The pale light of dawn seeped over the horizon, its golden hues revealing the battered remnants of the battlefield. Gaius Severus tightened his cloak against the morning chill, stepping out of his command tent. The air carried a sharp bite, mingling with the faint tang of blood and ash. His gaze swept over the camp as it slowly stirred to life. Men moved sluggishly, their weariness evident in every motion. They were soldiers, hardened by years of conflict, yet the endless battles had left their toll.
He walked through the camp, his boots crunching softly on the frost-tipped ground. Around him, soldiers strapped on battered armor, adjusted their tunics, and muttered quiet prayers. Some stood in silence, their faces pale under the weak dawn light, while others fumbled with their weapons, hands trembling from cold and fatigue. Gaius passed a young soldier struggling to lift his scutum, the oversized shield slipping from his grasp.
“Lift with purpose,” Gaius said, his voice calm but firm. The boy snapped to attention, managing a nod before steadying his grip. A veteran stepped forward to help, his grizzled face a mask of quiet determination.
As Gaius continued, he caught sight of his tribunes—Faustus, Antonius, Valens, and Calistos—moving purposefully among the men. Each carried the weight of leadership differently: Faustus barked commands, his booming voice cutting through the din; Antonius exchanged sharp words with the Palatini reserves, ensuring their readiness; Valens, ever steady, walked among the militia, placing a reassuring hand on a trembling shoulder here and there; and Calistos, hawk-eyed as always, prepared his Isanurian warriors at the northern flank.
The men gathered slowly in the central square of the camp, forming a loose semicircle around the legion’s aquila. The golden eagle caught the first rays of sunlight, its polished wings gleaming faintly despite the grime of war. Gaius climbed the low platform behind the standard, his boots heavy against the wood. He felt the eyes of his soldiers upon him—exhausted, uncertain, but resolute.
He raised his hands, signaling for quiet. The murmurs subsided, replaced by the crackling of nearby fires and the distant call of crows.
“Men of Rome,” Gaius began, his voice steady and measured, “we stand today where many would falter. You have fought, you have bled, and yet here you are—undaunted. The enemy believes us broken. They believe us weary. They think this will be the day they break through.”
He paused, letting his words sink in. His gaze swept over the men, noting their hunched shoulders and tired eyes. Yet beneath the fatigue, he saw something more—an ember of pride, a glimmer of defiance.
“But we are Romans,” he continued, his voice rising. “And as long as this eagle stands, so too does our spirit. Look upon it. Remember what it means. Discipline. Honor. Sacrifice. These are not just words—they are the steel that holds this line.”
Behind him, the aquilifer raised the standard high. The sight seemed to straighten the soldiers’ postures, their fatigue momentarily forgotten. Gaius drew a breath, steadying his tone.
“The enemy will come with all they have. They will try to break us, to take what we have held through fire and blood. But this bridge, this hill, this ford—this is our ground. They will not take it.”
A faint murmur rippled through the ranks. Some soldiers tightened their grips on their weapons; others exchanged quiet nods. Gaius allowed the moment to linger before delivering his final words.
“Stand firm. Stand together. Let the enemy see the strength of Rome.”
A cheer, weak but defiant, rose from the men. It wasn’t the roar of a fresh army, but it carried a weight that stirred even Gaius’s weary heart. He stepped down from the platform, nodding once to the aquilifer before joining his tribunes at the front.
“Let’s form them up,” he said to Faustus, who saluted sharply before turning to bellow orders.
As the lines began to take shape, Gaius remained near the aquila, his presence a steadying force. The soldiers moved slowly, their fatigue obvious in the stiff movements and occasional missteps. A few stumbled, catching themselves before quickly rejoining their comrades. Gaius walked the line, offering quiet words where needed, his eyes sharp for any signs of faltering.
The sun climbed higher, gilding the scene with its pale light. The men stood ready, their shields locked and pikes braced, a wall of determination. Gaius allowed himself a fleeting moment of pride before turning his focus to the horizon.
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The horns shattered the morning stillness, their deep, mournful notes rolling across the battlefield. Gaius Severus stood atop the low hill near the bridge, his sharp eyes scanning the enemy formation as it emerged from the tree line. The soldiers at his back shifted nervously, their breaths visible in the cold air. For a brief moment, he allowed the weight of the day to settle over him—but only for a moment. There was no room for doubt now.
