Recruit camp, Cisalpine Gaul — Week 8, dusk
The tent felt different that night. Not bigger, not more comfortable. Just… quieter.
Sextus sat in his corner, wrapping his shoulder without asking for help. The veteran's strike still pulsed beneath the skin like a memory. He hadn't spoken since returning. No one had called him either.
Gaius was the first to break the silence.
"So now the centurion sends you to fight real soldiers…" he said—no sarcasm, but no smile either.
Titus didn't lift his eyes from his knee, which he was quietly rubbing.
"You won. That's undeniable."
"I wasn't the only one who landed blows," Sextus replied.
"You weren't the one who was supposed to win," added Marcus from the shadows."And yet… you did."
Silence.
It wasn't hostility. But it wasn't quite camaraderie anymore.
Sextus felt the change like the weight of a soaked tunic. The warmth of past nights—the jokes, the whispered talks—had all taken a step back.
Outside the tent, the change was sharper.
Some recruits looked at him when he passed but avoided greeting him. Others stared with a mix of respect and unease. As if he was no longer one of them. As if an invisible wall had risen between him and the rest.
One from Contubernium Nine spit near him when they locked eyes. Another just muttered:
"Favorite."
Varro said nothing, but in every formation now, his gaze found Sextus. Not to scold him—but to remind the others that he was no longer just another name on the roll.
That night, while the camp slept, Sextus couldn't close his eyes.
He thought of his father, who never stood out. Of his mother, who asked only for bread and rest.He thought of how easy it was to go unnoticed.And how hard it now was to take a step without leaving a mark.
He hadn't asked to be different. He had only responded when pushed.
But in the Roman army, being good wasn't a comfort.It was a sign.And signs… were always seen by someone in command.