The command tent had long gone quiet. The council had ended more than an hour ago, but in the camp, few slept. Some sharpened their weapons without need. Others wandered aimlessly among the shadows of the tents. The night seemed to hold something in its breath, as if the earth itself was waiting.
Beside a dying fire, the usual companions sat together—this time in silence.
It was Titus who broke the air.
—Well? —he said, without looking at anyone—. Why are we fighting this time?
Atticus raised an eyebrow.
—What do you mean?
Titus turned his face toward the sky, where the moon hid behind clouds.
—Are we fighting for the Aedui? For Rome? For Caesar? —He paused, as if the doubt itself were a blade—. Or just because someone blows the horn and we walk wherever we're told?
Sextus lowered his gaze. Scaeva said nothing.
—We fight because we're soldiers —Atticus said at last—. And because those who don't fight end up beneath the earth.
Titus shook his head.
—That's not enough. Sometimes I wonder if any of these Gauls we're saving would save us. If Caesar sees us as anything more than mud with shields.
—And what would you do? Leave? —Scaeva finally spoke, his voice deep—. Go grow wheat while the Germans cross the Rhine and enslave half the world? Wait for someone to knock on your door with a spear?
Titus shrugged.
—I'm just asking. Someone has to.
Sextus spoke then, calm and steady:
—I don't know if I fight for Rome, for Caesar, or for no one. But I do know who I fight beside. —He looked at each of them—. And that's enough for me.
Scaeva nodded. Even Titus seemed to run out of words for a moment.
Silence returned. But it was no longer the same. It carried weight now. A naked, uncomfortable truth, shared between them.
Beyond them, the sentries stood watch. The wind blew from the east, like an omen.
Somewhere else in the camp, a soldier began to pray in a low voice.
And the night carried on, waiting.