The sky was starting to cloud over when the Thirteenth Legion received the order to prepare. Centurions walked through the ranks, giving final instructions. Optios checked formations, and legionaries focused on cleaning, tying, breathing.
Sextus sat on a flat stone, helmet resting on his knees. He didn't speak. Just stared ahead, as if the battle had already begun inside his mind.
Atticus had been watching him for a while, and finally broke the silence.
—You going to say it, or do I have to ask three times?
Sextus lifted his gaze, slightly.
—Say what?
Titus approached, spear resting on his shoulder.
—That something's up. It's not nerves. Not fear. It's something else. Scaeva pulled you aside, and ever since… you're not quite you.
Sextus took a deep breath. Rubbed his face with both hands, and spoke without looking at either of them.
—He's recommended me to lead my own century. If I make it out… and hold steady, I'll be promoted.
Atticus gave a low whistle.
—Well. About time.
Titus frowned, but not with disapproval.
—And what do you think?
—That I didn't ask for it. Didn't expect it. —Sextus raised his eyes, and for a moment, there was doubt in them—. And if it happens… I don't know if I'm ready.
Atticus shrugged.
—No one's ready until they are. That's Rome. It throws you in, and if you can't swim, you grow gills.
Titus gave Sextus a firm tap on the shoulder, not roughly.
—I just want to follow someone who, when you look at him in the middle of the chaos, reminds you why you're still holding the shield. And that's you.
Sextus nodded, this time without tension. He put on his helmet. He stood. The sound of metal locking into place was like the click of a door opening.
—Then let's go. There's a battle to win… and a promise to keep.
And the three of them walked together, toward the shield line.