The air burned with sweat, blood, and iron. Every blow echoed like thunder. And still, the line held.
Sextus felt his arms ache, his legs tremble after each thrust. Beside him, Atticus barely breathed, yet kept killing with the precision of an executioner. Titus, panting, had his face marked with cuts, but his guard remained high.
From their position, between the clash of screams and the trembling ground, they caught sight of the hill to the right. The Roman banners still stood. The standards no longer fell back.
"They're regrouping," Atticus muttered, his voice hoarse. "I think… they held."
Sextus didn't reply immediately. He stared at the horizon, at the smoke, at the chaos. And then, he thought he saw him—a figure in the dust, with a red cape and drawn sword. He couldn't be sure. But the surge of the troops, the shift in the battle, the distant shouts from the right… all pointed to one thing.
"It has to be Caesar," he murmured.
For a moment, the three of them stood silent, amid the roar of battle. Knowing—or simply believing—that Caesar fought like one of them, that the right flank had held, gave them something like hope.
But not relief.
Because around them, the German pressure did not ease. New waves struck the center with brutal force. The Germans didn't retreat. They didn't falter. They meant to break the Thirteenth Legion no matter the cost.
"Nothing is won," Atticus said at last.
"And it won't be," Sextus added, "until only Romans are left standing."
Scaeva ran past them, shouting orders, pointing to a section where the shields began to falter.
"Reinforce the second group! The line's collapsing there!"
And then, with no time to think, Sextus took one more step. One more into the storm. Because the wall at the center still bore the weight of the entire battle.
And it would not fall.