The drums beat before dawn.
A steady rhythm — not the thunder of marching to war, but the slower cadence of assembly.
Across the sprawling camp of Romanus, legionnaires stirred from their tents, tightening cuirasses, buckling greaves, and lining up beneath their cohort standards.
The air was damp with the scent of wet grass and smoke from the watch-fires, and above the horizon, the first streaks of red painted the sky like a wound.
At the center of it all, Julius stood upon a raised wooden platform.
His cloak was plain crimson, his cuirass polished but unadorned.
No triumphal wreath, no golden laurel crown.
Today was not for glory.
Today was for law.
Sabellus called the legions to order.
From one end of the camp to the other, silence rippled like a blade being unsheathed.
Julius's voice carried, cold and hard as iron.
