He felt as if he had been riding for years in a procession of the legions. Julius had been welcomed as a brother king in Syria, given slaves and gifts of gems and weapons. Cleopatra had rejoiced in his shadow, perhaps understanding at last how a small king would see Julius. She could not hide her delight at showing Ptolemy Caesarion, red and tiny as he was. The ruler of Syria had many children, but he had honored the couple by bringing his firstborn, Herod, into their presence, and having him bow to the leader of Rome. The little prince had been shaking with nerves, Brutus remembered.

He glanced behind him to where the queen lay hidden from sight in a carriage that was more like a comfortable room drawn by oxen. Her son was with her and the child’s irritable screams pierced the night.

In its way, the return to Rome had been like a Triumph on a grand scale. The praetor of Crete had kissed Julius’s hand and given over his own home for their stay. The soldiers ate and drank their way through the praetor’s private stores, but there was no fighting or lack of discipline. They seemed to understand the dignity of their position as escort for Caesar and his son. Their reverence made Brutus want to be ill.

It had shocked him at first, to see powerful men kneeling as Julius approached them. Brutus had seen his friend swear and spit and bicker with Cabera or Renius like an irritable old woman. He had known him as a boy, and the obsequious fawning of officials seemed obscene. They did not know Caesar. They saw only the cloak and the soldiers. They had read the reports and heard of his victories, creating a mask for the lesser man within. Brutus had seen Julius’s pleasure at their treatment of him and it ate at him like a worm.

It had been worst in Greece, where Brutus was known. Perhaps he had been shielded from the reality of his position during the year in Alexandria. He had forgotten how painful it would be to have old friends turn their backs and others sneer as they saw him at Julius’s side. Labienus had been there, his dark eyes full of private amusement at seeing Brutus back at the heel of his general.

If Pompey had won, Brutus knew he would have been rewarded. He would perhaps have stood for consul himself and the fickle citizens would have voted for a man who had put Rome before friendship, one who had saved them from a tyrant. With just one battle, at Pharsalus, he could have turned his life onto a new path. That was what hurt the most, he told himself. Not to be forgiven, but to have come so close to having it all. There were times when he was almost convinced of it.