Heir of Aurelian

Marcellus gripped the hilt of his spatha with all the power that his hand could muster. The blade was withdrawn from its sheath and held tightly by his side. No matter how many times he faced the field of battle, there was always an intense feeling of anxiety deep within his gut.

Yet mixed with this overwhelming sense of dread was also a state of euphoria, as if his instincts were heightened and his strength raised. The feeling that anything and everything could be accomplished if he would only charge forth and destroy the obstacles in his path.

It had been weeks since his field army had established a siege camp around the Gallo-Roman city of Valence, and now the Romans and their Foederati allies surrounded the Army of the Frankish Chieftain Nebiogastes, who had sworn his allegiance to the usurper Constantine III. Any minute now, the thick wooden gate of the Gallo-Roman city would break apart.

The sturdy wooden gates began to crack with the repeated crash of the iron ram's head; before long, it was utterly blasted apart. Finally, after weeks of grueling siege warfare, a gap had opened in the enemy's defenses. Upon gazing down at the visible traitors behind the city's splintered gates, Marcellus gave the command as he raised his shield above his head to block the oncoming missile fire.

"Charge!"

With those words spoken, ten thousand men rushed towards the gap in the enemy's defenses, with their young General leading the charge. One foot turned to ten, then a hundred, then a thousand with each step taken, the blood pumped from Marcellus' heart to the rest of his body, forcing him ever closer into the fray until finally the steel contained within his hand thrust towards its initial target and burst through the enemy's chest spewing forth blood across the field of battle.

The echoing roar of thousands of men and their weapons clashing against one another filled the surrounding air as the hands of the Roman Army had drawn first blood, and it was none other than Marcellus who scored this feat. The young Roman General immediately withdrew his blade from the torso of the slain hostile and raised his shield to block an oncoming spear.

It was not only the Foederati under the command of Nebiogastes that Marcellus had to contend with. There were also the traitor legions who had supported the usurper and his false claim towards the Empire stationed within the Gallo-Roman City. The spear thrust itself onto his wooden scutum, yet there was not enough force to break through the barrier. This allowed Marcellus to push off with his shield and thrust towards the belly of his next target.

Though this man wore a mail coat to protect his vitals from enemy attacks, the noric steel blade of the Roman General's spatha tore its way through the iron links and embedded itself in the enemy's guts. Marcellus withdrew his blade once more, spilling blood and bile across his armor before launching a skillful slash towards the neck of a nearby opponent.

Despite this effort, his sword was reflected by the enemy's shield, and he was pushed back onto his off step. However, before Marcellus could fall backward, the soldier behind him pushed the General forward with his shield, forcing Marcellus back into mortal combat on the front lines.

Marcellus did not falter as he once more unleashed his blade upon his enemies, shield against shield, steel against steel; he fought with all his strength as he thrust his sword into the neck of the enemy standing before him.

As the blood gushed open from the wound like a broken fountain, he was instantly reminded of that strange dream he had endured not long ago and could intensely feel the pain he suffered from during his brief time spent in that foreign world.

However, the clang of an enemy's sword against his helmet instantly brought him back to reality as he continued to push forward into the gap against the defending traitor legion and their barbarian allies. With each small step taken, the bodies of both enemies and allies alike fell to the ground, the life forever escaping from their eyes.

Sarus gazed upon the Roman Legions from the hill above as they fought their way through the gap in Valence's defenses; the conflict had begun to reach a stalemate as the combat continued. The traitor legion skillfully utilized the opening in the gate as a chokepoint to allow the Roman armies to push through a few men at a time. Despite Marcellus' best efforts, ultimately, he was forced to retreat, as the men by his side fell beside him one at a time.

"Fall back!"

Upon hearing the General's orders, the Roman legions retreated to the line where their siege weapons stood proudly with the intent to regroup and re-assault the enemy position. After reaching the location of the foederati and the siege weapons, Marcellus sighed heavily.

Though their losses weren't severe, if they continued to fight in such a manner, it would only be a matter of time before his Army was depleted, victory may be assured, but like Pyrrhus, at Asculum, the losses would indeed affect the remainder of his campaign.

He needed another strategy to bring the traitors who dwelled within the city to justice and continue the fight against the Usurper Constantine III. With this in mind, Marcellus quickly issued an order to the men gathered in his Army.

"I want ladders constructed and up against the ramparts during the next wave of attack; though the gate has been breached, it is not enough to win this battle!"

Upon seeing the young General retreat from the battle, Sarus spit on the ground in disgust, which did not go unnoticed by Marcellus, who trod towards the Barbarian Chieftain with a face filled with rage.

"Where the hell were you? Your forces were supposed to be in the frontlines, and yet not even one of your barbarian corpses lie in the field below! Do your fucking job, or I will send you to the afterlife myself!"

Sarus snarled in disdain as he heard these orders; he had purposely withheld his forces so that the Romans would face the brunt of the carnage. However, the glare in Marcellus' olive green eyes told him that if he made such a choice again, it would be his head that rolled next.

As such, the Gothic chieftain nodded his head in obedience, even if he felt like refusing the orders that he had received. With this internal drama settled, the Army sat back and watched as dozens of stones were thrown towards the walls from the catapults. During this time, the ladders had been constructed and prepared for the next attack. Marcellus glared at Sarus before giving him another order, as this was ongoing.

"Since your men hid on the hilltop like a bunch of cowards during the last charge, it is your turn to lead the next wave. Your soldiers will be the vanguard that breaches the gate!"

Sarus roared like a wild beast before placing his helmet upon his head; as he did so, he screamed in the Gothic language to the foederati under his command.

"Charge! Kill any man who gets in your way!"

With this said, thousands of Gothic warriors ran down the hillside screaming their battle cries charging towards the shattered city gates and the brave men who defended them. While the Goths rushed towards the city's gatehouse, the Romans led their ladders towards the ramparts, where they began to climb atop the city's walls. For the second time in one day, the young General charged forth at the head of his forces into the fray.

Arrows rained down upon him and his troops from the ramparts above, only to splinter against the thick wooden scutum that his soldiers possessed. The Roman Army rushed towards the traitor legion and their foederati allies without the slightest hint of fear in their eyes. For in their minds, there was but a single thought.

What was an individual life worth when compared to the glory of Rome?

The battle continued to wage on, as both sides fought with every fiber of their being to be victorious; as Marcellus slashed his sword towards the collar of a hostile soldier standing atop the wall, he cut through his target as if his neck were made of butter, decapitating the man in the process. Blood spewed from the severed nape as the head tumbled over the edge of the wall.

Despite slaying a fellow Roman in battle, Marcellus felt no sympathy, for this man, like those around him, was a traitor to Rome, and the penalty for treason was death. Marcellus would not suffer these traitors to live, even if it were the last thing he accomplished in this world; he swore to kill every man who pledged their allegiance to the Usurper Constantine III.

Thus, the battle reached a new level of intensity as the sun fell from the sky. On this battlefield, only a single scent prevailed, which was the smell of blood. One thing was certain; this battle was far from finished.