The horn sounded again.
Shouts rose from the front. The enemy had reorganized their final line. The wagon circle awaited. They knew this was the end.
Scaeva raised his arm. His voice cut through the noise:
"First and second line, with me!"
The men stood up. Sextus felt every muscle protest. His arm burned deep inside, his neck throbbed. But he stood. Shield in one hand. Gladius in the other. Once more.
"Advance!"
The XIII moved forward at a steady pace, without breaking formation. The cohorts struck with the weight of order and exhaustion. The enemy screamed, desperate.
At barely twenty paces from impact, Sextus saw something that should not have happened.
Titus, a veteran with a weathered face and fire in his eyes, was breaking formation.
He charged ahead alone, shouting hoarsely, gladius raised, attacking without waiting. It wasn't cowardice. It was fury. Bottled rage. Old wounds. Madness of war.
"Titus, fall back! Get back in line!" Sextus shouted.
But the veteran didn't hear.
The Helvetii saw him. They turned. One lifted a spear.
Sextus ran after him without thinking. Left his position for a single second — just enough to reach him, shove him back, right as the spear came down.
The tip sank into Sextus's side. It didn't hit bone, but pierced flesh and muscle. The pain flared like fire.
"Damn fool!" he gasped, grabbing Titus by the shoulder and dragging him back to the line.
The other legionaries shielded the withdrawal. Scaeva appeared like a thunderclap, shouting:
"Reform the line! Shields forward!"
Sextus fell to his knees, clutching the wound. Titus, panting, looked at him without knowing what to say. His eyes no longer burned. They showed only shame.
"Why did you do that?" Sextus whispered.
"My brother… was in the fourth cohort," Titus answered, voice cracking. "I saw him fall. I didn't think."
Sextus looked at him. Then nodded — not in judgment, only in exhaustion.
"Then don't waste it."
Sextus stood again, with effort. He was bleeding, but still on his feet.
And the line, despite everything, still held.