Camp one contained eleven thousand soldiers and the key links in the command chain. It was surrounded by four others of similar size, so that from above they would look like the petals of a flower drawn by a child. Three roads crossed the heart of the camp and as Labienus walked along the Via Principalis toward Pompey’s command tent, he noted how the centurions took in every detail around them. He frowned at the thought that they would carry their observations back to an enemy and once again considered having them quietly dispatched. Rather than waste another chance, he broke away from the escort and gave quick instructions to a tribune from his own Fourth legion. Without hesitation, the man saluted and went to gather a dozen others for the task. Labienus hurried along the main road to catch up with Caesar’s men, feeling better about their mission.

The praetorium tent was an enormous leather construction near the northern gate of the camp. Reinforced with beams and taut with ropes, it was as solid as a stone building and proof against rain or gale. The whole area was well lit with oil torches partially shielded by a lattice of iron. Their flames streamed out with the wind, casting odd shadows as Labienus reached his men and had them halt outside. He gave the password of the day to the outer guards and ducked inside, finding Pompey in discussion with a dozen of his officers. The tent was simply furnished, with one long table and an ornate oak chair for Pompey. Benches rested against the walls for meetings and it had a spartan air of which Labienus approved. More important, the tent was far warmer than the outside. Braziers glowed on the packed earth, making the air thick and sluggish with heat. Labienus felt sweat break out on his skin at the sudden change.

“You’ve brought them here?” Pompey asked. His hand crept toward his stomach as he spoke.

“I’ve stripped and searched them, sir. With your permission, I will have my men bring them in.”

Pompey gestured to the maps that lay across a heavy table and one of the officers quickly gathered them into neat scrolls. When there was nothing important visible, he seated himself carefully, twitching his toga into perfect folds over his legs.

The three centurions held themselves well as they came into Pompey’s presence. Even dressed as they were, their short-cropped hair and scarred arms marked them immediately for what they were. The escort kept their weapons bared as they took positions around the walls of the tent and left the three men facing Pompey. Labienus found himself breathing more heavily as he waited, his hunger forgotten.

“So tell me what Caesar has to say that is so important as to risk your lives,” Pompey said.

In the silence, only the crackle of the braziers could be heard.