A Carpi man drops his sword and runs from Roman pikes. He knocks over another man and doesn't even move to help the wounded. Those are worries for old men to regret. If he survives this, the lad will call himself a coward, but he may live.
The Roman shields lift one more. A groan resounds from the front rank as the Roman legion takes one step forward. A carpi has his throat impaled by an advancing pike. Another loses an eye; he can't scream as three more pikes take his life.
A Syrian man weaves in and out of the Carpi flank. He moves like sand, flowing over the dunes of the east. He takes one step into the enemy ranks, stabbing and slashing. Never committing to a fight, they hold the Carpi at bay. One man misses three men, but his flashing sword brings disorder to the barbarian lines.
In the rear, men disintegrate, running as fast as they can. Their only goal is coming home and escaping the spiked beast. The tell-tale sounds of metal hitting mud sound out through the Carpi rear lines. The routed men drop swords, shields, and helmets, doing their damnedest to be the fastest men in the world.
The front rank holds onto their shields for dear life as Roman pikes slip in and out of their formation. You can hear the thudding on pikes on oak shields as Romans thrust their pikes. The Carpi shields small circular pieces of timber lathered with tribal patterns that barely stop the iron tongues.
A pair of Carpi try to run into the hills flanking the battlefield.
"Come on, man, we can. Hey, where did you go?" The carpi warrior looks around; his friend is nowhere to be seen.
A sickening sound comes from the man's chest. He looks down; a sword has torn through his breastplate. Which is strange because that tip of the blade comes through. "That's not where swords go." Behind the Carpi, he hears a phrase he will never understand. "Haval! Daviq hu!" (Damn, it's stuck).
Not that it matters to the man; his eyes slowly droop; he feels cold. His last thought. I'm so tired.
The roman commandtent
"Sir, our men aren't advancing as quickly as we would like," reports a Roman officer, his armor gleaming in the Dacian sun.
Other officers mutter it's already been ten minutes since the battle began. Their line has only moved one step forward.
"Are these men cowards? The Carpi shall soon rout, but we need these men to charge." Mutters an officer, sneering at the progress on the front.
"I have given these men every advantage. Pikes that would make Alexander weep, shields that could stop Jupiter—why won't they move?" Exclaims Hairan as another part of his plan doesn't meet his expectations.
Other officers agree; one man even suggests a lack of discipline. Then a younger officer more honest than cautious, steps forward. "Sir, how heavy are those shields?"
Hairan is about to answer when he is interrupted by a laugh. The young commander snaps his neck to the left. Commander Zabados is laughing heartily, his own words drowned out by the sounds of raucous joy.
"They are too heavy; the shields are too damned heavy to advance with."
Hairan doesn't panic; he signals his cavalry to pick up all the small shields they can. When he gives the signal, they are to hand smaller shields to the front. "My father always said worrying over problems you can fix causes more problems."
Far away from commanders, Roman pikes, and Syrian ambushes, the fleeing Carpi finally stop. They have no swords or shields; those were long dropped during their rout. One man falls to his knees, his face covered in sweat and grime. Others just stand aimlessly, the battle having shaken them to their core. All of them are tired; by one man's reckoning, they ran two miles.
"All right, let's not get too comfortable; the Romans can still chase us. Those sick bastards are persistent. Sometimes I think they like killing tired men. Damned boy lovers." Spits an older warrior who, despite running like the rest, can still give a rant about Roman life.
Nearby, a man spots a small pond. He trips over himself, falling first into the muddy embrace of Mother Earth. Picking himself up, he immediately abandons her and moves on to his new girl: the pond.
On his hands and knees, the man kisses the water much more eagerly than he did the dirt.
The earth is swiftly vindicated when a Dacian falx cracks the disloyal lover's head in half.
Out from the mist comes an army long lost to the ancient world. Dacians. Gilded with proper Roman armor, each man holds the legendary Falx. A massive scythe, the tip flaring toward the enemy like a dragon's tongue. Each blade is two-handed, able to pierce through helmets; these infamous blades were once the bane of the Roman legions.
The Carpi men scream for mercy in a tongue not dissimilar to the local Dacians. One Dacian chuckles, stepping forward.
"You raid our homes, kill our children, and rape our wives, and you have the gall to ask for mercy. Where was this great northern kinship when our families begged for mercy?" The Carpi back away in terror; the Dacian's eyes are cold. His pace comes inevitably, one foot in front of the other in perfect tempo. Slow and steady, the man comes.
