Recruit camp, Cisalpine Gaul — Night, Week 7
The tent was dim. Outside, it was raining—again. The water drummed against the canvas as if trying to slip in and listen.
Titus broke the silence while wrapping a bandage around his wrist:
"You know the worst part about training with Sextus? He doesn't even hit hard… and you still end up on the ground."
Gaius laughed.
"It's like that damned rudis moves on its own in his hands."
Marcus nodded from his corner.
"Sometimes I think you've done this before. Are you sure you're not the son of a gladiator?"
Sextus shook his head, half-smiling.
"My father could barely handle a sickle without cutting himself."
"Then that's worse," said Gaius."Because that means it's just in you. You didn't learn it. You just… are it."
"And that's bad?" Marcus asked.
"No," Titus replied, suddenly serious."But it draws attention. And when you draw attention here, someone tests you.Not because they hate you. But because they want to know if they can trust you… or if you're trouble waiting to happen."
"You mean the centurion?" Sextus asked.
Gaius shrugged.
"Scaeva doesn't waste his time watching the average. If he's watching you, it's because he wants you climbing… or gone."
"I haven't done anything special," Sextus said.
"That's the problem," Marcus replied."You don't even know. And still… you win."
Silence followed.
Sextus didn't answer. But deep down, something stirred. It wasn't fear. It was something else.As if a part of him knew they were right.As if the path he'd chosen was no longer an escape……but starting to look far too much like destiny.