The ground beneath their feet was solid. The sky, gray. The air did not move.
Scaeva's century stood in the front line.
The XIII Gemina formed at the center of the Roman front, with the VIII on its right and the XI further back as support. In that line —that compact column of shields, spears, and held breath— stood Sextus. Upright. In place. Vitis in hand and heart where it needed to be.
The Helvetii were right in front of them.
A long, irregular yet compact line, filled with wooden shields, long spears, tattooed warriors, and tribal banners trembling without wind. There were no drums. No horns. Only eyes. Thousands of them. Fixed.
Atticus tapped the edge of his shield with his gladius, slowly, marking a rhythm no one had taught him. Some imitated him. Others just swallowed hard. Sweat clung to the inside of their helmets like a second skin.
Scaeva walked slowly in front of the line.
"Shields tight. Arms steady. No talking," he said, without shouting.
When he reached Sextus, he paused for a moment.
"Look ahead," he said quietly. "Let the first one to fall see them in the eyes."
Sextus nodded. He needed nothing more.
To his left, one of the new recruits was vomiting in silence. No one mocked him. No one even looked. Fear was a familiar guest — accepted, shared.
Sextus scanned the line. Some knew him well. Others only knew his name. But all expected one thing from him now: to hold. To remind them how to breathe when the ground trembles.
He took his place, to Scaeva's right.
"Ready?" Atticus whispered, without turning.
"No," Sextus replied. "But I'm here."
The Roman horn sounded once. Long. Low. It was not the signal to charge. It was the final call for calm.
Across from them, a Helvetian standard fell to the ground under the weight of its pole. A warrior bent to pick it up. No one fired. No one moved.
Only that moment existed.
The stillness before the iron.