Brutus reached over between the horses and clapped him on the shoulder. "It has been a pleasure to serve with you, Seneca. Now stop worrying. We're going to win."

Despite the heavy winter cloak that protected him from the worst of the cold, Pompey felt frozen into his armor. The only heat seemed to be in the bitter liquid that roiled and surged in his throat and bowels, making him weak. The fallow fields were littered with ice-split clods and progress was painfully slow. As a young man, he remembered being able to shrug off the worst extremes of campaigning, but now it was all he could do to clench his jaw and prevent his teeth from chattering audibly. Twin plumes of vapor came from his horse's nostrils and Pompey reached down absentmindedly to pat its neck. His mind was on the army he could see in the distance.

He could not have asked for a better vantage point. Caesar's legions had stationed themselves forty miles east of Oricum, at the end of a plain surrounded by forests. Pompey's scouts had reached a crest of rising ground and immediately reported back to the main force, passing Brutus and Seneca without a sideways glance. Pompey had come forward to confirm their sighting and now he watched in suspicious silence.

The biting air was at least clear of mist. Though Caesar's forces must have been two miles away, they stood out against the scrub grass of the plain. From so far, they looked a pitiful threat, like tiny metallic brooches pinned to the hard ground. They were as still as the patchy forest that covered the hillsides, and Pompey frowned.

"What is he doing?" he muttered from between clenched teeth.

There was a part of him that had felt joy at finding the enemy within reach, but his more natural caution had reasserted itself. Julius would never stake his survival on a simple clash of arms. The plain where he had gathered his army was good land for a charge and Pompey knew his cavalry could smash through the smaller number of extraordinarii Julius had brought to Greece. It was far too tempting and Pompey shook his head.

"How many legions can you count, Labienus?" he said.

"Only six, sir," Labienus replied immediately. From his sour expression, Pompey could see he shared the same doubts.

"Then where is the seventh? What are they busy doing while we stand here watching the rest? Send the scouts wide. I want them found before we move on."

Labienus gave the order and the fastest of their cavalry horses galloped out in all directions.

"Have we been seen?" Pompey asked.

In answer, Labienus pointed to where a distant horseman was trotting along the rocky tree line that bordered the plain. As the two men watched, the man raised a flag and signaled to Julius's forces.

"I don't like it," Pompey said. "Those woods could hide anything. Yet it looks so much like a trap, I wonder if that is the conclusion he wants us to draw."

"You have men to spare, sir. With your permission, I will send a single legion out to test them-perhaps the cohorts with General Brutus, sir."

"No. Too few would not spring the trap, if it is one. He would let them close and then destroy them. We would lose men for nothing. I am reluctant to send more until I am better informed. Tell the men to stand down until the scouts return. Get a hot meal inside them and tell them to be ready for anything."

The wind was increasing in force as the day waned. Dyrrhachium was a long way behind them and Pompey knew his men were tired. Perhaps it was better to set up hostile camps for the night and move on at dawn. He suspected Labienus was not impressed by his caution, but Pompey could still remember Julius gathering the old Primigenia legion around him and making them the core of his famous Tenth. Even those who hated Caesar admitted his ability to seize success against the odds. His skill could be read in the reports, and Pompey knew Julius was one of those rare ones who kept a sense of a battle even as it raged around him. Gaul had not fallen on its own, nor the shores of Britain. His men gave him their first loyalty, above the Senate and Rome. When he asked them to die, they went because he was the one asking. Perhaps because of that faith, they had become used to victory. Labienus had never even met the man, and Pompey was determined not to be another name on the list of those Julius had broken. His stomach twisted with a pang and he shifted uncomfortably in the saddle.

"Sir! They are moving east!" one of the scouts called out, just as Pompey became aware of it himself. Ten heartbeats after the enemy legions began to shift, the distant whisper of their horns reached them, almost lost on the wind.

"Your opinion, General?" Pompey murmured.

"They could be trying to draw us in," Labienus said doubtfully.

"That is my feeling," Pompey replied. "Have the scouts keep the widest chains back to us as we move around it. I want them in sight of each other at all times."

Labienus cast a concerned glance at the thick woodland that gripped the earth in patches all around them. Even in winter, the branches formed an impenetrable mass and it would be difficult to stay in contact on that terrain.

"It will be dark in only a few hours, sir," he said.

"Do the best you can with the daylight left to us," Pompey snapped. "I want them to feel us breathing down their necks as night comes. Let them fear what we will do when they can no longer see us. Tomorrow will be long enough to kill them all."

Labienus saluted and rode clear to give the orders. The legionaries who had already begun to huddle together in expectation of a meal were called to their feet by centurions. Labienus chose not to hear the muttered complaints of the rank and file as he rode through to pass the word to the officers. Soldiers loved to criticize the hardship of their lives, he knew, but these were experienced men and it was almost out of habit rather than any real feeling. From the beginning, they had known a winter campaign would be a test of their fitness and endurance. He did not expect them to fail.

As the great column began to move, Brutus rode back past the lines of scouts, his silver armor drawing the eye of Pompey's officers. He was flushed with some emotion and rode with effortless skill. Pompey saw him approach and his expression became subtly tauter, his mouth a pale line in the tanned skin.

Brutus drew up beside Pompey's horse, saluting quickly. "Sir, my men are ready to attack. With your order, I will let them loose."

"Return to your position, General," Pompey replied, wincing as his stomach spasmed. "I will not send a charge over ground he has had time to prepare."

Brutus showed no reaction to the dismissal. "He's moving now, sir, and that is a mistake. He hasn't had time to trap the whole area." Pompey's expression did not change and Brutus spoke more urgently. "He knows us both, sir. He will expect us to wait and judge his plans before we strike. If we go in now, we can wound them before it gets dark. By the time we must withdraw, we will have raised morale with a victory and damaged his confidence."

When Brutus finished, Pompey made a small gesture with his hand on the reins. Labienus took the cue, riding up to Brutus's right side.

"You have your orders, General," he said.

Brutus glanced at him and for an instant Labienus stiffened at what he saw there. Then Brutus saluted once more and rode back to the front ranks.

Pompey drummed his fingers on the high pommel of his saddle, a sign of the tension Brutus had created. Labienus did not break the silence of the march, allowing Pompey the privacy of his own thoughts.

The scouts reported every hour to keep them on course when line of sight became impossible for the main force. The winter night was coming quickly and Pompey waited with growing impatience for the enemy legions to call a halt.