legion.  The sight of the on-rushing squadrons was beyond words magnificent.  The tossing mass of their panoplies was a sea of scarlet, purple, brass, and flashing steel; the roar of the hoof-beats of seven thousand blooded coursers swept on like the approaching of the wind leading the clouds in whose breast are thunder and lightning unfettered.  Behind them rose the dun vapour of the dust, drifting up toward heaven,—­the whirling vortex of the storm.  It was indeed the crisis.

The six cohorts were standing, resting on their shields, in the rear of the extreme right flank of the third line.  They were in an oblique formation.  The most distant cohort extended far back, and far beyond the Caesarian line of battle.  The hearts of the soldiers were in the deathly press ahead, but they were veterans; discipline held them quiet, albeit restive in soul.

On swept the roar of the advancing Pompeians.  What must be done must be done quickly.  Drusus drove the spurs into his horse, and approached the cohorts on a headlong gallop.

“Forward!  I will lead you against the enemy!”

No need of second command.  The maniples rushed onward as though the men were runners in a race, not soldiers clothed in armour.  Drusus flew down the ranks and swung the farthest cohorts into alignment with the others.  There was not a moment to lose.

“Now, men, if ye be indeed soldiers of Caesar, at them!”

Drusus was astounded at the resonance of his own voice; a thousand others caught up the shout.

“Venus victrix!” And straight into the teeth of the galloping hosts charged the thin line of infantry.

The line was weak, its members strong.  They were rural Italians, uncorrupted by city life, hardy, god-fearing peasants and sons of peasants, worthy descendants of the men who died in the legions at Cannae, or triumphed at the Metaurus.  Steady as on a review the six cohorts bore down into action.  And when they struck the great mass of horsemen they thrust their pila into the riders’ eyes and prodded the steeds.  The foremost cavalrymen drew rein; the horses reared.  The squadrons were colliding and plunging.  In an eye’s twinkling their momentum had been checked.

“Charge!  Charge!” Drusus sent the word tossing down along the cohorts, and the legionaries pressed forward.  It was done.  The whole splendid array of horsemen broke in rout; they went streaming back in disordered squadrons over the plain, each trooper striving to outride his fellow in the flight.  Pompeius had launched his most deadly bolt, and it had failed.

Now was Drusus’s chance.  No further order had been given him; to pursue cavalry with infantry were folly; he needed no new commands.  The six cohorts followed his lead like machinery.  The crash of battle dimmed his voice; the sight of his example led the legionaries on.  They fell on the Pompeian archers and slingers and dispersed them like smoke.  They wheeled about as on a pivot