Road between the Rhône and Genava — Afternoon of the day of departure
There were no speeches when they departed.
The horn sounded, the cohorts began to march… and the camp was left behind as if it had never existed. No glances. No gestures. Only footsteps.
The legion moved northeast, following the line of the Rhône River, heading toward the northern passes. There, in the valleys around Genava, the Helvetii had begun their massive migration, crossing Roman and allied lands as if they owned them. Caesar intended to stop them. And the men of the XIII were the wall to be raised against that tide.
The sun sank slowly, casting long shadows between the hills. Dust rose with every step and soon coated their faces, hands, and leather straps. Sweat turned it to mud on the skin. And many miles still lay ahead.
Sextus marched at the head of his group. They didn't speak. The crunch of hobnailed sandals over dirt was their only music.Now and then, an optio barked a dry order.Formation adjustments. Pace. Short rest.
The march wasn't brutal—but it was relentless.And that… exhausted more.
Nerva was panting by the third leg. Faustus had lost a strap. Veturius walked with a frown, as if trying to make sense of every stone on the path.
Atticus, true to his nature, muttered as he passed Sextus:
"I thought the north would smell like war.So far, it just smells like feet."
Sextus didn't answer.He wasn't thinking about the smell.He was thinking about what lay beyond the rivers:tribes on the move—carts, elders, warriors, women… an armed migration.And they… were the ones meant to stop it.
At dusk, after nearly six hours of advance, the order to halt arrived.
They didn't fully camp. They set a light defensive line, posted sentries, and were allowed to rest with shields as pillows and pila within arm's reach.
That night there were no tents.
Only open sky, dried sweat, and the distant sound of crickets.
Sextus didn't sleep.
He watched the forest.The smoke from scattered campfires.And the faint tremble in the legs of his men, already stretched out beside him.
Then, for the first time since they'd begun marching, he spoke in a low voice:
"This isn't war yet.But it's no longer peace."
No one replied.And yet, they all heard him.