At dawn, Mithridates sent out all his small store of horses in groups of twenty, with orders to report back the moment they sighted the enemy. His original plan of uprooting the entire camp for the search had worried him. Perhaps that was what they intended him to do, to leave the apparent shelter of the small valley and march out onto the plains where the hidden legion could take them apart. He paced his tent in an agony of frustration, cursing his indecision. Should he retreat to a city? They were all Roman and would defend their walls against him to the last man. But where was safe on the plains? He knew it was possible that more legions would be coming from the west to crush the rebellion, and played with the idea of disbanding his men, sending them back to their farms and valleys. No, he couldn’t do that. The Romans could well take them one by one as they looked for rebels, and he would have gained nothing.

He grated his teeth in the same impotent anger that had coursed through him ever since he had seen the bodies of his men the night before. Would Alexander allow himself to be trapped between legions?

He stopped his pacing suddenly. No, Alexander would not. Alexander would carry the fight to them. But in which direction? If he moved his army back into the east, he could still be caught by those coming up behind. If he moved west toward the Roman ports, he would have these night killers to harry his rear guard. The gods forgive him, what would Sulla do? If the scouts came back with no news, and he didn’t act, he would begin losing men to desertion, he was sure.

Sighing, he poured himself a third cup of wine, despite the acid feeling in his empty stomach as it rebelled at such punishment so early in the day. He ignored the discomfort irritably as he tipped it back. In a little while, he would have to tell his sons that they had cost lives by not moving fast enough during the night.

He drank more and more as the day wore on and the scouts returned on lathered mounts with nothing to report. Of all the camp, only Mithridates the king had drunk himself to sleep as night fell.

*                                                      *                                                      *

Julius knew the estimates of the short night raid were going to be vague or exaggerated. It was the nature of soldiers to claim greater success than they had achieved. Yet even allowing for that, he thought they had reduced Mithridates’ force by between eight hundred and a thousand, losing only eleven of their own. Those men would not be buried under the eyes of Roman gods. There had been no time to collect the bodies, but it was still a thorn under the skin of the veterans, who had never liked to leave their own in enemy hands.