The soft glow of the oil lamp flickered against the tent’s canvas walls, casting wavering shadows that seemed to mirror the thoughts occupying Gaius Severus's mind. The sounds of the camp outside—muffled voices, the faint crackle of fires, and the clink of iron—were a constant reminder of his duty, yet tonight his focus was on a simple sheet of parchment.
He dipped the quill into the inkwell, hesitating for a moment before writing. The words came slowly, each stroke deliberate, as if crafting them could push back the weight pressing against him.
My Dearest Lavinia,
The journey so far has been steady. The lands we’ve crossed are rough, the paths steep, and the days long, but there’s a certain rugged beauty to it all that reminds me of the hills near home. The air is sharp and cold, and the sea carried us here without trouble, though its winds reminded us who commands the waters.
The words seemed almost too bright, a gilded version of the truth. He paused, running a hand over his face, feeling the roughness of days spent on the march. Could he let her believe that the campaign was as serene as a garden stroll? Was it better to let her imagine a calm, orderly journey, untouched by the realities of hardship and uncertainty? He continued, softening his tone:
The men are holding together well. They march with purpose, and though the work is hard, they grow stronger for it. The winter hills stretch wide before us, and we take them one step at a time, as any soldier must.
He thought of the storm they had faced at sea—how the ships had been tossed like leaves in a gale, the fear etched into the faces of his men, and the cold weight of responsibility pressing on him with every swell of the waves. But what purpose would recalling that serve in this letter? He banished the memory and let the quill glide across the page.
Evenings bring a quiet that I hadn’t expected. The fires crackle softly, and above us, the stars stretch endlessly, brighter than I remember. They remind me of home—of those nights in the courtyard, watching the boys chase fireflies and hearing your laughter echo off the stones. I think of that often, Lavinia. It keeps me going when the miles feel longer than they are.
He stopped again, his hand faltering. Did she need to know of the tension simmering beneath the surface of the column? Of the wary glances exchanged between soldiers and the whispered fears of unseen enemies lurking in the hills? He leaned back, closing his eyes briefly, before pressing on:
Lucan would marvel at the discipline of the men here; Marcus would lose himself in the stories of the places we pass. Tell them their father is proud of them and misses them deeply. And tell them, as I tell you now, that you are all always in my thoughts.
The words felt right—honest but gentle, a thread connecting him to the life waiting for him at home. He set the quill down and rubbed his temple, the faint ache of exhaustion settling in. Outside, the low murmur of the camp continued, broken occasionally by the sharp call of a sentry.
He let his gaze linger on the letter, rereading the words he had crafted. They painted a picture of strength, progress, and quiet beauty, but it was not the whole truth. How could it be? The column moved under constant strain, each day marked by logistical hurdles, the burden of keeping the men disciplined, and the ever-present threat of Basiliscus’s forces.
We’ve reached Silifke, and it’s a place you would enjoy. The city sits beside a strong river, its walls high and well-kept. As we approached, the sunlight lit up the stone in a way that reminded me of the warm evenings at home. The people here gave us a warm welcome—cheers, flower petals, music, and all the signs of relief that come with the arrival of soldiers they believe will keep them safe. It’s clear they’ve endured much lately.
The city itself is busy and orderly. The markets are full of goods from across the region—spices, fabrics, tools—and the streets are alive with chatter. There’s a certain pride in how they go about their lives, even with trouble never far away. I couldn’t help but imagine you and the boys here, exploring the squares or watching the river flow past. Marcus would have been fascinated by the carvings on the old gates, and Lucan would have likely asked questions I couldn’t even begin to answer.
Shortly are we arrived here, we had a small scuffle with some of Basiliscus’s men. They tried to test us in the hills, but we sent them running before long. It was nothing serious, and the men handled themselves well. It’s clear, though, that we’ll need to remain alert.
The thought of that "scuffle" lingered in Gaius's mind as he set the quill down again, his fingers absently rubbing at the rough grain of the wooden table. In truth, it had been no mere skirmish but a brutal and calculated ambush that left the narrow pass choked with bodies. The mercenaries had come with confidence, their thunderous cavalry charge meant to shatter his line. Instead, they had met the unyielding steel of Roman discipline and terrain that turned their speed and power into liabilities.
The battlefield returned to him in flashes: the sharp cry of the horn signaling the ambush, the clamor of hooves against rock, and the fierce clash as the pike line held steady. Gaius closed his eyes, seeing again the faces of the men at the front—young, determined, and terrified all at once. The line had wavered for a breathless moment, but the discipline of centuries, passed from veteran to recruit, had held it firm.
It was a massacre. The mercenary cavalry, penned into the narrow pass, had nowhere to flee. Pikes thrust forward, horses screamed, and the heavy Palatini swept in like a blade through soft flesh. Victory had been certain the moment the trap was sprung, but it did not come without cost.
The faintest groan of the wounded reached his ears, echoing still from the tents of the medical staff. Gaius had seen them working tirelessly in the aftermath, their hands deftly stitching wounds and staunching blood under dim lamplight. They had done extraordinary work—nearly two-thirds of the wounded would return to the ranks in time—but not all could be saved.
Fifty dead. The number felt both mercifully small and unbearably large. Each life lost weighed on him like a stone. He could see their faces, men he had commanded and cared for. They had trusted him to lead them, and some had paid the ultimate price for that trust. It was his burden to carry, as it always had been.
Gaius picked up the quill again, writing a final line.
Take heart, my love. We are safe, and the men grow stronger with each day. The road ahead will have its trials, but we face them together as Romans always have. Give the boys my love and remind them that their father fights for a future they will inherit.
Yours,
Gaius
He folded the letter carefully and set it aside, staring at it for a long moment. Outside, the camp had grown quieter, save for the occasional crackle of the fires and the rustle of the wind. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes lifting to the faint glow of the stars visible through the opening of the tent.
