Shouts tear through the half-sleep before dawn, sharp and practiced, cutting cleanly through dreams that never quite finish. Voices stack over one another, urgent but not panicked, carrying the authority of routine rather than alarm. It is still dark. Cold presses in from the ground, from the air, from the bones.
The second day began with shouts to wake them up at 5 a.m.
Groans ripple through the barracks like a delayed echo. Blankets shift. Someone curses quietly, the sound swallowed by wood and cloth. The slave-soldiers of company 204th sit up one by one, movements slow, eyes heavy, bodies stiff from yesterday's stillness and older, deeper strain. No one asks why. No one asks how long.
They follow the voices.
Onaga Kei's shout is crisp, clipped, carrying discipline without cruelty. Hano Kichiro's voice overlaps it—louder, less controlled, irritation bleeding through in uneven bursts. The men pull on boots, belts, coats, falling into line not because they are eager, but because this is how mornings work now.
Outside, the sky is a dull gray-blue, neither night nor morning. Breath fogs in front of faces. The path to the farmland is uneven, familiar already after only a day, stones biting through worn soles.
They reach the field as the light slowly grows.
Breakfast comes without ceremony. They sit where they stand, backs against packs or tools. Two loaves each—dense, coarse bread, still faintly warm. Someone notices the taste is different. Slightly sweet.
Hano squats nearby, chewing his own portion, hands stained faintly purple.
"Berries," he says when someone asks. "Picked them yesterday. Makes it less miserable."
No one thanks him out loud. But the bread disappears faster than it would have otherwise.
Then the shovels come out.
Metal bites into earth. The first strike rings too loud in the quiet morning. Then another. Then dozens. Dirt lifts, falls, scatters. Muscles complain immediately, as if insulted by the sudden demand.
They begin, one by one, taking a shovel and digging the earth.
Someone starts marking rough rows, instinctively preparing for planting.
Aldo's voice cuts across the field.
"No, no! Everyone! We can't plant anything yet! Dig a canal!"
Heads lift. Movements pause. A few faces twist with open confusion.
Aldo stands near the center of the field, boots already sinking into mud, sleeves rolled, expression flat but alert. He does not raise his voice again. He simply waits until attention settles.
Orders follow, measured, structured.
The entire 100-man company was divided into 5 teams.
Team 1 moves toward the forest—fifteen people—axes and spades on shoulders. Their task is cutting wood, digging holes, building Rajasthani-style cisterns, an idea suggested by the Indian members during yesterday's discussions. They disappear quickly among the trees, shapes swallowed by shade.
Team 2—twelve people—fans out across the farmland, marking lines, beginning to dig canals connecting various parts of the land. Their work is precise, slower, careful.
Team 3 forms the largest group. Thirty-six people gather at the far edge of the field, facing the direction of the distant river. Their assignment is simple and terrible: digging the main canal connecting to the river.
Team 4—twelve people—organizes, supervises, records. They carry boards, parchment, small satchels of supplies. They watch hands, count shovels, track progress, step in when someone falters.
Team 5—twenty-five people—handles medical, supply, security, reserve labor. They linger at the edges, not idle, just waiting for the inevitable moment when someone cannot continue.
Work begins again.
Grumbling spreads, low and constant, like background noise. Someone complains that the team leader is lucky, that he doesn't have to dig. Someone else laughs bitterly. Sweat breaks out quickly despite the cool air. Shovels sink, scrape, lift. Dirt clings to boots, to hems, to hands.
Team 3 works the hardest.
Their assigned stretch of earth is different from the others—denser, darker, packed tight as if it has decided to resist every intrusion. Each shovel strike meets resistance first, a dull, jarring impact that travels up through wrists and elbows before the soil reluctantly splits. When it does give way, it does not crumble cleanly. It clings. It drags. It turns to thick mud where underground moisture seeps upward, coating metal blades and swallowing boot soles.
Mud stains everything. It splashes up sleeves and across chests. It cakes along pant legs in uneven layers that stiffen as they dry. Shoulders burn from repeated lifts. Lower backs throb in a slow, spreading ache that settles deep and refuses to leave. Breathing grows heavier, timed unconsciously to the rhythm of digging—drive the shovel down, press with the foot, lever up, throw aside. Again. Again. Again.
Among them, Aldo works.
He is no cleaner than the others. Mud streaks across his forearms, darkening his rolled sleeves. The fabric at his elbows is soaked through. His boots are thick with clay, each step carrying extra weight. There is no visible distinction between him and the rest of Team 3. No cleaner patch of cloth. No guarded perimeter of personal space.
He grips a shovel and drives it into the earth with the same controlled force as everyone else. His posture remains efficient—back straight when lifting, knees bending properly to conserve strength. His movements are economical, neither hurried nor sluggish. He wastes nothing. Each motion completes itself fully before the next begins.
He does not issue instructions while he works. He does not hover. He digs.
One soldier notices.
The man had been working two positions down the line. He pauses mid-swing, shovel half-raised, mud sliding slowly from its edge. For a second, he simply stares. Fatigue parts enough for surprise to break through.
"Taichou—"
The word leaves him before he can stop it.
Aldo does not look up. He does not slow his current motion. The shovel sinks into the earth again with a heavy thud.
"The main canal is eight meters wide and five meters deep," he says evenly, as though continuing a thought already in progress. "Keep the walls straight."
His tone is calm, factual—neither sharp nor indulgent.
He levers up another load of mud and throws it to the growing embankment.
