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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."

"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."

A murmur among the troops swelled into a cheer. Pompey cut it short by raising his hands. "Soldiers! Remember the first order of the day:
Silence!
The enemy's ear is pressed to the city gates. We must carry out this operation with an absolute minimum of noise. It starts now. Cohort commanders, begin evacuation!"

He gave a gesture to the officers behind him, like a circus master signaling the commencement of a race. As they moved forward, Pompey stepped back, withdrawing from the sight of the troops in the square like a golden deus ex machina disappearing at the theater.

The ranks of his retinue were thinned by the dispatch of the cohort commanders, and I was now able to spot Tiro, who walked to Pompey's side. The Great One's personal bodyguards closed around him. Among them I saw a lumbering hulk with a familiar gait. Even before he turned to show the profile of his boyish face, I knew it was Davus.

I tried to catch Tiro's eye, but he was busily conferring with Pompey. Suddenly I saw him gesture in my direction. Pompey nodded and turned. He looked straight at me, then stepped past his bodyguards and walked directly to me. The centurion beside me snapped to attention.

"I heard you shout at me earlier, Finder." Pompey sounded tired and irritable.

"Did you, Great One? You gave no sign."

"A trained orator lets nothing distract him. Tiro says you have news for me."

"Yes, Great One."

"Good. Centurion, don't you have evacuation orders?"

"Yes, Imperator."

"Then off with you!"

"Imperator, I should tell you that this man is armed. He's carrying a dagger. Shall I disarm him?"

Pompey managed a weary smile. "Worried about an assassination attempt, centurion? Killing people is hardly Gordianus's style. Is it, Finder?"

He didn't wait for me to answer, but dismissed the centurion and his men with a curt wave. "Come along, Finder. I suppose you'll want to say hello to that son-in-law of yours, since you dragged yourself across half of Italy to find him. I can't imagine why. I never met a fellow so thick. Hard to imagine that I once paid good silver for him."

I drew a deep breath. "And my report, Great One?"

He made a face. "Not here. Not now. Can't you see there's a fire at my feet? Save your report until we're safely on the water!"

"I can't believe it! I just can't believe it!"

"Davus, not so hard— you're squeezing the life out of me ..."

"Sorry." Davus released me and stepped back. I reached up to rub my cheek, where the links of his mail shirt had pressed a tattoo into the soft flesh. Outfitted all in leather and steel, the sight of him was as overpowering as the hug he had just given me. Yet the broad grin across his face made him look as harmless as a child.

"I just can't believe it," he said again, laughing. "You came all this way, over the mountains and everything. How on earth did you get inside the city?"

"It's a long story, Davus. I'll tell you another time."

One of Pompey's officers gave a shout. He raised his arm and pointed at a tall building across the square. Up on the rooftop, someone was running back and forth, waving a torch.

Pompey squinted. "By Hades, you were right, Tiro. Damn these townspeople! That's a clear signal to Caesar to commence his attack. Scribonius, order an archer to shoot that man down."

The officer who had pointed stepped forward. "He's out of range, Imperator."

"Then send someone up there."

"The way to the roof will almost surely be blockaded, Imperator. Is it really worth our time—"

"Then send some archers onto a neighboring rooftop and shoot at him from there!"

"Imperator, the evacuation has begun. By the time our archers—"

"I don't care! Look at that ape, waving his torch, laughing at us. The men in the square can see. The brave soldiers manning the wall can see! Terrible for morale. I want that man's head. And bring me his hand, as well, with the torch still in it!"

Scribonius summoned archers, but in the next moment Pompey's order was rendered moot. All around the city, civilians appeared on rooftops. Some waved torches. Others danced in the flickering torchlight like celebrants at a festival. Pompey was furious.