Recruit camp, Cisalpine Gaul — Day 2
At dawn, the horn blared harshly through the low morning mist. It wasn't a martial call, but a warning: there is no sleeping past the sun here. The men stumbled out of their tents, limbs stiff, some with red eyes from a sleepless night.
Sextus slipped on his sandals clumsily and stepped outside with Gaius, Titus, and Marcus. The parade ground in front of the bronze eagle was already alive with movement. Centurions shouted names, sorted recruits by contubernium, and handed out orders with mechanical speed. There was no time for questions. Only obedience.
A grizzled sub-officer with a voice like stone handed them their first training gear.
"Until you're real soldiers, you'll train with this. Don't be fooled by the color."
He placed in their hands a wooden gladius: the rudis. It was longer than the real weapon, rougher… and much heavier. Designed so that training would strengthen both arm and will.
"This weighs like a mule," muttered Titus, turning it in his hands.
"You haven't gotten the shield yet," said the sub-officer.
Next came the wooden shield, a replica of the scutum. Large, rectangular, curved, with unpadded grips. The edge bit into their forearms if held carelessly. It too was heavier than the real thing—meant to build endurance and precision.
"Is this training or punishment?" whispered Marcus, struggling to balance it.
"Punishment hasn't even started yet, little one," Gaius replied.
Then came grooming. They were forced to shave their heads and wash in a freezing canal that bordered the camp. There were no towels. No mercy. One recruit who complained about the cold got slapped by the veteran watching over them.
Sextus felt the blade run over his scalp, and the icy water rush down his back as if it were washing away the last traces of the farmer he used to be. When he put on the rough, short tunic they were issued, he no longer felt like himself.
The rest of the day was spent learning to stand still in formation. That's all. But they did it under a pitiless sun, not moving a muscle, under the sharp gaze of a centurion who walked down the line, inspecting face after face.
"You are not soldiers. You are mud," the man said—tall, scarred, and stern."And mud is either trampled… or shaped."
Sextus looked down at the rudis in his hand. It didn't cut. It didn't shine. It wasn't noble.But it weighed as if it carried the full burden of his future in every grain of wood.
That night, there was no chatter in the tent. Only exhausted bodies and respectful silence.And outside, in the darkness, the dull thuds of wooden swords clashing in another corner of the camp.A preview of what was to come.