Authors: Christopher Lee Buckner
“Hold your formation and wait for these bastards to come to us!” Gaius yelled as loud as he could, surprised even by his own voice and the renewed confidence in it.
“We are Wolves, and these men are only sheep. Show them what Roman iron can do!” he added, which brought a joyful boom from his men as they cried out his sentiment, challenging the Gauls to test them.
Further commands from other centurions and
less important officers carried across the whole Roman formation, as the Sixth and its escorted auxiliaries knew what their duty was. They had all trained for war, young and old alike, and while individually a Roman was marginal to a Gaul in a straight fight, as one, they were a machine created for one purpose, and that was to destroy anything that was before it.
Another volley of arrows shot from the trees, only thi
s time the Romans were prepared for the attack, as hardly a whimper was heard from the lines, as an arrow struck against the harden Roman shields, deflecting harmlessly to the snow-covered ground.
And then, with one last monstrous war cry, thousands of Gauls charged down the steep embankment.
Gaius waited, his eyes just over the brim of his shield, holding firm as his grip on his shield with one hand was strong, equaled by his hold on the hilt of his sword. He could hear, feel and see the breaths of the men beside and behind him, as the soldiers of the Sixth waited for the oncoming charge, which rolled down the hill like a juggernaut, bent on one task alone - to spill Roman blood.
“Pilums,
let fly!" Gaius cried out, as seconds later the men behind him unleashed their devastating iron-tipped spears at the charging Gauls.
Screams of barbarian foreigners blossomed as the triangle-shaped tips of the javelins tore through flesh and bone, wood and armor alike
as hundreds of men were struck by the heavy Roman weapons.
There was no time for a second volley to be ordered. On open ground, the Romans might have gotten three or four
attempts to weaken the enemy formation, but with the narrow terrain and rushing river behind them, it did not take long before the first wave of Gallic warriors collided against the Roman shields, like water against rock.
Gaius had never felt such power before as dozens of screaming, spitting,
and enraged men fell against his shield. He and the whole line slid several inches back as the hard-packed snow was quickly being chewed into mud. However, the line held as the shield wall, proven time and time again in battle, could not be broken, regardless of the determination of the opponents.
“Push them back!” Gaius bellowed, unsure if his voice could be heard by his men.
As instructed the men in the rear pushed against the men in front of them. A moment later the minuscule ground the Gauls had gained, was again reclaimed.
Gaius had often wondered if his training would indeed become second nature to him. He
heard stories from the veterans that a soldier acts on instinct, losing himself in the battle as a strange sense of calming peace overtook them. Others had said the opposite - battle was chaotic, frantic and loud, that a man, regardless of how many years he had to his name, was an enraged beast, hacking and slashing to stay alive, and that all the Roman discipline counted for shit.
Gaius found that the former was true, at least for him. The fear and panic that had gripped him moments ago vanished. He responded as if his actions were not his own as ten
years worth of drilling – the memory of Centurion Quintus’ vine-cane against his back, pushed Gaius forward. Lost into himself, his mind hardly recognized the first man he killed.
The moment came quickly and unceremoniously. A screaming Gaul with long brown hair, matted and caked with dirt and grit, a bright painted face, rotting teeth and thick wooly beard, the barbarian could have been twenty, but looked decades older under so much hair. He
squared himself against Gaius’ shield, brandishing his small axe, which he held in his right hand – a tiny wooden shield in the other. He cursed Gaius in his native language, which Gaius understood enough of the Celtic tongue from his father’s teachings years before.
The barbarian tried desperately to get his axe-head over the brim of Gaius’ shield, wailing frantically, but Gaius was taller and protected by the well-crafted
iron helmet that covered his head, and the wide shield he held tightly in his grip.
The act of killing the man came quickly, within the first few seconds after the Gallic horde had crashed headlong into the Roman formation, as Gaius rose up, peeking for just an instant over the top of his shield, and struck.
The short Roman sword, a
gladius
was a faultless weapon in Gaius’ trained eyes. While it wasn’t too good at slashing or bashing at an opponent, it was flawless for thrusting. Its narrow, but sturdy iron blade rested comfortably in his striking arm, precisely balanced. The ivory grip, showing wealth beyond Gaius’ station once belonged to his father – the engravings of the pack of wolves, carried the lineage of the Sixth Legion.
As the Gallic warrior screamed, his
deep-blue eyes blazing with rage, Gaius thrust his sword neatly over the brim of his shield, and plunged the tip into the man’s mouth. His expression changed suddenly with the realization that, despite his, many years as a proud warrior, and the victories he must have achieved, meant nothing when his end came quickly, and without proper challenge.
Gaius felt the faint resistance as his sword struck flesh. He pushed with
short-lived effort, forcing the blade, now caked with blood and little pieces of flesh, out of the nap of the man’s neck.
Gaius withdrew his sword a fraction of a second later, pulling with it a spray of crimson mist and teeth. The whole action lasted less than a fraction of a second before Gaius ducked his
head back down under his shield, trusting his capable helmet to keep him safe from counter attack.
The Gaul’s feet buckled out from under him. He was dead without another sound uttered. It did not
take, but a second before a new opponent took up position, as a taller barbarian drove his sword down toward Gaius’ head. The shield took the brunt of the attack, denting where the hard iron blade struck, which forced Gaius’ to lose his position for a moment as his shield dropped a few inches.
The second Gaul was worse than the first: massive broad shoulders, extending down into muscles that seemed forged in fire. This man had blonde hair, better cut and a neatly trimmed beard, which was
braided. He too was bare-chested; something that marveled Gaius as, he and many Romans didn’t seem able to adjust to the bitter cold. The man’s chest featured a looping blue marking, extending from the left shoulder and wrapping around his back. He wielded no shield, only the long two-handed iron sword, which he raised over his head and drove it down once more, like a huntsman rooting a tree.
