The Tenth Legion held on. But it was at its limit.
The German assault on the right flank had been fiercer than expected. They had come down the slope like a storm of screams and steel, breaking spears, shields, and human ranks with primal fury. Two cohorts of the Tenth were already disorganized. A third was falling back step by step, turned into a wall of flesh.
Centurion Gaius Priscus, his face covered in blood and dust, roared orders barely audible over the chaos. Standards waved as if calling out to the gods. Horns blared without pause—cries for help, warnings of collapse.
From the center, the men of the Thirteenth saw it.
"They're calling for reinforcements. They're collapsing," said the optio, pointing to the frantic banners in the distance.
Scaeva clenched his teeth. Sextus saw it too, between blows. The right flank was shattered, held together by nothing but will. If the enemy broke through, they would strike at the heart.
And then, it happened.
Through the dust, with his cloak billowing and his gaze sharp as a blade, Julius Caesar appeared.
He rode forward at full gallop, flanked by his mounted escort. But he didn't wait. He gave no speech. He dismounted, seized the shield of a fallen legionary, and, pointing with his sword, shouted:
"To the line! With me! Rome does not die today!"
Two fresh cohorts followed him: one from the Seventh, another from the Eleventh. They advanced in tight formation, a wedge ready to pierce the chaos. Seeing their general at the front, the men of the Tenth roared as if Rome itself had taken hold of their souls.
"It's Caesar!" Gaius Priscus bellowed. "We don't take one more step back!"
The cohorts slammed into the German flank like a new wall. And Caesar, sword in hand, fought beside them, never hiding. His presence was a cry, a banner, a promise.
The right flank, which had begun to give way, held firm. Then it pushed forward. And in that moment, when everything seemed about to break, the battle tilted once more.