“They’re forming up,” Antonius muttered, stepping to Gaius’s side. The Palatini commander’s voice was steady, but his fingers fidgeted against the hilt of his sword.
Gaius nodded, watching as the enemy’s heavy infantry began to assemble in tight ranks. Their shields gleamed dully under the pale sunlight, and behind them, archers and slingers readied their weapons. He could see the engineers carrying wooden ladders and panels to repair the damaged bridge. The enemy was determined.
“Signal Faustus,” Gaius said, his voice firm. “The bridge will bear the brunt.”
A messenger dashed down the hill, his cloak flaring as he disappeared into the ranks of the pike-and-shield line. Gaius turned his attention to the northern flank, where the ford remained a critical weakness. From his vantage point, he could see movement—cavalry and light infantry pressing toward the partially repaired crossing.
Calistos and his Isanurians were already in position, hidden among the trees and underbrush. Gaius trusted them to delay the enemy, but he knew the cavalry’s strength lay in speed and determination. If they broke through and circled behind the Roman line, the consequences would be catastrophic.
“Send another runner to Calistos,” Gaius ordered. “Reinforce the ford with Valens’ militia if needed. I want every step they take to cost them blood.”
Antonius saluted and barked the order to a waiting scout, who vanished toward the forest. Gaius tightened his cloak, his breath visible in short bursts. His soldiers looked to him, their fear mingling with trust. He felt the weight of their faith, and he would not fail them.
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The enemy archers loosed their first volley. The sky darkened momentarily as arrows arced high, their sharp points descending like rain onto the Roman line. Shields raised instinctively, the heavy thud of impacts reverberating across the bridge. Some soldiers flinched under the relentless bombardment, their nerves fraying as the missiles continued to fall.
“Hold steady!” Faustus’s voice boomed, carrying over the clash of missiles and the muffled groans of the wounded. His voice, though steady, betrayed the urgency of the moment.
From his vantage point, Gaius watched the enemy engineers move forward under the cover of the barrage. Ladders and wooden panels were hastily laid across the remaining gaps in the bridge. The engineers worked with frantic precision, their faces taut with concentration. Palatini archers stationed behind the pike line picked off several of them, their bodies tumbling into the river below, but enough survived to complete their work. The bridge was now a viable crossing, and the enemy’s determination was palpable.
The first ranks of enemy heavy infantry surged forward, their shields locked in a disciplined wall. They advanced methodically, their steps echoing like a drumbeat on the repaired planks. The dull thuds of their boots mixed with the sharp clatter of armor as they closed the distance. Gaius’s pike line braced for impact, their scuta overlapping to form an unyielding barrier.
The clash was deafening. The sharp snap of pikes meeting shields, the guttural cries of men in close combat, and the rhythmic shouting of centurions created a symphony of chaos. The Roman line held firm at first, but the sheer weight of the assault pressed them back. The enemy’s momentum surged, and for a moment, the outcome seemed uncertain.
Gaius clenched his fists as he observed the melee, his jaw tightening with the strain of the moment. He could see Faustus, his armor spattered with blood, commanding the rotation of the front ranks with practiced efficiency. Fresh soldiers stepped forward to replace the weary, their movements precise despite the enemy’s relentless pressure. Some men hesitated, their eyes wide with fear, but a sharp word from Faustus spurred them into action.
Amidst the chaos, individual moments of heroism shone through. A veteran in the front line held his ground against two attackers, his pike striking true even as his shield splintered under a heavy blow. Nearby, a young soldier faltered, his shield slipping under the strain, but a comrade steadied him with a firm hand and a growled, "Not today." The Roman line wavered but did not break, the cohesion born of discipline and desperation.
As the enemy pushed harder, a centurion shouted, "Hold the line! For Rome!" His voice cut through the cacophony, and the men rallied, their pikes thrusting forward in unison. The surge of resistance sent a ripple through the enemy ranks, their advance stalling momentarily.
Gaius’s gaze shifted to the archers stationed further back. They loosed volley after volley into the enemy’s rear ranks, their arrows finding marks amidst the tightly packed formation. Each volley added to the confusion, forcing the enemy to shift and falter. Still, the pressure on the Roman line remained immense, and Gaius knew the coming minutes would be decisive.