Gaius draped his cloak over his shoulders and stepped outside into the cool night air. The camp stretched around him, a lattice of tents and orderly paths, illuminated by the flickering glow of scattered campfires. Soldiers moved quietly through the shadows, their voices low, their movements efficient. Five weeks had passed since the ambush in the narrow pass, but the memory of that battle lingered as a silent presence among the men.
He nodded to a pair of sentries standing near the edge of the camp, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. The soldiers saluted him with quiet respect, their postures straightening as he passed. Gaius returned the gesture with a faint smile, his expression softening briefly before his thoughts turned inward.
The men had changed since that day in the pass. The fresh recruits who once faltered during drills now moved with purpose and precision. The survivors of the pike line, once raw and untested, carried themselves with a quiet confidence born of experience. Victory had tempered their fear, but it had also deepened their resolve. Yet Gaius knew better than to let complacency take root.
The weeks after the battle had been filled with relentless work. Training drills hardened their formations, each movement drilled until it became second nature. The wounded had been tended with care, and Gaius often visited the medical tents himself, ensuring that every man received the best attention possible. He had spoken to those who could no longer fight, offering what small comfort he could as they prepared to return to Silifke. Their injuries, though borne for the legion, were wounds he felt in his own heart.
He paused near a cluster of tents where a handful of soldiers sat around a fire, their faces illuminated by the warm light. They were eating in silence, their movements slow, their eyes tired but calm. One of the men noticed Gaius and quickly stood, nudging his companions to follow suit.
“At ease,” Gaius said, raising a hand. “Enjoy your meal.”
The men hesitated but obeyed, settling back onto their logs and stools. Gaius watched them for a moment, noting the way they exchanged quiet words and shared their meager portions. The camaraderie among them was a source of quiet pride for him. These men had fought together, bled together, and survived together. They were no longer a collection of individuals but a cohesive force, bound by trust and shared purpose.
Gaius lingered by the fire, watching the men as they shared quiet words and meager portions. Their camaraderie, forged through trials and hardship, was a source of pride for him. These were no longer the untested soldiers who had joined the column weeks ago. They were a cohesive force, bound by shared purpose and trust—a foundation that would be tested come morning.
He turned away, the warmth of the fire fading as he walked through the camp. The faint glow of oil lamps dotted the rows of tents, casting flickering light over the scene. Men sharpened blades and checked their shields, their movements deliberate, methodical. Somewhere nearby, a low hum of voices rose and fell in a song—a tune of home, or perhaps a prayer for the coming battle. Gaius allowed himself a faint smile, though it did not linger. The night was calm, but the storm was close.
As he reached the edge of the camp, his steps slowed. His gaze fell on the bridge, its weathered stones reflecting the pale moonlight. The bridge was an enduring symbol of Roman engineering—a series of stone arches spanning the river with wooden planks forming the roadway. The planks, though weathered, were stout and well-fitted, a testament to the precision of its builders. Now, under Gaius’s orders, sections of the wooden decking had been carefully removed, leaving gaps that would force the enemy to slow and expose themselves to missile fire as they crossed. This was why they were here—why they had marched through treacherous paths and harsh weather.
The bridge was more than a crossing; it was a lifeline. If the enemy seized it, they would cut the region in two, isolating Zeno’s forces to the south. The consequences would ripple far beyond this place, jeopardizing their fragile alliance and the hopes of a unified Rome. That could not happen.
He clenched his jaw, his thoughts steadying into resolve. Hold the bridge, hold the hill—deny the enemy passage, whatever the cost. The simplicity of the mission belied its weight, but clarity was a rare gift in war, and Gaius welcomed it.
He let his eyes linger on the bridge a moment longer, committing the scene to memory. Tomorrow, this place would be unrecognizable—a battlefield stained with blood and sweat. Yet tonight, it stood serene, a sentinel over their purpose.
Turning on his heel, he returned to his tent. There was still work to do, and the dawn would not wait.
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The tent’s canvas walls shuddered lightly in the cool morning breeze, the only sounds within the faint rustle of maps and the steady breathing of the men gathered around the table. Outside, the camp stirred—the distant ring of weapons being checked, the murmurs of commands, and the occasional whinny of a horse. Gaius Severus stood at the head of the table, his hand resting on the map that displayed the battlefield they would fight for before the day’s end.
The men before him—his tribunes—were not the product of wealth or noble birth, but of battle-tested skill. Gaius had chosen them for their mettle, forged in the crucible of past campaigns. Yet even these seasoned veterans carried a weight in their eyes that matched the gravity of their task. They faced an Eastern Roman army of twice their number: disciplined infantry, deadly cavalry, and commanders who knew the art of war as well as they did. This was no rabble, and every man in the tent knew it.
Gaius broke the silence, his voice calm but firm. “We’ve done everything we could to prepare. The bridge is partially dismantled—no one will cross it easily without being slowed down. The pike line will hold the gap, and our archers and skirmishers will harass them while they try to fix it.”
He gestured to the map. “On the hill, we’ve dug shallow trenches and placed wooden palisades to disrupt their momentum if they push through. Elevated firing positions have been set up to give our archers and slingers a clear line of sight on the road and the woods.”
He looked up, his gaze sharp. “The Isaurians have been busy in the forests—felling trees to block the paths, digging wolf pits, and setting traps. Any cavalry trying to outflank us through the woods will find themselves cut apart before they reach our lines. Calistos, your men will keep harassing anyone foolish enough to try.”
Tribune Calistos, the Isaurian commander, nodded, his hawk-like eyes steady. “They’ll hear us before they see us, and they won’t like what they hear.”
Gaius continued. “Behind the hill, Lucius has set up field hospitals. Wounded men will be treated and sent back to fight if they can stand. Those who can’t…” He paused briefly, his tone softening. “Lucius, do what you can.”
