When the infantry had thus clashed together in the centre and were fighting, Pompey's cavalry rode proudly up from the wing and deployed their squadrons to envelope the enemy's right; and before they could attack, the cohorts ran out from where Caesar was posted, not hurling their javelins, as usual,
nor yet stabbing the thighs and legs of their enemies with them, but aiming them at their eyes and wounding their faces. They had been instructed to do this by Caesar, who expected that men little conversant with wars or wounds, but young, and pluming themselves on their youthful beauty, would dread such wounds especially, and would not stand their ground, fearing not only their present danger, but also their future disfigurement.
And this was what actually came to pass; for they could not endure the upward thrust of the javelins, nor did they even venture to look the weapon in the face, but turned their heads away and covered them up to spare their faces. And finally, having thus thrown themselves into confusion, they turned and fled most shamefully, thereby ruining everything. For the conquerors of the horsemen at once encircled the infantry, fell upon their rear, and began to cut them to pieces.
When Pompey, on the other wing, saw his horsemen scattered in flight, he was no longer the same man, nor remembered that he was Pompey the Great, but more like one whom Heaven has robbed of his wits than anything else, he went off without a word to his tent, sat down there, and awaited what was to come, until his forces were all routed and the enemy were assailing his ramparts and fighting with their defenders.
Then he came to his senses, as it were, and with this one ejaculation, as they say,
‘What, even to my quarters?’ took off his fighting and general's dress, put on one suitable for a fugitive, and stole away. What his subsequent fortunes were, and how he delivered himself into the hands of the Egyptians and was murdered, I shall tell in his Life.1