Recruit camp, Cisalpine Gaul — Week 15, nightfall
The air smelled of leather, weapon oil, and turned earth. But also… something else.
There were no orders. No drills that night. Only silence in the tents—the kind of silence that wasn't rest, but anticipation.
Sextus sat by the brazier, cleaning the edge of his gladius with a dry cloth. Around him, Atticus, Veturius, Nerva, and Faustus shared the same stillness, each lost in something mechanical: sharpening, checking, staying quiet.
It was Nerva who broke the quiet.
"How long do you think we have?"
Veturius answered without looking up.
"A week, maybe. Two.The legate's already sent messengers north. The bridge over the Arar is almost ready."
Faustus sighed.
"Then it's over. The training, I mean."
Sextus looked up. He didn't speak yet.
Atticus simply spat to the side and stabbed the tip of his pilum into the ground.
"And what do you think comes next?"
"Death," Nerva said, with a shrug. "Or glory. Same as always."
Veturius chuckled—without humor.
"Maybe both."
Silence lingered. Then Faustus asked, voice low:
"Are you afraid?"
No one answered right away.Even Atticus, for once, didn't reply with arrogance.
"I don't know.But for the first time… I'm not sure this is just another test."
Sextus looked down at his sword. It wasn't new. It bore scratches, tiny nicks, marks. Like them.
"There won't be instructors waiting at the end of the path anymore.Only enemies. And comrades."
Nerva raised his head.
"That's the only thing that steadies me.That when I march, I'm not marching with strangers."
The brazier crackled. A spark jumped. No one looked at it.
"Whatever it is," Sextus said at last,"let it come soon."
That night, none of them dreamed of home, or victory.Only the ground beneath their feet.And the sound of boots advancing.Growing closer.