Recruit camp, Cisalpine Gaul — Week 9, dusk
The return came without ceremony. They dropped the firewood beside the barrels and took Aulus to the camp infirmary. Optio Varro spoke to the centurion in private. Sextus didn't hear a word.But by the next day, he knew.
Because everything had changed.
When he stepped into formation, he didn't need to look for a spot. Spurius had already stepped half a pace to the side—leaving room the way you do for someone who's earned it.
Drusus said nothing. He didn't apologize.But when their eyes met, he didn't hold the stare.And in the Legion, that was already a kind of surrender.
During weapons drill, the veteran sword instructor—the one who never corrected twice—nodded once after watching one of Sextus's movements. Then carried on as if nothing had happened.But Varro had seen it. And that was enough.
In the mess, Marcus nudged him with an elbow as others chatted around them.
"They say the centurion looks at you like you're one of his."
"I'm no one's," Sextus replied.
"Then you should know," Marcus said,"that sounds exactly like something one of them would say."
Gaius and Titus didn't say much.But it wasn't teasing anymore. It was something else.As if they'd accepted him as an equal…but also knew he was already a step ahead.
That night, as he lay beneath the canvas of the tent, Sextus felt, for the first time, that the silence didn't weigh on him.It wasn't loneliness anymore.It was respect.
He had no rank.No titles.No promises.
But he had something far harder to earn in the Thirteenth Legion:a name others had started to remember.