The ground was already marked with dried blood, shattered javelins, and abandoned bodies.
The air, thick as oil, smelled of iron and fear.
The Helvetii were coming again. Angrier. More numerous. As if they meant to crush the Roman wall with sheer weight.
Sextus stood at the front, right flank of the century. His tunic no longer had a single unstained patch. His shield was splintered. His gladius heavy. But his eyes — clear.
"Raise that shield! Keep that front leg forward!" he shouted to a wavering legionary.
The wave crashed down like a storm.
This time there was no clean clash — only wild shoves. Some Helvetii tried to force their way through the bodies, climbing over their own dead, swinging axes at neck height. The line shook.
A soldier fell to his left. The gap opened.
Sextus didn't wait for orders. He signaled two men from the second line, stepped into the gap, and reformed the front in seconds. A clean move. Natural. Undeniable.
"They won't break through here!" he shouted. And his men roared with him.
The push was stopped. The Helvetii stepped back. Just a few steps. But it was enough.
📍 On a hill nearby...
Titus Labienus watched in silence, arms crossed over his cuirass, eyes fixed on the XIII.
Beside him, a young tribune took notes on a wax tablet.
"That's Scaeva's century, right?" the tribune asked.
"It is," Labienus replied, without looking away.
"And that boy? The optio. Isn't he too young?"
"Perhaps," said Labienus. "But he hasn't hesitated once."
The tribune scribbled something.
"Should I record his name?"
Labienus paused a moment. Then nodded.
"Sextus. Ask about him when this is over. And have someone bring him to me if Scaeva survives."
The tribune looked toward the front.
"You think he will?"
"If he does," Labienus said, "it'll be because that boy was at his side."