Dawn broke over the ruined waystation, casting long shadows across the resting legion. The men stirred, stiff from exhaustion, some still wrapping bandages over fresh wounds. Others muttered quiet prayers to the Lares and Mars, warding off whatever ill omen had allowed them to survive the night.
Lucius sat near a dying fire, sharpening his gladius in slow, practiced motions. The rhythmic scrape of whetstone against steel was almost comforting. Across from him, Marcus winced as he adjusted his arm, the bruising from last night’s ambush still deep.
“We should be dead,” Marcus muttered.
Lucius didn’t answer. He had been thinking the same thing.
The warlord had them. He could have crushed them. Instead, he had left.
Why?
Septimus, standing by the ruined walls, seemed to share the same concern. His eyes never stopped moving, scanning the horizon as if expecting the Parthians to return at any moment.
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Then, without turning, he spoke.
“We march in an hour. Eat what you can.”
There was no room for argument.
?
The Road to Cilicia
By midday, the legion was moving again. Their destination: the fortified town of Anazarbus in Cilicia. It was still days away, but it was safer than staying exposed on open ground.
Lucius kept his eyes on the hills. The Parthians were out there. He could feel it.
Hours passed, and tension settled over the column. The usual chatter was absent, the men too alert, too wary.
Then, as the sun hung high in the sky, the silence was broken.
A single arrow arced through the air—
—and buried itself in the dirt at Septimus’ feet.
The column froze.
Every hand went to their weapons. Shields locked into place. Pila were raised.
Septimus didn’t flinch.
Instead, he bent down, plucked the arrow from the ground, and inspected it.
Dark wood. Parthian make. But no blood, no poison. A warning.
Lucius exhaled sharply.
They were being watched.
And that meant one thing.
The warlord wasn’t finished with them yet.