Recruit camp, Cisalpine Gaul — Dawn, Week 7
Optio Varro entered the tent before sunrise. He didn't shout. He didn't strike. He simply pushed the flap aside and motioned with his chin.
"You. Sextus. Outside."
Sextus stood without a word. The others watched him silently. Gaius muttered in his ear as he passed:
"If they make you centurion before breakfast, you owe me half your pay."
Sextus didn't reply. Outside, the cold bit at his skin. Varro walked ahead in silence, as if leading him to the gallows. They crossed the camp without speaking, without stopping, until they reached the tent bearing the centurion's red banner.
Varro halted and looked at him for the first time.
"Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't stare without permission. Breathe if you must."
He lifted the flap.
Inside, Lucius Cassius Scaeva stood tall. No armor, only a short tunic, a gladius at his belt, and his hands clasped behind his back. His face was carved from stone. His eyes—dark hollows—locked on Sextus.
The young man stepped inside and stood at attention, just as he'd been taught.
Scaeva looked him over. He said nothing for several long heartbeats. He walked once around Sextus, slowly, like a predator circling its prey. Then stopped in front of him.
Sextus felt the urge to speak. To ask. To explain.But something deeper held his silence firm.
Finally, Scaeva spoke. Just one phrase:
"Return to your tent."
Sextus blinked. He didn't understand.
"Now."
He obeyed. He asked nothing. Walked out without looking back.
Varro was waiting outside. His face held the faintest trace of a smile—a weary smirk of approval.
"Not everyone walks out without a shout. Or a bruise."
"He didn't say anything," Sextus said.
"He will," Varro replied."When he truly wants to know you."
That day, during training, Sextus felt a different presence. At the top of the camp, beneath the shadow of the eagle, Scaeva watched. He gave no orders. Spoke no words.But his gaze, when it settled on Sextus, weighed more than any sword.