If any other man had led the Greek legions, Julius would have expected an assault in the night. Pompey’s officers knew the city well and there could even have been entrances Julius had not seen. It was enough of a threat to keep his own men out of trouble on the walls, but he did not think Pompey would risk the lives he valued in Dyrrhachium. The days of reckless youth were behind for both of them.

His guide mumbled something in Greek and pointed to a wide gate set into a wall. A single lamp hung from a brass chain to light the entrance and Julius had the whimsical thought that it had been set there to welcome him. He gestured and two men with hammers stepped forward to break the lock. In the silent street, the sound was like a ringing bell and Julius could feel eyes on him from all the local houses. Possibilities swirled in his head and he took a deep breath of the night air, thinking of the enemy outside the walls of Dyrrhachium.

To fight a war with subtlety and propaganda was dangerously intoxicating. Julius seized on every tiny detail of Pompey’s strengths and weaknesses, anything that might be used. He had sent men to undermine the Dictator in his own camp, knowing they could be killed. It was a vicious sort of war they had carried to Greece, but he had come too far and lost too much to lose it all.

His somber thoughts were interrupted as the gate fell with a clang on the stones of the street. The noise had woken the house and lamps were being lit inside, acting as a spark for the local inhabitants as they roused and sought light to banish terror.

As he had expected, the sound of marching feet came quickly behind the hammer blows and it was only moments before the space in the wall filled with grim soldiers. Julius did not speak at first, watching with professional interest as they locked their shields to prevent a sudden rush.

“You are late, gentlemen,” he said, dismounting. “I could have been inside by now if I hadn’t waited for you.”

Five hundred of his Tenth were stretched along the street and he could feel their tension in the biting air. A single word from him and they would cut the defenders down. He looked into the eyes of the centurion guarding the gate and was intrigued to find no sign of fear there. The officer did not bother to answer and merely returned his stare. Pompey had chosen well.

“I am a consul of Rome,” Julius said, taking a step forward. “Do not dare to block my way.”

The men in the gateway shifted uncomfortably, the words pulling at everything they had been taught from childhood. The centurion blinked and Julius saw him reach out to one of the defenders, settling him.