The breach before them was now a boiling sea of steel and screams.
The Francian camp stank of unwashed bodies, wet leather, and the iron tang of blood, every breath pulling in the taste of battle.
Julius waded forward through the knee-deep mud, walking a pace ahead of his praetorians pressing tight in a shield formation ready to accept him should the emperor need to pull back.
The first push had cost the enemy dearly, but the Francians still packed the narrow lanes between their tents in stubborn, ragged lines, while others knocked the tents down and march over them to widen the battlefield and use the moment to surprise the legions.
Shields locked, pikes bristling, eyes burning with fanatical resolve.
A thrown hatchet spun past Julius's cheek, grazing his helm before embedding itself into the broadshield of the pratorian behind him.
He meanwhile didn't break stride.
"Make them choke on the earth itself,"
