Camp of the Thirteenth Legion — Week 16, dawn
The horn didn't sound like usual. It wasn't the call for formation or the start of drills. It was something else. Deeper. Longer. More... final.
The legionaries stepped out of their tents in order. No voices. Only footsteps.They were no longer recruits.And no one needed to remind them.
Before them, in the central parade ground, stood the standards. The eagle was still covered in red cloth, as if waiting for the exact moment to rise.
The legate commanding the legion—a severe man with a gaze sharp as a spear—spoke from a wooden platform.
"Legio XIII Gemina.Your training is over.Your waiting is over.Rome calls you… and Caesar needs you."
A pause.
"As of today, you are an active legion.You march in three days.Toward Gaul."
The horn sounded again. This time, shorter. Sharper.The ceremony was over.The time of war had begun.
Later, while gathering his gear, Sextus was called by Optio Varro. Not with fanfare. Just a nod.
He was brought before the centurion of the cohort: Scaeva, as firm as ever, but with a more thoughtful expression.
"You've endured more than we asked.You stayed silent when others made excuses.You acted when no one asked you to."
Scaeva paused. Then drew out a tablet marked with assignments.
"From today on, you take responsibility for Group Four of the Second Century.You're not a decanus yet. But the optio will listen—if you listen to your men.Keep them together. Lead them where ordered.And if they die… make sure it's not because you stayed silent."
Sextus nodded. He didn't speak.Because he knew he didn't need to.
That night, the men of Group Four—seven in total—looked at him like someone who'd already stepped through a door they all feared.One asked if this meant he was now an officer.Sextus shook his head.
"It means that if we fail…I'm the first to fall."
And in the silence that followed, while each man sharpened a blade or tightened a strap, the air no longer smelled of camp.
It smelled of marching.Of foreign soil.Of Gaul.