The silence after the battle barely lasted a moment. Some of the Tigurini, in desperation, had tried to form lines, to resist in the shadows of the forest or between the tents. But it was too late. The surprise had shattered them from within before the Roman gladii had done so from without.
"They're fleeing!" shouted one of the legionaries, pointing east.
And so they were. Scattered groups of enemies ran in disarray, leaving behind weapons, belongings, even their wounded. The ambush had achieved its purpose: break the tribe's cohesion. They were no longer fighting—only trying to escape.
Sextus advanced with his gladius in hand, still breathing hard, his gaze sharp. His cohort moved through the toppled tents, collecting loot, securing the area, searching for possible holdouts. There were none. Only bodies, isolated cries, and the sound of the river in the distance.
"Halt," ordered a nearby centurion. "No one pursues without direct order. Form up!"
Sextus obeyed. He walked a few steps and stopped beside a fallen body. It was a young man, perhaps no older than himself. A tribal tattoo crossed his cheek. His eyes were still open, as if trying to understand what had happened.
Sextus knelt and closed the young man's eyes with two fingers. He said nothing.
"You all right?" asked Atticus, appearing at his side.
"Yes… I was just thinking it could've been one of us. Or me."
The veteran nodded solemnly. He didn't reply. There was no need.
From the hill, Scaeva watched in silence. The mission was accomplished. The enemy was fleeing. But he also knew this was only the first blood spilled in a campaign that had barely begun.