At the ford, chaos reigned. Calistos’s Isanurians struck first, their javelins and flaming arrows cutting into the cavalry as they attempted to cross. The swirling current claimed more than one rider, with some dragged screaming beneath the cold, relentless waters. The enemy, resolute and grim-faced, pressed on. Engineers, drenched and shivering, worked feverishly to lay timbers across the unstable crossing, their every movement dogged by Calistos’s warriors lurking in the trees. The steady rhythm of axes and hammers was punctuated by cries of pain as ambushers struck from shadowed positions.
Despite the chaos, a wedge of sixty riders forced their way across, their horses floundering briefly before surging onto the other side's soil with sprays of mud and water. Behind them, engineers continued to stabilize the ford, determined to widen the breach.
“Damn it,” Gaius muttered, his jaw tightening as a scout breathlessly relayed the news. His eyes narrowed, flicking from the report to the distant tree line. "Antonius, prepare the reserves! If they reach the road—"
“They won’t,” Antonius interrupted, his tone iron-clad. His gaze was steely, but even he spared a fleeting glance toward the horizon where the wedge advanced. "Not while I command."
The cavalry veered into the forest, their hooves tearing through the sodden earth. Calistos’s warriors, unyielding despite their thinning numbers, unleashed a withering assault. Javelins found their marks; flaming arrows set the brush ablaze, sending horses into panicked rearing. Riders shouted frantically, trying to maintain their formation as smoke curled between the trees. The firelight illuminated desperate faces, but still, a handful pressed forward, their sights set on the Roman flank.
Gaius clenched his fists as reports filtered in. His mind raced, calculating distances and losses. If even a fraction of that force broke through and reached the road, the consequences would be catastrophic. "Hold the line, Calistos," he muttered under his breath. His gaze swept to Antonius. "Prepare your men to meet them if necessary."
Meanwhile, the bridge erupted in violence. Enemy archers loosed volley after volley, their arrows darkening the sky before thudding into shields and barricades. Under this relentless barrage, engineers scrambled forward, their makeshift ladders and wooden panels bridging the final gaps. Some fell to Palatini arrows, their bodies splashing lifelessly into the rushing river, but their comrades pressed on, their grim determination matching the weight of the task.
The first ranks of fresh heavy infantry surged onto the completed bridge. Their shields locked into an impenetrable wall, the rhythmic clatter of their boots striking the planks like a drumbeat of doom. The Roman pike line braced for impact, their spears lowered with grim precision.
The collision was cataclysmic. The snap of pikes meeting shields, the guttural cries of men thrust into combat, and the shouted commands of centurions melded into a cacophony of chaos. The Roman line held firm, but every second under the enemy’s weight threatened to break it. Faustus barked orders over the melee, his voice cutting through the din. "Front rank, hold! Rear ranks, rotate!"
Fresh soldiers surged forward, stepping over the fallen to replace their comrades. Their movements were fluid despite exhaustion, the drill-born discipline keeping the line intact. But the pressure was relentless. Enemy soldiers hacked at pikes with axes, forcing openings, while others scrambled over the fallen to strike directly at the shield wall.
At the ford, the skirmish intensified. The wedge of cavalry, battered but determined, burst through the final line of Isanurian defenders. Calistos’s warriors fought tooth and nail, dragging riders from their mounts and stabbing into the chaos. Fires spread erratically, consuming brush and adding a choking haze to the fray. Despite this, the wedge broke free, galloping toward the road.
The tension along the Roman line was palpable as Gaius Severus barked orders to counter the worsening situation. He stood firm on the rise overlooking the battlefield, his eyes darting between the chaotic ford and the embattled bridge. The battlefield was a maelstrom of violence, fear, and determination, each side pushing their human limits.
“Antonius!” Gaius called sharply, his voice cutting through the din. “Engage the reserves! They must intercept that wedge before it reaches open ground!”
Antonius turned on his heel, his face grim but resolute. “Palatini! With me!” he roared, his voice carrying over the cries of the wounded and the relentless clamor of combat. The reserves, though weary and battered, formed quickly at his command, their shields locking in grim unity as they prepared to march toward the forest.
