The sun had not yet crossed the sky when the XIII began to form in columns. Orders were shouted, shields aligned, faces hardened. Even the earth seemed to hold its breath.
Sextus checked his gear for the third time. Gladius, shield, helmet strap. Not out of doubt, but because the body needed something to do while the soul prepared.
Scaeva appeared without a sound. He carried his helmet under his arm, eyes fixed on the horizon where the morning mist was beginning to lift.
—Come —he said, without waiting for a response.
He led him a few steps away, where the camp's noise became a distant murmur. Only then did he stop.
—I've spoken to the tribune.
Sextus looked at him, not fully understanding.
—I've put your name forward —Scaeva continued—. To lead your own century.
The silence was louder than any trumpet.
—Not now —he added, with controlled tone—. But if you survive this, if you stand firm like you did in the forest… then it's yours. With a standard, a curved gladius, and the eyes of eighty men waiting for your command.
Sextus lowered his head slightly. Not out of modesty, but from the real weight of what it meant.
—And you?
Scaeva smiled for the first time in days.
—I already have mine. But old men don't last forever. Rome always looks to the one who moves forward. And you… you're not just a name anymore. You're direction.
Sextus nodded. He didn't say thank you. He didn't need to.
Scaeva placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
—Don't seek glory. Seek steadiness. The rest will come.
And he left, without looking back, returning to his post.
Sextus stood alone for a moment more. Then returned to his place in formation.
He was no longer just a soldier.No longer just a symbol.Now he had something more to lose……and much more to prove.