“Come on, come on. Cut into them,” he said, his voice breaking. “Make the charge.”

In the center of the battle line, Brutus shoved a dying man backwards and raised his shield to stop a blow. His horse was dead and he had barely cleared the saddle before it collapsed. He did not know if it was deliberate that Julius had sent his old legion against him. Perhaps they had expected it would weaken his arm. It had not. Though he had trained the men he faced, though he knew them as brothers, he killed them without a thought.

As he had known it would, his armor drew them to him, distorting the fighting ranks as they caught sight of the silver and struggled to bring him down.

“Are you afraid of your old teacher?” he called to them, laughing wildly. “Is there not one of you good enough to face me now? Try me, boys. Come here and try me.”

They heard and the response was so savage that Brutus was shoved back, his sword trapped against his body by the press of men. Something heavy thumped into his helmet and broke the strap at his chin. He swore as he hit the ground and felt the helmet come loose, but he rose up with a jerk and killed two men before they could recover.

More came at him then and his shield was torn from his hand as he raised it, ripping flesh from his fingers. He cried out in pain and ducked a sword, ramming his own into a man’s groin from below. His foot slipped as his sandal studs raked the face of a corpse. He saw it was Seneca, his open eyes coated in dust.

Brutus fought without reason for a long time, cutting anything that came into range and bellowing weary defiance at the lines of men. He caught a glimpse of silver armor in a set that matched his own and yelled a challenge, seeing Octavian jerk his head around as he heard. Brutus waited for him. He could not make a space to breathe as they pressed him and he was growing tired. The endless energy of youth had somehow slipped away without him noticing. At his back, he heard Labienus calling for the Fourth to advance and the shout seemed to galvanize his old legion. They roared again and fought like berserkers, ignoring wounds. Octavian was straining to reach him and Brutus beckoned him on wearily. Blood spattered him as he struggled, panting. He wanted to see Julius, but he could not find him.

His sword blade turned uselessly against a shield. He did not see the blow that brought him to his knees, or the second that left him on his back.

“Where are you?” he called for his old friend, looking up at the sky. A crushing weight squeezed the air from his lungs and he heard his right arm snap. Then he knew nothing more.