“I will stay for the funerals of the dead tonight, Octavian.” He took a deep breath, feeling his own exhaustion in his bones. “Tomorrow I will go after Pompey. I’ll need the extraordinarii, the Tenth, and the Fourth. I’ll speak to the others and send them home.”

Octavian followed his commander’s gaze before replying. “They won’t want to go back, sir,” he said at last.

Julius turned to him. “I’ll write letters to Mark Antony. They will be paid and those that want it can have the land I promised them. I’ll make good my oath to all of them.”

“No, sir, it’s not that. They won’t want to be sent back while you go on. I’ve heard them. Ciro even came to me to put in a word for him. They want to see it to the end.”

Julius thought of the promise he had made to his daughter. Would she hate him if he killed Pompey? For an instant he imagined taking the Senate ring from Pompey’s dead hand. Perhaps it would be enough to bring him peace. He did not know, but until he was able to stand before the Dictator it would never be over. Sulla had left Mithridates alive in this same land and Roman blood had been the price.

Julius rubbed his face roughly. He needed a bath and fresh clothes and something to eat. The body was always weak.

“I will speak to the men. Their loyalty . . .” He paused, unable to find words. “Rome must be kept safe and we stripped her bare to come here. I will take the Fourth and Tenth and the extraordinarii, no more. Tell Ciro to commission his senior tribune in his place. I’ll take him with me. I suppose it is fitting that those who were on the Rubicon should see this out.”

Julius smiled at the thought, but he saw Octavian’s expression had hardened at his words.

“Brutus too, sir? What would you have me do with him?”

Julius’s smile faded. “Bring him. Put him in one of the carts for provisions. He can heal on the way.”

“Sir,” Octavian began. He fell silent under Julius’s eyes.

“He’s been with me since the very beginning,” Julius said softly, his words almost lost in the wind. “Let him come.”