The Beginning

Syrus stands among the other recruits, smaller than most, but wiry and steady. His dark eyes flick over the older boys, some as old as seventeen, who laugh and jostle each other with wooden swords. His patched tunic clings to his back, damp from the morning drills that mark the start of a long day.

The sharp voice of Tiberius Cassius, Legatus of the Roman army, cuts through their murmurs. “Form ranks!” he barks. Each step he took resonated with the weight of his experience. His cloak billows with each stride, and the polished hilt of his gladius catches the light. When he reaches Syrus, he pauses, meeting the boy’s gaze with a keen stare.

“Smallest among us,” Tiberius mocks. “Do you intend to prove your worth with strength or wit?”

Syrus straightens, refusing to drop his eyes. “Through whatever brings victory, Dominus,” he answers with a steady tone.

A ripple of laughter runs through the older boys. Drusus, a broad-shouldered seventeen-year-old, laughs loudest. His booming voice carries over the yard. They seem certain that a scrawny twelve-year-old cannot match their strength. Tiberius raises a hand, silencing them instantly. “We shall see if your ‘whatever’ holds weight,” he says, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. He turns to the group. “Drusus! Step forward.”

Drusus, taller than Syrus by nearly a head, grins and steps out of line. He flexes his calloused hands, confidence radiating from his every move.

“It will be quick,” he says, eyeing Syrus with a predatory gleam.

A soldier hands Syrus a wooden sword, its weight unfamiliar but steady in his grip. Drusus twirls his own weapon with practiced ease, muscles rippling under his tunic. Tiberius inclines his head.

“Begin.”

Drusus charges without hesitation, blade slicing the air in a broad arc. Syrus ducks, feeling the wind of the strike skim past his ear. He jumps back, sandals scraping against the dirt as he sizes up his opponent. He’s strong but careless. I just need to outlast him…

Drusus presses forward, each swing heavier than the last. Syrus pivots and sidesteps, each movement deliberate as he studies Drusus’s pattern. The other trainees, once jeering, go quiet, their laughter turning to hushed surprise.

Tiberius’s voice cuts across the yard. “Do not run, boy. Stand your ground.”

Syrus clenches his teeth. On Drusus’s next swing, the older boy overreaches, his stance faltering. Syrus seizes the moment, darting in to slap him in the side. The echo of wood against flesh reverberates through the yard, and Drusus staggers, clutching his ribs.

The recruits shift uneasily, some muttering, others staring at Syrus with fresh curiosity. Drusus’s face flushes with anger, and he lunges again. Syrus feints to the left, steps aside, and raps Drusus’s wrist with a precise blow. Drusus’s sword hits the ground with a dull clatter.

Silence blankets the yard. Syrus stands panting, wooden sword gripped tight, while Drusus glares at him with reluctant respect. Tiberius steps forward, sharp eyes fixed on Syrus.

“You read him well,” Tiberius’ tone measured. “But reading alone is not enough. A true warrior acts quickly when the moment calls.” He glances at a nearby soldier. “See that this one trains daily with the blade. His mind will serve him, but he must strengthen his body.”

Some recruits exchange impressed looks. Others, like Drusus, smoulder with resentment. Syrus dips his head. “Yes, Dominus.” His arms ache and his legs feel shaky, but a slight flare of pride warms his chest.

Later that evening, Alexandros arrives at the barracks to collect Syrus. Sol has set, and the cool air brushes against his worn features. A cluster of soldiers linger near the gates, voices low.

“Did you see him? That smaller one with the dark eyes.” disbelief in his tone.

“Drusus thought he’d crush him,” another adds, chuckling. “But the boy’s quick, like an eel, and clever too.”

Alexandros overhears them as he makes his way through the group, his expression stone cold. He spots Syrus seated against the barracks wall, cradling his wooden sword across his lap. Alexandros crosses the yard.

“You fought well today,” Alexandros voice calm, but can hear pride lacing between his words.

Syrus glances up, his cheeks still flushed from exertion. “You heard?”

Alexandros offers a faint smirk. “The entire camp has heard. You’ve made quite an impression.”

Syrus lowers his gaze, gripping the sword tighter. “I owe it to your lessons,” he says quietly. “You told me to watch for weaknesses in a man’s stance.”

Alexandros kneels beside him, hand resting on the boy’s shoulder. “And you saw them?”

“Yes,” Syrus’ voice steadying. “His power made him sloppy. I waited for him to overextend, just like you said.”

Alexandros nods. “Endurance, patience, and sharp observation. They helped you succeed. But this is only the beginning, Syrus. Harder tests lie ahead. You will be pushed to your limits.”

Syrus meets his gaze, dark eyes brimming with determination. “I know.”

“Good.” Alexandros nods. “Come. You’ve earned a hot meal and some rest. Training starts again tomorrow.”

They walk off together, the murmurs of nearby soldiers trailing behind. Syrus focuses on Alexandros’s steady presence. Every lesson has led him closer to this moment, and each success will pave the path for the next.