The ground still trembled from the onslaught.
The Germans had come roaring down from the hill like a tide of steel and muscle. They had crashed into the Roman formations with such violence that, for a moment, even the most veteran soldiers felt their legs falter. Regrouping had been a race against death. And yet, they managed it.
Now, the Roman line was formed. But the price was measured in bodies.
The Legio XIII, at the center, held firm like a hinge between the two outstretched arms of the army. The enemy knew it. That's where they struck the hardest, trying to break the heart of Rome.
"Shields up!" Scaeva shouted as he moved among the men like a flame through dry branches. "Let them pierce us if they can!"
Sextus already had blood up to his ankles. He had lost count of how many bodies lay at his feet. But his gladius did not waver. Every thrust was precise. Every shout, another echo of duty.
To his left, Atticus fought with the serenity of a lesser god. To his right, Titus panted, but remained standing. Words were no longer needed. They fought in the same rhythm. Breathed in the same rhythm.
"For Rome!" Titus roared as he brought down a German taller than him by a head. His voice, for the first time, sounded like that of a true legionary.
From the base of the hill, more enemies descended. They gave no quarter. A second wave hurled itself at the center, as if they knew that if it broke, the rest of the line would collapse.
But the Legio XIII did not break.
Sextus felt the impact of an axe against his shield and dropped to his knees, only to rise instantly and drive his blade into the attacker's belly. He spat blood—his or someone else's, he didn't know. He lifted his gaze toward the hill… and for a moment, he understood everything.
"They came like a storm," he murmured. "But we... we are the stone."
Then, raising his gladius above his head, he rejoined the fight. Not as a boy. Not just as a soldier.
But as part of the wall.