Silence never comes in the middle of battle. But there are moments that feel close.
For a few seconds, the intensity dropped. The Germans stepped back, and the Romans breathed as if lifting a stone from their chests. Some believed it was the end. That the last assault had been everything. That the enemy finally understood Rome would not yield.
They were wrong.
A guttural horn, long and torn, sounded from the forest. And with it—as if rising from the very earth—a new wave of warriors emerged.
Many were bare-chested, covered in war paint, their eyes wild. Others pounded their shields with axes. They came screaming—not like soldiers, but like a pack. Like men with nothing to lose.
"How many are left?" Titus muttered, his breath ragged.
"All of them," Atticus replied. "Or at least enough to kill us."
Scaeva roared orders, but his voice was lost among the enemy's howls. The line was no longer perfect. There were gaps. There was blood. There was fear.
And yet, no one stepped back.
Sextus took his position, though he could barely feel his fingers. Cuts covered his body. Every breath was fire. But he raised his shield. Not for glory. Not for Caesar. Not even for Rome.
But for the man beside him.
The impact was brutal. The formation shook like a wooden tower under an axe. Several Romans fell. Gaps were filled with shouts—with fresh bodies or half-dead ones. There was no one left in reserve. Everyone was in. Even the auxiliaries. Even the baggage carriers.
Sextus saw a boy barely sixteen fall with his throat cut. Another tried to cover him and was dragged off by two Germans. The mud was no longer mud: it was blood, ash, and flesh.
And still, the wall held.
Not because it was made of stone—But because it didn't know how to break.