It was easy to dream of the future as Brutus rode, taking the most direct route through rocky fields and valleys. If he arrived at Pompey’s camp with two cohorts, he would have influence from the first moment. Alone, he would have to rely on Pompey’s whim as to whether he was given a command. It was not a pleasant thought. Pompey would not dare to trust him at first and Brutus knew there was a chance he would find himself in the front line as a foot soldier. The silver armor would draw Julius’s Tenth like moths and he would never survive the first battle. He needed Seneca’s men even more than they needed him, perhaps.

The countryside to the south of Rome was a far cry from the lush plains of the north. Small farms survived by growing olives and thick-skinned lemons on twisted wooden skeletons, all wilting in the heat. Thin dogs yapped around his horse whenever he slowed, and the dust seemed to coat his throat in a thick layer. The sound of hooves brought people out from the isolated farmhouses to watch suspiciously until he was off their land. They were as dark and hard as the ground they worked. By blood, they were more Greek than Roman, the remnants of an older empire. No one called to him and he wondered if they ever thought of the great city to the north. Somehow, he doubted it. Rome was another world to them.

He stopped at a small well and tied the reins to a stunted tree. He looked for some way of reaching the water, his gaze resting on a tiny house of white stone nearby. There was a man there, watching him from the comfort of a rough bench by his door. A small dog sat and panted at his feet, too hot to bark at the stranger.

Brutus glanced impatiently at the sun. “Water?” he called, holding cupped hands to his mouth and miming drinking.

The man regarded him steadily, his eyes taking in every detail of the armor and uniform. “You can pay?” he said. The accent was hard, but Brutus understood him.

“Where I am from, we do not ask payment for a few cups of water,” he snapped.

The man shrugged and, rising, began to move toward his door.

Brutus glared at his back. “How much?” he demanded, reaching for his purse.

The farmer cracked his knuckles slowly as he considered. “Sesterce,” he said at last.

It was too much, but Brutus only nodded and dug savagely amongst his coins. He passed one over and the man examined it as if he had all the time in the world. Then he disappeared into the house and returned with a stitched leather bucket and a length of rope.

Brutus reached for it and the man jerked away with surprising speed. “I’ll do it,” he said, walking past him toward the dusty well.