The sun was climbing out of the dark bank of clouds that pressed down upon the eastern horizon.  The green plain of Pharsalus lay spread out far and wide under the strengthening light; the distant hills were peering dimly out from the mist; the acropolis of Pharsalus itself,—­perhaps the Homeric Phthia, dwelling of Achilles,—­with its two peaked crags, five hundred feet in height, frowned down upon the Caesarian camp.  The Enipeus and one or two minor streams were threading their way in silver ribbons down toward the distant Peneus.  The fertile plain was green and verdant with the bursting summer.  The scent of clover hung in the air, and with it the fragrance of thyme.  Wild flowers were scattered under the feet.  The early honeybee was hovering over the dew-laden petals.  Wakeful thrushes were carolling out of the thickets.  A thin grey fog was drifting off of the valley, soon to vanish in the blue of a perfect day.  Clear and sweet the notes of the trumpets called the soldiers from their camp.  The weary men shook the sleep from their eyes.  There was a hurried pounding of grain in the stone mortars, breakfasts even more hurried.  Then again the trumpets called out their signal.  Busy hands tore up the tent pegs, other hands were folding the coverings, gathering up the poles and impedimenta, and loading them on the baggage animals.

The soldiers were grumbling as soldiers will.  Drusus, who emerged from his own tent just as it was about to be pulled down about his ears, heard one private growl to another:  “Look at the sun rising!  What a hot day we shall have! AEdepol! will there never be an end to this marching and countermarching, skirmishing and intrenching,—­water to drink, puls to eat,—­I didn’t take the oath[179] for that.  No plunder here, and the sack of Gomphi, the last town stormed, amounted to nothing.”

  [179] The military oath of obedience.

Drusus would have rebuked the man for breeding discontent in the army, but at that moment he and every other around him for once relaxed that stringent discipline that held them in bands of iron.  A third trumpet call cut the air, quick, shrill, penetrating.

“To arms!” Every centurion was shouting it to his men.  The baggage animals were left unladen.  A cohort that was about to leave the camp in marching order halted, and began to throw away its impedimenta, when Caesar himself rode up to them.

“Fellow-soldiers,” said the Imperator, smiling as though he had to reveal a great piece of good fortune, “we can postpone the march.  Let us put our hearts into the battle for which we have longed, and meet the foe with resolute souls, for now or never is our opportunity!”

“Io!  Io!” cried a thousand hoarse throats.

Out of confusion came the most perfect order.  Drusus ran to the horse that he had yielded for a pack animal on the march, saddled, mounted, flew away to Caesar’s side, his heart pounding in his breast.