Recruit camp, Cisalpine Gaul — Week 6, dusk
The ground still pulsed with the echoes of training. The row of pali bore fresh marks, splinters on the ground, and dark patches of sweat and blood. The recruits were dispersing—some limping, others silent. Sextus walked as always: without boasting, unaware that everyone now saw him differently.
From the shadow beneath the officer's canopy, Publius Varro, the optio, watched him. Not with surprise—but with calculation.
He waited until Sextus was out of sight, then walked to the centurion's tent. The entrance was open. Inside, Lucius Cassius Scaeva was sharpening his gladius on a black stone. He didn't look up as Varro entered.
"Speak."
"The boy from Contubernium Four," said Varro."The lean one. Sextus."
Scaeva kept sharpening. The blade rasped.
"Is he breaking?"
"No. He's winning. Every fight. Not with strength, with instinct. Doesn't ask. Doesn't brag. He just... does it."
Scaeva paused. Finally, he looked up. One eye was crossed by an old crescent-shaped scar. He never smiled, but something shifted in his face.
"Does he walk straight?"
"Like he always has."
"Does he look men in the eye?"
"Only when spoken to."
"Is he afraid?"
Varro hesitated.
"Maybe. But if he is, he hides it better than the others."
Scaeva stood. Fastened his tunic, took the gladius, and walked toward the tent's entrance.
"Bring him to me. At dawn."
"What should I tell him?"
"Nothing.If he's a soldier, he'll come.If he's not… I have no use for him."