Chapter 33: Rite of Passage
The first golden rays of dawn had just begun to stream through the trees by the time everything had settled down. The battle and ensuing manhunt for other threats had occupied much of the Legion's attention that night, followed by a redoubling of defenses around the camp and town.
Tiberius hadn't personally gone out to the battlefield until several hours after it was secured, despite his desire to be on the front lines with his men. The reports of the pair's skills had made it quite clear that his presence would make him too vulnerable, something that his officers and aides weren't willing to risk. He had to agree. It was regrettable, but a situation like this called for him to step back as a leader—step back and carry out his other responsibilities.
His men were competent enough to handle themselves. Besides, this was no battlefield like he was used to, where army clashed against army. This was a hunt.
As the sun began to rise, however, the men returned to the camp to regroup and rest. Those who had spent the night on the move were granted a brief respite as they switched with fresh soldiers. A subdued air hung over them all as preparations began to be made—preparations for a burial.
Tiberius watched over the digging impassively. Death was simply a part of life for a Legionnaire. From the realities of war to ambushes to the simple consequences of an extended march, he'd seen more than his fair share of it over the decades. It was something he'd gotten used to, at least partially. Though that was not to say it was ever easy.
This death in particular hit him harder than most. Ever since they had come to this new, hostile, and unfamiliar land, they had managed to avoid losing a single man. Through all the battles and life-threatening injuries, they had been spared that by some miracle of Mars. Sure, they had nearly a score of wounded, including some with more permanent disabilities. A few wore eye patches now or walked with a limp, if they could walk at all. But given the strange magics of this land, Tiberius was no longer confident in saying that those injuries were even permanent.
This man was the first to fall. Not only that, but his death had taken something with him. It was as though his loss had carved a small hole in his soul, an empty space in the ironclad bond he shared with his fellow Legionnaires. A small hole, to be certain. But a hole nonetheless.
It wasn't just him, either—many of the men seemed to share the same sentiment. He saw it written plain across their faces as they dug and made preparations. Each one of his men had reacted with the same visceral sense of loss immediately after his death. And while some had recovered quickly enough, more seemed to hold on to that feeling with a grip of iron.
Luckily, they only had to dig one grave. It was something that they hadn't been certain about, initially. Though everyone had felt that first Legionnaire die, there was no telling whether that phenomenon would be repeated for subsequent deaths. Regardless, whether it was a blessing or a curse to blame, Tiberius felt that it was only fitting to give the man a proper funeral. For his sake and the men's.