He had not mentioned the thought to anyone else, but as the arrivals came in he had counted them and now walked a little taller with his private pride. In his entire career, he had never had more than a century under his orders, but for a few wonderful days he would be the equal of any one of the generals of Rome.

Ahenobarbus recognized real fear undermining his pride. If he marched into a trap, he would lose everything. Yet if he gave up a perfect opportunity to destroy the man Pompey feared, word would leak out and he’d be followed by whispers for the rest of his life. He couldn’t bear the indecision, and now many of the men were watching him, puzzled by the lack of orders.

“Sir? Shall I have the gates opened?” his second in command said at his shoulder.

Ahenobarbus looked into the man’s face and felt fresh irritation at the youth and confidence he saw there. The rumors were that Seneca was connected in Rome, and Ahenobarbus could not help but notice the richness of his clothes. He felt old when he looked at Seneca, and the comparison seemed to make his joints ache. It was really too much to be faced with his amused condescension at that moment. No doubt the younger man thought he hid his arrogance, but Ahenobarbus had seen a dozen like him over the years. There was always a glint in the eyes when they were at their most fawning, and you knew you couldn’t trust them if their self-interest crossed your own.

Ahenobarbus took a deep breath. He knew he shouldn’t be enjoying himself, but making the decision was a real pleasure.

“Have you ever fought, Seneca?” He watched as the young man’s face went carefully blank, before the smooth smile returned.

“Not yet, sir, though of course I hope to serve.”

Ahenobarbus showed his teeth then. “I thought you would say that, I really did. Today, you get your chance.”

Pompey stood alone in the Senate building, listening to nothing but his own memories. At his order, blacksmiths had broken the doors from their hinges to hang awry across the opening. The old light of Rome spilled across motes of fresh-raised dust and he grunted softly as he lowered himself onto a bench.

“Fifty-six years old,” he murmured to the empty chamber. “Too old to be going to war again.”

There had been moments of weakness and despair, moments when the years sat heavily and his private self ached to be allowed to rest. Perhaps it was time to leave Rome to young wolves like Caesar. After all, the bastard had shown he possessed the most important quality of a Roman leader—the ability to survive. When his thoughts were not colored by anger, Pompey could admire the younger man’s career. There had been times when he would not have bet a bronze coin on Julius coming through unscathed.