied the rest of legion to await orders as he went to find the brothers—who he noticed were kneeling next to some wounded men.
"Generals, we need to go now! Whilst we still hold momentum, we need to charge up the—" he fell silent as he discovered the wounded. He cleared his throat and spoke softer, "Generals, they fought valiantly, but now is not the time to focus on them, we need to end this."
Vitus swallowed hard. He knew it to be true, he couldn't waste time like this…but…but he wasn't going to leave Oroles. He couldn't…he just couldn't.
"He's r-right," Oroles said with blood in his teeth. "Y-You must hurry. I shall be fine here, I h-have Antonius to keep c-company…go…"
Vitus slowly nodded, but kept putting pressure on his wound, "Oroles…"
Antonius placed his hand on Proculus' shoulder. "Now go and leave us." The Tribune looked at Proculus and gave him a weakened smile, "I'm pr-proud of you, Pr-Proculus…I am. I-I shall tell your father of what you two have…become…"
Oroles took a deep breath and spoke with the last ounce of authority to his beloved pupil, "Leave us! You have a legion to…lead. Lugotorix…is at the square…avenge us…av-v-venge us all and end this. END THIS!"
"Brother, we need to go!"
"I know…I know…" Vitus rose to his feet, his eyes lingered on the weakened forms of Oroles and Antonius. His vision shifted to the 200 casualties that Chosen Swordsmen inflicted upon his men. He could hear the fighting from the Town Square; Ermanar said his king was fighting there. There was only one more obstacle remaining. One more hill to climb. Once more, an inferno burned within the young Roman's heart. It was time to end this…
They charged with vengeance. The legionaries had climbed the incline and in front of them was the heart of Samarobriva, the Town Square. Inside the square was utter mayhem; to Vitus it seemed as if it was an exact replica of what occurred when the Twenty-Eighth fought the Swordsmen.
There were no formations, no distinct sides, just a brawl in the town square with bluish woad –covered Britons and green-clothed Gauls intermixed with purple-cladded Romans. The sight was truly uplifting for Vitus, actual living Romans that wore the senatorial purple armor. It was not too late, they were not too late.
As they ran closer to the barbarians, Vitus unearthed a primal scream of a Neanderthal; his voice proved a contagion as others around him unleashed this primitive howling. To Vitus' right was his brother, to Vitus' left was Aelianus charging with two swords in hand. To the right of Proculus was Ardunas, chanting in his Gallic tongue as he wielded a barbarian longsword. And to Aelianus' left was Cossutius who proved he could keep up with the younger men, he charged wielding a double-sided battle axe in both hands. The remnant of the legion followed these leaders, they all charged with vengeance.
Vitus exhumed the final war cry, "TWENTY-EIGHTH!"
And his legion replied, "TWENTY-EIGHTH!"
The crimson-armored legionaries slammed into the barbarians forces like a crashing wave. Each man was stabbing, hacking, slashing, pummeling any barbarian that was unfortunate to cross path with these furious legionaries. Blood soared in the air, each man lost in their own killing rapture.
Vitus' remembered Oroles' lessons to keep low and target the joints. Vitus kicked the knee of a Gaul—knocking him off balance—and plunged his sword through the stomach of the Gaul. Proculus dodged a slash to his head and thrusted his sword through the face of his attacker. Ardunas crept behind a Gallic warrior and slit his throat with his longsword, the archer turned around and thrusted into the back of Briton who was fighting another Roman. Aelianus brought his two swords together and opened up the throat of a Woad Warrior who was too slow to evade. Cossutius used the large battleaxe and hacked off a Briton's leg at the knee and as the Briton fell, Cossutius brought the steel axe down on the man's neck. Ligadis brought his sword down and hacked off a sword-hand from a Gaul, then turning to slash the handless man's throat.
The Gauls and the Britons fought back as hard as they could, many using their superior individual fighting skills to overpower several Romans they engaged one-on-one. But it was the fury exhibited by the Twenty-Eighth that carried many of the legionaries over. Though many were wounded in the fighting with the Swordsmen, they remembered their pride in their fallen comrades and kept fighting. Glory be damned. Seeing the Twenty-Eighth arrive to rescue them, the senatorial legionaries regained heart and fought even harder than ever before, a chance to return home reinvigorated them. The tide in the battle was turning, Vitus could feel it.
