Recruit camp, Cisalpine Gaul — Night of Day 3
The rain began as a soft whisper against the canvas of the tents. It wasn't a storm, just that steady northern Italian drizzle that seeped through every seam in the camp, soaking everything with quiet persistence.
Sextus lay on his side, his tunic still clinging to his body with dried sweat from the march. His shield served as a backrest, and the sack beneath his head did little to ease the pain in his neck. No one spoke at first. There was only heavy breathing, joints cracking as they stretched… and droplets. One after another.
It was Gaius who broke the silence.
"If I'm still alive tomorrow, I'm making myself new sandals. The ones I have have declared war on my feet."
Titus chuckled softly, though without much energy.
"I think my feet have rebelled. They've applied for Roman citizenship on their own."
Sextus smiled. And for the first time, so did Marcus.
"What did you do before this, Titus?" he asked, tired but curious.
The potter sighed.
"I broke more pots than I sold. My father said I had legionary hands—useless for clay, but good for smashing things."
"Well, he wasn't wrong," said Gaius.
"And you, Gaius?" asked Sextus.
"Me… well, my parents were farmers. Like yours, I guess. But in my village, a patron gave the orders. One day he said Rome needed young men, and my name came out in the draw. I had no choice. But I didn't cry."
"And do you feel Roman?" asked Marcus.
Gaius shrugged.
"When I eat. Not when I march."
They all laughed softly. The cold had begun to creep in, but the warmth between them held it at bay.
"What about you, Marcus?" asked Titus."You said you're from Transtiberim, right?"
The boy hesitated. Then, in a quiet voice, replied:
"I stole. Not for fun. My mother died, and my father… vanished. I grew up in alleys. Steal or starve. They caught me with a sack of flour that wasn't even for me. The magistrate gave me two options: lashes or the legion. I chose this. At least here I'm not alone."
A different silence followed. Not pity. Respect.
Sextus sat up a little.
"I came for hunger," he said."And pride. I didn't want to watch my home fall apart. I figured if I was going to die, I'd rather do it with a sword in my hand. Even if it's made of wood."
"We're not that different," said Titus.
"We're mud," added Gaius, echoing the centurion from the day before."But if you fire mud right… it turns into brick."
"Or a funerary urn," Marcus quipped.
"Depends on who fills it," Titus replied.
They fell silent again. The rain continued, but it no longer felt heavy.They were four young men, far from home, filthy, with broken feet…And yet, they were already becoming a unit.
They weren't soldiers yet.But they were brothers of the tent.