The soldier swallows. The moment stretches just long enough to be uncomfortable. Then he adjusts his grip, drives his own shovel back into the soil, and resumes digging. The brief shock dissolves into rhythm. Aldo blends back into the line—another bent figure under the same strain.
Time stretches.
There are no clocks here. No one checks a watch. Instead, they measure by the slow shift of light and shadow. A simple sundial stands a short distance away: a stick driven upright into the ground, small stones placed carefully around it to mark approximate hours. The thin shadow it casts crawls across the dirt, silent and precise.
Sweat runs freely now. It drips from chins, darkens collars, stings eyes. Shirts cling to backs. The sun climbs steadily, and with it the heat thickens.
They work until 7:45.
The exact moment is not announced by bells or whistles. Aldo straightens first. He wipes mud from his hands onto already soiled fabric and glances toward the sundial. The shadow aligns with a marked stone.
He lifts his head.
"Rest."
The word carries clearly across the work line.
It travels faster than any command given so far that morning.
Shovels fall almost in unison. Some men let them drop where they stand, metal striking earth with dull thumps. A few simply collapse backward, backs hitting the ground without care for mud or stones. Others remain upright for a second too long, swaying slightly as dizziness catches up to them, then lower themselves more carefully, breathing hard.
No one speaks at first. They simply exist in stillness, lungs pulling air in deep, uneven drafts.
They rest until 8:30.
At 8:00, the sun clears the horizon completely.
The change is immediate and unforgiving.
The sky is painfully clear—an uninterrupted blue without a single cloud to soften it. Light pours down directly, harsh and absolute. Shadows sharpen. Heat intensifies within minutes, pressing down against exposed skin.
Understanding settles among them without discussion.
They started early because yesterday, when Hano returned from surveying, he reported clear weather—no cloud cover.
At 8:00, the sun is merciless.
Team 3 rotates.
A portion of them rise stiffly and begin the slow walk back toward temporary quarters—movements heavy, steps uneven from strain. Some limp slightly. Others stretch arms overhead as they walk, trying to ease tight muscles. Their places do not remain empty for long. Members of Team 5 step forward, taking up shovels without ceremony. The canal line continues uninterrupted. Labor does not stop; it transfers.
Other teams retreat toward the forest edge. Shade gathers thickly beneath the canopy. Leaves filter the light into fractured patterns, and the air there feels noticeably cooler, touched by lingering moisture.
Team 3 does not go far.
Instead, they set up a large, multi-layered tarp near the canal's edge. Poles are driven quickly into the ground. Cloth is pulled tight, then layered again—overlapping sheets arranged carefully to block as much sunlight as possible. The fabric sags slightly at first before being adjusted and secured. Within minutes, a patch of artificial shadow forms.
It is not perfect, but it is enough.
Men gather beneath it, settling in uneven rows. Water bags are passed from hand to hand. Each man tilts his head back and drinks slowly, deliberately. No one gulps. They ration instinctively, aware of how long the day will be.
Mud flakes off in dry patches as they shift positions. Some remove boots briefly to empty trapped grit before pulling them back on. Others stretch legs out stiffly, rolling shoulders, flexing fingers cramped from gripping tools.
During the break, Aldo remains with Team 3.
He does not move to the forest. He does not stand apart to review notes or inspect progress from a distance.
He lowers himself to the ground like the others, legs stretched forward. His back rests against a mound of excavated dirt. He removes his gloves and sets them beside him. His hands are smeared with mud, knuckles reddened from friction.
He accepts a water bag when it reaches him. The leather is warm from passing through many hands. He drinks in measured swallows, then seals it and passes it along.
His breathing is steady—deep, controlled, unhurried.
Around him, conversation begins in low murmurs—small complaints, quiet jokes, the kind that surface only once immediate exhaustion loosens its grip. A few men glance at him occasionally, as if confirming he is still there, still seated among them.
He is.
Not elevated. Not distant.
Just another body resting under shared shade, waiting for the sun to move.
Onaga Kei moves elsewhere, checking progress, recording numbers, speaking quietly with Team 4.
Someone shifts closer to Aldo.
"Why… why did you tell me to stand behind Team 3 just to watch?" the man asks, voice low, hesitant.
Aldo wipes mud from his hands, considers the question.
"So everyone digs straight," he answers. "If the line bends, the distance increases."
The man frowns.
Aldo continues, pointing faintly toward the horizon.
"We only need to get as close to the 52.6 km mark as possible. If you don't dig straight, the distance to be dug extends. That costs time. Energy."
The explanation is calm, almost gentle.
Understanding flickers across the man's face. He nods once, stands, and turns away.
Aldo watches him go, then lets his gaze travel.
He looks at the other slave-soldiers. Their faces are slack with fatigue. Shoulders sag. Hands tremble when they think no one is watching. There is no drama in it. Just accumulation.
[If this were war… it would have been easier,] Aldo thinks.
No explosions. No enemy. No moment of adrenaline to cut through exhaustion. Just dirt. Distance. Sun.
Work resumes at 8:30.
The rhythm returns. Shovel. Lift. Toss. Step. Breathe.
They work until 11:00.
When the rest command comes again, relief is visible but muted. No cheering. No collapse. Just slower movements, longer exhales. Someone smiles faintly at nothing in particular.
Aldo remains attentive to everything—counts heads, checks posture, watches hands for shaking that won't stop.
Discipline holds.
Exhaustion settles in like dust.
Endurance is earned, one shovel at a time.