Cornelia approaches Pompey and asks why they're stopping so early. Pompey says it'll be dark soon anyway, like it was his idea. Cornelia asks who the castaways are, and Pompey snaps, "How should I know? Who cares?" He apologizes for his tone, and says, "All will be well, I assure you." How anyone refrains from killing him every time he says that, I have no idea.
Sitting on the ground in the middle of the camp that's taking shape around them, Pullo's figured it out. Sort of: "That man looks exactly like Pompey Magnus. That's why I thought I'd met him." "Don't point," Vorenus snaps at him. "Never!" Pullo gasps in the British sense of saying "No fucking way!" "Caesar's gonna drown us in gold!" he exalts. Well, that sounds...hot. Of course, they still don't have their voices back, so the entire exchange takes place in hoarse whispers. Which adds an extra layer of security to the six-foot TV sound barrier surrounding them. Pullo starts to get up and make a move, but collapses back on the ground. "Cac!" he grunts. "What do we do?" Vorenus doesn't know yet. Better hope that sitting around incapacitated remains a viable option for a while longer.
Octavia arrives at Servilia's house. They exchange brief and slightly awkward pleasantries before retiring to the weaving room...
...where, later, the looms sit idle, because Servilia and Octavia are just sitting around and talking instead. That's chicks for you, right? Never can stay on task when there's tongue-waggin' to be done. Thanks for that insight, show. This sharp exposé of womanly nature is interrupted when a maid comes in with word from Greece. "Caesar has won," she blurts. "Pompey's armies are completely destroyed." Servilia asks about her son Brutus, but there's no word. The maid withdraws, leaving Octavia nervously to watch Servilia turn away and break down into tears. Octavia climbs over to sit next to her hostess, and there's a long, slow zoom on the two of them as Octavia gently turns Servilia's face toward her own. And then they kiss, gently and tenderly. I don't see any tongue-waggin', though. How clever of Servilia to exploit the fact that Octavia's at that age when so many young women become future has-bians.
Brutus and Cicero ride toward Caesar's camp at the head of a small column of foot soldiers. So they get to keep a platoon and surrender with them? Wonder how that works. The sentry halts them, in the name of Rome. "Who are you and what's your purpose?" "We are Rome, boy," Cicero growls. "What's left of it. Come to surrender to your chief." They gain entry into the camp.