Recruit camp, Cisalpine Gaul — Day 3
The horn sounded earlier than usual. The sky had not yet turned fully, and the fog brushed the ground like a damp shroud. The recruits emerged in silence, dragging their feet. Some had not slept. Others could barely rise. But all stood outside before the centurion shouted.
"Today we march," one of them said, without raising his voice."Like real soldiers."
They carried no weapons. Not even the rudis. Only the wooden shield strapped to their backs, a pack filled with stones to simulate full kit weight, and a sack of grain tied to their belts. Forty pounds on their shoulders. And the road still unwritten.
The orders were simple: stay in formation, no talking, don't break rhythm. If one recruit lagged behind, the entire cohort repeated the stretch.
The first hour was bearable. The second, uncomfortable. By the third, sweat soaked their tunics, feet ached, and shoulders burned like fire. The mud clung to their sandals as if trying to drag them back into the earth.
Sextus didn't speak a word. He just walked.
Beside him, Marcus was gasping every five steps. Titus had stopped joking. Even Gaius, always proud, had begun to hunch his shoulders.
At one bend in the path, a recruit vomited. He didn't stop. Didn't even look back. He kept walking, tears mingling with his spit.
The centurion didn't yell. He just watched. That was worse.
By the fourth hour, Sextus's legs moved on pure inertia. Each step was an act of will. The wooden shield felt like stone. The pack seemed to grow heavier with time. And then, amid the pain, the damp, and the stench of broken humanity, he thought:
"What am I doing here?"
He could have been on his land, in his hut, staring at a dry field—yes—but without this burden on his back, without this invisible whip cutting into his soul.Had he made a mistake? Had he confused hunger for courage?
But then he looked to his right. Marcus was still there. Legs shaking, lips pressed tight—but still going. And beyond him, Titus was mumbling something under his breath, and Gaius offered quiet encouragement. No one quit. No one fell out.
And deep inside, Sextus felt something new. Not pride. Not strength.Something simpler: determination.
When they returned to the camp, they no longer walked—they staggered. They were given water and unsalted grain. Some collapsed in the mud. Others just dropped to their knees.
Sextus said nothing.
But that night, as he lay beneath the canvas, back like stone and feet bleeding, he thought only one thing before sleep took him:
"If I must die, let it be walking forward."