Blood ran down his side, hot and sticky, but Sextus was still standing.
Shield raised, face steady, eyes fixed forward.
Titus stood beside him, silent. His breathing was heavy, his shame heavier. But his feet were where they needed to be — in the line, alongside the others.
Behind the front, on a small rise in the terrain, Tribune Gaius Fonteius observed the advance with an impassive face. Two cavalrymen and a standard-bearer stood beside him. Dust coated his tunic, but his eyes were clear. Focused.
One of the riders spoke:
"That's the optio Labienus mentioned?"
"Sextus," Fonteius replied, without looking away. "The one who held the line during the second push. The one who pulled back his century without breaking formation. The one who now bleeds and hasn't taken a single step back."
The rider hesitated.
"Shall we order his withdrawal?"
"For what?" the tribune shot back. "So he thinks bravery earns him rest? No. Let the enemy see that even wounded, we command. That too is Rome."
Below, Sextus issued a quick order to the left flank. Several legionaries repositioned. One handed him a makeshift bandage, which he tied over his wound without a word.
Fonteius nodded to himself.
"Have Labienus include him in his report. I want his name in the final record."
The wind tugged at the legion's standard.
And below, Sextus stood firm, a living statue amid mud and blood.