Pharsalus

In 48 BC, Rome was mired in civil war. Julius Caesar had crushed Pompey the Great at Pharsalus.

“Any news of Pompey?” Caesar asked Mark Antony as he entered the tent, walking in the direction of an aquamanile.

“We haven’t found his body,” Antony replied while a slave tipped a bronze ewer over his hands, washing the blood and dirt into the basin below. “Some of his officers claim they saw him slip out of camp under cover of night. Like a thief.”

“As long as he lives, he is a danger to me. We must find him. And if he is alive…” Caesar paused. He knew Antony well — loyal, competent, but no political strategist. “…I suspect he isn’t dead. We need him alive, Antony.”

“I’ll organize the pursuit myself, and when I find him—”

“You will do no such thing,” Caesar cut in. Antony froze, hand outstretched.

“Don’t you trust me to bring him back alive?”

“I need you in Rome.” Antony lowered his arm, stunned. “It is for the good of the Republic.”

“The Republic?” Antony scoffed. “The Republic is dead. With Pompey defeated, you could proclaim yourself king.”

“I will never be king. And you will obey my orders.” Antony clenched his jaw. He had never disobeyed Caesar — and he wasn’t about to start now.

“I don’t see the reason for my return. I’m needed here. We aren’t finished.”

“You will march to Rome with the bulk of our forces and deliver the news of our victory to the Senate.”

Antony sat heavily on a field chair, staring at Caesar. Silence settled between them. His hand tightened around the grip of his sword, then released it. He raised his hand in a slow, circular gesture.

“Of course… and you’ll be named dictator,” he muttered. “But that requires a Magister Equitum. Me.”

Caesar remained expressionless, his gaze drifting toward the tent's opening. Outside, the camp boiled with activity. Men marching, cavalry moving, standards snapping in the breeze.

“Exactly,” he said. “You will leave at once. I’ll write a letter to Publius Servilius; he will know what to do. You will deliver it.”

“I shall ride upon the winds of Mercury,” Antony said with a bow and a roguish smile.

A few days later, Caesar learned from his scouts that Pompey had fled Greece and was seeking refuge in Egypt after a brief stay in Amphipolis.

“When we reach Alexandria, we shall dock at the royal wharves.” Caesar issued his orders to a group of camp prefects and chief centurions — men who had served under him since long before the Gallic campaign.

“Sir, we could be walking into a trap.” Legate Tiberius Lucretius Vespillo was one of Caesar’s most formidable commanders, a man of unquestionable loyalty. He had served under Mark Antony, but Caesar kept him close as a lucky charm; he had never lost a battle.

“We shall know before we dock,” Caesar replied. He was unsure of the Egyptians’ intentions; they owed favors to Pompey the Great. “We will be ready to counterattack if their ships pose a threat — something we shall discover the moment we enter Alexandria.”

“Sir, perhaps you should remain outside, waiting for us to secure the harbor.”

“That would leave us vulnerable if the boy‑king’s generals have concealed their ships along the coast — especially behind the island of Pharos. We do not have a large force.” Then, with a majestic air, he added, “We shall not provoke them, but our presence must be unmistakable. We will tolerate no hostile action against us.”

The tent fell silent. This was the finest small force ever to serve under Julius Caesar.

“Our intent is to capture Pompey… alive!”

With a contingent of four thousand men, Julius Caesar set sail for Egypt.