Publilius sat inside the military tent at the rebel army camp. Outside, the cries of elderly men, screams of women, and sobs of children echoed without pause. He seemed deaf to it all, engrossed in fiddling with a severed head handed to him by his subordinate. Finally, he spoke: "I've heard that this Cross had an impressive win rate in Capua's gladiatorial arena. Any gladiator who faced him was either killed or gravely injured. Spectators called him the Gaul Evil Wolf. Judging by his ferocious features, it's quite fitting."
"No matter how fierce the brute, before you, my lord, they are mere clay chickens and mangy dogs," his subordinate flattered quickly.
"No, this Cross cannot be underestimated. Even with such poor equipment, they managed to inflict thousands of casualties on us. If I hadn't prepared thoroughly in advance, this battle might've ended quite differently..."