Gaius watched as Antonius led the detachment into the tree line. The Palatini moved with methodical precision, their swords gleaming faintly in the shifting light of the battlefield. Behind them, Valens’s militia followed in looser formation, the ragged defenders grim but ready to fight.
The forest swallowed them quickly, leaving Gaius to trust in their ability to turn the tide. His focus shifted back to the bridge, where the assault had reached a fever pitch.
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The pike line was straining under the relentless enemy assault. The heavy infantry on the bridge pressed forward with brutal efficiency, their shields locked as they hacked at the Roman formation. Behind them, enemy archers continued their barrage, forcing Gaius’s own missile troops to prioritize survival over counterattacks.
“Hold the line!” Faustus’s voice was raw but unwavering. He moved through the chaos, pulling faltering soldiers back into position and barking encouragement. Blood streaked his armor, and his sword arm moved with precision as he cut down an enemy soldier who had forced his way through a gap.
Gaius’s heart sank as he saw the line falter briefly—a young recruit, barely more than a boy, was thrown back by the force of an enemy shield bash. The gap widened as two more soldiers fell, their shields clattering to the blood-soaked planks.
“Reinforce the breach!” Faustus bellowed, his voice carrying an urgency that sent chills down Gaius’s spine.
The thinned Palatini reserves surged forward from their rear positions, their compact formation driving into the enemy with deadly precision. Antonius wasn’t there to lead them, but their discipline held firm. Their swords flashed as they struck at exposed arms and legs, forcing the attackers back step by agonizing step.
Gaius clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. The bridge held, but the cost was mounting. Bodies piled along the narrow crossing, a grisly testament to the brutal combat. Blood dripped through the gaps in the planks, staining the rushing waters below.
Deep in the woods, Antonius’s detachment engaged the cavalry wedge. The dense underbrush and uneven terrain worked against the horsemen, slowing their charge and throwing their formation into disarray. Palatini soldiers used the forest’s natural cover to their advantage, striking at the flanks with spears and stabbing into the gaps between the horses’ armor.
Antonius himself was at the forefront, his spatha darting out to sever the bridle of a charging horse. The beast reared, throwing its rider into the waiting blades of Roman foot soldiers.
The militia, less disciplined but no less fierce, filled the gaps between the Palatini. Armed with axes, spears, and improvised weapons, they dragged riders from their mounts, hacking and stabbing with desperate resolve. A militia soldier, his face streaked with soot and blood, threw a rock that struck a rider’s helmet with a dull crack, sending him tumbling into the mud.
But the cavalry was not so easily subdued. Some riders dismounted, using their swords to fight on foot, their superior armor and training evident in the ferocity of their counterattacks. Others, unable to navigate the thick forest, turned back toward the ford, their retreat adding to the chaos.
Smoke from the Isanurians’ flaming arrows curled through the trees, mingling with the cries of men and the panicked whinnies of horses. The choking haze reduced visibility, making every encounter a deadly gamble. A Palatini soldier stumbled over a root, his shield slipping, and an enemy sword struck him down before his comrades could close the gap.
“Push them back!” Antonius roared, his voice hoarse. He drove his sword into the throat of a dismounted rider, stepping over the fallen body as he pressed forward. The Palatini, inspired by his resolve, surged again, their short swords flashing in the dim light.
Back at the bridge, the enemy’s momentum began to falter. The relentless pressure of Gaius’s archers, coupled with the discipline of the pike line and the Palatini reserves, wore down the attackers. Their heavy infantry, exhausted from the combat, struggled to maintain cohesion. The gaps in their formation widened as soldiers hesitated, their movements sluggish.
Gaius seized the opportunity. “Press them!” he shouted, his voice carrying above the din. “Don’t give them time to recover!”
Faustus responded immediately, ordering the pike line to advance. The Romans pushed forward with grim determination, their pikes thrusting in unison. The enemy fell back step by step, their shield wall crumbling under the renewed assault.
A centurion at the front shouted, “For Rome!” His cry was taken up by the men around him, their voices rising in a ragged but powerful cheer. The morale boost was palpable, driving the Romans to fight with renewed vigor.
Gaius’s gaze flicked to the horizon. Scouts were returning from the ford, their expressions grim but resolute. One dismounted and approached, his tunic streaked with mud and sweat.
