The vanguard of Legio XIV Gemina came on the morning of the seventh day after the scouting clash.
Two cohorts strong — sixteen hundred legionaries in tight formation, supported by four hundred auxiliary cavalry on the flanks and two hundred archers marching in the center. Prefect Decimus Rufus had been replaced by a new commander, Tribune Lucius Aemilius, a young patrician who believed in decisive action. The orders from Legatus Valerius Maximus were clear: probe the barbarian hold, test their strength, force them to commit their reserves. Do not commit to full assault yet — just bleed them, map their defenses, and report back.
They advanced along the old trade road in textbook order: cavalry screen first, then the cohorts in testudo on the flanks, archers protected in the middle, engineers marking the ground for siege lines behind.
They reached the final rise overlooking Seigmer's Hold at mid-morning.
Aemilius reined in his horse and raised a hand.
The column halted.
Below them the fort looked smaller than the scouts had described — but deadlier. The star-shaped ditches gleamed with fresh-cut stakes. The palisade had been heightened with timber frames. Black banners snapped above the ramparts. And on the eastern wall, four strange bronze tubes squatted on wooden carriages, muzzles pointed directly at the road.
Aemilius frowned.
"Ballistae?" he muttered to his second.
The primus pilus shook his head. "Too short. Too fat. Not ours."
Aemilius raised his arm.
"Archers forward. Loose at will. Cavalry, probe the ditches. Infantry — advance in testudo. We will see what these barbarians are made of."
The legion moved.
Arrows arced high from the Roman lines — a disciplined volley aimed at the ramparts.
Most fell short or clattered harmlessly against the palisade. A few found gaps; two Suebi crossbowmen dropped with shafts in their throats. The rest held position.
Seigmer stood beside the eastern cannon, calm.
He had positioned two guns on the eastern wall, two on the southern — all loaded with canister, crews drilled to reload in twenty heartbeats. The remaining two hundred and forty men waited in the ditches and behind the ramparts — crossbows spanned, sergeants barking quiet orders.
He raised a hand.
The Roman testudo reached the outer ditch.
The first ranks began to wade through the stake field — shields locked overhead, pila ready to throw.
Seigmer dropped his hand.
"Fire."
The four cannons spoke as one.
BOOM—BOOM—BOOM—BOOM.
The sound was apocalyptic — deeper than thunder, sharper than lightning. Flame and smoke erupted from the muzzles in thick orange jets. The canister loads tore across the open ground in four widening cones of screaming metal.
The leading Roman century simply disintegrated.
Men in the front rank were lifted off their feet and hurled backward, shields shredded, armor torn open, faces erased by nails and shards. The second rank fared little better — bodies punched backward into the third, testudo collapsing into a screaming heap. Horses reared and bolted as canister swept the cavalry screen. Auxiliary riders fell in clumps, mounts collapsing in sprays of blood.
The volley lasted perhaps four seconds.
In that time it killed or maimed over two hundred men.
The Roman line staggered. Horns blared. Officers screamed for order.
Aemilius stared in horror from the rise.
"What in the name of all the gods—"
Seigmer's voice carried across the wall — calm, clear, in perfect Latin.
"Withdraw. Or die."
The Romans did not withdraw.
Aemilius roared for a second advance — pila forward, testudo reformed.
The second charge reached the ditch.
Seigmer signaled again.
The cannons spoke once more.
Another storm of canister — nails, shards, pebbles — ripped through the packed ranks at sixty paces. Men were lifted, spun, dropped in mangled heaps. Shields folded like paper. Helmets caved. The testudo broke completely.
Screams rose — not war-cries, but raw animal terror.
The Roman archers loosed again — desperate, high-arcing volleys.
Most fell short. A few reached the ramparts. One struck a Suebi sergeant in the shoulder; he dropped but was dragged to cover.
Seigmer did not flinch.
He signaled the crossbowmen.
Three hundred quarrels flew from the walls in a single disciplined volley.
The Roman officers — exposed now that the testudo had shattered — were targeted first. Three centurions fell in as many seconds. Aemilius's horse reared as a bolt grazed its neck; the tribune barely kept his seat.
The Roman line broke.
Men turned and ran — some throwing shields, some dragging wounded comrades. Cavalry tried to cover the retreat but was shredded by a final canister blast from the southern guns.
The field before the hold became a slaughter pen.
Over four hundred Romans lay dead or dying in the first ten minutes.
The rest fled — scattered, panicked, pursued by Suebi crossbow fire until they reached the ridge.
Aemilius rallied what remained on the high ground, face pale, voice shaking.
"Fall back to the legion camp. We need the full force."
He looked once more at the black banner snapping above the walls.
And for the first time, he believed the rumors.
Inside the hold, Seigmer walked the rampart.
His men cheered — hoarse, exhausted, triumphant.
Two dead. Twelve wounded. The rest stood tall.
He stopped beside the eastern cannon — still smoking, barrel hot.
A sergeant approached — Thrain, the young crew leader.
"It worked," Thrain said, voice thick.
Seigmer nodded once.
"It worked."
He looked west — toward the distant Roman camp where eight thousand more waited.
"They will come again. Harder. With everything they have."
He touched the warm bronze.
"But now they know what thunder sounds like."
Behind him, the black banner snapped in the wind.
And somewhere in the distance, a Roman legatus stared at the smoke rising from his broken vanguard and whispered to himself:
"He is not a boy."
"He is something else."