Banks of the Arar — Dawn
There were no horns.No shouting.Only a silent order: advance.
And the legionaries obeyed.In tight formation, shields aligned, pila firmly in hand.No sound but their breathing. Not a step out of rhythm.
Sextus could feel the very air holding its breath.The mud beneath their sandals didn't splash—it swallowed.Ahead, Atticus marched with a face set in grim determination.To the left, Faustus swallowed dryly. To the right, Veturius didn't blink.
The Tigurini camp lay barely two hundred paces away.Sleeping.Or pretending.It didn't matter.
Scaeva raised his gladius.The line froze.
The sun had not yet risen, but the light was already creeping in.That moment between night and day where everything is gray.
Then the centurion lowered his sword.
Advance.
The first hundred steps were clean.At fifty, a dog barked.At thirty, a figure stirred near a tent.
And without a word, the spears flew.
The first Roman line hurled their pila. The impact was dry, vicious. Cries broke out—disordered, panicked. But not Roman.
The Tigurini barely had time to rise.The shields were already upon them.
Sextus entered a half-collapsed tent, sword raised.An unarmed man tried to stand.He didn't make it.
The blow was clean.Sextus didn't wonder if it was his first.
Only that it had begun.And he couldn't stop.
The enemy camp turned into chaos.Men stumbling in tunics, trying to flee.Overturned wagons.Women screaming.Smoke curling up between tents.And over it all—the steel clash of blades, cries of agony, and the steady march of Roman feet.
The XIII did not shout.They advanced.Like a black tide seeking not glory—but finality.
Sextus struck again. And again.
When he finally looked up, all he saw was mud, blood, and Atticus—his eyes wide and red-splattered.
They locked eyes.Said nothing.
Then, without knowing why, Sextus kissed two fingers and touched them to his gladius.
He didn't know why.But Mars was watching.