Vitus pressed the edge of his gladius against the neck of a Gallic Night Raider, right below the earlobe, and pulled his blade forward, opening the veins in the man's neck. He moved forward to attack the next man, but a pair of heavy arms and rough hands seized Vitus from behind, lifted him several feet in the air and slammed the young Roman to the ground on his back. Vitus groaned loudly.
The barbarian grappler was weaponless and stood over the small Roman and roared with bloodlust. The man's rugged and bleeding hands wrapped viciously around the young Roman's throat. He tried hitting his strangler in the face, but the Briton's arms were too long and his were too short. The man was too strong to force off. Vitus could feel the blood rushing to his head. Vitus was now flailing and gagging. He could feel water pooling in the corner of his eyes. His head was going to pop any second, he was sure of it.
A gladius was shoved through the back of the strangler's head and came out the front. The strangler's body fell limp and collapsed on top of Vitus. Vitus pushed the man off of him and looked up to the Roman who stabbed his strangler.
Vitus' savior was a tall man, an inch taller than Proculus. His face was covered in blood but it did not betray his features. He was a man in his early to mid-30s who had short, dirty blond hair with soft stubble surrounding his jaw. His nose was strong and pronounced which exuded handsomeness in his face. He wore the purple armor of the Senate and a long purple cape flowed gracefully off his back. The savior extended a hand to Vitus, but Vitus was almost trembling at the sight of the man.
He…he looked like…
"Come on, soldier!" The savior told Vitus, "Stand and figh—wait…you—"
Vitus' savior blinked repeatedly at the young Roman, finally able to form words, "V-Vitus? Vitus Julius?"
"M-Marcus…?"
The man nodded and pulled Vitus to his feet. Vitus' lip was shaking; he didn't know what to say. Before anything exited his mouth, Proculus moved close to them, engaged with a Gallic swordsman. Proculus caught the Gaul's sword-hand, and spat into the barbarian's face. Once the Gaul was distracted, Proculus sprung his gladius through the man's stomach. Vitus' savior shook his head softly, incredulity masked his face.
"Proculus. It's you…" he said to him.
The sword almost fell from Proculus' iron-grip, his jaw was dangling, "Sweet Gods above, Marcus Maxentius!"
"What are you two…?"
"There's no time for that, Marcus." Vitus announced. "We need to end this!"
The Praetor nodded. A barbarian came for the Praetor from behind. The Praetor spun around and beheaded the man with a single stroke. Marcus turned back to the brothers, "I am of the same accord."
Proculus looked into the crowd, and his eyes narrowed at the target, "And I believe I know how."
Proculus pointed his sword at his target. Fighting two legionaries was none other than the king himself. He wielded a large a two-handed greatsword that was of a beautiful make and decapitated a legionary who could not raise his shield in time. Lugotorix's blue cape flung in the air with each strike the Briton King delivered against the second legionary. Using all his strength, Lugotorix performed a downward slash against the legionary. The legionary raised his shield above his head, but the greatsword managed to crack the top half of the scutum and tear through the legionary's skull.
Marcus was almost speechless, "Th-Th-That is…he is—"
"Lugotorix," Proculus sneered.
Vitus grimaced, "This ends now."
"LUGOTORIX!"
The King spun around when he heard his name. His eyes shrank in his head when he focused on Marcus Maxentius, and Proculus and Vitus Julius who stood brazenly before him. The king's bottom lip was quivering.
Proculus extended his arms out and gave a dark smirk, "Tell me, are we still 'pups' to you?"
Lugotorix unleashed a furious roar and charged at them. He swung at them with his greatsword, but only managed to cleave the air as the three men took a leap backwards.
Vitus moved to the left, Proculus moved to the right. Lugotorix brought his sword down on top of Vitus, but he simply juked out of the way. With his back exposed, Proculus made a lunge. Lugotorix turned around and blocked the attack and went to attack Proculus. But the elder brother was blocking all of the king's heavy blows. As the two locked blades, Vitus and Marcus went on the attack to Lugotorix's exposed rear.
