The third missile hit Vibulenus in the helmet at the same point he had been struck, ages before, by a spearman in a misty valley. The dart had been hurled as hard and flat as possible for a native arm aided by the additional leverage of a spear thrower.
There was a flash of ringing deadness in the tribune’s skull, and his body started to go slack.
“Rome!” shouted Clodius Afer as his left arm, shield and all, encircled the tribune who was his friend and comrade.
The native ranks exploded with the death of hundreds of their leading warriors.
“Sir?” said the pilus prior as legionaries rushed past them, lifting their heavy javelins from behind their shields. “You’re all right?”
“I’m all right. . . .” Vibulenus mumbled, an echo rather than an answer, but use of his lips and tongue gave him volitional control over the muscles of his body as well. He straightened and finally realized that the centurion had been holding the entire weight of his armored body until then.
The multi-throated chanting from the nearest portion of the enemy lines changed to screams as heavy javelins and the lighter missiles from the center ranks of the legion hammered the natives like wheat in a hail storm.
Vibulenus felt his head, using the back of his right hand because he had not lost his grip on his sword. His helmet was gone, but the bone beneath was solid and he could feel the pressure of his probing with both hand and head.
“I’m fine,” he said, slurring the words. “Let’s get ’em.”
Blood from the pressure cut on his scalp dripped on his sword as he lowered his hand.
“Rome!” Clodius repeated with a nod and a feral smile as he headed for his proper place at the front with long, swift strides.
The tribune followed, though every time his right heel met the ground his vision dimmed with pain. He tried to force his eyes more widely open, as if the muscles of the lids could somehow press back the waves of pain.
The native shields were long and narrow, so the first good look Vibulenus had at the enemy he was fighting came when he strode past a native body with wide-flung limbs, pinned to the shingle by a javelin through the base of the throat. The corpse was thin with almost the angular slimness of a praying mantis. The orange cast of its skin was accented on the face and arms by rouge. The only clothing worn by the goggle-eyed corpse was a string of animal teeth that might have been intended as some sort of rudimentary body armor.
The shield beside the native’s body would not have been protection even if he had interposed it between him and the Roman javelin. It was leather-covered wicker, barely sufficient to stop light darts like the one which still hung unnoticed from the tribune’s own shield. This was going to be as easy as any battle could be.
Which was not to say that it was going to be easy.
The advance paused as the two front ranks of legionaries locked shields, compressing the enemy with sword points. A soldier in front of Vibulenus grunted and took a half-step backward. The tribune leaned against the legionary’s shoulders and pushed, giving the man the thrust he needed to counter the weight of natives literally trying to crawl over the Roman’s shield.
The legionary used his impetus to stab over the upper curve of his plywood oval. Resistance collapsed, squealing, and Gaius Vibulenus stepped into the gap opened by the advance of the soldier he had aided.
A dozen Roman javelins wobbled overhead, hurled by the rear ranks when the armored backs in front of them had stopped moving. One of the missiles cleared the friendly lines by less than it should have, thudding into the native that Vibulenus was even then preparing to stab. That was a stupid blunder, inexcusable in veterans of their experience. After the battle he’d parade all the rear ranks with gravel-filled packs until they dropped unless some individual came forward to take his punishment.
The tribune’s scalp, bare and bloody, tingled with emotion at a cellular level. Had the javelin wiggled a handbreadth lower in the air, its point would have split Vibulenus’ skull like a pickaxed melon, ending his duties and his life beyond help of the Medic or the gods . . . if there were gods.