Camp of the Thirteenth Legion — Three days before departure
No one spoke of "if."Only of "when."
The tents were as taut as bowstrings. The gear gleamed as if new. No one really slept, though no one said it aloud. Every legionary—even the most hardened—knew this was the threshold between training mud… and the mud of war.
Sextus checked his equipment for the third time.
The gladius.The shield.The straps.The dry rations wrapped in cloth.The pilum, straight as a promise.
The seven men now under his charge did the same, without being told. It was discipline, yes. But also fear… disguised as order.
Nerva calmly sharpened his blade.Faustus counted the hobnails on his sandals.Veturius carefully wrapped his small scroll, as if it carried something more important than his weaponry.
"First campaign?" one of the younger men asked.
Sextus nodded.
"Yes."
"And what is one supposed to feel?"
Sextus hesitated. Then spoke quietly.
"Exactly what you feel now. Just stronger when you start walking."
In the camp center, centurions and optios called roll and organized columns. Letters, signals, and cohort identifiers were distributed. Marching positions were assigned: vanguard, rear guard, supply escort, support.
The standards remained veiled.They would not rise until they moved.
The legate hadn't shown himself all day. But his order echoed in every gesture:
"Everything must be ready.The dust will rise the moment Rome commands it."
At dusk, Scaeva stopped beside Sextus as he fastened the last clasp on his kit bag.
"Missing anything?"
"Nothing, centurion."
"Good. Then only the hardest part remains."
Sextus looked at him, unsure.
"Marching?"
Scaeva shook his head.
"Marching as if you already know how to come back."
That night, the camp slept restlessly.
And as the sun began to rise above the forest, the horn had not yet sounded…but everyone was already on their feet.