"There is no need for a real battle," Pompeius was saying. "Our superior cavalry will rout their whole army before the infantry join the attack."
And Labienus, the only officer who had deserted Cæsar, protested that the opposing legions had long since been thinned of their Gallic veterans, that only raw recruits composed them now.
Loudly the councillors wrangled over the successor to Cæsar's pontificate; Scipio, Domitius, and another great noble, Lentulus Spinther, all had their claims. Domitius was clamouring against delay in disposing of Cæsar, and in returning to Italy, to begin a general distribution of spoils, and sanguinary requital of enemies and neutrals. The contest over the pontificate grew more and more acrimonious each minute.
"Gentlemen," broke in Pompeius, "I would that you could agree amongst yourselves. It is a grievous thing that we must thus quarrel with bitterness, when victory is within our grasp."
But the war of words went on hotter and hotter. Lentulus Crus noticed that Pompeius looked pale and worried.
"You look careworn, Magnus," he whispered; "it will be a relief for the burdens of war to be off your shoulders!"
"I know not how this all will come out," said the general. "All the chances are in our favour. We have numbers, the best position, cavalry, the prestige of victory. Labienus cannot be mistaken in his estimate of Cæsar's men; yet I am afraid, I am almost timorous."
"It is but the natural fear lest some slight event dim your excellency's great glory. Our position is too secure for reverse," remarked Lentulus, soothingly.
"Great glory—" repeated Pompeius, "yes, that makes me afraid. Remember Ulamhala's words,—they haunt me:—
"'He that is highest shall rise yet higher,
He that is second shall utterly fall.'