The king reached around Proculus, grabbing his cape and threw him into the two charging attackers. Proculus fell on top of Vitus and lost his sword, but Marcus evaded it and clashed with the Briton lord. Marcus was attacking with quick hacking attacks to disallow Lugotorix to use the full length of his greatsword. Lugotorix jumped back and lunged at the Praetor's heart with his sword. Marcus sidestepped the attack—the greatsword nicking his breastplate—and swung at the man's neck. Lugotorix simply raised the hilt of his sword up and blocked the swing with the base of the greatsword. The king spun to the right and brought his full weight with the sword against Marcus who couldn't dodge in time and tried to block. He managed to block the wild swing, but the impact sent Marcus to ground.
As a Barbarian King, Lugotorix was quite skilled in the sword, but as with all men, fatigue was crippling him—and fighting three men at once did not help him either. Vitus sprung to his feet and did several quick slashes and stabs, but was unable to land a hit. Lugotorix was tiring, his form grew slopping, and his attacks were out of desperation instead of precision. Lugotorix brought his sword downward in a vertical arc to cleave Vitus in half. Vitus tried to block, but the Briton's attack knocked his gladius out of his hand. With both hands shaking from the attack, Vitus took this time to counterattack.
Lugotorix was slumped over from the exhausting attack, allowing Vitus to deliver a hard uppercut to the Briton's face, stunning him. Vitus reached behind his back and seized his hidden dagger. With a ferocious cry, Vitus shanked Lugotorix in his stomach. Lugotorix bent over in agony. The furious king seized the young Roman's neck with one hand, strangling him.
Lugotorix roared like an animal, determined to crush Vitus' windpipe. But Proculus grabbed a discarded legionary helm and dashed towards the Brittonic liege, slamming the helm into Lugotorix's face. The steel edges of the helm cut up his nose and forehead, the impact broke the king's nose and chipped three of his teeth. The king relinquished his grip on the younger brother, allowing Proculus to go to Vitus' side.
Still in a daze, Lugotorix somehow managed to stand on his feet, the entire world was spinning. Maxentius charged at him and brought his gladius in a horizontal arc and sliced away at Lugotorix's chest, tearing through the breastplate and opening the muscles of his chest. Blood shot out the wound, splattering all those who were around the barbarian king. Lugotorix fell on his back, his arm shaking in pain, his mouth gasping for the frost-ridden air. His eyes focused on the three Romans above him who stared down at him with dreaded glares.
With their king defeated, morale for the Britons shattered. Many tried to flee from the settlement only to be cut down by the surviving Romans who had no notion of any barbarian surviving. Three Britons tried to scurry past Aelianus, but the skilled soldier twirled his swords in his hand and with three precise slashes, he opened up the three throats of the runners. The once chaotic noise of battle that surrounded Samarobriva slowly died away. The clinking of swords and shouts of anger slowly transitioned to exhausted exhaling and the cries of the wounded.
The forces of the barbarians melted away, only the Romans were left standing.
The battle was finally over.
With the last of the resistance destroyed, Vitus finally took a good look at the settlement. It had finally stopped burning. The huts that once littered the village were burned to ashes; if not for the grey smoke that emanated from where the huts once stood, no one would hold knowledge that they existed at all. There only stood one hut that miraculously was untouched, and it was the largest one that stood next to the town square. As for the square itself, once there stood about 300 men battling for control, now there were less than a hundred. The ground was littered with corpses, it was impossible to walk without stepping on a body, it remind Vitus like trying to not step over fallen leaves during the Autumn season in the woods. Impossible. He looked beneath his feet and he was standing on top of two carcasses, a Briton and a Roman. Standing on top the deceased were Cossutius who was getting a count of the survivors, Aelianus who was tending to the wounded legionaries, Ligadis who was tending to the wounded Thracians, and Ardunas who was seemingly laughing over a barbarian captive.
"Vitus! Proculus!" The brothers turned to Ardunas who was waving at them as he dragged a blood-soaked barbarian to his feet. The barbarian was wearing luxurious armor, the same make as Lugotorix's armor, except the color scheme was green like the Gauls…
Proculus blinked in disbelief, "Is that…"
Ardunas smiled, "It is." Ardunas spoke several sentences of Gallic to the barbarian and the barbarian responded with annoyed grunts and cursing. Ardunas forced the armored Gaul to his knees before the brothers and removed the Gaul's helmet. "I present to you, the Gallic King, Segovax!"
Vitus looked at the muddy, blood-caked face of the monarch and muttered, "Is it really?"
