“I trust he will die a soldier’s death,” replied Pompeius, gloomily.  “It would be a grievous thing to have him fall into my hands.  He has been my friend, my father-in-law.  I could not treat him harshly.”

“Doubtless,” said the ever suave Lentulus Crus, “it would be most disagreeable for you, Magnus, to have to reward such an enemy of the Republic as he deserves.  But your excellency will, of course, bow to the decrees of the Senate, and—­I fear it will be very hard to persuade the conscript fathers that Caesar has earned any mercy.”

“Vah! gentlemen,” retorted Pompeius, pressing his hands together, and walking up and down:  “I have been your tool a long while!  I never at heart desired this war!  A hundred times I would draw back, but you in some way prevented.  I have been made to say things that I would fain have left unsaid.  I am perhaps less educated and more superstitious than you.  I believe that there are gods, and they punish the shedders of innocent blood.  And much good Roman blood has been shed since you had your way, and drove Caesar into open enmity!”

“Of course,” interposed Domitius, his face a little flushed with suppressed anger, “it is a painful thing to take the lives of fellow-countrymen; but consider the price that patriots must pay for liberty.”

“Price paid for liberty,” snorted Pompeius, in rising disgust, “phui! Let us at least be honest, gentlemen!  It is very easy to cry out on tyrants when our ambition has been disappointed.  But I am wasting words.  Only this let me say.  When, to-morrow, we have slain or captured our enemy, it will be I that determine the future policy of the state, and not you!  I will prove myself indeed the Magnus!  I will be a tool no longer.”

The three consulars stared at each other, at loss for words.

“Time wastes, gentlemen,” said Pompeius.  “To your several commands!  You have your orders.”

The Magnus spoke in a tone that admonished the three oligarchs to bow in silence and go out without a word.

“His excellency is a bit tempted to play the high tragedian to-night,” sneered Domitius, recovering from his first consternation.  “He will think differently to-morrow.  But of all things, my good Lentulus (if it comes your way), see that Caesar is quietly killed—­no matter what fashion; it will save us endless trouble.”

“Mehercle!” quoth the other, “do I need that advice?  And again remind me to-morrow of this.  We must arrange the dividing of the estate of that young reprobate, Quintus Drusus, who gave us some anxiety two years ago.  But I imagine that must be deferred until after the battle.”

And so they separated, and the two armies—­scarce five miles apart—­slept; and the stars watched over them.

III