“Alright,” he gasped. “You win.” The enemy leader smiled and nodded. Klaes then came forward and stood in front of the Centurion, a sneer crossing his lips as he raised his axe to deliver the killing blow. Vitruvius grimaced as he pulled his weapon from the mud with all his remaining strength, and with superhuman effort, rammed his weapon underneath the ribcage of his opponent up to the hilt. The falling axe still managed to slash the side of his neck, which for Vitruvius was perfect timing. He wanted this man to be the one who killed him. With his strength fading fast, he reached up with his left hand, which somehow managed to function at the last, grabbed the stricken Frisian by the shoulder as he was collapsing, and pulled him down to his knees in front of him. The man’s eyes were wide with shock and the stark realization that he was a dead man. His gaze was locked on the face of the man that had slain him, blood streaming from a corner of his gapping mouth.
“No,” Vitruvius whispered as he dragged his victim’s head closer and his breath became ragged gasps and bloody spittle escaped from his lips. “We’ll call it a draw.”
Thus did Centurion Pilus Prior Marcus Vitruvius pass into the afterlife; never having been defeated in single combat. His men, who witnessed this passing, bemoaned his loss. Yet they were unable to come to his aid, even in death. The Optio of the Fourth Century finally gave the order to pull back. The Cohort had paid dearly for their bravado, though they withdrew slowly, recovering their dead and wounded lest another one of them be left behind. A few managed to catch a brief glimpse of the Frisians carrying away the body of their commander. It baffled them that Vitruvius was not left where he fell, or worse, defiled and mutilated. It almost seemed as if their enemy was showing great reverence to the slain Centurion. Six Frisian warriors carried Vitruvius’ shattered body high on their shoulders in an unmistakable sign of respect.
Vitruvius had been right. On the flank, the Second Century was indeed going through a brutal hell. A hand axe caught Gaius flush on the side of his helmet, sending him to his knees. The Frisian paid with his life as one of his fellow legionaries struck the man down with a stab to the throat. The blow left a bad cramp in his neck, and his helmet was creased and cutting into his scalp. He quickly undid the leather cords under his chin and tore the helmet off. The legionary to his right fell to the ground, screaming and clutching his face as blood and grey matter gushed from an axe wound. The one who had just saved him was knocked back as he fought the onslaught of several attackers. Still on his knees with his shield protecting his front, Gaius glanced to his right and saw the stricken legionary’s legs twitch and then stop. Enemy warriors were stomping and climbing past him to continue their attack.
As one leapt over the body of his friend, Gaius gave a deep howl of unholy rage and sprung forward, his gladius thrusting deep into the man’s side, and the two fell over onto another pile of bodies. His shield was caught on the corpse of a Frisian, and he lost his grip. He quickly pulled his weapon from the warrior who was coughing up gouts of blood and crying in anguish. Frisians were now intermixed with their lines. Gaius realized with horror that the formation had gaping holes and had collapsed. The Second Century was now overrun. The auxilia step was now swarming with warriors, and the troopers were in a savage fight for their lives. To his left, he saw Sergeant Valens trying to rally survivors into some semblance of a formation. Gaius then yanked his shield free and fought his way towards the Decanus and the dozen or so legionaries with him.
As he stumbled towards the small formation which was now fighting off a horde of warriors, Gaius watched an older soldier helping his badly wounded friend to safety. He fell to his side, looked back, and recognized Legionary Carbo. The man he was desperately trying to save was his close friend, Legionary Decimus.
“Come on, dumbass, don’t die on me now!” Carbo pleaded.
Decimus was bleeding from the mouth, his legs wobbly, eyes wide and vacant. Both men were helmet-less and had lost their shields, as well. Decimus had his right arm around Carbo’s shoulder, his left hanging useless and soaked in blood.
Suddenly Carbo gave a cry of pain, dropping his friend as he fell forward. A Frisian stood behind him, driving his spear into the small of the legionary’s back.
“No!” screamed Valens.
Gaius knew the three men had been best of friends for many years, and the Decanus lost all sanity as he watched the other two crumple, slowly dying. He broke away from his tiny formation, which was now on the verge of collapse in the relentless push of the Frisian mass. Valens tilted his shield upright and slammed the bottom edge into the face of the warrior, smashing his face in with a satisfying crunch. Gaius got to his feet and fought beside the valiant Decanus who, with every fiber of his being, fought to save his friends. Gaius jumped over a body and punched a warrior on Valens’ left with the boss of his shield. The two men stood shoulder to shoulder, fighting with strength beyond their reckoning.
Blinding fury consumed Gaius as he swung his shield and stabbed his gladius with reckless abandon. Together they both stabbed one warrior in the chest. As Gaius withdrew his weapon, a Frisian swung his axe, catching him on the side of the neck. Though the blow staggered him, he quickly regained his footing and in a wild thrust, slammed his gladius through his teeth and out the back of his neck. As the warrior stumbled backwards, eyes wide in terror and excruciating pain, the legionary let loose a howl of rage.
A broad grin crossed his face as he turned to face Sergeant Valens. The Decanus’ eyes grew wide with the same expression as the Frisian’s when he caught sight of Gaius. The legionary could not figure out what could have startled Valens about his appearance. The cries and din of battle were becoming muffled in his ears, though he guessed he had just lost some hearing from the constant noise. He was breathing heavily and felt dizzy. His shield slipped from his grip. As he looked down to see what was wrong, he was horrified at the sight of his armor covered in dripping dark crimson. He did not need to reach up to his neck to realize the axe blow he thought had only knocked him off balance had, in fact, slain him. He slowly blinked his eyes and looked at the ground at his feet. It was covered in bodies, both friend and foe. His smile faded as his gaze locked with Valens. The Decanus’ face was one of compassion for the young legionary.
“Oh, Gaius,” he thought he heard him say from a distance.
The entire time from when the blow had struck his neck was no more than a handful of seconds, yet for Legionary Gaius Longinus, the last moments of his young life moved at a crawl. His gladius fell useless from his grip, and he felt himself falling forward. His soul left his body before it landed face first in the churned up mud, his blood mingling grotesquely with the mud and water, as well as the blood and flesh of the killed and maimed. His last thoughts brought some comfort. He had done his best and died a true Roman soldier. He hoped his father would be proud of him as his mind faded into darkness.