The line had held the impact. But now came the worst.
The Germans pushed with fury, slamming again and again into the Roman shields, roaring like wild beasts. Some wielded axes, others long swords, others simply spiked clubs. Their strength was brutal. But the legion did not break.
—Hold together! —Scaeva roared—. We rotate the first line at the horn signal, not before!
Sweat and blood covered everything. Orders were shouted above the din. Shields trembled under each blow. But Rome held.
Sextus fought in the second line, one step away from the front. He saw Atticus cut down a German with a clean slash. He saw a legionary fall with his throat split open. He saw madness in the enemy's eyes. And still, he advanced.
When Titus instinctively stepped back, Sextus moved beside him and grabbed his arm.
—Steady, brother, —he said, firm and calm despite the chaos—. The legion is with you.
Titus swallowed hard, nodded... and struck with renewed force. As if those words had nailed his feet to the ground.
The horn sounded.
The rotation was flawless: the first line withdrew, and the second moved forward in a maneuver that seemed choreographed by the gods.
Sextus stepped into the front. And there, with his gladius forward, he became a wall, a fang, a storm of blood.
Roman discipline —the art of holding, of striking with precision, of fighting as one— was present in every step, every command, every thrust.
And at the center of it all, Legio XIII remained a wall. The wall.