The camp boiled in silence.
The men didn't speak, but their hands didn't stop: sharpening swords, tightening straps, checking shields, piling stones. Empty stomachs growled louder than any war drum, but no one complained anymore. Hunger had become part of the body—like dry sweat or the blisters on their feet.
The XIII Gemina held the right flank of the camp, on slightly elevated ground. From there, they could see smoke rising across the valley. The Helvetii, the same who had fled days ago, were back. More organized. Angrier. More numerous.
"They're not running now," muttered Atticus as he strapped leather bindings to his forearm. "This time they're here to kill or die."
Sextus didn't answer. He stared at his gladius, now more worn, but more lethal than ever. He wasn't thinking about Marro, or his homeland, or even himself. He was thinking about enduring. About not falling. About lasting one more day.
Then, a horn blew from the center of the camp. It was not an alarm.
It was a summons from the general.
The centurions gave immediate orders: half-circle formation, unarmed, shields on their backs. When the men of the XIII arrived at the clearing, several other cohorts were already assembled in a rough semicircle around the unmistakable figure of Gaius Julius Caesar.
No cloak, no ornaments, his face hardened by lack of sleep, the general stepped forward and looked at them one by one. His voice, when it came, wasn't loud. But it carried like iron in the wind.
"We've marched for days. We've fought with empty stomachs. We've buried our comrades. And yet… here you stand."
He glanced toward the horizon, where the enemy's column now loomed like a dark tide.
"They think we're weak. That because we haven't eaten, we won't fight. That because they see our worn sandals, they've seen our broken spirit. That because we're far from Rome, we are no longer Romans."
He paused. And then raised his voice.
—"Prove to them that the iron in our weapons is stronger than their numbers. That the fire inside you needs no grain or wine. That a Roman legionary yields neither to hunger nor to fear!"
A murmur rose, almost a sigh, spreading like a ripple.
"Tomorrow we fight. And the names of those who survive will be remembered in Rome. And those who fall… will be honored as true men."
He turned. No gesture, no call for cheers. But the voices began to rise on their own. A roar formed in the ranks. Ragged shouts, fists in the air, fists against shields. It was the sound of steel clashing with despair. And with pride.
Sextus clenched his jaw. Not out of fear, but because it felt like the weight of the world was pushing him toward the fight. It wasn't for Caesar. Nor for Rome. It was for himself. For Marro. For not falling like an empty sack under the gaze of his brothers.
And that night, though they didn't eat,no one felt hungry.