The last javelins were thrown by the last surviving skirmishers in two hissing volleys. They sailed into the barbarian mob, striking shield and flesh. Howls of anguish and rage poured from their mouths. In an instant, the Legion had surged forward and taken to them with their swords.

Trainees and veterans alike spend countless hours on the practice fields to learn the timing of that maneuver. The command, the volley, the crashing of shield and sword. Again and again, until it is instinctual. The Legionnaires close with the enemy underneath a shower of javelins even in their dreams.

Marcos Adrelos and his surviving men slashed and stabbed the barbarians. Arms fell free of bodies, torsos were pierced, gaping bellies spilled intestines, skulls were pulped, and the chaos of battle overtook the Legion’s cohesion.

Each man was alone, fighting his battles without the benefit of the disciplined line. It was a fight that favored the barbarian’s style. The savages were broken, however, and they fled piecemeal.