Lucius Corvinus, the medicus, inclined his head. “We’re ready, Dux. Supplies are stocked, and the stations are secure.”
The map came into sharper focus as Gaius traced the lines with his finger. “Their cavalry—Gothic and Hunnic mercenaries—will be the most dangerous in the open. But the bridge narrows their advance, and the forest traps their speed. Their infantry is disciplined, like ours, but they’ll tire if we make them climb this hill under constant fire. If they ford the river upstream or downstream, we’ll delay them long enough to adjust. This is where we stop them.”
He straightened, his voice taking on a harder edge. “Now to the assignments.”
His gaze turned to Faustus, the broad-shouldered commander of the pike-and-shield infantry. “You’re the wall, Faustus. Hold the bridge. Rotate your men when they tire, and don’t let them punch through.”
Faustus nodded grimly. “They’ll break before we do, Dux.”
“Antonius,” Gaius said, addressing the wiry Palatini commander. “You’re the hammer. Stay ready to counter wherever they press hardest. If the pike line bends, you break their momentum.”
Antonius gave a curt nod. “They won’t get far enough to bend anything.”
Gaius’s gaze shifted to Valens, the seasoned leader of the militia. “Your men will support the Isaurians. Stay close to the forest edge and cover any gaps. If they try to press into the trees, your job is to remind them why they shouldn’t.”
Valens nodded, his expression calm but serious. “We’ll make them regret every step.”
Finally, Gaius addressed Calistos. “Your Isaurians are our eyes and ears. Keep them moving through the woods, setting ambushes, and relaying what you see. If they try to cross the river away from the bridge, I want them delayed long enough for us to respond.”
Calistos inclined his head again. “They’ll find nothing but shadows and sharp ends in those woods.”
For a moment, Gaius’s voice softened, the camaraderie between the men filling the tense silence. “We know what we’re up against. These are Romans, not barbarians. They’ll hold formation, follow their orders, and fight with discipline. We can’t expect them to break easily. But we’ve fought Romans before. We know their strengths—and their weaknesses.”
Faustus’s grim tone broke the silence. “We’ve bled for this lands, and we’ll bleed again. But if they think they can walk through us, they’ll learn the hard way.”
“Unless Antonius trips over his own men first,” Valens added dryly, his faint smirk lightening the mood for a moment.
Antonius shot him a mock glare. “Careful, Valens. My men might need some practice, and your militia is the closest thing to willing targets.”
Before Valens could reply, Gaius raised a hand, silencing the banter. “Save it for the enemy. We hold here, or we don’t hold at all.”
The gravity of the moment settled over the room. Even Faustus and Antonius exchanged a glance, their earlier rivalry tempered by the shared weight of their task.
Gaius straightened, his voice carrying the quiet determination that had seen them through countless battles. “Hold the bridge. Hold the hill. For Rome.”
The tribunes rose, saluting briefly before filing out of the tent. Faustus lingered by the door, his hand resting on the edge of the canvas. He glanced back at Gaius, his voice quieter now. “We’ll hold, Dux. Whatever comes.”
“I know you will,” Gaius replied, his tone just as low. “Go. We’ve got a battle to win.”
As the tent emptied, the camp outside buzzed with the energy of men preparing for war. Gaius remained for a moment, staring at the map. The markers seemed frozen in place, but he knew the field would come alive with chaos by the day’s end. They had done all they could to prepare, but against disciplined Eastern Romans and their savage mercenary cavalry, preparation alone would not be enough. They would need resolve. They would need each other.
As the faint light of dawn crept across the landscape, the first horns blared from the far side of the river. Gaius Severus, standing atop the hill, watched as the enemy vanguard began its methodical march toward the bridge. Eastern Roman light infantry moved in disciplined ranks, their forms silhouetted against the cold glow of morning. Slingers, archers, and javelin-throwers formed the vanguard, their approach slow, their purpose clear.
“They’re testing us,” Gaius muttered under his breath, his voice steady but laced with anticipation. He turned to Antonius, standing at his side. “The game begins.”
Antonius smirked faintly, though his eyes remained on the advancing enemy. “Light infantry first. Probing the bridge to see if it’s worth the effort.”
“And they’ll find it costly,” Gaius replied. “Faustus is ready.”
Below, at the mouth of the bridge, Faustus barked commands to the pike-and-shield infantry stationed behind their barricades. The heavy spearmen stood in tightly packed ranks, their large scuta angled upward to form a near-impenetrable wall against incoming missiles. Behind them, Palatini archers and slingers crouched, their weapons at the ready.
The enemy reached the far end of the partially dismantled bridge and began hurling their missiles with practiced precision. Stones and arrows flew in high arcs, thudding against shields and barricades. A few struck home, eliciting grunts of pain, but the defenders held firm. Gaius had ordered his men to conserve their energy and ammunition, striking back only when the enemy came closer.
“Hold fire!” Faustus’s voice rang out like a bell, cutting through the din. “Shields up! Let them waste their strength!”
The first exchange dragged on for several tense minutes, the enemy light infantry advancing with cautious determination. Their volleys of stones and arrows came in relentless waves, the high arcs of projectiles momentarily darkening the morning sky. Yet each missile struck harmlessly against the disciplined shield wall, bouncing off scuta with dull thuds or embedding into the makeshift barricades. The defenders, well-trained and steadfast, absorbed the assault with minimal movement, their tightly packed formation giving no hint of weakness.
Some of the enemy slingers, emboldened by their lack of immediate resistance, edged closer, attempting to find angles to exploit gaps in the defense. They darted forward, hurling their weapons with renewed vigor, but the sight of the pike line—a gleaming forest of spears pointed unwaveringly in their direction—soon quelled their ambition. A few javelin-throwers raised their arms as if contemplating a desperate charge, but the grim confidence radiating from Faustus's men kept them rooted in place. After several more fruitless attempts, their momentum faltered.
