Brutus lay in darkness and pain. Under a full moon, the plain was a ghostly place of white shadow that barely reached the wounded in their tents. Brutus closed his eyes, wishing sleep would take him once more. His arm had been set and splinted and his ribs bound where they had cracked under the weight of dead men. The pain was worse when he tried to move, and the last time his swollen bladder forced him to sit up, the effort made him grind his teeth against screaming. The pot brimmed under his cot, growing dark and fetid. His mind still swam from the blows he had received and he had only a vague memory of speaking to Julius in the blood and filth after the battle. It burned worse than his wounds to think of it.

Someone nearby cried out in their sleep, making him jump. He wished he had the strength to stagger out of the stinking tent into the night air. He sweated constantly and when his thoughts were clear he knew he was running a fever. He croaked for water, but it did not come. At last, he slid away into blacker depths and peace.

He surfaced from unconsciousness with a moan, tugged from deathlike sleep by a rough hand on his arm. Fear made his heart race as he saw men standing around him. He knew them. Each one had been with him in Spain and Gaul. They had been brothers once, but now their expressions were cruel.

One of them reached down and pressed a small blade into his left hand.

“If you have any honor left, you should cut your throat with this,” the man said, spitting the words.

Brutus passed out for a time, but when he woke again they were still there and the knife was tucked between his arm and his bandaged chest. Had it only been moments? It had seemed like hours, but none of the men had moved.

“If he won’t do it, we should,” one of the soldiers said in a hoarse growl.

Another nodded and reached for the knife. Brutus swore and tried to writhe away from the probing fingers. He was too weak. Fear of dying in the stinking tent filled him and he tried to cry out, but his throat was too swollen and dry. He felt the knife pulled clear and winced in anticipation.

“Put it in his hand,” he heard, and felt his lifeless fingers opened.

A new voice broke through his terror in the dark. “What are you men doing in here?”

He didn’t recognize it, but they scattered and the newcomer shouted angrily as they shoved their way past him in the gloom. Brutus panted as he lay on his back, the little knife clutched unfelt in his hand. He heard footsteps approach and looked into the face of a centurion as he bent over him.

“I need a guard,” Brutus whispered.