“Push them back!” Gaius bellowed, unsure if his voice could be heard by his men. As instructed the men in the rear pushed against the men in front of them. A moment later the minuscule ground the Gauls had gained, was again reclaimed.
Gaius had often wondered if his training would indeed become second nature to him. He heard stories from the veterans that a soldier acts on instinct, losing himself in the battle as a strange sense of calming peace overtook them. Others had said the opposite — battle was chaotic, frantic and loud, that a man, regardless of how many years he had to his name, was an enraged beast, hacking and slashing to stay alive, and that all the Roman discipline counted for shit.
Gaius found that the former was true, at least for him. The fear and panic that had gripped him moments ago vanished. He responded as if his actions were not his own as ten years worth of drilling — the memory of Centurion Quintus’ vine-cane against his back, pushed Gaius forward. Lost into himself, his mind hardly recognized the first man he killed.
The moment came quickly and unceremoniously. A screaming Gaul with long brown hair, matted and caked with dirt and grit, a bright painted face, rotting teeth and thick wooly beard, the barbarian could have been twenty, but looked decades older under so much hair. He squared himself against Gaius’ shield, brandishing his small axe, which he held in his right hand — a tiny wooden shield in the other. He cursed Gaius in his native language, which Gaius understood enough of the Celtic tongue from his father’s teachings years before.
The barbarian tried desperately to get his axe-head over the brim of Gaius’ shield, wailing frantically, but Gaius was taller and protected by the well-crafted iron helmet that covered his head, and the wide shield he held tightly in his grip.
The act of killing the man came quickly, within the first few seconds after the Gallic horde had crashed headlong into the Roman formation, as Gaius rose up, peeking for just an instant over the top of his shield, and struck.
The short Roman sword, a gladius was a faultless weapon in Gaius’ trained eyes. While it wasn’t too good at slashing or bashing at an opponent, it was flawless for thrusting. Its narrow, but sturdy iron blade rested comfortably in his striking arm, precisely balanced. The ivory grip, showing wealth beyond Gaius’ station once belonged to his father — the engravings of the pack of wolves, carried the lineage of the Sixth Legion.
As the Gallic warrior screamed, his deep-blue eyes blazing with rage, Gaius thrust his sword neatly over the brim of his shield, and plunged the tip into the man’s mouth. His expression changed suddenly with the realization that, despite his, many years as a proud warrior, and the victories he must have achieved, meant nothing when his end came quickly, and without proper challenge.
Gaius felt the faint resistance as his sword struck flesh. He pushed with short-lived effort, forcing the blade, now caked with blood and little pieces of flesh, out of the nap of the man’s neck.
Gaius withdrew his sword a fraction of a second later, pulling with it a spray of crimson mist and teeth. The whole action lasted less than a fraction of a second before Gaius ducked his head back down under his shield, trusting his capable helmet to keep him safe from counter attack.
The Gaul’s feet buckled out from under him. He was dead without another sound uttered. It did not take, but a second before a new opponent took up position, as a taller barbarian drove his sword down toward Gaius’ head. The shield took the brunt of the attack, denting where the hard iron blade struck, which forced Gaius’ to lose his position for a moment as his shield dropped a few inches.
The second Gaul was worse than the first: massive broad shoulders, extending down into muscles that seemed forged in fire. This man had blonde hair, better cut and a neatly trimmed beard, which was braided. He too was bare-chested; something that marveled Gaius as, he and many Romans didn’t seem able to adjust to the bitter cold. The man’s chest featured a looping blue marking, extending from the left shoulder and wrapping around his back. He wielded no shield, only the long two-handed iron sword, which he raised over his head and drove it down once more, like a huntsman rooting a tree.
Gaius, even as large, young and strong as he, faulted for a moment when his shield received the blow. His arm which held it, felt like mush under the assault, but he again managed to hold his position.
Gaius reached his sword up once again as the large barbarian pulled back to attack once more. However, his aim was not true as the blade only cut across the man’s left cheek — deeply, drawing a torrent of blood, but not enough to sway the man from rethinking his attack.
Once more, a third blow came, a bit more off centered, which did nothing to compromise Gaius’ defense. However, now, the man used the length of his weapon to his advantage, pulling back far enough that Gaius could not strike again with his gladius.
He did not have too as the large Gaul was struck dead-center by a javelin, which was tossed by the legionnaire behind Gaius, when opportunity presented itself.
The Gaul looked dumbfounded for a moment, and then his eyes filled with a sudden rush of anger as he grabbed the wooden shaft of the javelin, and forcefully tried to remove it. This caused him obvious pain, more than any man seemed capable of dealing with. Even so, despite the man’s strength, the triangle-shaped iron head could not be easily pulled from his flesh, as only the loose wooden base broke free.
Regardless of the two-foot iron shaft sticking out from his chest, the Gaul roared with unequaled anguish as he charged forward — blood already beginning to seep from the corner of his mouth.
Gaius did not wait till the man to bore down on him. He plunged his sword forward. Its tip caught the man’s throat, tearing easily through the soft flesh.
Gaius twisted the blade as he had been trained, before he withdrew it. The gash widened with the action, drilling a hole through the man’s neck as blood oozed like water from a spick.
Still, even with the killing blow, the Gaul attempted to advance, but now as life-given blood poured from his wounds, his strength left his arms as the heavy sword fell to the rocky ground.
Gaius attacked again, slashing this time. The bloodied tip of his sword sliced across the barbarian’s face, carving across his right cheek in an upward arch, tearing through his noise and rupturing his left eye, before it cut through the white bone of the man’s skull.
Even before his body dropped onto the ground, another man’ took his place. Gaius could hardly fathom the relentless onslaught. His men, his cohort and the auxiliaries they protected were in formation, ready for the attack. And despite early loses, they held firm. However, he couldn’t imagine what the rest of the legion was going through. Sempronius obviously did not heed Valerius’ warnings of a possible ambush. Unable to form ranks and properly defend their position, even the well trained Roman discipline could do nothing against the brutality of the Gallic horde. Man-for-man the barbarians from the north were stronger fighters: raised from childhood to be warriors and hunters. They knew no fear, and welcomed death. The Romans weren’t seasoned soldiers, nor was their commitment completely given to the legions. They were called upon by the Senate: farmers, freedmen, craftsmen, fishermen, poor and the rich alike. Gaius and the Sixth, among a few other legions across the Republic, practiced soldiering as their livelihood. Still, unlike the restless tribesmen from the north, warfare was not a daily exercise for the men of Rome. Like Gaius, the majority were untested and unprepared for the reality of war, no less facing an enemy that craved their lives — coveting every head like trophies.
Gaius felt a wetness growing at his feet. At first, he feared the river might have risen, but upon careful glance downward, he saw that much of the snow had turned bright red as blood pooled from the hundreds of bodies that fell before the Roman wall. It drizzled into the water behind the Roman lines and joining the clear stream, which soon ran crimson as the first signs of Roman dead floated downriver.