Realizing their volleys were ineffective, the enemy troops began to waver. Their officers shouted orders from the rear, attempting to rally them, but the light infantry hesitated, casting uneasy glances toward the Roman line. Slowly, they began to retreat, their ranks pulling back in uneven groups. They regrouped just beyond bow range, murmurs of frustration rippling through their formation as they prepared to reassess their tactics.
“Losses?” Gaius asked without turning, his eyes fixed on the retreating enemy.
A nearby officer, one of his aides, replied quickly. “Minimal, Dux. Three wounded, no fatalities.”
Gaius nodded. “Good. Make sure they’re tended to and returned to the line if possible.”
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Meanwhile, in the shadowed woods flanking the river, the Isaurian light infantry began their own deadly work. Hidden among the trees, they watched as small enemy detachments probed the forest, seeking alternative routes to flank the Roman position. The terrain worked against these intruders—thick undergrowth, steep inclines, and the occasional wolf pit made their progress slow and treacherous.
From his perch in a low tree, an Isaurian scout drew back his bowstring, his sharp eyes carefully tracking a group of enemy slingers moving cautiously through the brush. Their heads swiveling nervously as they attempted to avoid the unseen dangers lurking in the dense forest. With a whisper of released tension, the arrow flew, slicing through the air and striking its target squarely in the chest. The man collapsed without a sound, his body crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut. His comrades froze in alarm, their wide eyes scanning the woods for the invisible attacker. Before they could react, a second volley of arrows rained down from another hidden position, the sharp whistling followed by dull thuds as two more slingers fell, clutching at mortal wounds.
The survivors shouted in panic, their cries echoing through the woods like the keening of lost souls. They scrambled to retreat, breaking into a disorganized run. Their flight, however, led them directly into a concealed wolf pit. With a sickening crack, sharp stakes rose to meet them, piercing flesh and cutting off their escape in a grisly instant. The remaining few froze again, paralyzed by the realization that the forest itself seemed to conspire against them. A few threw down their weapons and fled, crashing through the underbrush in blind desperation.
Further downstream, another enemy group was attempting to cross at a shallow ford. The swollen river's muddy banks sucked at their boots, and their movements were slow and cumbersome as they struggled to maintain their footing. Unbeknownst to them, the Isaurians lay in wait, their dark eyes glinting with predatory focus. As the intruders waded deeper into the treacherous crossing, javelins erupted from the shadows, their deadly flight precise and unrelenting. The first few struck exposed shoulders and backs, sending the unlucky men tumbling into the cold, swirling waters. Those who managed to hold their footing turned in confusion, only to be met with another volley that cut down more of their number.
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Panic spread rapidly through the remaining soldiers, their cohesion unraveling with each Isaurian attack. Cries of alarm turned to screams of terror as they stumbled back toward the riverbank, their retreat now a chaotic scramble. The muddy ground betrayed them further, and more fell as their comrades scrambled past. In the end, only a handful managed to escape the deadly ambush, leaving behind their fallen comrades and discarded weapons. The riverbank was now littered with bodies and blood, a grim testament to the forest’s silent defenders.
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The morning sun climbed higher, casting a harsh, unforgiving light over the bridge. The horns blared once more from the far side of the river, their deep, resonant tones signaling a new phase of the battle. Gaius Severus stood on the hill, his arms crossed as he observed the enemy heavy infantry forming up. Their officers barked commands, gesturing sharply toward the bridge, where engineers hurried forward with planks and logs. The enemy formation, hundreds strong, advanced in perfect rhythm, their shields gleaming in the sunlight.
“They’re bringing their heavy infantry,” Antonius said grimly, standing at Gaius’s side. “Looks like they’re preparing a serious push.”
Gaius’s gaze narrowed. “They’ll bleed for it.”
Below, Faustus shouted orders to his men, his voice carrying clearly over the din of preparation. “Steady! Hold the line! Pikes at the ready!”
The heavy spearmen adjusted their formation, the front rank kneeling with their scuta locked tightly together, pikes angled forward like a deadly bristling hedge. The second rank stood tall, their spears overlapping the first, creating a wall of iron that gleamed menacingly in the sunlight. Behind them, the Palatini archers nocked their arrows, their expressions calm but focused.
The first wave of attackers began their approach. Engineers darted forward, laying planks across the gaps in the bridge. The defenders responded with disciplined precision. Arrows and javelins rained down from the elevated firing positions on the hill, finding their marks among the engineers and the advancing infantry. Cries of pain rose as bodies fell into the river, some clutching at the makeshift planks as they were swept away by the current.
But the enemy pressed on, their discipline unbroken. As the planks were laid and secured, the heavy infantry began to cross in tight formation. The first ranks reached the partially repaired section and hurled their javelins in a synchronized barrage. The projectiles arced through the air, slamming into shields and barricades. A few found gaps, striking defenders and eliciting sharp cries of pain.
“Hold steady!” Faustus roared, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Brace for impact!”
The enemy’s shield wall advanced, their steps steady and deliberate, each soldier acutely aware of the stakes. The defenders braced themselves, gripping their pike shafts with white-knuckled intensity as they exchanged fleeting glances of determination. The clash came with a deafening roar, the sound of shields smashing into pikes echoing across the battlefield like rolling thunder.
The pike line held firm, its disciplined ranks absorbing the impact with a practiced rhythm. The front rank of spearmen thrust their weapons forward, their sharp bronze tips finding gaps between shields and armor with brutal precision. Blood sprayed as the deadly points drove deep, staining the bridge’s planks and mixing with the cries of the wounded. Yet the enemy’s momentum pushed them forward. The second rank of pikes came down like a guillotine, their longer reach targeting exposed heads and shoulders with chilling efficiency. For every inch gained by the attackers, the defenders responded with unyielding resistance.
