The air smelled of dried blood and churned-up mud. The cicadas weren't singing. The crows were.
The legionaries descended the hill in silence, dragging their feet, broken shields hanging from their arms, clothes torn to shreds. Some helped wounded comrades. Others just walked, empty, staring at a point that was no longer there.
Sextus came down last, with his borrowed shield reduced to splinters and his gladius still sheathed, as if the metal needed rest too. His legs trembled, his wrist burned, and the taste of iron filled his mouth.
The camp had changed. Tents were open, fires had gone out, and stretchers had multiplied. Somewhere, a wounded man screamed as a medic pulled a spear from his side. Another, younger one, begged for water. A mule shrieked with its guts spilling out.
Sextus didn't look for food or shade.
He looked for Scaeva.
He asked without raising his voice, with the calm of someone who doesn't want to know the answer—but knows he must. They pointed him to a tent in the back, near the medical post.
He entered.
Scaeva was lying on a low cot, shirtless, bandaged from his ribs down to his waist. A clean, long gash ran along his left side, and his right shoulder was wrapped in a cloth soaked in boiled wine. Still, he kept his brow furrowed and his eyes open. As if he didn't know how to give up.
"I thought you'd be dead," Sextus said, standing at the threshold.
Scaeva looked at him slowly. Then gave a small, cracked smile.
"You look worse than a trampled mule."
"I'm fine."
"You lie like a senator."
Sextus stepped closer. There were no chairs, so he sat on the ground, arms resting on his knees. They didn't speak like soldier and centurion. They spoke like two men who had just come back from the edge.
"We lost one of ours in the pursuit," Sextus said at last. "The oldest one. He taught me how to brace my shield against side blows. He stepped between me and a javelin."
Scaeva didn't speak at first. Then he gave a slow nod.
"That's how a good Roman goes."
"I didn't get to say thank you."
"You didn't need to."
Silence.
"You going back to the front soon?"
Scaeva tilted his head.
"Depends on the wine, the bandages… and Mars. But yes. You'll drag me out of this cot yourself if you have to."
Sextus nodded.
When he stood to leave, Scaeva spoke without looking at him:
"You're not doing badly, boy."
"Doing what?"
"Being a soldier. Being a Roman."
Sextus left the tent without saying a word, but for the first time in many days, he felt the weight on his shoulders being shared.