Julius did not reply for so long that Brutus fell back, his eyes closing.

"If you live," Julius said at last, "I will let the past rest. Do you understand me? I will need you, Brutus."

He did not know if he had been heard. Brutus's battered face had paled even further and only the flutter of a vein in his throat showed he still lived. With great gentleness, Julius wiped his friend's mouth free of blood and pressed the cloth into the limp hand before standing.

He faced Octavian and saw the younger man's blank shock at what he had heard.

"Look after this one, Octavian. He is badly hurt."

Octavian closed his mouth slowly. "Sir, please…" he began.

"Let it go, lad. We've come too far together for anything else."

After a long moment, Octavian bowed his head.

"Yes, sir," he said.

Pompey's camp crested a hill that overlooked the plain. Bare gray rock showed through green lichen like bones and the only sound came from the wind. At such a height, the gale was free to moan and howl around them as Julius made his way to the gates. He saw Pompey's camp workers had lit great torches, and streamers of black smoke reached over the plain below.

Julius paused to look down on Pharsalus. His generals were creating order on the battlefield, but from his vantage point Julius could see the line of bodies that marked where the armies had clashed. They lay where they had fallen. From so far away, it looked like a meandering scar on the land, a feature of the plain rather than a place of death. He pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders and refastened the clasp that held it to him.

Pompey had chosen the site well for his stronghold. The path to the flat crest was narrow and overgrown in places as if even wild goats shunned the steepest trails. His horse picked its way carefully and Julius did not press the pace. He was still stunned at the new reality and his usual swift thought seemed to have been buried beneath a crushing weight of memory. All his life he had fought against enemies. He had defined himself in their shadow, saying that he was not Sulla, not Cato, not Pompey. It was a new world without them and there was fear in the freedom.

He wished he could have brought Cabera up to the fort on the hill. The old man would have understood how he could not exult in the moment. Perhaps it was just the wind and great height, but it was easy to imagine the ghosts of those who had fallen. There was no sense in death. Men like Renius and Tubruk filled graves as long and wide as Cato or Sulla. In the end, all that was flesh would be ash.

Later, he would make offerings to the gods and give thanks, but as he made his way up he felt numb. Only hours before, he had faced a vast army and victory was still too fresh and raw to be real.

The great fort Pompey had built loomed over him as he grew closer. To know that every piece of it had been brought up from the lowlands was a testament to Roman ingenuity and strength. Julius had thought he would have it burnt, but as he reached the flat ground of the crest, he knew it should be left as a memorial to those who had died. It was fitting to leave them something on that bare landscape where even bloody dust soon vanished in the scouring wind. In a few days, when the legions had been sent away, the fort would be shelter for wild animals until age and decay made it slump and fall.

The gates stood open as Julius rode toward them. A thousand of his Tenth had made the climb with him and he could hear them panting as he passed through the walls and looked over the neat order of Pompey's last camp.

Cooking pits and tents lay untended for as far as he could see. It was a lonely place and Julius shuddered to think how many of the men who had left it at dawn were now cold on the plain. Perhaps they had known they would surrender to him even then, but duty had held them until Pompey fled the field.

The old Senate of Rome formed silent lines on the main road through the camp, their heads bowed. Julius did not look at them, his eyes on the praetorium tent where Pompey had woken that morning. He dismounted in front of it and paused to untie the thongs that kept out the wind. His Tenth came forward to help him and two of them threw back the heavy leather, tying it securely as he strode into the gloom.

Julius looked around him, unnerved by the dark chamber and feeling as if he were an intruder. He waited as his men lit the lamps and braziers and flickering gold illuminated the interior. It was bitterly cold, and he shivered.

"Wait outside," he told them and in a moment he was alone. He brushed past a partition and saw Pompey's bed had been neatly made for his return. There was a sense of order to the place, no doubt the work of slaves after the army had gone. Julius picked up a clay bowl crusted with white paste from a table and sniffed at it. He opened a chest and looked quickly through the contents. He felt nervous, as if at any moment Pompey would come through the door and demand to know what he was doing.

Julius continued his examination of the Dictator's private belongings, finally shaking his head. He had hoped against reason that the seal ring of the Senate might have been left behind, but there was no sign of it and no reason for him to stay.

As he walked across the packed earth, his gaze fell on Pompey's desk and a packet of his private papers. On impulse, he reached out for the red silk that tied them and his fingers picked at the knot as he thought. He knew he should read them. The journal and letters would complete the picture of the man he had fought across Greece. They would reveal his mistakes as well as Julius's own, and his most private thoughts. Somewhere in the neat packet would be word of Brutus, the details Julius craved to know.

The crackle of flames from a brazier broke into his thoughts and he acted before his wandering mind could begin its arguments, lifting the package and dropping it whole onto the flames. Almost immediately he reached to pull it back, but then he mastered himself and stood watching as the red band charred and curled, browning slowly until flames leapt along the edges.

The smoke was not thick, but still it seemed to sting Julius's eyes as he walked back into the weak sunlight. He saw the thousand soldiers of the Tenth had formed up outside, and he took pride in their bearing. They would expect him to lead them back to Dyrrhachium, to negotiate with Pompey's Senate in a city rather than a battlefield. Part of him knew he should complete that work. There were a thousand things to do. The legions had to be paid, and with a start he realized he had assumed responsibility for the legions Pompey had led. They too would expect their silver on time, as well as food, equipment, and shelter. Pyres for the dead would have to be built.

Julius walked back to the edge of the hillcrest and looked into the far distance. Pompey was broken and there was no need to chase him further. It was true he carried a Senate ring, but from Rome Julius could send ships and letters denying his authority. The Dictator would be forced to take his straggling riders away from Roman lands and disappear.

Julius blew out a long breath into the wind. His legions had fought for years for this moment. They wanted to retire to the farms he had promised them, with silver and gold to build fine houses in the colonies. He had given them part of what they had earned in Gaul, but they deserved a thousand times more. They had given everything.

Julius saw Octavian walking his horse up the winding track. The younger man looked weary, though he tried to hide it under Julius's scrutiny. He arrived at the top with a new sheen of sweat on his face, smearing the dust of Pharsalus.

"Orders, sir?" Octavian said as he saluted.