The enemy fought back fiercely, their swords slashing at the defenders’ shields with a mixture of desperation and resolve. Heavy shields slammed into the pike line as the attackers—driven by shouted commands from their centurions—tried to force a breach. One of Faustus’s men stumbled under the relentless assault, his pike slipping as an enemy blade struck his shoulder. He cried out, falling back, but his place was instantly filled by a comrade, who stepped forward and drove his pike into the advancing soldier’s chest, halting the enemy’s advance for a moment.
The attackers’ centurion, his plumed helmet bobbing above the chaos, bellowed commands that cut through the din. “Push! Forward! No retreat!” The enemy surged forward again, their shields battering against the defenders’ scuta with relentless force. The defenders’ line wavered for a heart-stopping moment as the attackers’ weight pressed hard against it, but Faustus’s voice roared above the melee: “Rotate! Front rank, back! Second rank, forward!”
The maneuver was executed with mechanical precision. The exhausted soldiers in the front rank stepped back with practiced ease, their faces pale but resolute. Fresh troops surged forward to take their places, their pikes braced and ready. The change reinvigorated the line, and the pikes thrust forward with renewed force, driving the attackers back step by step. The enemy’s shield wall began to falter under the relentless assault, their formation breaking as fatigue and fear crept into their ranks.
A young attacker, barely out of his youth, slipped on the blood-slicked planks, his shield falling from his grasp as he stumbled into the fray. His comrades hesitated, their courage wavering at the sight of their vulnerable companion cut down by a swift pike thrust. The centurion, sensing the rising panic, shouted desperately to rally his men: “Hold the line! Reform and charge!”
The attackers regrouped under his command, their shields locking once more as they prepared for another push. They charged again with a ferocious roar, but the defenders, their line now fully reinforced, stood unyielding. The clash was shorter this time, the attackers’ morale visibly fraying as they met the wall of spears and shields yet again. The centurion’s commands grew more frantic, his voice raw from shouting, but his men’s movements grew sluggish, their strength drained by the grueling melee.
As the minutes dragged on, the attackers’ momentum stalled completely. Their shield wall began to crumble, soldiers disengaging as fear overtook discipline. The centurion, seeing the futility of continuing, finally called for a retreat. “Fall back! Fall back!”
The attackers disengaged, their shield wall breaking apart as they scrambled back across the bridge, leaving behind a grisly scene of fallen comrades and discarded weapons. Cheers erupted from the defenders, though they were tinged with exhaustion. Faustus stepped forward, his face streaked with sweat and blood, and surveyed the aftermath. “Hold your positions!” he barked, his voice firm despite his own weariness. “We’re not done yet.”
On the hill, Gaius exhaled slowly. “Casualties?”
A medicus approached, his hands red with blood. “Seventeen dead, thirty-five wounded, Dux. We’re tending to them now.”
Gaius nodded. “Make sure they’re treated quickly. We’ll need every man who can stand.”
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The early afternoon sun glared down on the battlefield, casting stark shadows across the landscape as the enemy began a new gambit. On the far side of the river, dust clouds signaled the movement of enemy cavalry and light infantry heading upstream. Scouts had identified a shallow ford two miles north, where the river, though fast-moving, could potentially be crossed with effort and ingenuity. Basiliscus’s commanders had decided to exploit it.
Gaius Severus stood on the hill, his arms crossed, his sharp eyes following the movement of the enemy column. Beside him, Antonius frowned, his gaze equally fixed.
“They’re trying to outflank us,” Antonius said. “If they establish a foothold on this side, it’ll split our attention.”
Gaius nodded, his expression grim but composed. “They won’t succeed. Calistos has his Isanurians in that area. They know the ground better than anyone.”
The enemy’s forces consisted of 200–300 cavalry and an equal number of light infantry, accompanied by a team of engineers carrying timber and ropes. Their objective was clear: establish a crossing point for larger forces by constructing a makeshift footbridge or using rafts. The cavalry would scout for a stable ford and provide cover while the engineers worked. However, Gaius had anticipated this possibility and stationed 50–100 Isanurians along the northern banks to disrupt any such efforts.
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The enemy cavalry reached the ford first, their riders pausing to inspect the river. The current was swifter than they had hoped, its icy waters swirling around the scattered rocks and muddy banks. The light infantry followed close behind, their officers gesturing sharply as engineers began assessing the area. Some soldiers dismounted to wade into the shallows, their boots sinking into the muck as they tested the riverbed for footing.
One cavalryman, a young Gothic rider, leaned over to his comrade. “Doesn’t look deep,” he muttered, his tone uncertain.
His comrade, older and more weathered, spat into the water. “It’ll be deep enough to drown you if you’re not careful. Keep your horse steady.”
The engineers began their work with hurried precision, unloading bundles of timber to construct simple rafts and makeshift supports for a footbridge. Some worked in teams to bind the logs together with rope, their hands blistered and aching from the rough fibers, while others scavenged stones and mud to reinforce the unstable base. Orders rang out continuously, officers barking commands to maintain cohesion as soldiers jostled to pass materials forward. One officer, his voice hoarse, shouted for more timber, but his men hesitated, glancing nervously at the dense treeline where shadows seemed to shift ominously. The strained voices carried an undertone of desperation, each command fighting to impose order on the mounting chaos. Nearby, a group of engineers slipped in the mud, their supplies scattering into the fast-moving current as they scrambled to retrieve what they could before it was lost to the river. The scene teetered between frantic determination and barely contained disorder.
Hidden among the dense trees lining the riverbank, Calistos’s Isanurians watched the enemy’s efforts with predatory focus. The lightly armed warriors, masters of stealth and guerrilla tactics, moved silently through the underbrush. One scout raised a hand, signaling for an attack.
