The air is crisp. There is the hint of smoke from the dying fires.
A slight cold breeze startles my spine and I grit my teeth and grip the pommel of my sword once again.
Our Imperator checks the line once more from his steed. The huge animal snorts and shakes it's massive head as a seasoned wrestler would crack his neck in anticipation of the coming foray.
And yet we wait. And wait. We are the 2,500.
Caesar's spiked trenches have taken their bloody toll. The mud does little to stifle the cries of the dying. He twirls his gladius as he waits for the right moment. Our legion is greatly outnumbered by the Gallics. The dead and dying fill our ears and lungs. We have heard the tales of Vercingetorix. I look to my right and see Aetius wet his leg. He looks at me and smiles. I think to myself he's a dumb brute but he's “Our dumb brute by the gods.”
Our legions have been at it for hours. The air is thick with the smell of blood. To an outsider it would appear as all is lost. And it should be. But we have the red caped devil. Once again his steed stomps by and our leader draws his sword and points it at us. He offers no words. In his face we can see and know.
“Hail caesar!”
It's our turn and we are ready.