"I see what you mean. How and when does the last defender climb down from the parapet, cede his ground to the invader, and board the last departing ship? It could turn into a stampede."

"Which could turn into a rout." Tiro gazed about the forum, with its jarring mixture of rigid military order and barely contained religious panic. "Then there's the unknown, uncontrollable element of the civilian population. We know they've had their fill of Pompey. But can they be certain that Caesar won't slaughter them for harboring his enemy? The locals are liable to split into factions, divided by old grudges. Who knows how they'll take advantage of the chaos? Some may unbar the gates and lead Caesar's men safely around the barricades and traps, while others may throw stones at them from the rooftops. Some may panic and try to board Pompey's ships. The sheer numbers of them could jam the streets and make escape impossible. A commander is judged by his success at surmounting challenges. If Pompey can get all his men safely out of Italy to fight another day, he'll have earned anew his right to be called Great One."

"Do you think so? It seems to me he could have better demonstrated his genius by avoiding such a trap in the first place."

"Pompey did as well as any man could, considering the situation. No one foresaw that Caesar would dare to cross the Rubicon. That took Caesar's own lieutenants by surprise. I think he surprised even himself, committing such hubris."

"And the disaster at Corfinium?"

"Pompey had no control over that. He told Domitius to fall back and join him, but Domitius let vanity run away with his common sense, of which he has little enough to start. Compare Domitius to Pompey: in every decision since the crisis began, Pompey has acted strictly from reason. He's never shown a trace of vanity or foolish pride."

"Some would say he hasn't shown much nerve, either."

"It takes nerve to look an enemy in the eye and fall back step by step. If he can see this orderly retreat through to the end, Pompey will have shown that his spine is made of steel."

"And then what?"

"That's the brilliance of it! Pompey has allies all through the East. That's where his greatest strength lies, and where Caesar is weakest. While Pompey rallies those reinforcements, from his stronghold in Greece he can blockade Italy and cut off all shipping from the East, including the grain harvest from Egypt. Let Caesar have Italy, for the time being. With Egypt closed to him and the East rising against him, with starvation looming in Italy and Pompey's troops in Spain at his back, we'll see how long Caesar can last as king of Rome."

It was just possible, I thought, that everything Tiro said made sense. Did Caesar have any inkling of such a scenario? I thought of the infinitely confident man I had seen that morning, but perhaps that was only a part of his genius as a leader, never to show doubt or betray the nightmares that haunted him in the dark.

Perhaps it would all go Pompey's way, in the end. But that could happen only if he successfully escaped from Brundisium. We had come to a nexus in the great contest. In the next few hours, Pompey would cast a throw sufficient to let him play another round, or lose the game altogether.

The centurion returned. "The Great One will see you." I started to get up, but he laid a hand on my shoulder. "Not you. Soscarides."

I reached for Tiro's arm. "When you see Pompey, ask him to grant me an audience."

"I'll do my best, Gordianus. But in the midst of a military action, you can hardly expect-"

"Remind him of the task he gave me in Rome. Tell him- tell him I know the answer."

Tiro raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps you should tell me, Gordianus. I can pass the news on to Pompey, and ask for Davus to be set free. That's what you want, isn't it?"

I shook my head. "No. I'll reveal the truth about Numerius's murder only to Pompey, and only if he releases Davus first. If he wants to know what happened to Numerius, he must agree to those terms. Otherwise, he may never know."

Tiro frowned. "If I tell him all this, and it's only a ruse to gain you an audience-"

"Please, Tiro."

He gave me a last dubious look, then followed the centurion inside.

The sun dipped beyond the western hills. A chilly twilight descended on the forum, bringing a curious sense of calm. Even the shrill ululations from the temples seemed oddly comforting.

Torches were lit and passed among the troops. I understood now why Pompey waited for nightfall to make his exit. In the darkness, the barricades and pitfalls in the streets would be doubly dangerous. While the besiegers backtracked and stumbled over each other, Pompey's men, drilled in the escape route, would be able to circumvent the hazards and quickly reach the ships.

The centurion returned.

"Soscarides-?" I said.

"Still with Pompey."

"No message for me?"

"Not yet."

There was a clanging of brazen doors and a commotion at the top of the steps. I got to my feet. A large group of officers poured out of the building and onto the porch. The centurion and his soldiers sprang to attention.

Pompey walked at the head of the group, dressed in full armor plated with gold. The precious metal glistened and shimmered, reflecting the light of the torches in the square below. Under his arm he carried a gold-plated helmet with a yellow horsehair plume. Below the neck, thanks to the muscular torso molded upon his breastplate, he appeared to have the physique of a young gladiator. The illusion was belied by a pair of spindly legs which gold-plated greaves could not disguise.

I looked for Tiro in the retinue, but didn't see him. Nor did I see Davus.

"Great One!" I shouted, hoping to get his attention. I reacted as any citizen in the forum might, petitioning a magistrate. But this was not Rome, and the man before me was not Pompey the politician, obliged to ingratiate himself with every Marcus who could vote; this was Pompey the Great, Imperator of the Spanish Legions, the man who believed in carrying swords, not quoting laws.

"Quiet!" snapped the centurion. He remained at attention. His glaring eyes demanded the same of me.

Pompey halted at the top of the steps. The officers fanned out behind him. A trumpeter blew a fanfare for attention. I was no more than twenty feet away. Pompey looked tired and haggard. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot. But the soldiers in the square below must have seen a very different Pompey, a powerfully built, golden-sheathed, almost godlike figure, a statue of Mars come to life.

"Soldiers of Rome! Defenders of the Senate and the people! Tonight you will carry out the exercise for which you've been drilled over the last few days. Each of you has a role to play. You all know what to do. Act quickly and efficiently, obey the orders of your centurions, and there will be no problems."

"The enemy has been frustrated at every turn. A handful of veteran archers and slingers have successfully kept him away from the city walls. He has no ships. His efforts to block the harbor have proven futile. Typically, his ambition oversteps his ability. In the long run, he shall be sorry for it."

There was a murmur of laughter among the troops in the square. I had always been blind to whatever charm Pompey possessed, but these men seemed to appreciate it. Perhaps one had to be a military man.

"We are about to leave Italy and cross over the sea," Pompey continued. "Some of you may feel misgivings about this. Do not. We are moving forward, not falling back. Rome lies across the water now. We go to join her. A city is made of men, not buildings. We go to where the true heart of Rome resides, with the duly elected consuls. Let the enemy take over empty buildings if he wishes, and invest himself with whatever empty titles his imagination can devise. I think perhaps he has dwelled for too long north of the Rubicon, among primitive barbarians who worship kings. Having conquered those petty monarchs, he thinks he should become one himself. He should remember instead the fate of every despot who ever raised arms against the Senate and the people of Rome."