Julius looked toward the horizon. He could see for miles and Greece had never seemed so vast and empty as from that height.

"I will stay for the funerals of the dead tonight, Octavian." He took a deep breath, feeling his own exhaustion in his bones. "Tomorrow I will go after Pompey. I'll need the extraordinarii, the Tenth, and the Fourth. I'll speak to the others and send them home."

Octavian followed his commander's gaze before replying. "They won't want to go back, sir," he said at last.

Julius turned to him. "I'll write letters to Mark Antony. They will be paid and those that want it can have the land I promised them. I'll make good my oath to all of them."

"No, sir, it's not that. They won't want to be sent back while you go on. I've heard them. Ciro even came to me to put in a word for him. They want to see it to the end."

Julius thought of the promise he had made to his daughter. Would she hate him if he killed Pompey? For an instant he imagined taking the Senate ring from Pompey's dead hand. Perhaps it would be enough to bring him peace. He did not know, but until he was able to stand before the Dictator it would never be over. Sulla had left Mithridates alive in this same land and Roman blood had been the price.

Julius rubbed his face roughly. He needed a bath and fresh clothes and something to eat. The body was always weak.

"I will speak to the men. Their loyalty…" He paused, unable to find words. "Rome must be kept safe and we stripped her bare to come here. I will take the Fourth and Tenth and the extraordinarii, no more. Tell Ciro to commission his senior tribune in his place. I'll take him with me. I suppose it is fitting that those who were on the Rubicon should see this out."

Julius smiled at the thought, but he saw Octavian's expression had hardened at his words.

"Brutus too, sir? What would you have me do with him?"

Julius's smile faded. "Bring him. Put him in one of the carts for provisions. He can heal on the way."

"Sir," Octavian began. He fell silent under Julius's eyes.

"He's been with me since the very beginning," Julius said softly, his words almost lost in the wind. "Let him come."

Brutus lay in darkness and pain. Under a full moon, the plain was a ghostly place of white shadow that barely reached the wounded in their tents. Brutus closed his eyes, wishing sleep would take him once more. His arm had been set and splinted and his ribs bound where they had cracked under the weight of dead men. The pain was worse when he tried to move, and the last time his swollen bladder forced him to sit up, the effort made him grind his teeth against screaming. The pot brimmed under his cot, growing dark and fetid. His mind still swam from the blows he had received and he had only a vague memory of speaking to Julius in the blood and filth after the battle. It burned worse than his wounds to think of it.

Someone nearby cried out in their sleep, making him jump. He wished he had the strength to stagger out of the stinking tent into the night air. He sweated constantly and when his thoughts were clear he knew he was running a fever. He croaked for water, but it did not come. At last, he slid away into blacker depths and peace.

He surfaced from unconsciousness with a moan, tugged from deathlike sleep by a rough hand on his arm. Fear made his heart race as he saw men standing around him. He knew them. Each one had been with him in Spain and Gaul. They had been brothers once, but now their expressions were cruel.

One of them reached down and pressed a small blade into his left hand.

"If you have any honor left, you should cut your throat with this," the man said, spitting the words.

Brutus passed out for a time, but when he woke again they were still there and the knife was tucked between his arm and his bandaged chest. Had it only been moments? It had seemed like hours, but none of the men had moved.

"If he won't do it, we should," one of the soldiers said in a hoarse growl.

Another nodded and reached for the knife. Brutus swore and tried to writhe away from the probing fingers. He was too weak. Fear of dying in the stinking tent filled him and he tried to cry out, but his throat was too swollen and dry. He felt the knife pulled clear and winced in anticipation.

"Put it in his hand," he heard, and felt his lifeless fingers opened.

A new voice broke through his terror in the dark. "What are you men doing in here?"

He didn't recognize it, but they scattered and the newcomer shouted angrily as they shoved their way past him in the gloom. Brutus panted as he lay on his back, the little knife clutched unfelt in his hand. He heard footsteps approach and looked into the face of a centurion as he bent over him.

"I need a guard," Brutus whispered.

"I can't spare one for you," the centurion replied coldly.

Outside on the plain a rush of flame from the funeral pyres lit the night. The darkness of the tent lessened slightly and the centurion's gaze fell on a bowl of soup on a wooden stool. He picked it up and grimaced at the shining clots of phlegm that floated there.

"I'll get you some clean food and a clean pot to piss in," he said in disgust. "I can do that much for you."

"Thank you," Brutus said, closing his eyes against the pain.

"Don't thank me. I don't want anything from you," the man snapped.

Brutus could hear the outrage in his voice. He raised the knife without looking. "They left this," he said. He heard the centurion snort.

"You keep it. I heard what they were saying to you. Maybe they were right. Not by their hands, though, not on my watch. But maybe you should think about doing it yourself. It would be clean."

With a huge effort, Brutus threw the knife away from him, hearing it thump into the earth somewhere near. The centurion did not speak again and after a time he left.

The crackle of the pyres went on for hours and Brutus listened to the prayers before he slid into sleep once again.

As dawn came, the cries of the wounded men in the tent grew louder. The legion healers bathed and stitched and splinted as best they could. Infection and sickness would come later for most of them.

Brutus slept lightly, but it was the sudden silence that woke him. He raised his head and saw Julius had come into the tent. The men would not let the consul see their pain and those who moaned in sleep were shaken awake.

With a struggle, Brutus raised himself up as best he could. The men lying nearby stared openly at him. He could feel their dislike and resolved not to reveal his own pain, clenching his jaw against the sharp stabs from his broken arm.

Brutus watched as Julius spoke to each of the men, exchanging a few words and leaving them sitting proudly in his wake, their agony suppressed. Whether it was his imagination, Brutus did not know, but he felt the tension increase as Julius neared him until at last the consul of Rome pulled up a stool at his side and sat heavily on it.

Julius's eyes were red-rimmed from smoke. His armor had been polished and, compared to the men in the ward, he seemed cool and rested.

"Are they looking after you?" Julius asked, glancing over the splints and bandages that tied his battered frame.

"Flowers and grapes every morning," Brutus replied.

He opened his mouth again to speak the words he wanted to say, but could not begin them. There was no guile in the dark eyes that looked so steadily into his. He had not been able to believe it at first, but somehow he had been forgiven. He felt his heart race in his chest until sparks fired on the edges of his vision. He knew the fever was still in him and he wanted to lie back into the darkness. He could not face Julius and he looked away.

"Why didn't you kill me?" he whispered.

"Because you are my oldest friend," Julius replied, leaning closer. "How many times have you saved my life over the years? Do you think I could take yours? I can't."