Gaius, even as large, young and strong as he, faulted for a moment when his shield received the blow. His arm which held it, felt like mush under the assault, but he again managed to hold his position.
Gaius reached his sword up once again as the large barbarian pulled back to attack once more. However, his aim was not true as the blade only cut across the man’s left cheek – deeply, drawing a torrent of blood, but not enough to sway the man from rethinking his attack.
Once
more, a third blow came, a bit more off centered, which did nothing to compromise Gaius’ defense. However, now, the man used the length of his weapon to his advantage, pulling back far enough that Gaius could not strike again with his gladius.
He did not have too as the large Gaul was struck
dead-center by a javelin, which was tossed by the legionnaire behind Gaius, when opportunity presented itself.
The Gaul looked dumbfounded for a moment, and then his eyes filled with a sudden rush of anger as he grabbed the wooden shaft of the javelin, and forcefully tried to remove it. This cause
d him obvious pain, more than any man seemed capable of dealing with. Even so, despite the man’s strength, the triangle-shaped iron head could not be easily pulled from his flesh, as only the loose wooden base broke free.
Regardless of the
two-foot iron shaft sticking out from his chest, the Gaul roared with unequaled anguish as he charged forward – blood already beginning to seep from the corner of his mouth.
Gaius did not wait
till the man to bore down on him. He plunged his sword forward. Its tip caught the man’s throat, tearing easily through the soft flesh.
Gaius twisted the blade
as he had been trained, before he withdrew it. The gash widened with the action, drilling a hole through the man’s neck as blood oozed like water from a spick.
Still, even with the killing blow, the Gaul attempted to advance, but now as life-given blood poured from his wounds, his strength left his arms as the heavy sword fell to the rocky ground.
Gaius attacked again, slashing this time. The bloodied tip of his sword sliced across the barbarian’s face, carving across his right cheek in an upward arch, tearing through his noise and rupturing his left eye, before it cut through the white bone of the man’s skull.
Even before his body dropped
onto the ground, another man’ took his place. Gaius could hardly fathom the relentless onslaught. His men, his cohort and the auxiliaries they protected were in formation, ready for the attack. And despite early loses, they held firm. However, he couldn’t imagine what the rest of the legion was going through. Sempronius obviously did not heed Valerius’ warnings of a possible ambush. Unable to form ranks and properly defend their position, even the well trained Roman discipline could do nothing against the brutality of the Gallic horde. Man-for-man the barbarians from the north were stronger fighters: raised from childhood to be warriors and hunters. They knew no fear, and welcomed death. The Romans weren’t seasoned soldiers, nor was their commitment completely given to the legions. They were called upon by the Senate: farmers, freedmen, craftsmen, fishermen, poor and the rich alike. Gaius and the Sixth, among a few other legions across the Republic, practiced soldiering as their livelihood. Still, unlike the restless tribesmen from the north, warfare was not a daily exercise for the men of Rome. Like Gaius, the majority were untested and unprepared for the reality of war, no less facing an enemy that craved their lives – coveting every head like trophies.
Gaius felt a wetness growing
at his feet. At first, he feared the river might have risen, but upon careful glance downward, he saw that much of the snow had turned bright red as blood pooled from the hundreds of bodies that fell before the Roman wall. It drizzled into the water behind the Roman lines and joining the clear stream, which soon ran crimson as the first signs of Roman dead floated downriver.
Gaius reacted again, this time feeling a sharp sting against the side of his brow. Something grazed him, what it was, he did not know. In response, he instinctively thrust his sword forward blindly. Once
more, he felt the touch of human flesh against the cold iron of his sword, and again, he pushed, sending the tip deeper into whoever had wondered before the gladius.
He lost track of time. Had minutes gone by, or hours? There was no way of telling.
However, his arms and legs began to strain. He was as fit as any man could be, and he was still young, in his prime, yet he felt old and tired with the weight of his sword and shield feeling like raw iron. It was then in the back of his mind he thought he heard the sound of a loud whistle, which blew in a preordain pattern.
Without even thinking, before his mind processed what the call meant, the moment a
hand touched his right shoulder Gaius withdrew from his guarded stance, and turned his body as the man behind him rushed forward. This action was repeated by every Roman soldier who held the frontline, which were replaced by the man behind them.
Gaius collapsed
onto his knees as he was pulled to the back of the formation, as did many other legionnaires, who ignored the cold rushing water, which provided the only solid ground for them to rest on without fear of attack.
Gaius’ body looked as if he had been working in a
butcher's shop after fresh game had been brought in. His head and lower half, from his knees to his feet were plastered in bright red, which dripped from the brim of his helmet. It was only then that he seemed to notice the fowl coppery taste of Gallic blood that has washed into his mouth. He couldn’t help but swallow it during the battle, which now he threw up, which included everything he had eaten this morning. He was not alone in this action as dozens of other soldiers did the same.
It was then that a boy ran up to him – another dozen dispatched to other soldiers. Each of them carried water-skins, which they handed to the legionnaires
who had been retired from the frontline.
Gaius took several long swigs, spiting the first mouthful out as he tried to rinse the taste of blood from his throat, to no avail.
He stared down for just a moment at the boy, no older than fourteen. He was a servant of the legion; destine to wear the armor in a few short years, if he lived long enough. The lad’s face, ripe with youthfulness, bared eyes of terror and panic. However, the boy did his duty where he was asked without question. Gaius couldn’t help but pity him for having to see this day, so young, but he figured it was best to get it over with now than later. At least, he would know what to expect when he took up the shield and sword.