“Let’s go.”
“Now then.”
“Start.”
The legions were impatient and stamped their feet, but Caesar would not move. In a minute or two Charlie reached him, red and panting with running.
“Now,” shouted Bevis, “march!” and he leaped into the field; Charlie came next for he would not wait to take his place in the ranks. The legions rushed through anyhow, eager to begin the fray.
“Two and two,” shouted Caesar, who would have no disorder.
“Two and two,” repeated his first lieutenant, Mark Antony.
“Two and two,” said Scipio Cecil, punching his men into place.
On they went, with Caesar leading, straight across the wind-swept plain for Pompey’s camp. The black swifts flew about them, but just clearing the grass, and passing so close as to seem almost under foot. There were hundreds of them, they come down from the upper air, and congregate in a great gale; they glided over the field in endless turns and windings. Steadily marching, the army had now advanced a third part of the way across the field.
“Where’s Pompey?” said Scipio Cecil.