Recruit camp, Cisalpine Gaul — Week 6
The memory of the oath still lingered when they were assembled at dawn. This time, there were no marches and no ditches. Just a row of pali and a single, clear order: man-to-man combat.
"You know how to hold a sword," said the optio with his gravelly voice."Now we'll see who knows how to use it… and who's just meat in uniform."
They were called two at a time. With rudis in hand and shield on arm, the recruits faced each other while the veterans watched and barked corrections. Clumsy strikes, unsteady footing, poorly angled shields… it looked more like a dance of mistakes than a fight.
When Sextus was called, he didn't feel fear. It was as if his body knew what to do before his mind caught up.
His opponent was a broad-shouldered youth from Hispania, with a cocky grin and powerful arms. He laughed when he saw Sextus looked leaner than him.
"You won't make me sweat," he said with a thick accent.
"That's not my intention," Sextus replied calmly.
The optio gave the order. The Spaniard struck first—wide, confident, too proud. Sextus didn't think. He dropped low, angled his shield, and landed a quick blow to the opponent's hip with the rudis. Not hard—but precise.
The strike made his opponent stagger.
Another charge. The Spaniard roared, advanced with brute force… and Sextus met him with a simple movement: high guard, side step, shield shove. The boy landed flat on his back.
A murmur ran through the line. The optio raised one eyebrow. Then, without praise or rebuke, barked:
"Next!"
Sextus returned to his spot. Marcus stared at him like he was a stranger.
"How did you do that?"
"I don't know," Sextus answered. And he meant it.
Titus laughed.
"I think you just pissed off half the camp."
Gaius elbowed him, grinning.
"From now on, we're marching behind you."
Sextus said nothing else. But something inside him stirred.Not pride.Not joy.Something more dangerous: certainty.
He was born for this.He hadn't known it before.But the battlefield—even in training—spoke a language he understood.