The Pompeian reserves ran up to aid their comrades in the line.  The odds against the Caesarian cohorts were tremendous.  The pressure of shield against shield never abated.  Woe to the man who lost footing and fell; his life was trampled out in a twinkling!  The battle-cries grew fewer and fewer; shouting requires breath; breath, energy; and every scruple of energy was needed in pushing on those shields.  There were few pila left now.  The short swords dashed upon the armour, but in the press even to swing a blade was difficult.  More and more intense grew the strain; Caesarians gave ground here and then regained it.  Pompeians did the like yonder.  The long reach of the line swayed to and fro, rippling like a dark ribbon in the wind.  Now and then a combatant would receive a mortal wound, and go down out of sight in the throng, which closed over him almost ere he could utter one sharp cry.

Caesar was everywhere.  His voice rang like a clarion down the lines; he knew, as it were, each soldier by name—­and when a stout blow was to be struck, or a stand was needed to bear up against the weight of hostile numbers, Caesar’s praise or admonition to stand firm was as a fresh cohort flung into the scale.  Drusus rode with him, both mounted, hence unable to mingle in the press, but exposed to the showers of arrows and sling-stones which the Pompeian auxiliaries rained upon them.  Caesar’s red paludamentum marked him out a conspicuous figure for the aim of the missiles, but he bore a charmed life.

Drusus himself did what he could to steady the men.  The contest in the line of battle could not continue long, flesh and blood might not endure the strain.

“Imperator,” cried Drusus, riding up to his chief, “you see that this can last no longer.  Our men are overmatched.  Shall I order up the third line?  The centurion Crastinus, who swore that he would win your gratitude living or dead, is slain after performing deeds worthy of his boast.  Many others have gone down.  What shall I do?”

Caesar drew rein, and cast his eyes down the swaying lines.

“I dare not order up the third line so early,” he began; then, with a glance to the extreme right, “Ah, Mehercle! we are at the crisis now!  Our cavalry have given way before the enemy’s horse.  They are outflanking us!”

“The six cohorts!” cried Drusus.

“The six cohorts—­ride!  Make them stop those horse, or all is lost!  On your life, go!”

And away went Drusus.  The supreme moment of his life had come.  The whole act of being, he felt, he knew, had been only that he might live at that instant.  What the next hour had in store—­life, death—­he cared not at all.  The Caesarian horse, outnumbered seven to one, had fought valiantly, but been borne back by sheer weight of numbers.  With not a man in sight to oppose them, the whole mass of the splendid Pompeian cavalry was sweeping around to crush the unprotected flank of the tenth