“Dux,” the scout reported, his voice breathless. “The cavalry wedge is broken. Antonius and Calistos are holding the forest.”
Gaius nodded sharply, his relief tempered by the knowledge that the battle was far from over. “Good. Reinforce them if needed. We can’t afford to lose that flank.”
The scout saluted and rode off, his horse kicking up clumps of dirt as he disappeared into the haze.
By midday, the battlefield was a grim tableau of exhaustion and carnage. The bridge remained contested, but the Roman line had held. At the ford, the scattered remnants of the enemy cavalry fled back across the river, leaving their dead and wounded behind.
Gaius stood atop the hill, his armor streaked with blood and grime. His eyes scanned the battlefield, taking in the battered but unbroken Roman forces. The enemy, though still numerous, showed signs of hesitation. Their commanders barked orders, but the cohesion that had marked their earlier assaults was beginning to waver.
The sun climbed higher, its pale light revealing the full extent of the battlefield's devastation. From his vantage point atop the hill, Gaius Severus watched intently as the enemy lines began to shift. There was no renewed push, no aggressive formation—only confusion and hesitation. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the bridge where Faustus and his men still held the line. The enemy heavy infantry, once so disciplined and relentless, were now pulling back, their shield wall breaking apart.
“Faustus!” Gaius called, his voice cutting through the din. “Do not pursue. Hold your ground.”
Faustus, his armor splattered with blood and sweat, turned and raised his sword in acknowledgment. The pike line adjusted, their ranks tightening as they maintained their position on the near side of the bridge. The Roman soldiers were breathing hard, their faces pale with exhaustion, but they stood firm.
To the north, Gaius saw the remnants of the cavalry wedge fleeing back toward the ford. Smoke from the Isanurians’ ambush still curled above the trees, mingling with the cries of the wounded. Calistos and Antonius had held the flank, and now the enemy riders were retreating in disarray, their cohesion shattered.
A scout rode up the hill, his horse lathered with sweat. “Dux, the enemy cavalry has fully withdrawn. The ford is secure.”
Gaius gave a short nod, his jaw tight. “Good. See that Calistos and Antonius regroup. Reinforce the ford with the militia if needed.”
As the scout turned to relay the order, Antonius himself emerged from the tree line, his sword hanging limply in his hand. His armor was battered, and a cut on his forehead dripped blood down his cheek, but his posture was unyielding.
“They’ve had enough for now,” Antonius said, his voice hoarse. “What’s left of their cavalry is limping back across the ford. Calistos’s men are holding, but they’re spent.”
“Everyone is,” Gaius replied, his gaze fixed on the enemy lines near the bridge. “They’re pulling back there too. Watch them closely. This could be a feint.”
Antonius nodded, his expression grim. “If it is, they’ll meet the same fate.”
Hours passed with agonizing slowness. The Roman soldiers remained at their posts, shields locked and pikes braced, waiting for the next assault that never came. Gaius paced along the hill, his sharp eyes studying every movement across the river. The enemy forces lingered at the edge of the forest, their formation loose and disorganized. Messengers flitted between their commanders, but no fresh attack was ordered.
As the sun reached its zenith, the enemy began a slow, methodical retreat. Gaius watched as their heavy infantry fell back in orderly rows, their shields raised defensively. The engineers who had worked so tirelessly to repair the bridge now dismantled their makeshift panels, tossing them into the rushing water below. At the ford, scattered groups of infantry and cavalry limped away, leaving their dead and wounded behind.
A murmur spread through the Roman ranks. Soldiers exchanged uncertain glances, their grips tightening on their weapons. Some looked to Gaius for guidance, their expressions a mix of hope and disbelief.
“Steady,” Gaius said, his voice calm but firm. “Hold your positions. This could still be a trick.”
The men obeyed, though their tension was palpable. The hours dragged on, the only sounds the rustling of leaves in the breeze and the faint cries of the injured. By mid-afternoon, it became clear: the enemy was gone. The cheers started in the ranks near the ford, spreading quickly through the lines like wildfire.
“We held! They’re retreating!” a soldier shouted, his voice breaking with relief.
