Recruit camp, Cisalpine Gaul — Week 9, dawn
The summons wasn't public. Varro simply appeared at daybreak, like a raven choosing who to disturb.
"Sextus. With me."
He said nothing else. He led him down a muddy path, away from the main formation. The sun had barely begun to rise when they arrived in front of the command tent.
Scaeva was already waiting outside. He wore no armor—just a plain cloak, his gaze fixed on the sky as if reading the weather.
"You won't train with your contubernium today," he said, without turning around.
Sextus stood at attention.
"You've got sharp eyes, steady hands, and good instinct with the sword. But the legion isn't built on those things alone."
Scaeva turned to face him. His tone wasn't harsh, but every word landed like an order.
"I want you to take charge of a small group. Five recruits. Not the best. Not the worst. This isn't about winning—it's about getting them from point A to point B and completing the task. No shouting. No beatings. No one gets left behind."
Sextus swallowed.
"What's the task?"
"A march to the woods. Gather firewood. Bring it back in good condition. Two hours. No help. No excuses."
Varro added from the side, his voice as dry as ever:
"This isn't an honor. It's a burden. If you fail, punishment falls on you. If you succeed… maybe no one says a word."
Scaeva finished:
"But I'll know."
They handed him a tablet with names. Sextus read them—none familiar. They stood off in the distance, watching him, waiting for orders.
Sextus turned back to Scaeva.
"Any further instructions?"
"Yes," said the centurion, eyes like blades."Don't forget what you are:still a recruit. But with a voice.Use it well—or don't ever use it again."