The Roman line waited in silence. Not a cry. Not a tremble. Only the sound of tightened leather, metal against wood, and sweat running down young and old cheeks alike.
Sextus kept his gaze fixed on the horizon. Beside him, Scaeva walked slowly, watching each century, each face.
—You'll see them come roaring —the centurion murmured—. But when they're thirty paces away... don't look into their eyes. Look at their legs. Strike there first.
Sextus nodded. Atticus, a few meters away, clenched his teeth. Titus whispered a brief prayer to his own gods.
Then came the first German horn. Then another. And another.
The forest roared.
The ground shook under the steps of thousands of bare feet, some wrapped in skins, all armed with fury.
The Roman projectiles flew first: pila, stones, darts. Some Germans fell like broken dolls, but the rest didn't stop. They howled, bled, and kept running.
—Second platoon, ready! —shouted Scaeva.
Sextus raised his arm.
—Pila forward!
The second volley was more precise, closer. The sky seemed to collapse into steel and death. An entire group of warriors fell under the darts.
And still, those behind stepped over their bodies and kept coming.
—Here they come… —said Atticus, no longer afraid, almost smiling.
Sextus lowered his arm.
—Prepare for impact!
The clash was an explosion of shattered shields, broken bones, and screams. A hammer blow of flesh against flesh. And at the center, like an anchor in the middle of the storm, stood Legio XIII.
And Sextus. Always Sextus.