“Can’t see a fucking thing down here,” he swore quietly.
“If we can keep pushing these bastards back, that rise to our immediate front should provide a decent vantage,” Camillus observed.
Magnus was soon giving his men the order to set for passage-of-lines with Praxus’ legionaries hurling the next volley of heavy javelins. This tactic was proving demoralizing for their enemy, far more so than the conventional method of employing all javelins before closing with the gladius. From the enemy’s perspective, once the storm of death passed, it was over. Here the First Cohort was continuing to throw measured volleys at close range, leaving scores of casualties in their wake. As the line continued to move forward, they found themselves stumbling over the bodies of their fallen adversaries. A few were dead with many more wounded and unable to extract themselves before the Romans overwhelmed them. Many of these were quickly dispatched by legionaries in the subsequent ranks.
Ten minutes later, as the fifth rank made ready to call for passage-of-lines, the cohort reached the top of the knoll. As Artorius and the first rank smashed forward into the brawl once again, they noticed the barbarians were starting to give ground at a much faster rate. Clearly they were starting to fall apart, and Artorius wanted to press the advantage home as quickly as possible.
“Camillus!” he shouted, as he shoved an enemy warrior back with his shield. “See if you can tell whether the entire barbarian horde is breaking yet!”
The aquilifer slammed the base spike of the eagle into the ground and sprinted a few feet up to the highest point, quickly scanning around them.
“They’re pulling back on the right wing!” he replied excitedly. “It looks like they are attempting a fighting withdrawal. I can’t see the left, though. There’s another damn rise in the way.”
“Signal the reserve cohorts to attack!” the master centurion ordered. It was maddening, trying to coordinate an entire legion, while at the same time dealing with individual warriors who wanted to spill his guts. The man to his front looked haggard and exhausted and was starting to back away quickly. Camillus’ visual signal was met by the blaring of the cornicens’ trumpets from behind the line. Unbeknownst to Artorius, a band of rather brazen barbarians caught sight of the legion’s sacred standard and made a rush for Camillus, who quickly drew his sword and unslung his buckler as he made ready to defend the eagle.
To the outside observer it was a fascinating sight, watching as three cohorts of legionaries filed between the five to their front, immediately fanning out in both directions and forming their own battle lines with rapid precision. Though the Durotriges force remained mostly intact, exhaustion and casualties had sapped their will to fight, and their withdrawal was quickly turning into a rout. Many within the reserve cohorts did not even get to throw their javelins before their enemy broke into a run. Instead, they became occupied with conducting a pursuit, while killing or capturing as many warriors as possible.
As the last of the First Cohort crested the short rise, Artorius and his men gave a shout of triumph, watching the remnants of the Durotriges flee for their lives, leaving their dead and abandoning the badly injured to their fate.
“Bastards won’t be back in a hurry,” Magnus said with a satisfied grin.
All around them soldiers were leaning against their shields and breathing hard. They were exhausted, having not slept in two days. The night crossing, which had proven clumsy and slow, had been equally demoralizing, knowing that they were confined to a minor support role and not expected to get any real fighting in. Having instead caught an entire army of enemy reinforcements out in the open and scattering them filled the men with a well-deserved sense of triumph.
“You’re bleeding, sir,” a legionary said, looking down at Artorius’ forearm.
“Damn it all, so I am,” the master centurion observed with a chuckle. It was a deep gash on his forearm, yet he scarcely felt a thing. “Eh, nothing a wash and a wrap won’t fix.”
“Artorius!” a frantic voice said behind him. He turned to see it was one of the tribunes.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It’s Camillus, our aquilifer…”
“Yes, I know who he is!” Artorius snapped, battling the sudden feeling of dread that came over him. “What about him?”
“He’s dead, master centurion.”
Artorius’ elation at the legion’s decisive victory suddenly turned to dismay and sorrow as he walked back along the knoll and came upon the body of his fallen friend. The legion’s sacred eagle still stood, planted into the ground with Camillus’ blood-soaked arm wrapped around it. The aquilifer’s eyes were wide open, his head turned to the side with a stream of blood coming out of the corner of his mouth. Half a dozen dead barbarians lay around him, and his gladius was soaked in blood.
“No,” Artorius whispered, fighting against the tears as he dropped to a knee, placing his hand on Camillus’ arm. It was still warm; only the blooded gash in his stomach from where a barbarian sword had penetrated his scale armor that was now soaked in blood and bodily fluids gave away that his friend was dead.
Near the body knelt a young, battered legionary. He was down on one knee with his head hung low and face wrought with emotion. His smashed helmet was lying next to him; his forehead bearing a nasty gash that bled profusely. There were three more dead enemy warriors next to him.
“Artorius,” the tribune said. “I am sorry to interrupt, but you need to know something.”
“Yes?” He fought to compose himself and rose to his feet, unable to look down at his friend anymore, lest it break him completely.
“This soldier broke formation when he saw Camillus fall,” the tribune explained. “Those three bastards fell by his hand as they tried to take the eagle that Camillus still clutched as he was dying.”
“Help him up,” Artorius ordered two of the legionaries who stood over their friend. “What is your name, son?”
“Legionary Marcus Amatius, sir,” the young soldier said, his voice trembling.
“A soldier would normally be flogged for breaking formation,” Artorius said slowly, still struggling to keep control over his voice. “You, on the other hand, did so not out of cowardice, but in order to save the sacred standard of this legion.”
“He fought off a number of those fuckers, not just the ones he killed, sir,” one of the legionaries spoke up. “Took a beating for it, too.”
“Camillus was a mentor to me,” Amatius replied. “I sometimes got assigned to working as his aid at the legion’s headquarters. He died saving the eagle, and I could not let his sacrifice be in vain.”
“Where is this man’s centurion?” Artorius asked.
One of the soldiers immediately sprinted away, returning moments later with a centurion from the Sixth Cohort.
“Your legionary singlehandedly saved the eagle from falling into enemy hands,” Artorius explained. “He is to carry the standard for the remainder of this campaign, and I want an appropriate award from you sent up the chain-of-command.”
“Yes, sir,” the centurion replied, glancing approvingly at the soldier, who was now being propped up by his friends.
Artorius turned to his cornicen. “Sound the cohort commanders’ call.” He stepped away, unable to look again at the body of Camillus, yet overwhelmingly aware that his dead friend lay just a few feet behind him.