With a second blast of the trumpet the army advanced up the side of the next small ridge, with Julian, Sallustius, and Severus now to the rear. Upon mounting the hill we found ourselves within the barbarians' missile range, and even before we crested, the air began whizzing and humming an evil song as a cloud of arrows descended upon us like a poisonous shadow.
At a quickly shouted command from the centurions, the troops, as one, knelt on their right knees, left knees forward. The front ranks in each wing extended their shields in an interlocking wall, to protect their faces and torsos, while the troops immediately behind them raised their own shields horizontally over their heads, sheltering themselves as well as the men immediately in front of them. A thousand arrows, five thousand, clattered onto the upraised shields with a deafening rattle like that of a hailstorm on a tile roof. Most bounced off harmlessly or shattered, yet others, falling from a great height in the arc the barbarian archers had aimed, gained tremendous speed in their descent and pierced straight through the wooden and oxhide shields, or found their way through cracks between the shield rims of a man and his comrade, and here and there scattered cries of pain arose from among the Roman ranks. Gaps opened as soldiers fell, to be quickly filled by the man to the side or behind.
Julian shouted for Severus to advance on the left wing with his archers, to relieve the pressure on our center from the enemy arrows, and they did so, letting loose their own deadly cloud of missiles upon the barbarians. The Alemanni, despite their impressive formation, had not the training or the discipline to interlock their shields and protect themselves as the Romans had done. In a single volley a hundred barbarians fell screaming; their lines wavered and gaps opened; and at Severus' bellowed commands the Roman archers advanced methodically, firing volley after volley, pinning the Germans in a disorganized squat under their shields and halting the murderous storm that had been falling on our center. Our heavy infantry rose back to their feet and resumed their steady march, shields swinging hypnotically from side to side, a relentless, rhythmic tramping designed to strike fear into the enemy with its throbbing cadence.
Julian galloped his charger back and forth through the lines, accompanied by the two hundred armored cavalry of his personal escort, shouting at his troops to maintain order, to advance steadily, to keep their pace. My position, as always, was as near to his side as possible, ready to assist in any way, even to defend him with my own raised cavalry sword and shield, but I was not needed — the man was golden, untouchable, arrows whizzing past his head and all around him, landing with a thwack! in the shields of the men close by, sometimes even grazing his skin, but never striking him.
The steadily advancing Romans, protected by the withering onslaught of arrows from the left wing, were now only yards from the enemy front lines. Closer they marched, the war cries of the barbarians rising to a terrifying pitch, and with a final roar the opposing ranks of men smashed into each other, muscles straining as Roman and barbarian slashed with sword, parried and slashed again, each man seeking to find the gap between the protective wall of shields that would allow him to drive the blade home through skin and bone to tender, bursting organ.
The Germans fought like animals, their long, flowing hair streaked with sweat and blood and whipping about their heads, their taunting screams making the blood curdle as they swung their great broadswords in fury. Our own short blades were murderous at close range, light and deadly, easily handled and able to be thrust precisely between shields and into the soft space under a man's jaw unprotected by any armor; yet it was a terrifying task to advance within range of a barbarian to deliver such a stroke. The enormous Germans whipped and swung their five-foot blades like windlasses, with such momentum as to lift a man completely off his feet into the air even if struck on the shield, and with force enough to slice cleanly even through thick mail or armor, to break a half dozen ribs with a single stroke, to crush a helmet with a man's skull inside.
The barbarians' strength and fury were overwhelming; our only defense was to increase our precision and discipline. Our soldiers determinedly protected their heads by raising their shields, each man sheltering himself and his neighbor, forming an impenetrable barrier beyond which the barbarians could not see, pressing inexorably on to the enemy front, denying the giants maneuvering room for their terrible weapons. They bore down on the Germans, closer, closer, shield boss against shield boss, until swinging blades and battle-axes became useless, and it was simply the weight of each enormous barbarian straining mightily behind his shield against the weight of his shorter, lighter Roman adversary — yet the Roman was not alone. Behind him were his comrades, pushing him in turn, and behind them still more, formation intact, until the enraged barbarian slipped in the gore beneath his feet, or until his ankle turned, or until, for a split second, he looked pleadingly and fruitlessly for assistance from the man at his side — then the swift and deadly Roman sword was thrust like lightning around his shield, into his neck or shoulder, and the man would give way, trampled ruthlessly beneath the hobnailed soles of the advancing Roman legion, and another naked barbarian, flowing mustaches soaked with sweat and blood, would leap bellowing into his place.
From my vantage point behind the lines, racing my horse from one flank to the other with Julian and his guard, the conflict looked fluid, though visibility was worsening. A terrific cloud of dust rose from the thickest part of the fighting, hovering malevolently over the combatants, refusing to disperse in the thick, still air. Rather, it spread slowly like a disease, swallowing legionaries and barbarians as they were drawn into its midst. The sun had nearly reached the horizon behind us, and the small hill's shadows were creeping inexorably toward the fray, creeping as they had a thousand or a million times in the past over the still fields and the languid Ill, moving like Morpheus' shroud over the howls of the victors and the moans of the injured. Tomorrow, regardless of tonight's outcome, tomorrow the shadows would creep once again over still and silent fields.
Severus' archers continued their deadly rain of missiles into the midst of the dense cloud, guessing the location of the enemy line by the pennants stabbing up through the swirling dust. The Roman infantry in the center advanced against the furious barbarians, relentless as the tide, slowly driving them back by sheer brute strength and discipline. The cavalry on our right, however, deprived of Severus' steady hand and unexpectedly seeing one of their captains slump on his horse after being pierced through the neck by an arrow, suddenly lost heart, and began falling back in disarray. The barbarian cavalry opposite them wasted no time. Quickly organizing a charge ordered by Chonodomarius, they swept into the ranks of our horse troops, their terrifying war cry piercing through the groans of the wounded trampled underfoot. Our cavalry turned in terror and began galloping back to the foot of the hill, threatening to trample the infantry in the center, who were blocking their path, or, even worse, to leave them unprotected as the Alemanni cavalry ran them down with their heavy German chargers. Our right wing was about to be routed.
Seeing the panicked condition of his cavalry, Julian wasted no time. He seized the standard carried by his personal escort, a purple dragon on a golden field which had been fixed to the top of a long lance. Followed by his own guards, he put spur to his horse and raced straight through his center column, intercepting the cavalry just as they were beginning to burst through in panic from the front.
His standard was immediately recognized as it fluttered streaming in the air like the cast skin of a snake, and the Roman tribune of the squadron leading the retreat pulled up short, his face pale and lips trembling. He stared at us with a pleading look, and when I glanced at Julian I saw his face purple with fury, the expression in his eyes for a moment that of an animal beyond reason. The shouts and clashing of battle surrounded us, and he stood in the midst of his advancing infantry, whose front lines were already forming to stand their ground against the attacking German horse pounding down upon them, their faces blackened by the hot dust that had settled on sweat-drenched skin. For a long moment he stared, furious, at the line of Roman cavalry stopped short before him. And then the light of reason gradually came back into his eyes.