The exhausted defenders erupted in a ragged cheer, their cries echoing across the battlefield. Some men dropped to their knees, clutching their shields and weeping openly. Others embraced their comrades, their faces streaked with tears and grime. The aquilifer raised the standard high, its golden eagle catching the sunlight as the soldiers rallied around it.
Gaius allowed himself a rare moment of release. His shoulders sagged, and he exhaled slowly, the tension that had gripped him for two days easing at last. Antonius stepped beside him, a faint smile breaking through his weariness.
“They’re beaten,” Antonius said. “You did it.”
“We did it,” Gaius corrected, his voice low.
The cheers of victory were still echoing across the battlefield when the grim task of assessing the aftermath began. Gaius Severus stood atop the hill, surveying the blood-soaked ground where so many had fallen. Around him, runners arrived with reports, their faces weary but focused as they relayed casualty numbers and the state of the wounded.
“Dux,” a young officer began, his voice tight with exhaustion, “preliminary counts are coming in. We’ve lost roughly eighty men over the past two days, mostly pike infantry and Palatini reserves. About two hundred and fifty are wounded, though many are stable thanks to the medics.”
Gaius’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “And the enemy?”
The officer hesitated before replying. “Their losses are heavy. Over three hundred dead and twice as many wounded. Many of their injured were abandoned in the retreat.”
Gaius exhaled slowly, his gaze shifting toward the distant tree line where enemy forces had disappeared. “Order the medics to focus on stabilizing our wounded first,” he said, his voice steady but firm. “Then I want them to tend to the enemy injured.”
The officer blinked, clearly surprised. “The enemy, Dux?”
Gaius turned to face him, his expression resolute. “They are Roman too,” he said quietly. “They fought with discipline and courage. They deserve dignity, not abandonment. See that my orders are carried out.”
The officer hesitated for only a moment before saluting. “Yes, Dux. It will be done.”
As the medics moved out across the battlefield, their crimson-streaked tunics standing out among the fallen, a quiet tension settled over the Roman soldiers. Some watched with unease as the order to treat the enemy wounded was carried out, their expressions a mix of skepticism and curiosity.
Near the bridge, a group of medics approached a cluster of Eastern Roman heavy infantry lying amidst the carnage. Most were too injured to resist, their bodies battered and broken. One soldier, his leg wrapped in a makeshift tourniquet, clutched his spatha tightly as the medics drew near. Blood seeped through the fabric, pooling beneath him, but his grip did not waver.
“Stay back!” he growled, his voice hoarse with pain. Desperation burned in his eyes, the fight still alive within him despite his grievous wounds.
A Western medic stepped forward cautiously, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. “We mean no harm,” he said gently. “Let me tend to your wound. You’ll bleed out otherwise.”
The injured soldier’s gaze darted between the medic and the advancing Romans, his breath coming in ragged gasps. For a moment, his grip on the sword tightened as though he might strike, but the medic did not flinch.
“You fought well,” the medic continued, his voice calm. “Let us help you. This fight is over.”
The soldier’s grip faltered, his weapon trembling in his hand before it finally clattered to the ground. The desperation in his eyes gave way to exhaustion as he slumped back, allowing the medic to approach. The Roman carefully unwrapped the blood-soaked tourniquet, his hands steady despite the gravity of the scene.
Around the battlefield, similar encounters unfolded. An Isanurian warrior crouched beside a wounded Eastern archer, offering him water from a dented flask. Nearby, a Palatini soldier helped drag an injured cavalryman from the mud, his actions slow and deliberate as though testing the boundaries of this fragile truce.
Gaius descended the hill, moving through the ranks of his men as they worked to stabilize the injured. He paused beside a medic tending to a young Eastern recruit whose tunic was torn and bloodied. The boy’s wide eyes darted to Gaius, filled with a mixture of fear and confusion.
“You’re safe now,” Gaius said softly. “Let him work.”
The recruit swallowed hard but nodded, his trembling hands releasing their grip on a broken spear shaft. The medic continued his work, murmuring reassurances as he stitched the boy’s wounds.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, the battlefield transformed. What had been a place of chaos and bloodshed became a somber tableau of shared humanity. Romans—Eastern and Western—lay side by side, their injuries tended by hands that hours ago had wielded swords against them.
