The ground beneath their sandals was no longer earth, but mud mixed with blood. Bodies lay everywhere. Some Roman. Many enemy. The air was thick. The stench, unbearable. But the line still stood. Still upright.
Sextus was gasping. His arm trembled under the weight of the shield. He felt a shallow cut on his leg, a burning sensation at his side, and a strange clarity in his mind. It was as if exhaustion had cleansed him from within.
The Helvetii hadn't stopped, but they no longer charged with the same fury. Now they were regrouping. Orders rang out in a guttural tongue, tribal drums beat a new rhythm. They were preparing another assault.
Scaeva raised his hand high.
"First and second line, fall back!" he shouted, firm and clear. "Third and fourth forward!"
Sextus turned immediately. He knew what was coming. The most delicate move in the battle: relief in the middle of combat. If done poorly, everything would collapse.
"Orderly withdrawal! No turning! Shields high! Flank rotation!"
The men obeyed. The front split in intervals. Groups of eight legionaries stepped back as the next advanced, closing the space. Like a machine made of flesh and discipline.
Sextus walked backward, never taking his eyes off the front. He covered two comrades bleeding from the arms.
One of them stumbled.
Sextus turned, lifted him from the ground, and dragged him two steps back to the space between the lines. There, an improvised medic signaled him.
"Take him! I've got it!" Atticus shouted, driving his shield into place beside him.
Sextus nodded. The wounded man was safe. He returned to formation.
In seconds, the third and fourth lines were at the front. Fresh, steady, drawn like arrows. The XIII Gemina was still whole.
Scaeva passed by him as they reorganized in the rear.
"You held firm, optio."
Sextus didn't answer. He just nodded, swallowing hard.
"Get ready," Scaeva added, "because this isn't over yet."