Brutus yanked savagely on his reins as the order to halt split the air. He could see Julius's legions still marching ahead and every mile lost would be another to make up the following day. It was strange to think how well he knew the men in those ranks. He had fought with them for years and he could imagine the voices of friends and colleagues as they dressed their lines. Part of him ached for that old familiarity, but there was no going back. Julius was somewhere in the mass of men and Brutus would see him dead by the time they were done. He was hungry for the confrontation and his men walked carefully around him as he gazed over the hills.

By the time the walls were up and the trenches dug, darkness had fallen and the first lamps had been lit. Pompey had ordered a single camp to enclose his entire army. It was a city in the wilderness, and inside its safe barriers the Greek legions put a last edge to their swords and ate without talking, sitting around watch fires. Many made their wills and those who could write earned a few extra coins copying for their friends. There was no laughter and Brutus felt uneasy as he listened to them in the night. They outnumbered the enemy and they should have been raucous and loud with boasting. There were no songs sung in the camp and the sour mood seemed stifling.

Brutus strode over to where Seneca stared into the flames of a watch fire, chewing idly on a last piece of roasted sausage. The men who had crowded to the warmth moved aside at his approach and Brutus sat down with a sigh, looking around. The silence was strained and he wondered what they had been saying before he came.

"Well, this is a cheerful group," Brutus said to Seneca. "I would have thought I'd hear a bit of singing at least." Seneca smiled, but did not reply and Brutus raised his eyebrows. "I've done a great deal for you, you know. I found a galley to take you to Greece, didn't I? I've given you my time and experience. Have any of you polished my armor or passed on a little of your pay out of gratitude? No. Have any of you even offered me wine?"

Seneca chuckled, looking at the man who sat in his silver armor.

"Would you like a little wine, General?" he said, reaching behind him for an amphora.

"No. Not a little," Brutus replied, taking a tin cup from the man next to him as he held it out. The man blinked in surprise.

"We're going to win, you know," Brutus said, holding out the cup to clink it against Seneca's. Seneca emptied his without a word. "He can't stop us flanking him with our cavalry, can he? And once we're behind his lines, they'll roll up like an old carpet. You heard how they ran from Labienus? How do you think they'll do against the rest of us?"

He watched as Seneca nodded reluctantly, seeming to lose a little of his heavy mood. When Brutus had heard the news of his old legion being routed, he had been sure it was some clever plan. He had ridden out at the first light of dawn to read the ground, but there had been no print or trace of an ambushing force. He could still hardly credit it. In a way, it was a twisted comfort: the Third had never run while he commanded them. Perhaps Julius was losing his touch.

Draining his own wine, Brutus reached inside his armor to produce a bag of dice. He chose two without looking and rattled them in the cup. The sound worked like magic on the faces of the men around him, making them look up with sudden interest.

"Ah, I have your attention now," Brutus said cheerfully. "Shall we have a little game before we turn in? I'm thinking about buying a new horse and funds are low."

An hour later, Labienus passed the group and saw Brutus at the center of them. The laughter and shouting had drawn in many more to watch and other games had started on the fringes. Labienus let out a slow breath as he watched Brutus scoop up a pile of coins, cheering his own success without embarrassment. The camp stretched away into the darkness around them and Labienus smiled to himself before moving on.

At dawn, Pompey rose from his bed and summoned his healer. His stomach was hard and swollen, the skin so tight as to send spasms of pain at the slightest touch. He gritted his teeth as he probed it with stiff fingers, letting anger shield him from the pain until he gasped. Should he allow the physician to cut him? There were nights when it was bad enough for Pompey to take a knife to it himself out of sheer desperation. Each morning, he fantasized about a thin blade to let out all the wind and pus that was making it swell, but then he would force himself to dress, binding the swollen mass himself so that no one else could see.

He rubbed a rough hand across his face, seeing it come away shining with night sweat. His eyes were sticky and sore and he rubbed at them, furious with the body that had let him down.

Pompey sat on the edge of his pallet, doubled over the bulging skin. His physician entered and frowned at his sickly color. In grim silence, the man laid down his bag of materials, crossing to him. A cool palm was pressed against Pompey's forehead and the healer shook his head.

"You are running a fever, General. Is there blood in your stools?"

"Make your mixtures and get out," Pompey snapped without opening his eyes.

The healer knew better than to respond. He turned away and laid out his mortar and pestle with a row of stoppered bottles. Pompey cracked open an eye to watch him as he added ingredients and ground them into a white paste. The healer sensed the interest and held up his bowl to show the milky mucus that lined the sides.

"I have hopes for this preparation. It is a bark I found in Dyrrhachium, mixed with olive oil, water, and milk. The man I bought it from swore it would help with any illness of the stomach."

"It looks like semen," Pompey said through clenched teeth.

The healer flushed and Pompey gestured irritably, already tired of the man.

"Give it to me," he said, taking the bowl and using his fingers to scoop the mixture into his mouth. It tasted of nothing, but after a time it did seem to ease him a little.

"Make another batch. I can't be running to you whenever the pain worsens."

"It's working, is it?" the healer said. "If you would only let me release the poisons in you, I could-"

"Just seal another dose of it under wax so I can take it later," Pompey interrupted. "Two doses, and one more of your usual muck."

He shuddered as he thought of stomach wounds he had seen in the past. When he was little more than a boy, he had killed a rabbit and slit its guts as he tried to remove the skin. Stinking black and green curds had stained his hands, tainting the good meat. He had been forced to throw the whole rabbit away and he could still remember the stench. Pompey had seen simple spear punctures bruise with filth once the stomach was open to the air. Death always followed.

"As you wish, General," the man replied, offended. "I have more of the bark in my own tent. I'll have it sent to you."

Pompey only glared until he left.

When he was alone, Pompey levered himself to his feet. The legions would be ready to march, he knew. The light was already brightening at the flap of the command tent and they would be in ranks, waiting for his appearance. Still, he could not summon his dress slaves until he had bound his stomach. Only the healer had seen the expanse of angry flesh he hid with strips of clean linen, and even he knew nothing of the blood Pompey spat during the night. When he was in public, he swallowed the gummy mass back each time it rose into his throat, but it grew more difficult each day.

As he stood, a wave of dizziness struck him and he swore softly to himself, waiting for it to pass. More itching sweat dripped down his face and he found his hair was wet with it.

"Give me just a few more days," he whispered and did not know if it was a prayer to the gods or to the sick growth that consumed him.