Blaze forest, south of Oriens
III Provisional camp set up by Lino
Year 568
"Consul, we have to surrender!" Shouted one of the legionaries to the man who looked at the situation without showing any concern.
Not even the rooster began to crow, when the daros: a tribe of men with long hair, attacked the camp with everything they had, causing total disorder.
They took advantage of the confusion to entrench them and, thus, decimate their forces little by little. They managed to cause them a great number of casualties, until, Crásico, recently appointed consul of the II Blason, took matters into his own hands, dividing them into groups of three. Each one covering a flank.
They could not dress completely, when, by the order, they took up positions on the sides, with uproar, settling as a wall their shields on the ground, leaving a small free space between them to be able to throw slashes to the daros warriors.
That action soon ceased to be beneficial, becoming their undoing.
The tribals took advantage of that free space to throw darts at the arkonians' feet. When they fell to the ground in excruciating pain, they were grabbed by the feet and dragged to the outside of the wall, where they were finished off.
Seeing this, the legionaries acted quickly, closing the gaps.
However, the rear flank, just where the soldier who was screaming for surrender came from, did not know how to act, beginning to lose ground to the brave push of the daros.
If the position was lost, the legio's death sentence would be signed.
Those around him were clamoring for him to dictate some order, whatever it was. For, since they had taken up positions, he had been totally silent, giving the soldiers a not at all willing free hand in decision making.
They were mute before the ears of Crásico, who watched the scene with a sinister tranquility, as if he was oblivious to everything that was happening around him. Unaware that this could be another of the many legions slaughtered by the tribes....
The clash of the daras swords against the shields enveloped the environment with a rumbling sound like lightning.
Shield pushed, soldier disoriented, leg stabbed, body thrown and abdomen torn; it was the process to which the wretched legionaries were subjected.
The blood soaked the ground, the fabrics of the tents were stained a crimson red, reflecting the cruelty with which the attack was provided to them.
"Ah... Well...," Crásico spoke, to which, without looking at those around him, he walked towards his horse to mount it.
"My lord?" Asked the soldier.
He did not answer him, mounted and turned the animal in the direction of the rearguard; whose ground, with each passing second, was yielding more to the daros.
Calmly, without caring that his soldiers fell like rags before his eyes, he took out of his clothes a purple handkerchief that he raised in the air, moving it from one side to the other.
To the legionnaires' surprise, a part of the dara formation, on the rear flank, opened up, leaving a free space.
The naive ones thought they had been presented with the perfect opportunity to attack: squeeze through that space and envelop them.
However, those who did, without expecting it, were trampled by the horse of Crásico, being mounted by the same, which rode away as fast as possible from the camp; closing the opening in its path.
"He left us, he betrayed us!" Shouted one in the crowd.
With their leader on the run and morale at rock bottom, the legio entered into a state of collective despondency and euphoria, where some preferred to commit suicide: by cutting their jugular vein or draining their abdomen.
They preferred that to being held captive by the daros, who were known for their methods of torture.
From the midst of the chaos, raised from the ground, bloodied, emerged a young man by the name of Druso.
He was breathing desperately, looking around at all his companions.
"Legionnaires!" His throat rasped with the power with which he shouted. "Turtle formation!"
His order was heard all over the place. Crásico had left them, they had no choice.
With a sudden kick they pushed the daros back, thus gaining some time to raise their shields and retreat, thus gathering together to form a circle with soldiers on the outside and inside of it.
"Cover!"
They raised their shields, protecting their roof and flanks.
"Fresh soldiers," referring to those sheltered inside the circle, "stand at attention at my command!
The daros watched the legionnaires as a wolf watches a sheep. They crouched low, gripped the pole of their axes tightly, and charged the formation.
"Now!"
At his command, the frescoes, stuck their swords as far as possible through the small spaces between the shields, as if they were spears. The first row of daros soldiers became encrusted like flesh, and when the weapons were withdrawn, the torn abdomens of the soldiers were revealed, who vomited blood in heaps, and proceeded to fall, dead, to the ground.
"Again!"
They repeated the action, again and again, in order to decimate their forces as much as possible.
"Right flank, attack!"
He took advantage of the organization he had created, and the decrease in dara's strength, to launch an attack with the intention of breaking their vague formation.
And so they did: they lowered their shields and launched slashes left and right.
Intestines spilled to the ground.
Blood shot out like a waterfall.
They trampled them as if they were garbage.
With their formation broken, the daros became disorganized, which Druso took advantage of.
"Lower shields, brandish swords, and attaaaaack!"
They left the turtle formation and launched themselves against the Daros, who quickly lost ground.
The morale of the legionnaires recovered, they felt glorious and powerful.
"Ritirves!" The leader of the daros, Argantonio, euphorically pronounced, ordering the retreat.
The legionaries, with their souls wrapped in rancorous fire, wanted to pursue them.
"No, stop!" Druso shouted before they entered the forest.
An area where the daros moved like fish in water.
It was enough for them to reorganize a little to launch a fatal counterattack for the legio.
They stopped their action, sheathed their swords, dropped their shields, and satisfied, gathered around the one who had led them out of the labyrinth.
Thus a count was made of those who had survived.
"Of the five thousand five hundred we were," Druso began with a lost look, "there are less than a thousand of us left...."
He fell to his knees on the ground, generating surprised looks from those close to him. With the deepest pain in his soul, he turned his face towards the sun that was already hiding over the horizon, and let out a heartbreaking, long, and, booming scream.
◇◆◇
In haste, he crossed the entire forest until he reached the Nashka valley, the one used by the Imperials to demarcate the border with the tribes. Same where you could find camps abandoned by time.
Arrived there, he got off the horse, beating it to make it run in a random direction.
"I just hope they don't take long to give me my due...."
To calm his agitated breathing, and to recapitulate what had happened not long ago, he sat down on a rock.
"They had better be dead."
He unsheathed his dagger, mesmerized by its sharpness.
"Here we go again..."
He removed his upper garments, allowing himself to be touched by the delicate rays of the moon that was already showing through the skies.
He firmly gripped the hilt of the weapon, and made cuts on different parts of his body: arms, abdomen, hands, legs, careful on the neck, deep on the face.
"And the cherry on the cake...."
He leaned his leg hard on the ground, raising the dagger, aiming it straight at his thigh.
And he stabbed out, choking his scream in a bite that hurt his tongue.
He pulled the weapon out of his limb, letting out another whimper between his teeth, hurting his tongue more.
Groans of pain followed.
Blood and tears flowed from her body, face and mouth. It had become his daily bread.
He then rose from the rock, and with agony, proceeded to dress.
He sighed, and began to gather dry leaves, sticks and stones to make a smoke signal to communicate the success of his mission.
He took a seat beside the fire, and prepared to wait for the emissary to arrive.
He saw reflected in the fire all the hell that was lived in the tribal wars: a massacre carried out by a man, by Lino, who only wants to get fame among the citizens for his victories.
But... apparently, he chose his high commanders badly.
"Consul!" The horseman appeared out of the darkness, his horse's ride echoing through the valley in a booming manner.
Crásico rose to his feet, shaking out his robes.
The messenger alighted from his horse, and, hastily, approached the man.
"The wait has been long..." He looked wearily at the newcomer. Now, tell me, when will I receive my reward?
The horseman swallowed saliva, his body trembled and his breathing quickened.
"The II Blason has survived!"