The wind had lessened and the dust spirals were trampled down unnoticed as the two armies marched inexorably toward each other. Julius squinted at the formation Pompey had created. With just another thousand extraordinarii, he might have threatened the far edge of Pompey's army and forced him to split his cavalry. As it was, Pompey was free to muster them in one great mass. Behind them the ground was black with archers, protecting Pompey's own position. It would begin there.

"Send to General Octavian and have his Fourth move back toward the center," Julius told the closest scout. "When it begins, he must push forward with all speed." He looked around him and selected another, little older than a boy. "The extraordinarii are not to advance past the flank. They must hold the position."

As the man scurried away, Julius fretted, sweating despite the wind. Had he thought of everything? His scorpion bows and heavy engines were being pulled into position by oxen and shouting men, all along the marching mile. Pompey too had assembled his massive weapons and Julius shuddered at the thought of what they could do. Pompey had many more than he had been able to bring to the field. No doubt they would play a part in deciding the battle.

At two thousand feet, both Julius and Pompey ceased looking for an advantage from their formations. The battle lines were set and what followed would be a test of courage and skill that neither man had experienced before. For all the skirmishes and minor battles between them, they had not faced the best of Roman legions on good, dry land. The outcome could not be known.

Julius continued to give orders, as he knew Pompey must be doing. Part of him was almost hypnotized by the ritual moves of the dance as the armies neared each other. It was formal and terrifying and Julius wondered if Pompey would close to the exact distance specified in the manuals before beginning the final charge. His memory flickered back to the dry voices of his tutors telling him that six hundred feet was perfect on good ground. Any more and the men would be flagging before they reached a charging enemy in the middle. Any less and they risked losing the advantage of a crashing first strike. Julius reached up and pulled down the full-face helmet that hid his features. As it clicked shut, the wind became a dull thrumming and sweat trickled down from his hair.

The vast lines were a thousand feet apart and Julius felt the tension in his legions as he walked his horse forward with them. The animal snorted and fought the tight rein he held on it, bowing its head almost back to the neck. His horses and men had been fed and water boys marched with them. The grindstones had been busy all night to put an edge on their swords. He had done everything he could think of to weaken the host he faced.

He did not know if it was enough and he felt the old signs of fear from every battle of his youth. His bladder tightened, though he had emptied it into the piss trench before mounting. His mouth was dry with the grit that swirled in the cold air. His vision became sharper as every sense drank in the land and men around him. He knew he could die on the plain and he scorned the thought. He had been consul twice and had taken Gaul and Britain. He had taken Rome herself. He had written his legacy into the laws of his city and he would not easily be forgotten.

He searched for silver armor somewhere amongst the enemy. Brutus would be there and Julius knew him well enough to imagine his thoughts, his expression as the armies neared. The pain of the betrayal was constant in him, with the need to see Brutus one more time, even if it was over a sword's length.

He looked across the ranks at Octavian. He wished he had left sons to carry on his line, but the blood would survive even if he did not. Had he told Octavian how proud he was of him? He thought he had.

"Let him live, if I fall," Julius whispered against the clasp of his helmet. "By Mars, let them both live."

Pompey looked at the legions coming against him and he could not feel the gods. Memories of Caesar's victories in Gaul slipped like tongues into his mind. The man had beaten the hordes of the Helvetii. Pompey's sickness throbbed at his waist, draining his confidence.

There were men in Rome and Greece who said Caesar was the greatest general of an age; and now Pompey would try to kill him. He wished he could summon the reckless courage of his youth, but it was not there for this enemy. He was cold and uncomfortable on the saddle, at times so angry with the pain that he could barely see. Sweat poured under his armor and chilled so that he felt the cloth of his tunic chafe wetly against his neck.

Pompey glanced to his left, where Labienus sat his horse, stiff with anger. The general had argued against the order to place the men in such deep ranks, but Pompey knew them better than he. He had watched them closely and seen the reluctance that was the death of fighting spirit. They feared the legions of Gaul. It would not matter once they saw his cavalry crush the flank, but until the battle began, Pompey did not dare trust them.

Even as the veteran legions neared, he could see signs of distress in his ranks. They took their positions as he had ordered, but his experienced eye saw flaws and hesitation.

"Have General Labienus approach me," Pompey told his messengers.

They cantered along the shifting lines and returned with him.

"General, at six hundred feet, we will stop and await their charge," Pompey said.

For a moment, Labienus was too shocked to speak. "Sir?" he said.

Pompey beckoned him closer.

"They will break at the first charge unless we make them stand, General. I have deep lines and now I will use them. Have the men ready to halt. Their spears will be thrown accurately, at least." He paused for a moment, his eyes glittering. "If my extraordinarii break the flank as quickly as I think they will, the legions may not even have the chance to throw!"

"Sir, you must not force-"

Pompey turned abruptly away from him. "You have orders. Follow them."

Instinct made Labienus salute before he rode back to his legions, sending the new command up and down the lines. Pompey felt the gaze of his soldiers as they turned to him in puzzlement, but he stared stonily ahead. If they had shown a better spirit, he would have let them charge against the veterans. Instead, they would be his wall against the charge.

As the armies crossed a thousand feet, the noise of so many marching men could be heard as dim thunder, felt by all of them through the soles of their sandals. Hundreds of standards flew on each side and the bronze eagles were held proudly up to catch the sun. At eight hundred feet, both armies readied their spears. The front lines were punctuated with the heavy weapons and those who marched opposite them felt the first silken touch of terror.

At six hundred feet, Pompey saw Caesar's entire front line twitch as they expected his men to begin the charge. Instead, Pompey raised his sword and brought it down, halting fifty thousand men in three paces. Orders echoed up and down the lines and Pompey began to breathe faster in anticipation as teams winched back the machines. He could see the faces of the enemy as the gap narrowed all along the mile.

The scorpion bows hammered into their rests on both sides, sending bolts as long as a man out so fast they could be seen only as a dark blur. They punched their way through the ranks, scattering men in tangles of limbs.

As Pompey's cavalry began to accelerate on the wing, Caesar sent in the charge at less than two hundred feet, his men pounding across the dry earth. Twenty thousand spears went up on both sides, sending a writhing shadow over the ribbon of ground between them.

If there were screams, they were swallowed by thunder as they met.