He did not know if he had been heard. Brutus’s battered face had paled even further and only the flutter of a vein in his throat showed he still lived. With great gentleness, Julius wiped his friend’s mouth free of blood and pressed the cloth into the limp hand before standing.

He faced Octavian and saw the younger man’s blank shock at what he had heard.

“Look after this one, Octavian. He is badly hurt.”

Octavian closed his mouth slowly. “Sir, please . . .” he began.

“Let it go, lad. We’ve come too far together for anything else.”

After a long moment, Octavian bowed his head.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

Pompey’s camp crested a hill that overlooked the plain. Bare gray rock showed through green lichen like bones and the only sound came from the wind. At such a height, the gale was free to moan and howl around them as Julius made his way to the gates. He saw Pompey’s camp workers had lit great torches, and streamers of black smoke reached over the plain below.

Julius paused to look down on Pharsalus. His generals were creating order on the battlefield, but from his vantage point Julius could see the line of bodies that marked where the armies had clashed. They lay where they had fallen. From so far away, it looked like a meandering scar on the land, a feature of the plain rather than a place of death. He pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders and refastened the clasp that held it to him.

Pompey had chosen the site well for his stronghold. The path to the flat crest was narrow and overgrown in places as if even wild goats shunned the steepest trails. His horse picked its way carefully and Julius did not press the pace. He was still stunned at the new reality and his usual swift thought seemed to have been buried beneath a crushing weight of memory. All his life he had fought against enemies. He had defined himself in their shadow, saying that he was not Sulla, not Cato, not Pompey. It was a new world without them and there was fear in the freedom.

He wished he could have brought Cabera up to the fort on the hill. The old man would have understood how he could not exult in the moment. Perhaps it was just the wind and great height, but it was easy to imagine the ghosts of those who had fallen. There was no sense in death. Men like Renius and Tubruk filled graves as long and wide as Cato or Sulla. In the end, all that was flesh would be ash.

Later, he would make offerings to the gods and give thanks, but as he made his way up he felt numb. Only hours before, he had faced a vast army and victory was still too fresh and raw to be real.