With a sharp whistle, the Isanurians launched their first volley. Javelins and arrows rained down from the cover of the forest, striking engineers and spooking horses. Shouts of alarm erupted as soldiers scrambled for cover, some slipping in the mud as they tried to organize a response. A timber raft, half-constructed, was set ablaze as Isanurian fire arrows struck it, sending plumes of black smoke into the sky.
“Ambush!” one of the enemy officers bellowed, his voice rising above the chaos. “Defend the engineers! Hold the line!”
But the Isanurians did not stay in one place. They melted back into the trees, reappearing moments later at a different angle to launch another attack. This hit-and-run tactic sowed confusion among the enemy ranks, their disciplined formation breaking down as they tried to respond to an elusive foe.
The cavalry attempted to press forward, their horses splashing into the shallows as they tried to push through to the opposite bank. However, the muddy ground betrayed them. One horse lost its footing, throwing its rider into the water. The soldier’s comrades pulled him back, but the incident only added to the growing hesitation among the cavalry.
Meanwhile, the Isanurians targeted the engineers with ruthless efficiency. A small team of Isanurians, armed with hatchets and torches, slipped close enough to destroy or steal critical supplies. They hacked apart bridging materials and set fire to piles of timber, leaving the engineers scrambling to salvage what they could.
A group of enemy infantry managed to organize a counterattack, pushing into the woods to drive the Isanurians back. The two sides clashed in a brief but ferocious skirmish, swords flashing in the dappled sunlight. One Isanurian warrior, his face streaked with mud, shouted a battle cry as he drove his spear into an advancing soldier. Another slashed at an enemy’s leg before retreating into the shadows, leaving the wounded man writhing on the ground.
Despite their superior numbers, the enemy struggled to make meaningful progress. The uneven terrain and relentless harassment from the Isanurians kept them off balance. By late afternoon, their bridging efforts were still incomplete. Several small groups of infantry had managed to cross the ford, but without the support of a larger contingent, they were vulnerable and unable to advance further.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the river, the enemy commanders called for a halt to their efforts. The Isanurians had inflicted significant delays and losses, and the ford remained a contested and chaotic crossing point. On the Roman side, Calistos regrouped his warriors, their numbers reduced but their spirits unbroken. They had succeeded in their mission to stall the enemy.
Gaius received the report from a breathless messenger. He nodded, his expression one of measured satisfaction. “Well done. Ensure Calistos knows he’s to hold that position. They may try again tomorrow.”
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As the late afternoon sun dipped closer to the horizon, the horns blared once more from the enemy camp. Gaius Severus, standing atop the hill, narrowed his eyes as he observed the far bank of the river. The enemy formation had swelled—700 to 800 heavy infantry stood ready to march on the bridge, their ranks reinforced with a line of archers and slingers.
“They’re throwing everything at us,” Antonius said, his voice tight but composed. “They’re counting on breaking us before nightfall.”
“They’ve underestimated our men before,” Gaius replied. His gaze shifted to the pike line below, already showing the strain of the day’s battles. The scuta of the front rank bore deep gouges, and many of the men’s armor was caked with mud and blood. Some had managed to replace damaged equipment, but others still fought with dented helmets and battered shields. Exhaustion was etched into their movements, but the line held steady.
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Marcus Valerius tightened his grip on the shaft of his pike, the familiar wood now slick with sweat. His breathing was heavy, the day’s relentless combat weighing on him like a millstone, but his stance remained firm. Around him, the men of the front line shuffled to adjust their scuta, shielding themselves against the steady rain of stones and arrows falling from the enemy’s archers. The impacts thudded against the large shields, sending vibrations through the ranks.
“Shields up! Hold steady!” Faustus’s voice boomed over the din.
Next to Marcus, Cassian adjusted his grip, his face a mask of determination despite the streaks of grime and blood covering it. “Been a while since they let us breathe,” he muttered, his tone dry but edged with weariness.
On Marcus’s other side, Flavius winced as his arm shifted. The rough bandages around his bicep were stained dark with blood, a reminder of the skirmish earlier that day. He caught Marcus’s glance and forced a tight smile. “It’s still attached,” Flavius said, lifting his shield. “That’s a win, isn’t it?”
He hesitated, glancing at the blood seeping through Flavius’s bandage. “You should be in the hospital tents, Flavius. That arm…”
Flavius shook his head sharply. “I’m not leaving the line. Not now. We’ve all bled for this bridge, Marcus, and I’ll bleed more if I have to.”
Marcus frowned but nodded, understanding the stubborn resolve in his friend’s eyes. “Then don’t make me regret letting you stay.”
The enemy’s heavy infantry began their advance with grim determination, their shields locked in a disciplined wall. The sound of their boots striking the bridge in unison was like a drumbeat of war, reverberating through Marcus’s chest. Behind them, archers and slingers unleashed a relentless barrage of projectiles. Marcus kept his head down, the edge of his scutum angled forward, but he could hear the sharp cracks as stones splintered wood around him.
“Here they come,” Cassian muttered. He didn’t look over but steadied his pike in a practiced motion. “Remember, Marcus—don’t stab too early. Let them feel the weight first.”
The first cluster of enemy soldiers reached the far end of the bridge, javelins arcing toward the Roman line as they advanced. One struck Flavius’s shield, the force nearly knocking him off balance. He gritted his teeth, letting out a sharp exhale as he steadied himself. “Missed my head by an inch,” he muttered, sweat dripping from his temple.
“Lucky bastard,” Cassian replied, not taking his eyes off the advancing enemy. His voice was steady, though his grip on the pike betrayed his tension. “Now keep it up—here they come.”
The enemy surged forward, their shields slamming into the pike line with a resounding crash that reverberated through Marcus’s body. He braced, his knees bending instinctively to absorb the impact. His pike struck home, the tip burying itself in the arm of an advancing soldier. The man screamed, blood spraying as he stumbled back, but another immediately took his place with grim determination. Marcus tightened his grip, forcing his arms to move through the pain as he thrust again. Each movement burned, the repetitive strain sending sharp jolts up his shoulders.
