Octavian saluted and walked over to the men he commanded. Julius would have noted the formations and ready spears, though he could hardly mention it with the galley crews in earshot. Octavian could not help but grin as he relayed the order to the centurions of the Fourth legion. Though there would be harder days of marching ahead, he felt a growing confidence. Pompey would not escape them.

The slow dawn brought the coast of Asia Minor into view, with sharp, gray-green mountains plunging into the sea. Geese called overhead, and pelicans floated high above the galleys, watching for silver shoals beneath the surface. The first touches of spring were in the air and the morning seemed full of promise.

It was a new land for all of them, farther east from Rome than Britain lay to the west. Asia Minor supplied the cedar that built galleys for Rome. Its figs, apricots, and nuts would pack the holds of merchant ships heading for home markets. It was a golden land, an ancient one, and somewhere in the north were the ruins of Troy. Julius remembered how he had bothered his tutors to be told the stories of that place. Alexander had been there and offered sacrifice at the tomb of Achilles. Julius ached to stand where the Greek king had stood.

He shivered in the spray from the bows as the oar slaves propelled them toward a tiny port.

“When I return to Rome after all this,” he said to Domitius, “I will have seen the ends of Roman land, both east and west. It makes me proud to be so far from home and still hear the speech of my city. To find our soldiers here, our laws and ships. Is it not wonderful?”

Domitius smiled at Julius’s enthusiasm, feeling it himself. Though the pursuit across Greece had been hard, a different mood was stealing through the legions. Perhaps it was the aftermath of Pharsalus, as they realized they had come to the end of their years of battle. The sight of Julius commanding the enemy galleys had made it a reality. They were no longer at war. Their task was merely to stamp out the last embers of Pompey’s rule. Those who had been with Julius from Spain and Gaul felt it most strongly of all. They clustered at the rails of the six galleys, laughing and talking with unaccustomed lightness.

Domitius glanced up to where Adàn had climbed the mast. Even so far above their heads, the Spaniard’s voice could be heard as he sang some ballad from his youth.

The quaestor of the tiny coastal port spoke excellent Latin, though he had grown up in sight of the local barracks. He was a short, dark man who bowed as Julius entered the dock buildings and did not rise until permission came.

“Consul,” he said. “You are welcome here.”

“How long since Pompey’s riders left this place?” Julius asked impatiently.