He barely noticed that a few of the Third had responded and were forming up around him. New horn calls split the air and Julius saw the surge of cavalry halt. It did not matter. He could not outrun them. He waited for the end and wondered at his own lack of emotion. It had happened so quickly that he could hardly take in the change in fortunes. Pompey had no other opponents in Rome. Mark Antony would be brushed aside, quietly banished, or killed.

Julius leaned on the flagpole, panting. He did not speak to the men around him in the dark, feeling only contempt for them. He had learned the lessons of fear too long ago to remember. Perhaps it had been Renius’s example, or his own father’s, or Tubruk’s simple brand of courage, but it had stayed with him. No matter what else a man accomplished, it was all worthless if he allowed fear to rule his actions. If it was terror of pain, it should be faced and crushed. What was pain, after all? Wounds healed and even those that did not were better than having to live in shame. Julius had seen men with crippling injuries who still held themselves proudly. They bore the scars with the same courage they had shown to receive them.

He held his head high as the enemy riders milled, waiting as he did for the order that would send them flying toward him. He would not cry out. He would not run.

Pompey rode to the head of his cavalry, every jolt from his horse sending a stab of pain that dimmed his vision. He had heard the alarm calls and interrupted his inspection to answer them, but now his eyes narrowed at the sight of Julius’s legionaries running away.

He saw Labienus come galloping toward him and accepted his salute.

“What’s happening?” he asked.

“A night attack, sir. We have beaten it back. A cavalry charge will finish them.”

Both men looked across the camp toward the fleeing enemy disappearing into the dark. A distant lonely figure waved a flag in the gloom and the movement attracted Pompey’s eye. He saw the man plant the standard in the hard earth, where the breeze tugged at it. The man stood unnaturally still, the white speck of his face turned toward the horsemen. Pompey frowned in suspicion.

“It is a victory, sir,” Labienus said, more urgently. “With your permission, I will take the extraordinarii and ride them down.”

“It is a trap,” Pompey replied. “I am certain of it. When have you ever heard of Caesar’s legions running in fear? He wants us to race out into the night for whatever he has waiting there. No. You will hold position until dawn.”

Labienus took a breath that hissed through his teeth as he struggled to control his temper. “Sir, I do not believe that. They have lost hundreds against my lines.”