The crowd relaxed with a collective murmur of relief. People went about their business. A living man with an arrow through his neck was something to see. A dead man was not.

"Funny," said Tiro, "how sometimes a man lives precisely as long as he needs to, and no more."

"What do you mean?"

"Fortex. It was his task to get me safely to Pompey. If he'd been shot a minute sooner, we'd never have made it to the quay. You and I would have died in the boat with him. Instead it happened just so, and here we are. As if the gods decreed it."

"You believe every man has a destiny, then? Even slaves?"

Tiro shrugged. "I don't know. Great men have a destiny. Perhaps the rest of us have one only insofar as we cross their paths and play a part in their destinies."

"Is that what makes you so brave, Tiro? Belief in destiny?"

"Brave?"

"On the mountain, facing Otacilius. In Antony's camp. In Caesar's tent. In the boat, standing up to work the sail, with arrows whizzing past your nose."

Tiro shrugged. I looked past him, to the gates that opened from the boardwalk into the city. A determined-looking centurion and a company of soldiers were marching directly toward us.

"This journey we've taken together, Tiro- did I facilitate your destiny, or did your facilitate mine?"

"It would seem to have been mutual."

"And the role of Fortex was simply to get us here?"

"What else?"

"I wonder if Fortex would have seen it that way. What about that nameless wagon driver?"

"He got us over the mountains, didn't he? It all worked out for the best."

"Not for him. Still, if you're right, the gods have seen us safe thus far. If they intend for me to accomplish what I came for, then I shall live a little longer, at least. I shall try to be as brave as you've been."

Tiro gave me a puzzled frown, then stepped forward to meet the soldiers. The centurion asked his name.

"Soscarides. I expect you've been briefed to look for my arrival."

"Quite a show, from what the archers tell me." The centurion was a grizzled veteran with a big homely face and a tight little smile.

"I'm to report directly to the Great One himself and to no one else," said Tiro.

The centurion nodded. "Who's the dead man?"

"A slave. My bodyguard."

"And this one? Another slave?"

Tiro laughed. "Hold up your hand and show your citizen's ring, Gordianus. Centurion, this man is also known to the Great One. He'll come with me."

The centurion grunted. "Well, you can't report to the imperator as you are- you soaking wet, and this one with blood all down his tunic. I'll see what we can do about a change of clothes."

"There's no time," said Tiro. "You must take us to Pompey at once."

"Castor and Pollux, hold your horses!" The centurion scanned the loiterers on the boardwalk and pointed to a well-dressed civilian. "You there! Yes, you, and your friend. Both of you, come here!" When the two men hung back, the centurion snapped his fingers. Soldiers ran and fetched them by force.

The centurion looked the two men up and down. "Yes, you both look about the right size. And your clothes aren't too shabby. Strip!"

The men's jaws dropped. The centurion snapped his fingers. The soldiers assisted the men in taking off their clothes.

"Not so rough!" yelled the centurion. "Don't tear the tunics. Which one do you prefer, Soscarides?"

Tiro blinked. "The yellow, I suppose."

"Good enough. You who were in the yellow, take off your loincloth as well. Go on! My friend Soscarides here is wet to the balls and needs a dry one." He turned to Tiro and me. "Go on, fellows, take off those things you're wearing and put on your new clothes."

I pulled my bloody tunic over my head. "What is this predilection these military types have for making other men strip?" I said to Tiro under my breath, thinking of our humiliation by Otacilius on the mountainside. Caesar had said that Pompey's men had alienated the citizens of Brundisium. I could see how.

The centurion looked at our feet. "Shoes, too!" he shouted at the two hapless civilians. They both gave a start, then obediently knelt and began untying the straps at their ankles.

"I can bear to let my own shoes dry on my feet," said Tiro, standing naked for a moment as he exchanged his wet loincloth for the dry one.

The centurion shook his head. "Take it from me. I've marched men to the Pillars of Hercules and back. I'm an expert on feet. You'll be glad of having a pair of dry shoes, once things start moving."

"Moving?" said Tiro, slipping the yellow tunic over his head. It was an excellent fit.

The centurion squinted at the westering sun above the city skyline. "Sun's sinking. Where do the hours go? Once it's dark, things will start to move, fast and furious. Believe me, you'll be glad you're wearing clean clothes and dry shoes! Remember me then, friend Soscarides, and say a prayer for the centurion who looked after you as sweetly as your own dear mother!"

• • •

To slow the progress of Caesar's men once they entered the city, Pompey had barricaded all the major streets at various points and had also laid traps. These were trenches dug across the width of a street, lined across the bottom with sharpened stakes, covered with wicker screens and concealed by a thin layer of earth. Our progress to the city center was necessarily restricted to a course which meandered through secondary streets and alleyways. The centurion led the way while his soldiers formed a cordon around Tiro and me.

Officially, the townspeople had been confined to their homes, but in fact they were everywhere in the streets, yelling, frantically rushing about, wearing expressions of thinly suppressed panic. If Caesar's camp had seemed a beehive abuzz with orderly movement, then Brundisium was an antbed turned by the farmer's plow. I came to appreciate the calm determination of our centurion, who seemed unfazed by it all.

We finally emerged from the maze of narrow byways into the city forum, where civic buildings and temples faced an open square. Here there was at once a greater sense of order and a greater sense of chaos. Centurions shouted commands and troops stood at rigid attention in the square. At the same time, weeping women and ashen-faced men thronged the temple steps. From their open doors I caught the smell of burning incense and myrrh, and heard the echo of prayers wailed not in Latin but in the strange ululating language of the Messapians, the race that settled the heel of Italy at the beginning of time and built the city of Brundisium. The Messapians fought against Sparta in ancient days. They fought against Pyrrhus, who conquered them for Rome. The seafaring, cosmopolitan people of Brundisium worship all the deities worshiped in Rome, but they also pay homage to their own gods, ancient Messapic deities unknown in Rome, with unpronounceable names. Those were the gods they called on in their moment of despair, when the fate of their city hung in the balance.

We came to the municipal senate building on the east side of the forum, where Pompey had made his headquarters. The centurion told us to wait on the steps while he went inside. His soldiers maintained their cordon around us. Whether they were protecting us or holding us prisoner, I wasn't sure. Exhausted, I sat on the cold, hard steps. Tiro joined me. The atmosphere of the city under siege had dispirited me, but seemed to have stimulated Tiro.

"If Pompey can pull this off," he said, "he'll truly be the greatest military genius of the age."

I frowned. "Pull what off?"

"A successful retreat from Brundisium. He's already sent part of his army to Dyrrhachium, along with the consuls and the greater part of the senate. Now comes the tricky part. With Caesar ready to scale the walls and throw all his might against the city, can Pompey manage an orderly, organized retreat, through the streets, onto the ships, and out the harbor entrance? The tactical challenge must be staggering. The risk is enormous."