Torin stood his ground as best he could. He brought his spear about and managed to bring down one of the Roman horsemen, stabbing him through the sternum, rending the man from his horse. His spear became stuck, and he let it go as panic got the best of him. A charger crashed into his shield, sending him reeling to the ground. As he rolled onto his stomach, another horse trampled his shield arm. He wrenched his arm free, holding it into his chest. Remarkably, it was not broken.
He scrambled amongst the scene of death which surrounded him. He saw a number of men rushing up a small hill on their flank, which led away from the battle. He made his way towards them, keeping his injured arm close to his side. Men and horses charged past him, lances missing him by inches. At last he reached the base of the hill, where he used his good arm to help pull him up the steep slope. He could hear the sounds of men and horses behind him; the cry of one poor fellow who was brought down by a Roman lance before he could make his way up the hill. Torin was ecstatic to be alive, yet shamed by his actions. He consoled himself. He had tried his best and had slain a Roman cavalryman. Still, the tears came freely as feelings of loss and persistent fear threatened to incapacitate him. He then steeled himself and renewed his surge up the slope with renewed passion. Whatever became of Sacrovir and his rebellion, he knew he had earned his freedom.
Torin’s attempt at valor was a rare sight. The rebels were mostly thieves and cowards. Their concern was their own survival, and they did not wish to face death at the end of a Roman lance. Those who could flee did so, whilst the less fortunate were forced to fight for their lives. The reach of the Roman lances proved too great for most, as they could not get close enough to engage man or horse. Some did manage to drag horsemen from their mounts before viciously slaying them, though this was done out of desperation rather than any kind of organized battle plan. Little did they realize that had their companions not panicked, their numbers alone would have been enough to overwhelm Indus and his cavalry. This observation was not lost on Sacrovir.
The number of armored adversaries was dwindling rapidly. Artorius and Valens had run out of men to fight, as had many of their companions. Macro wrenched his pickaxe from the chest of a rebel and quickly assessed the situation. Sacrovir’s main force could be seen advancing.
“Second Century, disengage!” he shouted, “reform behind the cohort!”
Decanii echoed their centurion’s command down the line.
After making certain his men heard the order, Artorius started down the slope, pickaxe over his shoulder. The rest of the Third Cohort was advancing towards them, shields parting at intervals to allow the Second and Third Centuries through. Artorius stopped just shy of the formation and waved his men through the gap. He slapped each man on the shoulder as he passed through, quickly getting accountability for his section before allowing himself to withdraw from the fray.
“Our wings are collapsing!” Belenus shouted, terror rising in his voice.
“The Roman front ranks appear to be disengaging as well,” Heracles added, his voice much calmer. “It would seem they are bringing the bulk of their legionaries forward.”
Indeed, the soldiers in the front ranks had pulled back once they saw the hordes of Sacrovir’s army rushing towards them. With precision timing, the remaining four ranks rushed past the wreckage that was the Noble Youth, forming up in time to disgorge their javelins.
“Front rank. . throw!” Proculus shouted.
“Second rank. . throw!” came the order from Centurion Dominus.
The rebel force was within a few yards when the javelin storm was unleashed. To miss was impossible at such close range. Some rebels managed to catch a javelin with their shields, only to be punctured by several more. One poor man had taken a javelin through each eye socket, his head literally torn apart by the shock of the blows. Others had their shields pinned to their bodies or, at best, stripped from their hands. Aside from the commands of the centurions and the occasional grunt from heaving their javelins, the Romans had been unnervingly quiet up to this point. That changed with the next order from Proculus.
“Gladius. . draw!”
“Rah!” The Gallic army, by this time, was in complete disarray and like their companions on the wings, they, too, forgot they still had the Romans badly outnumbered.
The dying screamed in pain. Those now devoid of shields panicked. Survival became their one concern as the legions charged into their ranks. Those who stumbled, caught legionary shields and gladii in their backs.
Proculus caught a rebel in the back of the leg with his gladius, bringing him down. He then stabbed the man through the base of the neck before he could rise. His men battled their way uphill, slaying all in their path. The slope became slippery as bodies piled up; blood and intestinal fluids saturating the ground.
“Fucking cowards!” Taranis growled. “I thought you said your gladiators were warriors, Sacrovir!”
“If you will notice, it is my gladiators who continue to fight,” Sacrovir replied coldly. “It is your Sequani who are running.”
“Then I shall rein them back in myself!” Taranis drew his sword and spurred his horse towards the battle. “Turn and fight, if you honor yourselves as Sequani!”
A few of his men did heed their chief’s call, though most were too panic stricken to fight any more. Taranis’ mount crashed hard into the Roman lines, knocking soldiers down and creating a gap which Sacrovir’s gladiators quickly tried to exploit. He ran his sword through the throat of a surprised legionary, only to have it wrenched from his hands. His weapon gone, he swung his shield about, catching a Roman on top of the helm. Just then, another soldier leapt up and stabbed Taranis through the groin. He gave a cry of pain as he was pulled from his mount. He was surrounded by legionaries who started smashing his face and body with their shields. His arm snapped, his nose shattered, and his esophagus was crushed underneath the force of their blows. Blood and urine flowed freely from the wound to his groin; a wound that itself would have proven fatal, though his spine snapped underneath the Romans’ onslaught. The chief of the Sequani was dead long before the enraged legionaries quit bludgeoning his broken body.
Sacrovir’s gladiators were indeed brave, but they were no match for well-disciplined legionaries. Roman soldiers found their strength in working together, each man protecting his companions on his left and right. The gladiators, on the other hand, were used to fighting as individuals in an arena, and were in no way prepared for close combat with such a disciplined force. The gladiators held the high ground, but they were slowly giving way; the rest of Sacrovir’s army having broken and ran.
Proculus struggled up the gradual slope that was now littered with corpses. Legionaries were fighting their way through the mass confusion; the remaining gladiators not knowing whether to fight or flee. The centurion rammed his gladius into the belly of one assailant. He then shoved the stricken man down the hill behind him. One rebel threw down his weapons in the face of the Roman onslaught and raised his hands in the air. Proculus paused for a second as the confused rebel knew not what to do. He then went to reach for his weapons again. Proculus turned his shield up and rammed the bottom edge into the man’s face, just above the bridge of the nose. The rebel gave a short cry as he was knocked to the ground, the centurion ripping out his jugular with his gladius. The severed artery sprayed Proculus with blood as the dying man lay convulsing. In an act of bravado, a gladiator leapt high into the air, body-tackling one of the legionaries. Though he had succeeded in knocking the Roman down, as well as several men around him, the gladiator took a blade to the heart for his efforts. The battle was turning into a rout, and there was no one left to exploit any such breaches in the Roman lines.