Massive silhouettes streamed from the treeline, crashing into the rectangular shields held by the legionaries. Short swords stabbed out from the gaps between shields like silver tongues, meeting flesh and bones. Pile upon pile of Gauls died. The dead bodies made a gentle slope of metal and flesh in front of the unyielding shields. But it wouldn't last. It couldn't last.
The helmet of a weary roman appeared above the scutum shield for the briefest of moments but it was enough. An axe lodged itself into the head. Brain matter and blood spewed from the killing blow. The corpse slowly drooped and slumped forward, limply propped up by his shield. Similar scenes played out throughout the ranks. One fell, followed by another, and another.
The centurion, realising his mistake, yelled for the frontline to switch out. But alas, it was too late. The Celtic warriors rammed themselves into the empty gaps, sending tired legionaries tumbling. The formation had collapsed. The once-inhuman and unmoving killing machine had dissolved into a chaotic, jumbled mass of writhing bodies.
It was every man for themselves. The Gauls swung their axes with the force of a charging bull. Shields shattered. Swords bent. Metal pierced into flesh like a hot knife through butter. The Romans stood little chance. Bloodied and decapitated men crashed into the dirt and soil. Throughout the field, the same scene repeated, over and over. The crashing of swords slowly died into a mere afterthought, the few veterans and survivors fighting for their lives. The centurion was one of them. Regret and anguish soaked his entire body, the wounds on his body a reminder of his failure. His treacherous mouth, the traitor that had brought him and his troops to death's door, let out loud gasping sounds, sucking in as much of the metallic stench as possible. He should have never taken on this mission. Caesar was right. The centurion remembered his general's words clearly, "your overconfidence will be your undoing Publius." Oh, how he should've listened. Regret bore heavily in his heart.
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He looked up at his foe, a muscular man dressed in animal fur. His hands acted of their own accord, dropping the shield and sword. They clattered to the ground. The barbarian looked surprised, nodded slightly and wound back his axe for a killing blow. The centurion sighed with regret, closed his eyes and fell asleep to the lullaby of metal whistling in the air. His numb body barely felt his head detaching from his body. The blackness consumed him. He knew no more.