The line bent but did not break. Around him, the clash of steel and the cries of men created a deafening cacophony. Marcus thrust his pike once more, striking an enemy shield with a force that numbed his hands. His feet slid against the blood-slicked planks of the bridge as the attackers pressed harder, their weight threatening to collapse the formation. A javelin clattered against his scutum, the impact jolting his arm and forcing him to readjust.
Cassian’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. “Hold! Keep your footing! Marcus, tighter grip—don’t let it slip!”
Marcus obeyed, adjusting his stance and pushing forward with every ounce of strength he could muster. His scutum absorbed another blow, the jarring impact radiating through his shoulder. His breathing came in ragged gasps, but he forced himself to focus on the rhythm: brace, thrust, step back, reset. Over and over, he repeated the motion, each thrust a desperate bid to keep the enemy at bay.
Flavius grunted beside him, driving his pike into the thigh of an advancing soldier. The man collapsed, dragging the pike with him as he fell. “Damn it!” Flavius cursed, scrambling to retrieve the weapon. His bandaged arm trembled, blood seeping anew through the fabric.
“Flavius, fall back!” Marcus shouted, his tone tinged with concern.
“Not a chance,” Flavius growled through clenched teeth, wrenching the pike free and rejoining the line. Marcus stepped into the gap momentarily, covering his friend as another attacker lunged forward. The enemy’s blade glanced off Marcus’s shield, and he countered with a quick thrust that sent the man sprawling backward.
The pressure mounted as a gap opened in the center of the line. Two pikemen fell, their shields splintering under the force of the assault. Marcus felt panic ripple through the ranks, the weight of the attackers threatening to overwhelm them. His arms burned, his movements growing slower as exhaustion set in, but he held his ground.
Then, like a bolt of lightning, Antonius’s Palatini reserves charged forward. Their spatha flashed in the afternoon light as they struck down the advancing soldiers with precision. Antonius himself led the charge, cutting through the enemy with brutal efficiency. Marcus saw him strike down an enemy officer with a single, decisive swing, his blade cutting cleanly through the man’s neck. The sight sent a ripple of relief through the Roman ranks.
“Close ranks!” Cassian roared. “Hold the line, damn it!”
The gap was sealed, and the line reformed, but the enemy kept pressing. Marcus, his breaths coming in shallow gasps, glanced at Flavius, who leaned heavily on his pike but managed a faint grin. “Still here,” Flavius said, his voice strained but defiant. Marcus only nodded, his jaw clenched as he prepared for the next wave.
The assault dragged on. Marcus’s arms felt like lead, his shield heavy with the weight of repeated blows. He glanced at Flavius, who was pale but resolute, his bandaged arm trembling as he adjusted his grip. Cassian, despite the sweat pouring down his face, still moved with practiced efficiency, his thrusts precise and deliberate.
The enemy’s momentum began to falter. Their movements slowed, their shield wall losing its cohesion as fatigue set in. Marcus could see the hesitation in their eyes, the way their gazes flicked nervously toward the bloodied Roman line that still held firm.
“Push them back!” Faustus’s voice rang out. “For Rome!”
The cry lit a fire in Marcus’s chest. He thrust his pike forward with renewed determination, driving it into the chest of an enemy soldier. Around him, the line surged forward, their weapons striking with a unity born of desperation and discipline. The attackers stumbled, their formation breaking apart as panic spread.
“Retreat!” an enemy officer shouted. The cry rippled through their ranks, and the survivors turned and fled, scrambling back across the bridge.
Marcus exhaled a shaky breath, his arms trembling as he lowered his pike. Cassian clapped him on the shoulder. “Still standing, eh?”
“Barely,” Marcus replied, his voice hoarse. He glanced at Flavius, who leaned heavily on his shield but gave him a weary grin.
“We held,” Flavius said simply.
As the remnants of the enemy disappeared into the distance, Marcus allowed himself a brief moment of relief. The bridge was still theirs.
Gaius Severus stepped into the hospital tent, his broad shoulders brushing the canvas flaps. The air inside was heavy with the sharp tang of blood, sweat, and herbs. The low murmur of voices—painful groans, whispered reassurances from medics, and the occasional muffled cry—filled the space. Lanterns cast flickering light on the wounded, their pale faces illuminated like ghostly masks.
The scene struck Gaius harder than he anticipated. Soldiers lay on crude cots or the bare ground, their wounds hastily bandaged, their armor and tunics torn and bloodied. The medici moved swiftly, their hands steady as they stitched gaping wounds, set broken bones, and tried to comfort those beyond saving. A young medicus leaned over a soldier whose chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, whispering quiet prayers while another worked to staunch the bleeding from a thigh wound.
Gaius’s jaw tightened as he walked down the narrow aisle between rows of the wounded. He nodded to the medics he passed, his stoic expression a mask that barely concealed the storm churning within. These men had fought for him, bled for him, and some would not see another dawn. He forced his breathing to remain steady, but his chest felt like it was caving under the weight of their suffering.
At the far end of the tent, he spotted Cassian, Marcus, and Flavius. The three sat close together, their exhaustion evident in their slumped postures. Flavius was seated on a makeshift bench, his arm outstretched while a medic applied fresh bandages. The blood-soaked cloth from earlier lay discarded at his feet. Cassian leaned against a support beam, his eyes half-closed but his hand still resting protectively on the hilt of his dagger. Marcus, sitting on the ground with his back to the tent wall, stared blankly ahead, his pike resting across his knees.
Gaius approached quietly, his boots scuffing against the dirt floor. The three men looked up, their expressions weary but respectful.
“Dux,” Cassian greeted him, his voice rough with fatigue.
“How are you holding up?” Gaius asked, his tone softer than usual.
