Drusus drove the spurs into his horse, and approached the cohorts on a headlong gallop.
"Forward! I will lead you against the enemy!" No need of second command.

The maniples rushed onward as though the men were runners in a race, not soldiers clothed in armour.

Drusus flew down the ranks and swung the farthest cohorts into alignment with the others.

There was not a moment to lose.
"Now, men, if ye be indeed soldiers of Caesar, at them!" Drusus was astounded at the resonance of his own voice; a thousand others caught up the shout.
"_Venus victrix!_" And straight into the teeth of the galloping hosts charged the thin line of infantry.
The line was weak, its members strong.

They were rural Italians, uncorrupted by city life, hardy, god-fearing peasants and sons of peasants, worthy descendants of the men who died in the legions at Cannae, or triumphed at the Metaurus.