The sky was still gray when the XIII formed in silence.
The standards swayed gently in the wind, and the legionaries sharpened their steel one last time—not hurriedly, but with care. They knew that what they were honing now was not just the weapon, but their will.
A few steps from the front, Scaeva stopped. He drew his gladius, kissed the crossguard, then touched the blade and his forehead with two fingers.
—Mars the Avenger... look upon me this time.
Sextus watched in silence. Then, almost instinctively, he repeated the gesture he had seen so many times. But as he touched the steel, he said nothing. He simply closed his eyes and thought of his father. His mother. Rome. And his century.
Then Titus, who had been watching from a few steps away, broke the silence.
—I've always thought you talk to too many gods to be brave. I get by with just one.
—And who might that be? —asked Scaeva without turning.
Titus raised his shield with a crooked grin.
—The one inside me when I survive. That's the one I pray to. And he rarely lets me down.
Scaeva let out a dry laugh. Sextus lowered his gaze, smiling too, but there was something else on his face: a quiet glimmer. As if that morning, at last, he felt part of something greater than himself.
Then the drums sounded. Soft, still distant.
—Come on —said Scaeva, sheathing his sword—. There'll be time enough to see whose god listens loudest.