They wheeled about as on a pivot and struck the enemy's left wing; struck the Pompeian fighting line from the rear, and crushed it betwixt the upper and nether millstone of themselves and the tenth legion.

Drusus drove into the very foremost of the fight; it was no longer a press, it was flight, pursuit, slaughter, and he forced his horse over one enemy after another--transformed, transfigured as he was into a demon of destruction, while the delirium of battle gained upon him.
Drusus saw the figure of a horseman clothed, like Caesar, in a red general's cloak spurring away to the enemy's camp.

He called to his men that Pompeius had taken panic and fled away; that the battle was won.

He saw the third line of the Caesarians drive through the Pompeian centre and right as a plough cuts through the sandy field, and then spread terror, panic, rout--the battle became a massacre.
So the Caesarians hunted their foes over the plain to the camp.

And, though the sun on high rained down a pitiless heat, none faltered when the Imperator bade them use their favour with Fortune, and lose not a moment in storming the encampment.