The ground was slick with blood and mud, a treacherous carpet of bodies and broken weapons.
Rainer vaulted over the sprawled corpses of auxiliaries riddled with arrows at the gate, brushing past the arriving battering ram.
The ladder loomed ahead, its wooden frame rattling under the weight of a few men scrambling upward. He reached it just before the next Roman auxiliary column on this side could seize it, pausing only long enough to draw a steadying breathe.
Suddenly, a scream split the din and Rainer's head snapped up.
An auxiliary soldier tumbled down the ladder, arms flailing, eyes wide with the shock of death. Rainer shifted aside just in time, as the man struck the earth with a sickening thud. A javelin thrust clean through his chest plate.
Rainer smacked his lips in regret and glanced up. Then he raised his shield and began his climb.
The ascent was relatively calm. The auxiliary Persian archers had done their work well; the usual rain of enemy fire was near-absent, the windows above dark and silent. For once, the wall did not spit death.
Rainer allowed himself a steady pace, his body still aching from his earlier fall—even though he landed expertly, dispersing his weight. The climb gave him time to recover, to let his muscles settle into rhythm.
But as the parapets drew near, he quickened.
At that moment, a shadow moved above. A rebel with a forward‑pointed helmet leaned over, javelin in hand. His eyes locked on Rainer, and his arm drew back.
However, Rainer did not slow.
He instinctively shifted his grip, holding the shield sideways. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he hurled it upward like a discus.
The iron rim cracked against the rebel's skull, and his helmet spun away, clattering against stone.
The man toppled backward, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
Rainer climbed the last rungs, the air thickening with the stench of sweat, iron, and fear. He could smell it—the morbid anticipation of men waiting to kill.
With a faint scoff, he raised his spear, point first, and crested the wall.
Six rebels stood before him, armored; faces twisted with rage and desperation. Their eyes gleamed with the madness of cornered beasts. They braced, ready to skewer him the instant he stepped forward.
But Rainer had a plan.
His gaze flicked across them, calm; a calculating smirk growing. He had been waiting for this moment ever since Kotys had shown him the sketch of the garrison fort. The plan had been stirring for a while in his mind now; a thing of part‑madness, part‑brilliance.
His favorite cocktail blend.
His muscles tensed and he exploded forward. The spear's tip slammed into the stone. His legs coiled up, then he released.
He vaulted.
The world slowed. The rebels' mouths fell open as Rainer soared above them, his body arcing like a shadow against the sky. Their blades thrust upward, but they were clumsy in their shock, missing.
Rainer's spear bent under the strain, wood groaning and cracking.
For a heartbeat, Rainer's eyes met theirs. His own widened in alarm, theirs in disbelief. Rainer had meant to land behind them—but his untested strength carried him farther than intended.
"NoOOo!"
The cry tore from his throat as his hands slipped from the shaft. He flew past the entire wall, fingers brushing floor, leaving a fleeting handprint before he tumbled over the far side.
Silence.
The rebels stared at the mark, then at one another, bewildered.
"That one's crazier than us," one muttered.
"I guess the Romans recruit anyone these days...frightening!"
Below, Rainer dangled from a window on the other side, expression a blend of surprise and anxiety as he looked around.
"Damn. That was—something. It actually worked!"
He glanced at the window, a smirk tugging at his lips.
'I guess you could say... All according to plan.'
–✺–
«Boom!» «Boum!»
The ladder shuddered as the battering ram slammed the gate below, tremors rippling through the wall. Kotys climbed as fast as his armor allowed, each step a battle against weight and fear.
Above, the clash of steel rang out. Curses in native tongues, the shrieks of the wounded, and the wet gurgle of dying men. The wall was alive with chaos.
Kotys hesitated, glancing down.
Below, the centurions had restored order. Auxiliaries swarmed the ladders and were now climbing after him.
Relief steadied him and he exhaled, then vaulted onto the wall.
The scene was carnage.
A black iron pot lay overturned, steam rising from its charred belly. Firewood smoldered beside it.
Two archers sprawled lifeless nearby—one with an arrow through his eye, the other with a shaft buried in his throat. Ahead, three soldiers lay butchered, their blood streaking the stones in a grisly trail that led to—Commius.
The optio fought like a man possessed. His gladius hacked and his stolen shield bashed as sweat poured down his reddened limbs.
His skin was blistered, patches of flesh swollen and already peeling. Movements awkward, and face twisted in pain yet he fought on like his life was at stake—and perhaps it was.
Kotys grimaced at the wounds.
Commius staggered back, creating space. His chest heaved as he glanced over his shoulder.
For a moment, Kotys froze. The scald marks across Commius' face were raw, angry, covering half his features. His right eye, burning with feverish intensity, twitched.
"Kotys! Don't just stand there! Fight with m—"
Before he could finish, Kotys hurled his spear. It whistled past Commius' ear and punched through the mail of a rebel lunging at him.
The man collapsed, choking.
Commius blinked, startled, then nodded in gratitude.
"Come to me!" he shouted, turning back to his foes.
Kotys drew his gladius, ready to charge. But then—movement caught his eye.
At the far end of the wall, a figure soared above the melee, vaulting over men like a phantom.
Kotys' breath caught.
"Rainer?"
–✺–
Below, in the hall beneath the battlements, Chieftain Teres strode among the dying.
The floor was littered with archers, some groaning, others already still. A few clung to life, loosing arrows with trembling hands despite shafts buried in their flesh.
His face appeared carved from stone, rough and grim, having weathered years of warring. He nodded to those who met his gaze, clasped shoulders, and offered what comfort he could. But his attempts at a smile faltered.
He was at his limit and fury burned in him, but so did guilt.
His hand brushed the scroll at his belt, fingers lingering. He had doomed his men. He prayed silently that the afterlife would punish him, not them.
He turned to the east. Through a narrow window where the mountains loomed faraway, their peaks veiled in mist. His face twitched with perplexity.
'The Golden Gate…is it truly there? Has the land of the gods appeared to us? Or is it something else, something...malignant?'
A bitter scoff escaped him and he shut his eyes, grief pressing down like his armor.
'Perhaps the underworld has come for me, at last.'