Antonius approached Gaius, his armor still streaked with dirt and blood. “Some of the men don’t understand,” he admitted, his tone cautious. “They think it’s dangerous. Foolish, even.”
Gaius met his gaze steadily. “Perhaps it is. But this is how we rebuild Rome—not through endless bloodshed, but through honor. If we forget that, then we’re no better than the chaos we’re trying to hold back.”
Antonius nodded slowly, a faint glimmer of respect in his eyes. “Then we’ll see it done.”
As twilight settled over the battlefield, the fires from the Roman camp cast long shadows across the churned earth. Gaius Severus stood beneath the aquila, its golden eagle gleaming faintly in the dim light. Around him, the soldiers gathered in a loose semicircle, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames. The day’s exhaustion was etched into their expressions, yet their eyes were fixed on Gaius, awaiting his words.
In his hand, he held a rolled parchment. His fingers lingered on its edge, his grip tightening as he prepared to speak. He took a slow, deliberate breath, steadying himself against the weight of the moment.
“Men of Rome,” he began, his voice carrying over the quiet murmurs of the camp. “Today, you have shown the strength and honor of the Romans of old. You held the line, you pushed back the tide, and you did so with dignity—even when the battle was done.”
He gestured toward the distant medical tents, where the wounded—both Western and Eastern—were being tended. “Look there. Those men we fought today are being treated as comrades, as Romans. You have honored them not just with your swords, but with your compassion. That, too, is the mark of true Roman strength.”
The soldiers stood in silence, some glancing toward the tents, others keeping their eyes fixed on Gaius. He unrolled the parchment, the crackle of the paper breaking the stillness.
“This,” he said, holding the decree aloft, “is the word of our emperor, Dominus Noster Romulus Augustus Pius Felix Augustus.”
He began to read, his voice steady but growing heavier with emotion as the words flowed. “By order of the emperor, every soldier who can no longer fight will not be abandoned.”
A ripple of murmurs passed through the ranks. Gaius’s gaze swept over them, his voice firm as he continued.
“In times past, those who sacrificed their strength for Rome were given a handful of coins and cast adrift. Left to fend for themselves, to beg for scraps, to suffer indignities unworthy of their service.” His voice cracked slightly, but he pressed on. “This will happen no more.”
A silence fell over the soldiers as the decree’s meaning sank in. Gaius’s eyes lingered on a group of injured men seated nearby, their faces shadowed by the light of the fires. Some bore empty sleeves or bound stumps where limbs had been. Their expressions, once clouded with despair, now flickered with a faint, cautious hope.
“For those who can no longer serve as soldiers,” Gaius continued, his tone softening, “you will be given the choice. Five iugera of land, a small house, tools, and education to tend it—or a flat in the city and training in a profession of your choice. You will receive your pay for the next ten years, and after that, half your pay for life. You will be exempt from taxes for all your days, for you have already given more than most ever will.”
The murmurs grew louder as the significance of the decree settled over the crowd. Some soldiers stood straighter; others looked toward their injured comrades, their expressions softening. Among the wounded, a one-armed Palatini soldier sat with tears streaming down his face, his uninjured hand clutching at his tunic.
“And for the fallen,” Gaius said, his voice faltering. He paused, swallowing hard before continuing. “They will not be forgotten. Their names will be recorded and inscribed. A monument will be erected in Ravenna to honor their sacrifice. Their families—their widows, their children—will receive double the fallen’s pay for the rest of their lives.”
Tears glistened in Gaius’s eyes now, and his voice wavered as he spoke. “This is the promise of Rome. This is the promise of our emperor. No sacrifice will be forgotten.”
His hands trembled slightly as he read the final lines of the decree. “Here is decreed by the emperor of the west, Dominus Noster Romulus Augustus Pius Felix Augustus.”
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, slowly, a murmur began to rise from the crowd. It grew into a rhythmic sound—soldiers striking their shields with their weapons. The sound swelled, a crescendo of approval and unity, until it became a deafening roar.
“Roma! Roma! Roma!” the soldiers chanted, their voices echoing across the battlefield.
Gaius stood beneath the aquila, tears rolling freely down his cheeks as he looked over the men he had led through fire and blood. He felt the weight of their sacrifices, their pain, and their pride. And for the first time in days, he allowed himself a small, bittersweet smile.