His mind, so fine for detail, was growing ever more fuzzy. In Spain, though he had subdued Pompey’s sons and their legions, he frequently forgot precisely against whom he was fighting. He just continued to fight, commanding his men without overreliance on the intellect. It was one’s instincts that served one well in battle. But the battles-blood splattering the faces of his men; loose limbs dangling so pathetically from the bodies of the unfortunate; futile cries of pain, even more futile prayers to the gods yelped with one’s last breath; gorgeous horses who had served so valiantly falling over their own legs and trampling the object of their loyalty- these scenarios were indistinguishable from any other battles he had ever fought. There was one difference in Spain. She had come to him in the midst of battle and told him to relax his sword and follow her away from the ruckus. He felt the noise around him disappear as if he had gone completely deaf.
