The horn sounded before dawn. A long, deep note that shattered sleep like a divine command. Sextus sat up with heavy limbs, still damp from the night's dew. He wasn't alone. All around him, the XIII moved like a living organism: cloaks were folded, embers doused, sandals tightened.
The march had resumed.
The first light of day barely kissed the horizon when the cohorts formed ranks. The lines were straight, the columns compact. Each legionary carried his load: shield, helmet, gladius, two pila, daily rations, tools, and utensils. The "mule of Marius" lived on in every soldier.
—What do you think comes next? —Titus asked, adjusting his helmet.
—Pain in the feet —Atticus replied flatly—. And maybe a war uglier than the last.
Scaeva marched ahead with a steady step. He said nothing, but his bearing was enough. The veteran walked as if the very earth owed him respect.
Caesar didn't march with them, but his presence was felt in every order, in every detour along the road. In the distance, wagons rumbled with supplies. The cavalry scouted the flanks, and the vanguard was already entering terrain that smelled of pine, dampness, and danger.
The road wasn't flat. Some stretches were paved, others dirt, and some merely worn down by the hooves of thousands of soldiers before them. But no one complained. Each step was part of the unspoken contract they had signed with Rome.
Midmorning brought a short halt. Not to rest, but to drink, check equipment, and move on. Officers kept the pace with staffs and sharp commands. The XIII moved like a serpent of iron and leather, slithering eastward.
—They say the Germans don't build roads —Sextus remarked.
—Then they've got no way to flee —Titus grinned.
The march continued beneath a weak sun and clouds that threatened rain. Some sang to stay awake. Others muttered prayers. On the forest's edge, shadows seemed to trail them. But no one broke formation.
When they finally stopped to make camp, the sky was already dimming. Sextus dropped his gear with a sigh that pulled part of his soul with it. Titus let his shield fall as if it were made of lead. Atticus lay in the grass with his arms open, staring at the sky as if seeking a sign from the gods.
Scaeva, as always, simply checked the perimeter.
—More tomorrow —he said.
—And what if we don't make it to tomorrow? —Titus asked, half-joking.
Scaeva didn't answer. He just nodded toward the east.
—Rome doesn't stop.
And neither did they.