The wagon circle was a living wall.
Wood jammed together, spears wedged between spokes, women screaming behind the wheels, exhausted warriors still holding their shields as if the world depended on it.
The Romans halted only a few paces away. The line advanced in bursts, with brutal slowness. For every meter gained, bodies were left behind.
Sextus was at the front, his shield coated in dried blood, his bandage soaked, his gaze unshaken. Scaeva gave no more orders — he only nodded, as if he knew his optio no longer needed instructions.
"To the left! Clear that angle!" Sextus shouted.
The soldiers obeyed without hesitation. Even Titus, fighting at his side, covering his flank.
A group of Helvetii leapt from the wagons, axes in hand. One of them —huge— charged a legionary and knocked him back two steps. A gap opened.
Sextus, without thinking, threw himself into the breach. With a roar, he raised his shield with his injured arm and absorbed the blow, holding with his whole body. His shoulder cracked, but did not yield.
Then, with his knee, he dropped the enemy and finished him with a clean thrust to the neck. Spinning on his heel, he gave the decisive order:
"Right flank, with me! Now!"
Half the century moved as one. Taking advantage of the breach, they pushed through the wagon circle's flank, breaking the tribal defense.
Chaos erupted.
Screams. Splintering wood. Women fleeing. Warriors cut down. The Roman line was inside.
Titus stood to Sextus's right, covering him with his shield.
"This time, you don't go in alone," he muttered.
Sextus didn't reply. He just kept advancing, gladius in hand, dragging his foot, eyes like stone.
The standards waved above them.
The XIII Gemina had broken the circle.
And Sextus —bleeding, exhausted, with not a drop of strength left— had led the charge that would make him eternal among his own.