The field was covered in a light mist as the Legio XIII began to deploy. There were no shouts—only the clatter of shields locking into place, the crunch of sandals on damp earth, the soft jingle of mail as men took their positions.
Scaeva walked among the ranks, his eyes sharp on every man. At his side, Sextus repeated the commands received from the line of command:
—First century, form testudo in reserve. Second and third, hold the front. Stay tight. No gaps.
The standards fluttered slowly, as if they too felt the weight of the day. In the distance, Gallic cavalry—Rome's allies—readied to flank. But in the center, where the fiercest fight would break, stood the XIII.
—Be ready —Scaeva said with a hoarse voice—. This won't be like Bibracte. It'll be worse. But if we hold here… everything changes.
Sextus looked at his century. Hardened faces. Some young men trembled. Others clenched their jaws. Titus was muttering under his breath, hand resting on his gladius. Atticus already had his shield up.
Scaeva turned to Sextus. For a second—just one—they were silent. They both knew: every deployment could be the last.
—If I fall today —said the veteran— let it be in front of my own. And if I don't… you take the standard.
Sextus nodded. He said nothing. But his hand brushed the shaft of the standard, as if accepting its invisible weight.
Then the war horn finally sounded. Slow. Deep.
Helmets were strapped. Ranks closed.
And the Legio XIII, firm as a wall, began to advance.