The last enemy scream was drowned among the fallen wagons.
Axes stopped ringing. Spears no longer flew. Only panting breaths, heavy footsteps, and the slow drip of blood on the ground remained.
The XIII Gemina had triumphed.
The wagon circle, now reduced to rubble, belonged to Rome. Among bodies, shattered shields, and torn garments, the legionaries moved forward cautiously, finishing off the dying, securing the perimeter.
Sextus knelt, breathing hard. His shield hung useless, but the gladius was still firm in his hand. The wound in his side kept bleeding, though less now. The pain felt distant — as if his body no longer had strength enough to suffer.
Titus sat beside him. He said nothing, just handed him a canteen.
"Thanks," murmured Sextus, drinking.
"No. Thank you," Titus replied, without looking at him.
Scaeva approached, limping. His tunic torn, legs caked with mud and the blood of others.
"You did it," he said.
Sextus looked at him, unsure whether to smile or finally shut his eyes.
"We did it," he corrected.
The soldiers were now moving through the wreckage. Some gathered weapons. Others searched for rings, scraps of cloth, or food. There was no euphoria, only necessity. Rome did not scorn spoils — they were part of the cost of victory.
A group of legionaries approached. Young, old, wounded, covered in dust.
One of them, the youngest, spoke with a dry voice:
"Optio. If you hadn't pushed in, we'd never have broken through."
Sextus looked at them — one by one. None of them smiled. But all of them watched him the way one looks at a man who's proven himself — one of their own, and something more.
Scaeva nodded.
"Now they see you."
At that moment, a figure stopped behind them. Tribune Fonteius, flanked by two officers and a scribe.
"Optio Sextus," he said.
Sextus tried to stand. Fonteius gestured for him to stay as he was.
"What you did today won't be forgotten. Not down here," —he glanced at the soldiers— "and not up there."
The scribe took note.
"When the time comes, you'll be called. For now, stay standing."
Sextus nodded, silent.
The tribune walked away.
And for a moment — among corpses, smoke, and spoils — the men of the XIII looked at Sextus with something that resembled respect… and a promise.