There was nothing. He looked over the lines and saw more of the Tenth die, fighting to the last as he would have expected. The dust would blind the horses, he realized. Even a solid shield wall would be broken as they smashed into them. He shook his head, shivering. The Tenth could not lock shields and defend the main line at the same time. They would be destroyed.

"Sir! To the east!" one of his scouts shouted.

The man had been taken from the extraordinarii and perhaps it was that allegiance that made him look for them. Julius turned in the saddle and his heart leapt. He saw Pompey's chasers returning to the battle. Behind them came his extraordinarii, at full gallop.

Julius watched dry-mouthed as the fleeing riders tried to enter their own lines. There was no time for them to slow and the result was instant chaos. The attempt to form a charge was sent reeling and then Caesar's extraordinarii struck them from behind.

Pompey's riders were ruined by them. Their own men opened the holes in the ranks that the extraordinarii battered through, scattering them apart. Julius saw horses rear in terror before the choking dust swallowed them. It swelled to a thick cloud over the killing and out of it came Pompey's riders, broken and bloody. Some were dying and fell from their saddles. Others were pulling uselessly at the reins of their bolting mounts.

The Tenth rushed forward as Pompey's cavalry were smashed. Julius shouted and kicked his own horse into the chaos, his eyes fixed on the desolate figure of Pompey in the distance. The dust cloud swirled across him and he swore, pushing forward with his men.

Pompey's flank buckled as if a great pressure had been removed and they almost fell toward the archers surrounding the Dictator. Julius was about to order shields raised when they too broke and the Tenth slaughtered those who dared to show their backs.

As the dust blew on, Julius saw Pompey's cavalry were clear of the field and still going. His extraordinarii were not chasing them, he saw, almost delirious with the change in fortunes. He watched his riders cut along the rear of Pompey's lines, selecting their points of entry to begin carving them in slices.

Julius searched again for Pompey, but he was not there. His horse rode over the broken bodies of archers, stabbed by every rank that passed. The hooves threw up clots of blood and earth that hit his legs and slid away, leaving cold smears he did not feel.

Somewhere in the distance horns blew and Julius snapped around in the saddle. It was the tone for surrender and he had a sudden terror that his veterans had failed while he had been busy on the right flank. He heard a crash of arms as men threw down their weapons and in the press he still did not know if he had won or lost.

Octavian rode along the lines toward him, breathing heavily. His greave hung from a single strap and his armor and skin were torn, bruised, and scraped in equal measure. One eye had swollen completely shut, but it didn't matter. He had survived and Julius's heart leapt to see him.

"They have surrendered, sir," he said. "As soon as Pompey left the field. It is over." He saluted and Julius saw he was trembling with reaction.

Julius sagged in his saddle, leaning forward with his head bowed. After a long moment, he drew himself straight and looked north. He could not let Pompey escape, but the fighting could erupt again at the slightest provocation unless he stayed with his legions. His duty was to remain on the plain and bring order, not to chase a beaten man. He knew it, but he hungered to call his extraordinarii back and ride Pompey down. He shook his head clear of the warring emotions.

"Disarm them all and begin taking the wounded back to Pompey's camp," he said. "Bring the generals to me and treat them with courtesy. They did well to surrender, but it will be hurting them. Make sure the men understand there will be no mistreatment. They are not enemies. They will be given every courtesy."

"Yes, sir," Octavian said. His voice shook slightly and Julius looked at him, smiling wryly at the worship in the younger man's bloodshot eyes.

"I will accept a new oath of loyalty from them, as consul of Rome. Tell them the war is over."

He could hardly believe it himself and he knew the reality would not sink in for hours or days. He had been fighting for as long as he could remember and it had all brought him to the plain of Pharsalus in the middle of Greece. It was enough.

"Sir, I saw Brutus fall," Octavian said.

Julius broke out of his reverie. "Where?" he snapped, ready to move.

"In the center, sir. He fought with Labienus."

"Take me there," Julius replied, urging his horse into a trot. A sick dread settled on him then. His hands shook slightly as he rode, though whether in reaction or fear, he could not have said.

The two riders passed through the lines of men already involved in the routines they knew so well. Piles of captured swords were being formed and water passed to those who had not drunk for hours. When the legions saw their general, cheering began and swelled until they were all shouting in relief and triumph.

Julius barely heard them, his eyes on a limp figure in silver armor being pulled from a pile of corpses. He felt tears sting his eyes as he dismounted. He could not speak. The men of the New Fourth legion stood back respectfully to give him room, and he went down on one knee to look into the face of his oldest friend.

There was blood everywhere and Brutus's skin was marble white against the stain. Julius took a cloth from his belt and reached out with it, gently wiping away the caked filth.

Brutus opened his eyes. With consciousness came pain and he groaned in agony. His cheek and mouth were swollen and deformed and blood trickled from his ear. His gaze seemed vacant as it swiveled toward Julius, then slowly a dim awareness returned. Brutus tried to lift himself, but the broken arm was useless. He fell back, crying out weakly. His lips moved over bloody teeth and Julius bent closer to hear him speak.

"Will you kill me now?" Brutus whispered.

"I won't," Julius said.

Brutus let out a long, shuddering breath. "Am I dying then?" he said.

Julius looked him over. "Perhaps. You deserve to."

"Pompey?"

"He ran. I'll find him," Julius replied.

Brutus tried to smile, a cough racking him with agony. Julius watched, his dark eyes colder than death.

"So we lost then," Brutus said weakly, trying to spit blood onto the ground. He didn't have the strength. "I was worried when I couldn't see you, before," he said. "I thought I was finished."

Julius shook his head in slow sadness. "What am I to do with you?" he murmured. "Did you think I didn't value you? Did you think I wouldn't miss having you in Rome? I didn't believe your mother when she told me. I told her you wouldn't betray me, not you. You hurt me then. You hurt me still."

Tears came into Brutus's eyes, screwed out by pain and misery. "Sometimes I just wanted to do something without the thought that the great Julius can do it better. Even when we were young, I wanted that." He stopped to let a spasm run its course, clenching his jaw. "Everything I am, I've made. I've struggled through things that would have broken weak bastards. While I flogged myself, you made everything seem easy. It was easy for you. You are the only man ever to make me feel I've had a wasted life."

Julius looked at the broken figure of the man he had known for too many years to remember. His voice broke as he spoke. "Why couldn't you have been happy for me?" he said. "Why betray me?"

"I wanted to be an equal," Brutus said, showing red teeth. Fresh pain made him gasp as he shifted. "I didn't expect Pompey to be such a fool." He looked up into Julius's cold gaze and knew his life, his fate was being decided while he lay helpless. "Can you forgive me even this?" Brutus murmured, raising his head. "Can I ask you for this last thing?"