"It is." Maxentius said behind him, his eyes were cold as steel. "I've seen him before. This is Segovax, the Last of the Gauls." The Praetor's eyes shifted to the wounded Lugotorix. His voice and stare were still cold, "Fortuna blessed us to provide two kings to kill."
Using the last reserves of his strength, Lugotorix showed the Romans how proud he was. He got off his back and rose to his knees. Blood was trickling out his wound and his pants grew harder with each breath he took. His eyes were filled to the brim with despair, gazing into the firm faces of the Julius brothers.
"But…I broke you…"
Vitus stared down at him, "We are the Twenty-Eighth; and we shall never break."
"Legion! Gather!" Maxentius ordered.
Throughout the corpse-riddled town square, purpled-armored Romans walked up to the Praetor. Their eyes were shrunken and bloodshot, they carried no equipment, their gazes stared into space, and they walked as if they were moving through quicksand. They resembled the dead more than the living.
Maxentius shuddered at their number, as did the rest of the Twenty-Eighth.
Marcus asked them, "Is this all of us?"
"…Indeed…Praetor," one of the senatorial legionaries answered, hollow bewilderment was in his voice.
"Just you thirteen?"
"…Indeed…Praetor."
Vitus took in the number of his own men, a tear formed in his eye as he was nearing to finish. By the Gods…there's only—"
"Lugotorix!" Marcus snapped. He walked over to the kneeling, bleeding king. Everyone crowded around the defeated Briton. Marcus glared at him once more as he sneered through his teeth. "You scum! You fucking scum! You dare strike against me? You dare strike against Rome? You dare believe that you barbarians can defeat Rome?! I have survived the onslaught of you, Cunovindus, and Segovax for fucking months, and you believe me and my men to fall? Ha! We Romans shall never be defeated by the likes of you and your ilk! You are a disease that Rome shall forever rid!
The Praetor raised his bloody blade into the air; he grasped the grip with both hands. Lugotorix lowered his head. Vitus and Proculus looked on in satisfaction. The Praetor finally ushered, "Lugotorix, King of the Britons, it is I, Marcus Maxentius, Praetor of Rome, that decree your life forfeit. May your carrion become a feast for the foxes and crows above and may worms seek refuge in your carcass from below. May you find no measure of rest in your afterlife, barbarian filth. May you and your kind suffer for all eternity."
Vitus' eyes shot open. Marcus gritted his teeth and swung his sword, the blade falling on the king's neck. Lugotorix shook his head with his eyes glued to the blood-soaked ground.
"WAIT!"
Marcus stopped. All eyes—even Lugotorix—looked upon Vitus who was holding his hand out to the Praetor.
"Marcus, don't! You cannot kill him!"
"What?"
"Think for a moment; do not end his life just yet."
Vitus could feel the sideways glares from his own men. Proculus mouth was hanging low, he asked his brother, "Vitus, what are you saying? Y-You want him to live?"
"Yes."
"Him?! You want him to live?!"
Vitus' eyes hardened. "He needs to live."
Marcus walked over to the young man, his face contorted in bitterness. "Such is not your call to make! You hold no inkling of what this man has done, what he's orchestrated. Him and the Gallic and Germanian kings, he has ruined this campaign for me, butchered my men, embarrassed Rome and you offer he live?!"
Proculus walked over to him, "Brother, listen to me. Just open your ears, Vitus! After all he's done to the Praetor, to the Twenty-Eighth, to our father? He needs to be fucking punished!"
"Exactly. For his crimes, an execution is…too quick."
Several eyebrows were raised.
"No, do not fall to confusion. I advocate not this man's innocence, he is anything but. He is a man of great cunning and cruelty. And as his crimes were listed, do you all truly believe a beheading is justified for him? After all that he's done?! I say NO!"
He stared at the defeated king, "Rome does not forget, and Rome does not forgive. I'll be damned if we simply kill him now and forget about what happened later. No. I shall not stand for this. He's the King of the Britons, not some lowly brigand. An enemy we never faced before, yet he defeated the Twenty-Eighth in our first battle and killed our Father. He does not deserve to be killed in this damn settlement. No, he needs to be taken back to Rome. He needs to be paraded on each of the Seven Hills so we may spit on his endeavors and his deficiencies, he needs the world to see him as the wretch he is, his name forever etched in history as synonymous with failure! He needs to be humiliated, an example to show everyone they cannot fuck with Rome!
