and struck the enemy’s left wing; struck the Pompeian fighting line from the rear, and crushed it betwixt the upper and nether millstone of themselves and the tenth legion.  Drusus drove into the very foremost of the fight; it was no longer a press, it was flight, pursuit, slaughter, and he forced his horse over one enemy after another—­transformed, transfigured as he was into a demon of destruction, while the delirium of battle gained upon him.

Drusus saw the figure of a horseman clothed, like Caesar, in a red general’s cloak spurring away to the enemy’s camp.  He called to his men that Pompeius had taken panic and fled away; that the battle was won.  He saw the third line of the Caesarians drive through the Pompeian centre and right as a plough cuts through the sandy field, and then spread terror, panic, rout—­the battle became a massacre.

So the Caesarians hunted their foes over the plain to the camp.  And, though the sun on high rained down a pitiless heat, none faltered when the Imperator bade them use their favour with Fortune, and lose not a moment in storming the encampment.  They assailed the ramparts.  The Pompeian reserve cohorts stood against them like men; the Thracian and other auxiliary light troops sent down clouds of missiles—­of what avail?  There are times when mortal might can pass seas of fire and mountains of steel; and this was one of those moments.  The Pompeians were swept from the ramparts by a pitiless shower of javelins.  The panic still was upon them; standards of cohorts, eagles of legions, they threw them all away.  They fled—­fled casting behind shields, helmets, swords, anything that hindered their running.  The hills, the mountain tops, were their only safety.  Their centurions and tribunes were foremost among the fugitives.  And from these mountain crests they were to come down the next morning and surrender themselves prisoners to the conquerors—­petitioners for their lives.

Not all were thus fated.  For in the flight from the camp Domitius fell down from fatigue, and Marcus Antonius, whose hand knew no weariness, neither his heart remorse or mercy, slew him as a man would slay a snake.  And so perished one of the evil spirits that hounded Pompeius to his death, the Roman oligarchy to its downfall.

Drusus sought far and wide for Lentulus and Lucius Ahenobarbus.  The consular had fought on the most distant wing, and in the flight he and his mortal enemy did not meet.  Neither did Drusus come upon the younger son of the slain Domitius.  Fortune kept the two asunder.  But slaying enough for one day the young Livian had wrought.  He rode with Caesar through the splendid camp just captured.  The flowers had been twined over the arbours under which the victory was to be celebrated; the plate was on the tables; choice viands and wines were ready; the floors of the tents were covered with fresh sods; over the pavilion of Lentulus Crus was a great shade of ivy.  The victors rode out from the arbours