The sandals echoed like dull thuds against the dry earth. One more march. Another day without rest. The Roman column advanced beneath a blank, cruel sky—no clouds, no relief. Each step was another stone on their back, each mile a punishment from gods or men.
Sextus couldn't remember the last time he had eaten hard bread. The frumentum hadn't been seen in days. Soldiers shared what little was left of the emergency rations, chewing roots or stale crumbs without appetite. Some had fevers. Others stared off into nothing.
The XIII Gemina marched with heads held high, but with empty stomachs.
Their destination was Bibracte, the great city of the Aedui, allies of Rome. Caesar had ordered the change of course after confirming that the promised grain shipments had failed to arrive. Some officers whispered betrayal. Others blamed poor logistics. But all knew one thing: if they didn't eat soon, they wouldn't be able to fight.
The elite group of the XIII remained tight-knit, though Marro's death still lingered like an empty space in the line. Atticus hadn't spoken since. Scaeva, the centurion, kept them busy with harsh drills and long silences. Sextus held back his rage, but each night, staring at the empty roll of Marro's cloak near the fire, he felt something was wrong. That duty came at too high a cost.
"What if the Aedui sold us out?" one of the legionaries muttered as they skirted a rocky hill.
"Shut up," Atticus snapped. "And march."
From the hills, they could already see the towers of Bibracte, outlined against the horizon. Tall, imposing, protected by thick walls, it looked like a sanctuary of plenty... but no one was waiting. No grain caravans. No welcoming Gallic hosts.
The silence weighed heavier than the hunger.
Caesar had sent messengers ahead, and now he waited for their return, brow furrowed. No one spoke loudly near him. He knew something was wrong. Knew—perhaps from experience, perhaps from instinct—that the quiet was only the prelude to something worse.
In the makeshift camp at the foot of the city, men drove stakes into the earth with numb hands. Some, desperate, gathered weeds and boiled them in hot water, hoping to trick their stomachs.
That night, Sextus didn't dream. He only listened to the wind rustling through the trees and the clenching of teeth around him.
And at dawn, the horn sounded again.
But it was not a call to march.It was the alarm.
The scouts came galloping back.The Helvetii were not fleeing.
They were returning.