Caesar

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The river was no wider than a horse could leap. Beyond, on the farther bank, shepherds, angular figures wearing sheepskin cloaks, were gathering their flocks. Evening mist hid the sheep themselves from view; only the upper parts of the shepherds could be seen as the vapour rose from the marshy ground. It was cold. Rain began to fall. I turned away, and, my right knee throbbing — a legacy of our last campaign — hobbled the mile back to camp.

Casca was in his tent, drinking wine heated with nutmeg and cinnamon. He had removed his armour and stood by the table, slack-bellied in his tunic.

"Nothing to see. Nothing to report." "Of course there isn't. Everything is arranged," he said. "I wish I could be as confident. He's made mistakes before now, bad ones. Labienus used to say that 'impetuosity' was the General's greatest defect."

"Yes, and if he'd not been there to restrain him, we'd have been in the soup. Spare me the tune, old fruit. Well, old Lab isn't here now, and good riddance to him."

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