“Fucking Gauls!” The chest of the shockingly large man rose and fell at a rapid pace as his body dripped sweat and blood to the dirt below.
Agron had barely had a chance to sleep over the past two weeks, and even when he had more than a few hours of uninterrupted peace, the nightmares of the final battle, of Caesar,
of his own crucifixion, and most of all, of losing Nasir kept him from more than a restless doze.
He had been charged with safely escorting the small cadre of women, children, and elderly across the Alps to Gaullia Celtica, safely outside the reach of the Roman Republic.
But the heathens that inhabited Gaullia proved to be little better than the monsters that ran Rome.
With his wounds from his crucifixion barely closed, Agron still struggled to hold a sword, but he had learned to wield a pike with passable grace.
It helped that he could balance the weight of it between his two hands, neither of which were able to grip,
but Nasir had fashioned a system of clasps that allowed Agron’s left hand to stay firmly attached to the pike, while his right was able to slide, allowing for close to maximal thrusting power.
This had been useful in the most recent attack of a small pack of Gauls that had appeared out of seemingly nowhere.
These five men, all similar in feature to Crixus were savage, and had no apparent strategy or purpose other than bloodlust.
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