The drums beat loudly, rhythmically, menacingly. But the loudest percussion of all was in their hearts. The remaining fifteen hundred of the Roman rearguard stared over the wall of shields towards the advancing horde. They were everywhere: the woods were emptying on all sides. The scouts had reported numbers as high as ten thousand. Ten thousand were coming, shambling forward, hell bent on retribution.
            Sick with trepidation, the legionaries turned to catch a glimpse of their general as the tell-tale pitter-patter of horse hooves through the wet mud reached their ears. He bestrode a striking white stallion with a powerful grace born of a lifetime on the field. His hair was grey, his eyes were hard and his scars added only to his legend. On this field, he was king.
            Armocles surveyed the land in front of him from his mounted vantage, his expression impassive. The clouds were looming, the air was thick and the sky was dark. Pessimism hung in the air like a pestilence, befalling all who stood facing the bearded host from the north this day. But he was not afraid. He knew that they needed only to buy time for the escaping civilians and his wounded from the city ravaged by the enemy days earlier. He knew that his adversaries would expect him to defend doggedly and stand his ground. The advantage lay therein. He allowed himself a grim smile before turning to address his fifteen hundred disciples.
            “My brothers,” the Roman general shouted for all to hear in a commanding voice. “The greatest nobility a man can hope for is to die on his feet!” The worn out soldiers looked at the man with hope, with adulation, with awe. “Romans,” he implored them, drawing his sword and urging his horse forward, “Go!”

And they went.

The drumming halted immediately as the wave of steel surged forward. Their training was perfect. Their resolve was insurmountable. Their loyalty was infinite.

Armocles dug his heels into his mount and gave out a great cry as the barbarians in front looked on in growing alarm and confusion. He didn’t even know how far behind his infantry were as his personal guard of little over twenty men crashed into the sea of enemies.
            He swung his long cavalry sword and felt it bite with a wet thud. He rapidly reversed it and thrust outwards, laterally catching the bare chest of another, before lunging again at the throng before him. Suddenly, the whole world turned upside down.
            Armocles slammed into the ground. There was a desperate whinny cut immediately short – his horse was dead. Pain shot up the general’s side and he let out a primeval roar. Everything was a blur; his eyes darted around to take in and he could just see that the infantry had joined the battle. With a growing chorus of desperate screams, thudding of shields and clashing of steel on steel, the almighty struggle was reaching a hellish crescendo; it was a requiem all too familiar to the grizzled veteran.