Slowly, slowly, that long snake, the marching army, dragged out of the camp.  The sun was high in the sky; the last cloud had vanished; the blue above was as clear and translucent as it is conceivable anything may be and yet retain its colour—­not become clear light.  The head of the column was six hundred paces from the silent Pompeian lines which awaited them.  Then cohort after cohort filed off to the right and left, and the line of battle was ready.  On the right was the tenth legion, on the left the weak ninth, reenforced by the eighth.  There were eighty cohorts in all, to oppose one hundred and ten.  But the ranks of Caesar’s cohorts were thin.  The numbers were scarce half as many as in those of the foe.  And to confront Labienus and his cavalry Caesar had but one thousand horse.  His army stood in three lines, facing the enemy’s infantry; but, though it weakened his own legions dangerously, there was but one thing to do, unless Labienus was to force around the flank, and sweep all before him.  Six cohorts Caesar stationed at the rear of his right wing, a defence against the hostile cavalry.  The third line of the legions the Imperator commanded to hold back until he ordered them otherwise, for on them lay the turning of the battle.

Antonius commanded the left, Publius Sulla the right, Calvinus the centre.  Caesar himself took post on his own right wing opposite Pompeius.  Then, when the lines were formed, he rode down before his men, and addressed them; not in gaudy eloquence, as if to stir a flagging courage, but a manly request that they quit themselves as became his soldiers.  Ever had he sought reconciliation, he said, ever peace; unwillingly had he exposed his own soldiers, and unwillingly attacked his enemies.  And to the six chosen cohorts in the fourth line he gave a special word, for he bade them remember that doubtless on their firmness would depend the fate of the battle.

“Yes,” he said in closing, while every scarred and tattered veteran laughed at the jest, “only thrust your pila in the faces of those brave cavaliers.  They will turn and flee if their handsome faces are likely to be bruised.”  And a grim chuckle went down the line, relieving the tension that was making the oldest warriors nervous.

Caesar galloped back to his position on his own right wing.  The legions were growing restive, and there was no longer cause for delay.  The officers were shouting the battle-cry down the lines.  The Imperator nodded to his trumpeter, and a single sharp, long peal cut the air.  The note was drowned in the rush of twenty thousand feet, the howl of myriads of voices.

“Venus victrix!” The battle-cry was tossed from mouth to mouth, louder and louder, as the mighty mass of men in iron swept on.

“Venus victrix!” And the shout itself was dimmed in the crash of mortal battle, when the foremost Caesarians sent their pila dashing in upon the enemy, and closed with the short sword, while their comrades piled in upon them.  Crash after crash, as cohort struck cohort; and so the battle joined.