Chapter 32: Death in the Family
The Legion reinforcements streamed forward like a hungry tide, moving quickly to join the fight. What had previously been a dim clearing now glowed as bright as if it were midday, the sheer number of torches banishing the shadows to its very edges.
Quintus didn't let his guard down, however. Not yet. He stepped forward and attempted to make another slash at the enemy that had been plaguing him for what felt like an eternity. The woman with daggers had turned around, exposing her back for a crucial instant as she turned to flee.
He blinked as his arm refused to move. A quick glance revealed blood running down its length—more than expected. He didn't recall taking quite that many wounds.
Suddenly, hands grabbed at his armor, pulling him back into the approaching tide of men. For a moment, he struggled to resist them, but found himself unable to even do that. He stumbled backward, exhaustion crashing over him like a hammer blow.
"Primus Pilus! Primus Pilus Quintus!" A voice yelled, distantly at first, then right in his ear. He shook his head to clear the sluggishness that had overtaken him, looking around and seeing a centurion from the first cohort and another legionnaire he didn't know the name of pulling him back.
"Rest, Primus Pilus. You've done enough. Allow the men to handle this."
Quintus let his shield and sword dip toward the ground. As the fervor of his battle frenzy receded, the full extent of his injuries began to make themselves known. Countless cuts across his skin flared to life, burning with every movement. Most were superficial, but some had made it through his armor or found weak points with less protection.
He tried to twist and hissed in pain as he discovered one that just grazed his upper arm. Touching it coated his fingertips in fresh blood. Quintus quickly pulled off a strip of cloth to stanch the wound. Thankfully, neither it nor the other wounds seemed particularly life threatening. Nothing that would cause lasting damage, either. Just more scars and lots of pain.
A hand offered him a length of bandages. The centurion gave him a solemn nod. "We can handle the threat, sir."