"And when he has fulfilled his purpose, when he has thoroughly entertained us, he shall have his eyes gouged from his skull and his eardrums pierced with nails, his tongue ripped from his mouth , so when he walks in the afterlife, blind, deaf, and dumb; they shall proclaim, 'Here comes Lugotorix, the foolish Briton King that believed he broke Rome.' That shall be his punishment. That he knows of his failure for all eternity and when he finally breaks from the weight of his failure, we shall finally end him."
No man spoke a word. Lugotorix stared on in utter incredulity. Ligadis and Cossutius exchanged glances of disbelief, was this not the same young man who once advocated mercy back in the Gallic village of the Candevaci? Only Proculus could speak, his voice was a near whisper, "Vitus…what the—"
Vitus gave his brother a stare of fire, "The boy who once protested executions has long since died after this man beheaded Father. I shall do anything to preserve Father's legacy. Anything. If bringing the man who killed Father honors his legacy, so be it. I. Shall See. Him. Suffer."
Vitus turned to Marcus, his expression not changing, "Praetor, such is why I ask you to spare him. For now. May you grant me this?"
The eyes of the survivors fell on Maxentius. His bloodshot eyes saw no hesitation within Vitus' dual-colored eyes, and his mind drifted back to the Senate. What would they desire? How would it look for the people of the Republic to return with two barbarian kings after a most dreaded campaign? How would it reflect on him?
Marcus sheathed his gladius, "Vitus, I shall grant you this boon. I shall spare your lives, Lugotorix, Segovax; you both shall be our captives in our return to Rome." He turned to the remainder of his men, ordering them to take the two kings away and to immediately treat Lugotorix's wound. Marcus walked away to gather his thoughts.
Proculus' eyes shifted around the town square, gauging the number of men from the Twenty-Eighth. Where the hell did the rest of them venture off to? Was it to collect the dead and treat the wounded? Where are the rest? He needed a headcount.
"Cossutius!" Proculus called out. "Call all the men of the Twenty-Eighth to the town square."
Cossutius shuddered, his eyes were red. From what Vitus could tell…it seemed he was fighting back tears. "G-Generals, th-this is all of them…"
The brothers dropped their swords; Vitus' was shaking his head in denial. Every Twenty-Eighth legionary wore a mask of defeat on their face, but they stood tall out of discipline. Even the Thracians and even the Gallic archers. There were so few of them.
Vitus struggled to ask, "H-How many? Cossutius…h-how many of us…Romans, Gauls, Thracians, my brother and I…how m-m-many of us are still standing?"
"We have…62."
Vitus' legs gave out. He fell on his rear-end on the ground, not knowing he was sitting on a barbarian corpse. His hands began to tremble, his breath became hoarse. Proculus buried his face in his palm muttering softly, "Oh fuck…oh fuck…oh fuck…"
Vitus finally said, "We…We had 800 this morning…we had 800…"
On this day in history, the Twenty-Eighth led by Proculus and Vitus Julius, liberated the village of Samarobriva with 800 men. They rescued the Praetor, Marcus Maxentius, who had 1,000 legionaries to defend the city against the barbarian horde. The Romans totaled 1,800 and fought the Briton and Gallic army numbering 2,150, and completely destroyed the barbarian army. But not without cost. Only 62 men of the Twenty-Eighth Legion survived the battle, whilst only 13 men of the Senatorial Army survived. 62 men out of the original 6,000 men of the Twenty-Eighth at the start of the campaign. 13 men out of the original 25,000 men from the Senatorial Legions one year ago.
The Twenty-Eighth have accomplished their mission, the Praetor was alive, but no songs were sung that day. No man cheered in relief or victory. For the Battle of Samarobriva will always be remembered in the annals of the 28th Legion's illustrious history and of the Julii's history—as a Pyrrhic Victory.
*Sigh* To all the people who play Total War, we've all been there...where your favorite army has been through a HELL of a battle and you win, but...at what cost...most of your best people are dead...yeah, that hits you hard sometimes.
But in other news...
YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! (Continued Daniel Bryan chanting)
I have finally did it! I finally finished the Battle of Samarobriva. I'm so happy I was to keep pushing myself to complete this after all this time. And I have you all to thank for motivating me to get to this chapter.
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