"My children spoke the language, you corrupt bastards, your cowardice falling down your legs." The Dacian takes another step forward; the temperature is going down once more."
"I wanted to live a peaceful life; the Romans were cruel masters, but they didn't kill us without reason. Tell me what reason you follow. What grand philosopher gave you men cause to burn down my home, kill my wife, and scar my children?"
Some Carpi run; they are intercepted by other Dacians.
"The only solace I take is that I will understand every scream that comes from your mouths."
The Dacian lifts his falx and swings it at the nearest Carpi. The blade swims cleanly through the enemy's guts, tearing a red hole through the man's guts. The shock kills him before the man falls to his knees.
Other Carpi fall to the Dacian falx. The Senate bargain has paid off; these men would rather defend Rome than fight it. They are invested in the empire.
When Carpi loses both his arms, the Falx tears through them like a bear through the woods. Another feels a Falx go through his shoulder and into his stomach.
More Dacians pour through the woods; the message is clear: none of the raiders are going home.
In the distance, one Carpi carrying the corpse of his friend is very grateful he didn't run off with the first stragglers. Cotipos will leave when the rest of the army is gone in force. In smaller numbers he knows the Carpi can be picked off, but if they all run away as one, that might just work.
Cotipos looks at the body of his friend. "Your mother deserves to see you one last time."
All around the pair, the battlefield descends into chaos. Syrian swords and Roman pikes continue to whittle away the Carpi. Commanders scheme and give orders for fame and victory. Vengeful Dacians tear apart the fastest of the Carpi army.
None of that matters to Cotipos; all he wants is for his friend to get a proper burial.
That chance comes when Palmyran cavalry thunders to the front. The Carpi were already demoralized by this trap rout.
A rout is never good for an army. The best strategists know you lose more men retreating than you do fighting. Men shove into one another; some fall and are trampled to death by their own comrades.
The Roman army drops their shields. A resounding thud echoes through the valley. The army doesn't wait for the smaller shields; the Roman army charges. The great maw of the iron beast lumbers ahead. The shield bearers move to the rear, their arms too tired to wield a weapon. The pikemen prepare to charge.
As one, the pikemen take one step forward. The iron heads punch into the Carpi army. They take another step; more men fall. Step by step, more and more Carpi are impaled by spearheads.
On the flanks, the Syrians of Hairan tear into the Carpi. Swords and spears flow into the Carpi line. Like a great iron serpent, eastern steel ripples in and out of men's flesh.
The bravest men die to pikes and swords; the cowards die to the falx. Cotipos stays in the center, bashing others with his shield. He isn't cruel, but he can't let himself be knocked over. He has a corpse tied to him, one he intends to bring home.
"Don't worry, Tarbos, your mother will bury you."
Cotipos pushes his way through, letting other men push him forward but not down. Seconds feel like years as he drags Tarbos away from the Romans.
Cotipos was right: the Dacians can't kill all of them. Even the Romans and Syrians struggle to cut down every Carpi.
Yard by yard, Cotipos drags his friend to freedom.
"One more step, one more step."
Around him, more and more Carpi fall to the paperwork miracle. Requisitioned steel was turned into spears. Swords maintained with the power of paperwork. Dacians were given a bone in Roman survival, deciding to fight instead of hide.
Yet Catipos keeps on walking, keeps on jogging. The only thing in his mind is getting his friend home.
Men bump into him; he shrugs them off. The sound of Roman sandals comes closer; Catipos doesn't panic. He knows when to jog and when to walk, never tiring himself out.
Carpi die by the hundreds, but Catipos isn't one of them. When other men stop to rest, he doesn't step by step; Catipos walks and jogs, leaving them behind.
Catipos finds the largest cohesive group heading out of Roman territory and marches with them. Cotipos won't be a hero, but he will live, and Tarbos will have a funeral. No heroic songs but dignity and life, two of the most undervalued rewards in this crazy world.
"Men of Rome, we have beaten the Carpi; now return to your posts. The battles aren't over. Defend the border, defend your homes. We have won a great battle this day, but a thousand smaller ones will come. Remember this day for when your children ask you who brought you victory tell them this. Civilization, unity, and Rome brought us victory this day" Hairan rips his sword from his sheathe.
"Roma Victrix"
All around him the men respond.
"Roma victrix"
"Roma victrix"
"Roma Victrix"