Cassian managed a wry smile. “Still standing. Barely.”
Gaius turned to Flavius, whose face was pale and glistening with sweat. The medic finished tying the fresh bandage, then patted Flavius’s shoulder before moving on. Flavius flexed his fingers experimentally, wincing as he met Gaius’s gaze. “Just a scratch,” he said weakly.
“You should have been pulled from the line earlier,” Gaius said, his tone stern but edged with concern. “You’re no use to me dead, Flavius.”
Flavius gave a faint chuckle that turned into a wince. “I’d rather die on my feet than be remembered as the man who left his post.”
Gaius sighed and crouched down so he was at their level. “None of you should have to make that choice.”
For a moment, none of them spoke. The sounds of the tent—labored breathing, the hiss of a brazier heating tools, the muted cries of the wounded—filled the silence. Then Cassian broke it with his usual bluntness. “Rome can repay us by giving us a proper drink after this.”
Flavius managed a weak laugh, and even Marcus cracked a small smile. Gaius stood, his shoulders squaring as he looked down at them. “Rest while you can. Tomorrow will be no easier.”
As he turned to leave, Flavius called after him, his voice faint but clear. “Dux… thanks for coming.”
Gaius paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “It’s the least I can do.” His eyes lingered on them for a moment longer before he walked away, the weight of their sacrifices pressing heavier with each step.
At the exit of the tent, Gaius stopped and took a deep breath. He looked up at the night sky, the stars distant and indifferent to the struggles below.
The stars glimmered faintly as Gaius Severus returned to his command tent, his steps slow but deliberate. The weight of the day hung on him like a heavy cloak, pressing against his shoulders, but his mind remained sharp. As he approached, the glow of oil lamps spilled out from within the canvas walls, accompanied by the low murmur of voices.
Inside, the atmosphere was heavy with fatigue. His tribunes were already gathered around the central table, their expressions etched with weariness. Antonius leaned heavily on the edge of the table, his shoulders hunched, and his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Faustus stood nearby, his arms crossed but his stance less steady than usual, as though he were using the table to subtly brace himself. Valens sat slumped on a low stool, rubbing his temples, his breaths slow and deliberate. Even Calistos, always sharp and composed, had dark circles beneath his eyes as he reviewed a map, blinking more often than usual to keep himself focused.
The faint sound of snoring came from one corner of the tent. A young messenger, still clutching a wax-sealed scroll, had nodded off on a pile of unused cloaks, his head drooping forward. None of the tribunes made a move to wake him; the exhaustion was universal, and no one begrudged the boy his stolen moment of rest.
The murmurs quieted as Gaius entered, the men straightening as much as their aching bodies allowed. Valens stifled a yawn with the back of his hand, and Antonius straightened his posture, though his hand trembled briefly as he adjusted a scroll on the table.
“Dux,” Antonius said, his voice low and hoarse from a day of shouting commands. “We’ve assessed the situation.”
Gaius nodded, stepping up to the table. “Let’s hear it.”
Faustus gestured to the northern part of the map, where the enemy’s ford was marked with a rough charcoal sketch. “Basiscus has reinforced his engineers. Scouts report increased activity upstream. They’re working through the night, likely to finish the crossing by dawn.”
“And their camp?” Gaius asked.
“They’ve pulled back out of range,” Valens replied. “The bulk of their wounded have been gathered, though their medics are overstretched. It seems they’re preparing for a decisive push in the morning.”
Antonius’s brow furrowed. “A night assault is unlikely. Our lines are too well-lit, and the Isanurians have proven what they can do in the dark. The enemy commander won’t risk it.”
Gaius placed his hands on the edge of the table, his gaze sweeping over the map. “He knows we’re stretched thin, but he also knows we’re entrenched. Tomorrow, they’ll throw everything at us—both the bridge and the ford.”
Calistos, his arms crossed, spoke next. “I’ve already sent word to double the Isanurian presence at the ford. They’re setting traps—tripwires, barricades, and funnels to force any cavalry into kill zones. But they’re tired, Dux. Another day of this will push them to their limits.”
“We’re all tired,” Faustus muttered, running a hand over his face. “The men have held, but morale is fragile. They’ll fight, but they’re not machines. If we lose too many tomorrow…”
“We won’t,” Gaius interrupted, his voice calm but firm. “This bridge, this hill—it’s more than a tactical position. It’s a symbol. As long as we hold, they’ll believe they can hold.”
Valens exhaled slowly. “What of the wounded? Can they still contribute?”
“Some,” Gaius said, glancing at the medic’s earlier report on the table. “The medics have stabilized many. Those who can’t rejoin the line will man the barricades or assist with ranged support. Every hand counts.”
Antonius nodded, his gaze shifting to the southern edge of the map. “And the cavalry feint earlier? Do you think they’ll try again?”
“Likely,” Gaius replied. “They’ll want to divide our focus, but we’ll be ready. Keep the Palatini in reserve near the center. If they press hard at the bridge or the ford, I want them ready to plug the gap.”
A heavy silence followed as the men absorbed his words. The exhaustion in the tent was palpable, but so too was the resolve. Gaius straightened, his voice cutting through the stillness. “We’ve faced worse odds before. The enemy is disciplined, but they’re tired, bleeding, and disheartened. Every delay we’ve caused has chipped away at their will. Tomorrow, we finish this.”
Faustus’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. “For Rome.”
“For Rome,” the others echoed, their voices subdued but firm.
Gaius let his gaze linger on each of them, his tribunes, men who had stood with him through countless campaigns. “Get some rest,” he said finally. “We’ll need every ounce of strength at dawn.”
The men saluted briefly before filing out of the tent. Gaius remained, his eyes returning to the map. He traced the lines with his finger, his mind calculating the hours until morning. The faint sounds of the camp filtered in—the creak of armor, the quiet murmur of guards, and the occasional crackle of a fire. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.