So passed the night, in fear and panic.  When morning came everything save flight seemed suicide.  There was a great government treasure in the Temple of Saturn.  The Senate had voted that the money be delivered to Pompeius.  But the consuls were too demoralized to take away a denarius.  They left the great hoard under mere lock and key—­a present to their bitterest enemy.  Then began the great exodus.  Hardly a man had done more than gather a few valuables together:  property, children, wives—­all these were left to the avenger.  Down the Via Appia, toward Campania, where was their only safety, poured the panic-stricken company.  Every carriage, every horse, was in service.  The hard-driven chariots of the consuls were the tokens merely of the swiftest flight.  Lentulus Crus fled; Caius Marcellus, his colleague, was close behind; Domitius fled, with his sons; Cato fled, ironically exclaiming that they would have to leave everything to Pompeius now, “for those who can raise up great evils can best allay them.”  Favonius fled, whose first words, when he met the Magnus, were to command him to “stamp on the ground for the legions so sorely needed.”  Piso, Scipio, and many another fled—­their guilty hearts adding wings to their goings.  Cicero fled—­gazing in cynical disgust at the panic and incompetence, yet with a sword of Damocles, as he believed, hanging over his head also.  “I fear that Caesar will be a very Phalaris, and that we may expect the very worst,” he wrote to his intimate friend Atticus, who, safe from harm and turmoil, was dwelling under the calm Athenian sky.  A great fraction of the Senate departed; only those stayed who felt that their loyalty to the advancing Imperator was beyond dispute, or who deemed themselves too insignificant to fall beneath his displeasure.  In the hour of crisis the old ties of religion and superstition reasserted themselves.  Senators and magistrates, who had deemed it a polite avocation to mock at the gods and deny the existence of any absolute ethical standards, now, before they climbed into their carriages for flight, went, with due ritual, into the temples of the gods of their fathers, and swore hecatombs of milk-white Umbrian steers to Capitoline Jove, if the awful deity would restore them to the native land they then were quitting.  And as they went down from the temples and hastened toward the gates, friends and clients who could not join their flight crowded after them, sighing, lamenting, and moaning.  Out over the Campagna they streamed, this company of senators, praetors, consuls—­men who had voted thrones to kings, and decreed the deposition of monarchs; whose personal wealth was princely, whose lineage the noblest in the world, whose ancestors had beaten down Etruscan, Gaul, Samnite, and Carthaginian, that their posterity might enjoy the glory of unequalled empire.  And these descendants fled, fled not before any foe, but before their own guilty consciences; abandoning the city of their fathers when not a sword