The man had been taken from the extraordinarii and perhaps it was that allegiance that made him look for them. Julius turned in the saddle and his heart leapt. He saw Pompey’s chasers returning to the battle. Behind them came his extraordinarii, at full gallop.

Julius watched dry-mouthed as the fleeing riders tried to enter their own lines. There was no time for them to slow and the result was instant chaos. The attempt to form a charge was sent reeling and then Caesar’s extraordinarii struck them from behind.

Pompey’s riders were ruined by them. Their own men opened the holes in the ranks that the extraordinarii battered through, scattering them apart. Julius saw horses rear in terror before the choking dust swallowed them. It swelled to a thick cloud over the killing and out of it came Pompey’s riders, broken and bloody. Some were dying and fell from their saddles. Others were pulling uselessly at the reins of their bolting mounts.

The Tenth rushed forward as Pompey’s cavalry were smashed. Julius shouted and kicked his own horse into the chaos, his eyes fixed on the desolate figure of Pompey in the distance. The dust cloud swirled across him and he swore, pushing forward with his men.

Pompey’s flank buckled as if a great pressure had been removed and they almost fell toward the archers surrounding the Dictator. Julius was about to order shields raised when they too broke and the Tenth slaughtered those who dared to show their backs.

As the dust blew on, Julius saw Pompey’s cavalry were clear of the field and still going. His extraordinarii were not chasing them, he saw, almost delirious with the change in fortunes. He watched his riders cut along the rear of Pompey’s lines, selecting their points of entry to begin carving them in slices.

Julius searched again for Pompey, but he was not there. His horse rode over the broken bodies of archers, stabbed by every rank that passed. The hooves threw up clots of blood and earth that hit his legs and slid away, leaving cold smears he did not feel.

Somewhere in the distance horns blew and Julius snapped around in the saddle. It was the tone for surrender and he had a sudden terror that his veterans had failed while he had been busy on the right flank. He heard a crash of arms as men threw down their weapons and in the press he still did not know if he had won or lost.

Octavian rode along the lines toward him, breathing heavily. His greave hung from a single strap and his armor and skin were torn, bruised, and scraped in equal measure. One eye had swollen completely shut, but it didn’t matter. He had survived and Julius’s heart leapt to see him.