Barely two days had passed since the ambush by the river when Caesar gave the order to move. It wasn't a solemn march, but a relentless pursuit. The remnants of the Tigurini were fleeing north in disarray, and the orders were clear: "Leave none who could regroup."
The elite unit marched at the front of the column, the tip of the spear, scouting forest trails and deserted cart roads. The rain from the previous night had muddied the paths, hiding tracks and making movement difficult. But fear left clearer marks than footprints: broken branches, still-smoking campfires, blood left unburied.
Sextus walked in constant tension, eyes scanning the underbrush. His hand never strayed from the hilt of his gladius. They advanced in loose formation, spaced five steps apart, covering each other's flanks.
The sun was barely at its peak when it happened.
A choked cry from up front. The leading legionary fell backward with a spear through his neck. Then a barbaric roar, and the brush exploded with enemies.
The Tigurini had left behind a small ambush party. Perhaps out of rage, or pure desperation. Five, six... no more than ten, but they had the advantage of surprise.
Everything dissolved into chaos. The legionaries pulled back into tight defensive circles. Sextus raised his shield just in time to block an axe strike. He staggered. Tripped. Fell.
A figure burst from the trees, spear raised, charging toward him.
Sextus had barely started to roll when he heard a dull thud.The spear never landed.
Instead, the body of Marro, the old veteran in their unit, had thrown itself between them. The spear had pierced beneath his ribs. He collapsed on top of Sextus, who barely managed to catch him.
"Marro…!" he gasped.
"Get up, you idiot…" the old man muttered, grimacing more in anger than in pain.
Sextus rolled aside, scrambled to his feet, and sliced down the attacker in a swift motion. The rest of the skirmish ended quickly: Atticus slit one's throat, Scaeva arrived with reinforcements from the rear, and the remaining enemies, seeing the Roman reaction, vanished into the trees.
But Marro no longer moved.
Sextus dropped to his knees beside him. He removed the old man's helmet, searching for his eyes. Marro was still breathing, but blood bubbled at his lips. There wasn't much time.
"You didn't have to…" Sextus whispered.
"Yes… I did…" Marro rasped, voice broken. "You're not just another one, boy. You're going to go farther than the rest of us. Remember this…"
A breath slipped from his mouth.And he went still.
Sextus said nothing. He closed his comrade's eyes, wiped his gladius clean on an enemy cloak, and stood up. The rest of the group gathered in silence. No words, no applause, no theatrics.
Just a new gap in the formation.
That night, beneath the fine rain and the flickering embers of the campfire, Sextus didn't sleep. He stared at the edge of his sword.Marro had died to save him.
And to Sextus, that was a debt not repaid with more blood — only with duty fulfilled.