Constantine was a part of the cavalry, for, atop a horse, it didn’t appear like he was under the high requirement. In the standard Roman armor and atop a horse, with his helmet on, he looked every bit a legionary.
He had a short shield and a spear as weapons. The only thing he disliked was the fact that he was to be on the left flange, rather than the vanguard. But this was his first battle, and so he was not going to whine about his placement.
His leader was Publius Crassus, a middle-aged Roman who had raised a stink about Constantine fighting. Constantine had been told that he was not going to be babied and that if he died it would be his own fault. Constantine had stood to attention during the time and had not moved a muscle. After this battle, he was sure that everyone would stop doubting him.
He heard a whistle and saw Julius Caesar inspect the gathered legions as Publius Crassus did the same for the cavalry and the Greek commander of the Auxiliary soldiers also walked around his men. Almost exclusively Greeks.
Publius Crassus stopped before Constantine and inspected the boy’s grip on the spear.
“Afraid?” Constantine looked the man straight in the face and shook his head.
“I am ready to die for the Republic if I must,” Constantine sounded more sure than was, was and Publius Crassus snorted.
“You might have to. The barbarians outnumber us two to one, if not more,” Constantine nodded and the Roman placed a hand over his shoulder. “You are a brave lad. Make a name for yourself today.”
And he went down the line. Constantine’s horse was well-trained, and its nerves didn’t give way like the young boy’s. Constantine’s palms sweated, and his helmet covered head hurt him. But he needed to make sure he didn’t let this stop him. For this was his first battle and…
His internal musings were stopped by a war horn and the stampede of feet. These were more than one hundred thousand men coming for their blood, his blood.
“Hey, kiddo, chin up. Just remember, the spear has to go down on soft flesh, or it will be stuck. Aim for the necks,” Constantine turned to stare at the cavalryman next to him with wide eyes. The man winked and, when the whistle was blown, spurred his horse forward. Constantine followed him as his life flashed before his eyes.
The legions were not doing so well, by midday, the fighting was still going strong. Publius Crassus had the cavalry do charges and then retreats, always far away from the enemy archers.
Constantine had lost the friendly cavalryman before him around two hours ago, and now he was like a machine. Charge, stab, don’t let them get you off the horse, retreat and hit their other flange.
Even Constantine could see that the battle was not going anywhere. They needed to commit to one decisive attack. He maneuvered towards Publius Crassus, and the man glared at him.
“Get back to fighting,” barked the Roman.
“The legionaries are getting put through a meat grinder. The Germanic people obviously placed their best in the vanguard. We won’t get anywhere by hitting it!” Constantine had to yell to be heard over the massacre that was happening behind him.
“I will see you whipped until you can’t stand for months, boy,” warned him Publius.
“I am the son of Rome and I command you to charge at the left flange!” Constantine stood his ground, despite knowing full well that he was going to pay for it. “Now!”
Publius Crassus took the whistle and blew it, then, the cavalry began to charge the left flange. The weakest spot of the attackers.
“You will pay for this,” promised Publius Crassus as Constantine speeded up to catch up with the rest of the cavalrymen. They got surrounded, yet, no one sounded the retreat.
People were being pulled from their horses, horses were getting an axe to the heads, legs, or anywhere that the barbarians could reach. One of these horses was Constantine’s.
When he fell on the ground, he rolled away from the horse and was glad he had not fallen beneath it. The Germanic tribesman who had plunged his axe in Constantine’s horse was attempting to get it out of the animal’s head. But, fortunately for Constantine, it was stuck in the skull.
The young nation gripped his spear harder, and he lunged at the taller man. The spear managed to get him in the stomach, between the ribs. Constantine had never been this close to a dying person before. The blood was gushing everywhere and Constantine slipped on it and fell with the speared tribesman still on the spear.
The man made a fell steps back and got the point of the weapon out of himself. Then, he limbed to Constantine and gripped him by the neck. Even stabbed, the man had enough strength to lift the boy up and to squeeze.
Constantine kicked him straight in the wound, and he was released. Then, the boy returned to his horse, whizzing for breath and clutching at his throat, and took the still strapped to the left round shield.
Going back to the barbarian, he raised it high and then brought it down on the man’s head. Again and again, he did so. He noticed that everyone had stopped fighting and that the barbarians were running away. Why was that?
Publius Crassus rode to him and speared the barbarian in the eye, killing him.
“That was Ariovistus. You won the day,” Constantine’s eyes rolled, and he fell down with the bloody mess that had once been Ariovistus.
Publius Crassus got off his horse and took Constantine. His hand went to his dagger. It would be so easy to repay the boy for the order. One he had no right to give. Yet, the boy had won them the day and had assured they would get many new slaves.
The Roman placed the boy on his horse like a sack of wheat and began the long trek back to the camp. The boy needed a name to go with his deed. Constantine the Defiant? No, Publius would swear that the maneuver was his idea. Constantine the Berserker? He looked at the bloody mess that was the barbarian’s head. Yes, that sounded better.
