The noise hadn't stopped.
Just ahead, only a few steps away, the third and fourth lines were pushing with everything they had. Shouts rang out, metal clashed, commands in Latin and barbarian screams filled the air. The line held. The enemy didn't give in. But neither did the Romans.
Sextus knelt behind his shield. He wasn't resting. He was just breathing. His shoulders rose and fell with the rhythm of someone who still couldn't believe he was alive.
Atticus sat beside him. Blood ran from a cut above his eyebrow, but he smiled.
"Don't get used to this," he said. "They don't let you sit down in the middle of battle every day."
Sextus didn't answer right away. He stared ahead, at the comrades now holding where he had stood minutes before.
"How many more do you think are coming?" he asked finally.
Atticus shrugged.
"As many as are still standing. But they've got no strength left. Just rage."
"Sometimes rage is the last thing to go," Sextus murmured.
Scaeva appeared beside them, covered in dust, his tunic torn in several places. His face was flushed from the effort, but his eyes were unchanged — watchful, tense, sharp.
"Don't lower your guard," he said without looking at them. "If the line gives, we're back in."
"And if it doesn't?" Atticus asked.
Scaeva gave a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Then we go in anyway. To end this."
He sat down with effort. There were a few seconds of silence.
"You did well," he said, looking at Sextus. "Your reaction. Your orders. That wasn't luck. That was a clear head. That gets noticed. That gets remembered."
Sextus looked down.
"I didn't know if they'd follow me."
"They did," Scaeva replied. "And they will again. Because a man in the right place is worth more than a hundred running with no direction."
The three of them sat there, behind the line of shields that still held fast, as if they could stop time for a moment before merging with the war again.
The battle wasn't over. But that moment was theirs.