At last, he smothered his disappointment behind a stiff mask. "Have the men build a hostile camp around the fortifications," he said. "It will slow the work, but what does that matter?"

He clamped his mouth shut rather than continue and his second saluted and went away to pass the orders on. Labienus felt the stares of his soldiers around him and wondered how much they understood of the battle.

"You have done well tonight," he told them on impulse. "We have wounded Caesar at last."

They cheered at his approval and order began to return around him. The cohort he had sent to the west came in looking fresh compared to their colleagues. They had not been needed, but Labienus found a few more words for them before he returned to his tent to write the formal report. For a long time, he sat by the light of a single lamp and stared into space.

Julius marched numbly through the darkness. Tiredness made him clumsy and every bush and thorn seemed intent on impeding his progress. More of the Third legion had coalesced around him, though the gods alone knew where the rest had scattered. It was the worst defeat he had seen in years and he walked as if dazed. He could not understand what had happened. When the attack had not come, he had given up his station by the flag and turned his back on Pompey. Even then, he had expected them to ride him down.

Julius had seen the Dictator in the lamplight and known him even at a distance. His red cloak had swirled around him in the wind and it had been easy to picture the man's savage pleasure when he was brought Julius's body. There had even been a moment when Julius felt Pompey looking directly at him, but still he had been allowed to slip into the sheltering night and head for the safety of his own lines.

When he heard the noise of marching men nearby, Julius drew his sword, convinced it was Pompey's men come at last. When he saw Domitius he did not speak, indeed he felt unable to utter a word to any of them. The soldiers of the Third had disgraced themselves. They knew it and marched across the land with their heads bowed in private misery. Even their ranks were chaotic as each man found his own pace, like a band of marauders rather than a disciplined force. No orders were called. It was as if the failure had stripped them of any claim to be soldiers of Rome. Julius had never seen such a dejected group and he had no sympathy for any of them.

Dawn was coming by the time they neared their main camp and with the gray light Julius believed at last that Pompey had lost his nerve. There was no other explanation that he could see. Domitius tried to speak, and was quickly silenced by a glare. The sentries let them pass without a challenge and they did not call out for news. The woeful expressions and dragging spears were clear enough.

Julius strode into his tent and threw down his helmet and sword with a clatter, before sitting at his map table. He rested his head on his hands for a moment and considered the events of the night. He had been terrified when he felt Pompey's gaze on him from across the camp, but there was no shame in being afraid, only in what followed. Men could still stand while they sweated in fear. They could resist pain and exhaustion and weakness. They could beat it all down inside and stand their line. That was Rome's strength and his men knew it as well as he did. Yet somehow the Third had run.

Approaching steps made him straighten in his seat and he took a deep breath as Ciro made it first into his presence. Regulus, Octavian, and Domitius were close behind and Julius watched Domitius without expression as he came to stand before him. Had he too lost his courage that night?

Under the black smears, Domitius looked exhausted. He removed his sword and laid it on Julius's table.

"Sir, I ask to be relieved of command," he said. Julius did not reply and Domitius swallowed. "I… could not reach the position in time, sir. There is no excuse. I will resign my commission and return to Rome."

"If our enemies were led by a man who knew how to win, I would be dead," Julius said softly.

Domitius stared straight ahead in silence.

"Tell me what happened," Julius said.

Domitius took a deep breath that shuddered out of him. "We found a river too deep to get across, sir. I saw the arrow signal while I was still on the wrong bank. By the time we had found a fording place, Pompey's legions had answered the horns and it was too late. I could still have attacked then. It was my choice alone that I did not. We recrossed the river and made our way back here." He did not say that to have attacked Pompey's legions would have been suicide. His orders had not allowed him to make the decision.

Julius drummed his fingers on the table. "Did you see why Pompey halted the attack?"

"I saw him talk to his officers, but they were too far away," Domitius replied, ashamed not even to be able to provide this small piece of information.

"I have not yet decided your fate, Domitius. Leave me and summon the Third before my tent. Have my Tenth march prisoner escort to them."

Domitius saluted, his raised hand trembling. Julius waited until he had left before speaking again.

"I never thought I would see a legion of mine run in fear," he said. He looked up at his generals and they could not meet his gaze. "I held the legion standard and they ignored it. They went past me." He shook his head, remembering. "I left it there for Pompey. He has their honor, he might as well have their flag."

They all heard the shouts and tramp of feet as the Tenth and Third gathered. Julius sat looking at nothing while his generals waited. The defeat seemed to have aged him and when he stood at last his eyes were blank and tired.

"Take your places, gentlemen. The day must run its course," he said, gesturing outside. Without a word, they left the tent and he followed them into the pale sun.

The Third legion stood in silent ranks on the frozen ground. Many still bore the marks of the soot they had used on their faces, though most had taken a wet cloth and removed the worst of it. They carried their shields and swords and stood like men waiting for execution, with fear in every eye.

At their backs stood the Tenth, older and harder men. Julius remembered a time when some of them had run in the battles against Spartacus. He wondered if any of them were thinking back to that bloody day when Pompey himself had ordered the decimation of their ranks. The soldiers marked by the count had been beaten to death by the fists of their closest friends. It had been the most brutal thing Julius had ever witnessed at that time, yet out of it he had formed the Tenth and given them a name to record the deed.

The Third legion waited in silence for him to speak. A cold breeze blew through their ranks as Julius walked to his horse and mounted.

"You have fought with me in Gaul. Shall I name the tribes, the battles? The Helvetii, the Suebi, the Belgae, Nervii, more? You fought with me at Gergovia, Alesia, against Vercingetorix, and in Britain. You were with me when I pardoned the men of Corfinium. You took Dyrrhachium with me here."

He paused, closing his eyes for a moment in disgust.

"You left your honor on the field when you ran. All that you have been before was made ashes last night. You dishonored and shamed me and I never thought I'd see that. Not from you. Only my Tenth have been longer at my side."

From the height of his mount, he could see right across the gathered ranks. They stared ahead without daring to look at him, but he saw some of them were shaking with humiliation as if he were a father lecturing repentant sons. He shook his head and stared into nothing for a long time.

"Your lives are forfeit," he said harshly, forcing himself on. "There can be only one payment for cowardice."

Octavian had mounted his own horse and trotted along the silent lines toward Julius. When he was close, he leaned forward and spoke for Julius alone. "Sir, the Tenth are undermanned. Let them choose the best of them."